The motor slowed as we crested the wave, then raced as we skidded down into the trough. The emerald green water broke with white bubbly foam. The wind whistled, the sea hissed, and the glasses in the galley clinked. The motion of the boat was not unlike a rocking cradle. The captain was keen to any aberration of motion or sound that indicated something amiss in the rough seas. No rest until we crossed the Strait of Georgia; for now, only the anticipation of a safe harbor with calm waters. Only then a toast offered and enjoyed for safe passage.
Don Chase is a retired adventurer and occasional writer living in Washington state joined by his wife, Kim and his dog, Rocky.