June 16: Day 13: Malibu Rapids & Princess Louisa Inlet
Invisible Logs, Terrifying Rapids, and a Traumatized First Mate
Today was quite eventful, to say the least. We woke up at the crack of dawn at 4:10 AM, enjoyed a quick coffee, and weighed anchor by 5:20 AM. This marked the beginning of a marathon journey up to Princess Louisa Inlet. I know I’ve mentioned before that I prefer to limit our daily cruising to five hours at the absolute most, but today’s trek was going to be a whopping eight and a half hours. There was only one potential anchorage along the route, and since it sat just a half-hour away from the Malibu rapids, we decided to push right through - after all what's an extra half hour on the water.
For the most part, it was a spectacular trip—a stunning sunrise giving way to a beautiful mix of sun and clouds weaving through the towering mountains.
We were sailing along smoothly when suddenly, a massive THUMP shuddered through the hull. Greg and I instantly froze with concern. Artemus must have felt the impact just as intensely; he bolted from his spot and scrambled to a different part of the boat. As it turned out, he had been lounging right up in the bow when the impact happened. Looking over the port side, I realized to my horror that we were dragging (under the boat) a massive, long tree. It clearly wanted a free ride, but we had places to go and that hitchhiker was far too heavy!
(I don’t think I mentioned it in my earlier posts, but I actually ran over another floating log a day or two ago. I heard the thump, looked back, and watched it bob up in our wake.) Wow—what is it with these invisible logs lately? I’m making light of it now, but seriously, they can cause catastrophic damage. Thankfully, everything seemed okay; we weren't taking on any water and the steering felt responsive. Let's hope that's the end of those close calls. Enough already!
Following Greg’s wise advice, partly because he could see better than me and I wasn't sure what would be best to do, I brought the boat to a stop because the tree wouldn't budge. Hoping to shake it free, I put the engine in reverse. Still stuck. I gave it a harder burst of reverse, and finally, the log let go. As it floated free, I could see exactly what we had been dealing with: it was a massive branch from a large tree, complete with a heavy side-limb that had wedged itself perfectly under our bow, right in front of the keel.
With that drama behind us, we finally arrived at the Malibu Rapids at the entrance of the inlet to wait for slack tide. While sitting there (and on the way to get there), I had been hoping that the log hadn't done any damage to our steering - we were going to need to be in control while motoring through the rapids. As we drifted lazily, we reminisced about our visit three years ago and remembered what an incredibly easy, gentle passage it had been. The water back then was so calm it was hard to believe that the currents in the narrow passage can regularly rage up to 8 knots or more.
A fleet of ten boats, including a few friends from our anchorage last night, were all hovering and waiting to pass through. This time, however, the tide was still ebbing hard out of the inlet. We could see the rapids fiercely rushing through the narrow gap, exiting the opening like a churning river primed for whitewater rafting.
According to our trusted tide book, Ports and Passes, slack tide was scheduled for 1:45 PM. Everyone else on the water had clearly read the same page and reached the same conclusion, but we are now convinced the book’s calculations were incorrect. When we attempted the passage, we could barely scratch out 1.4 knots of ground speed, even while running at a roaring 3000 RPM! It was genuinely terrifying—the stuff of cruising nightmares. The swirling currents were violently pushing the boat around, and we had very little steering control. I sincerely hope the book is more accurate for our departure in a few days. It has definitely given me pause for future transits, and we plan to report the discrepancy to the publisher. We’ll also try to chat with some of the other boaters nearby to see if they had the same white-knuckle experience.
Once through the gate, we made a beeline for the same mooring buoy we used during our last trip. We were incredibly fortunate to find it empty, with only one other boat in the immediate area. Just up from us is a youth camp. They are a wonderfully active bunch—kayaking, singing, and hooting and hollering the way you do when you’re young. Today, they were practicing self-rescue exercises, flipping their kayaks upside down in the chilly water, wet-exiting, and scrambling back in. It’s a lot harder than it looks (we’ve tried it ourselves!). The cheerful sounds of the teenagers paired with the ambient roar of the nearby waterfall provided a refreshing, nostalgic backdrop to the afternoon. By early evening, they had settled down completely. We can see three distinct green roofs in the distance; one looks like an open-air pavilion that we plan to explore later.
After winding down with an episode of The Resident, we started getting ready for bed. Normally, Artemus is the first one to scamper into the V-berth to wait for us, but tonight he refused to go near it. I picked him up and carried him in, but he was visibly trembling with anxiety. He reached out toward his favorite little blue blanket, then suddenly jumped backward as if it were going to attack him, before bolting out of the cabin entirely. It breaks my heart, but he is clearly traumatized. Because he was sleeping right up in the bow during the log strike, the sound underneath him must have been absolutely deafening. We’ll have to monitor him closely over the next few days, but for tonight, we’re heading to bed while he comforts himself out in the security of the cockpit.
I apologize for not having any photos of the log incident or the chaotic rapids—when you’re in the middle of an emergency, holding a camera is the last thing on your mind! But I’ll try to do better next time. ☺️
Here are some of the calmer, beautiful photos from our journey today:
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