Being a Good Neighbor

June 13, 2009, Echo Bay on Sucia Island

We came into Echo Bay yesterday, set our anchor along the north curve of the bay and settled in to enjoy what looked like a beautiful weekend. Slowly the mooring buoys fill with other weekend boaters and the blue skies are enough to shrug off the breeze and soft ocean swells that are coming into the anchorage. The first evening is beautiful and still. We've kayaked and hiked, worked on small projects and talked about all the projects yet to be done. We've discovered that our ten foot Walker Bay's battery is dead which means that the electric motor is useless. The oars, however, work perfectly and over the course of 24 hours, we have fun – and a lot of laughs – rowing ourselves to and from shore as necessitated by the dog who is our traveling companion.

I don't know why I take note of the sailboat that snaggs the mooring buoy closest to us with anything other than the usual observations regarding the lines of the boat and who was on board. Perhaps it is the fact that they were a young couple traveling with a toddler. Maybe it is the smaller version of our Walker Bay tender that they unloaded from the bow of their sailboat – no engine, just oars. Throughout the day and into the next morning, I find myself somehow in proximity to this small family crew. As I kayak around the bay, I chat briefly with them as they climb into their eight foot tender,headed for the beach. Like us, they are rowing and the small boat, even in the light seas of the breezy day, seems barely able to keep them out of the water. The father rows diligently to shore and off they go. I find them an hour later on the beach where my husband has taken our dog to chase sticks and another small conversation ensues regarding the inflatable ring that our tender has and how much more stabilization it has added.

I watch as the mother slathers sunscreen on her daughter that can't be more than three years old. I almost tell her about the eagles and the otters that I saw while sitting in that same location the day before – but I stop myself, not wanting to intrude. I keep kayaking and wonder about the choices we make to move in or out of conversation with others. It's hard to know whether someone has come out on their boat to get away from it all – nosey neighbors, bosses, families, work – or if they welcome the chance to make new friends, chat about woodwork and share the stories that draw us back out onto the water again and again. I have been both boaters: the hermit and the extrovert. Looking at the young family on the beach, I am in a very different place in my life as I am on the first boating trip alone with my husband while all three children have stayed home. We had gone from a trip planned for four down to two as other circumstances came up in our children's lives. As adults, they get to make those decisions. Our youngest, closing in on adulthood much faster than I like, is happily spending the weekend with her grandfather. Perhaps I can see in that little girl with her bucket near the water 's edge the memory of a time when that was my life as a mother. I have such fond memories camping and boating with my children as toddlers. I smile as I head back to Jessara.

Six o'clock and I look up from dinner preparations, studying the bobbing sailboat next to us. The winds have kicked up. Are they back? I look for the dinghy and it isn't there. Maybe they were going to camp on the island – but no, the hatches are wide open on top of the boat. The sun is still shining, it is warm and just a little windier than I like but I suspect that it will die down into the evening and we will have another perfectly lovely night. I glance towards the beach and can just make out the white of the dinghy in the gathering shadows before going back to chopping green beans.

Eight O'clock. The sun is cresting along the western tree line and the winds have built in strength. I turn on the radio and listen to NOAA report that the winds are building in strength up through midnight. Our current location can expect 15-25 knot winds diminishing only slightly come morning. I've been through a night like that before and we pull in the kayak and make sure everything is battened down. My husband has one more shore stop to make with the dog and he heads towards the closest rocks. I've mentioned to him that I am wondering about our neighbors and he checks and sees that their dinghy isn't hidden from our sight – they are not on board. As he fights the swells and tide ashore, I grab the binoculars and search the shoreline. I am suddenly very worried for this young family. The bay is filled with white caps now and the swells are 1-2 feet. The wind is whipping the foam off of the small waves and blowing it into a fine mist. I've read about "strong breezes" and "gale force winds" – if this pattern keeps up, all of the fifty odd boats in the bay are going to be in for an interesting night.

I use the binoculars and – there! – I see them. In their small boat that suddenly looks like a tea cup, desperately rowing from the beach, trying to make some headway against the waters that are now dark and ugly. My husband radios that he is on his way back and I wait as he fights his own battle to get to the stern of our boat. The ten foot boat with its inflatable ring and single occupant seems to move over the water much easier then the small boat that I am watching through my binoculars. What can we do? I am thinking furiously as Andy makes his way closer. We need to get a motorized tender to that family – before they capsize or end up on the island for the night. I watch as they give up, heading back towards the rocks and begin the slow task of trying to make their way closer to their boat along the shoreline.

Andy returns and we decide to hail anyone in the bay who can help. Putting out a call on the radio is met with dead silence. We try again, surprised. No one – on a night like this – has their radio tuned to 16? We look at each other. There is no way we can stand by and do nothing. Locating the two closest boats that have motorized tenders riding off their sterns, Andy once again saddles up and heads out. I watch as he first goes to one sailboat and then to the power boat nearby. From where I am standing it is unclear that anyone is going to do anything. Andy later says that he wasn't sure either. One guy tells him that he only has a two horsepower engine and probably can't tow anyone. Andy doesn't wait around to debate the subject. The other gentleman has to take his boat down off of the rigging and put it in the water. But he has told Andy that he would help – so Andy rows onwards into the shadows to the small cove where the family is getting ready to try the waters again.

This whole time the bay has become a howling rollercoaster ride. Luckily the sky remains clear and visibility isn't too limited. Andy says that as he came around the corner, the wife's face lit up. We were the only ones who had noticed their painful – and dangerous progress. Two sailboats were nearby, buttoned up and dark. One of the motorized tenders was on its way even as Andy began the process of taking them one at a time back to their boat. Ropes are exchanged and towing commences. I watch as the family is slowly and safely delivered back to their boat. The second motorized tender goes over to Andy with the offer to tow him as well – an offer that he happily accepts. He is tired and is looking forward to being out of the wind.

As he comes onboard, we hear the hail from the sailboat with a big thank you to the people who had helped them. Everyone is safe. What could be better?

Andy later tells me that while he was sitting in the cove with the family getting them ready to be towed, he told them that I was the one who had been wondering what had happened to them and had also been the one to spot their failing attempts to get back to their boat. They were very thankful that I had been doing just that. I still can't imagine what might have happened if they had capsized – that little girl would have had very little time before hypothermia set in. I'm just glad that for some reason that family had caught my attention and stayed in my thoughts all day. I'm proud to be married to a man that believes in helping others as much as I do – and had the strong arms to get out there and see the task done. I can also be somewhat amazed at how no one – out of more than fifty boats, on a windy night – was monitoring the radio. I usually don't – but I will from now on.

As boaters, we can respect each other's privacy and still be observant. We're all out on the water to enjoy ourselves and sometimes we will be called on to help when conditions change. It's hard enough to ask for help but you also have to know when that time has come. We've sat back often enough and watched our fellow boaters do some pretty silly things – but they weren't in danger nor were they endangering anyone else. This was different. The bubble of pretending that we were all out in the wilderness alone was burst. Thankfully there was a happy ending.

Oh, and yes, I've talked to Andy about how we need a back up gasoline engine for our Walker Bay.