It was my first trip to Alaska--over
twenty years ago. Beyond Desolation
Sound was terra incognita. Raven was
a stout, Monk designed, full
displacement double ender. But she
was barely adequate for the strenuous
Inside Passage. By today's standards
she was less thaninadequately
equipped. There was a small compass,
a flasher depth sounder, a primitive
VHF, a few charts. There was no radar,
no GPS, no automatic pilot. Her skipper
and crew pretty much matched the
electronics.

By the time we had survived the Yuculta Rapids, the Dent Rapids, the Green Rapids, the Welbore Rapids, and the fearsome chop of Johnston Strait, God's Pocket seemed aptly named. Since there are few voyaging destinations without ambiguity, however, it was also the launching pad for crossing Queen Charlotte Sound. That evening I walked to the end of the dock and looked out to the northwest. Nothing but water. We might just as well be destined for Japan. What I described to my mate as a bit of uncertainty was actually a roiling knot of fear. Not only did I not know where or when we would reach Calvert Island and Safety Cove (reassuringly but also deceptively named), I had no idea how to find Pine Island or Egg Island. "Maybe," I advanced tentatively to my companion, "we should just head back to Desolation Sound. After all, we've already had quite an adventure." Her response was instantaneous, unambiguous, and clear: "You've been talking about Alaska until I'm sick of it and you've dragged me this far. We are NOT turning back now." Well, it's always wise to have an open discussion among the crew about a float plan. And that being settled, I returned to my walk on the dock.

Whether the patron saint of Buenos Aries is Quan Yin or Santa Maria, she did indeed take pity. For also walking the dock were two well-seasoned Alaska fishermen. Time has consumed the names of their boats, but not their image. One was a tough little fiberglass stern picker and the other an ancient troller with a pilot house somewhat smaller than a porta potty. Nothing however will ever erase the fishermen: "Roger-Dodger McLeod" and "Floyd,Hang-em-in-Public, Woolsey." (Sometimes, being an average, normal, praise-starved skipper, if a cruise is not life-threatening, I do embellish the truth a bit for dramatic effect. But this is not one of those times. Those were the names they were known by throughout the fishing fleet.)

After some dock talk, in which I'm sure I revealed my resolve--or sentence--to continue north, as well as my total lack of preparation for doing so, Roger and Floyd took me under their wing and offered to let us run with them to Ketchikan. I suspect this was only partly altruism. They probably also did not want whatever the consequences of our imprudence on their consciences.

In any event, at 0-dark-thirty the next morning I reluctantly cast off the security of God's Pocket and followed the pale red and green glow of Floyd's running lights out into the dark unknown. Roger-Dodger brought up the rear.

It was a long,slow trip. Roger-Dodger made six knots in a following sea. At one point he remarked on our CB channel that he had to slow down long enough to tie his elk-burgers onto the stove with bailing wire while they cooked. I don't know how many days we traveled together. Surely it was not more than seven, although it seemed like seventy. Each morning we would get under way before daylight and anchor after dark. Only Hang-em-in-Public and Roger- Dodger knew where we were or where we were going. And they were men of few words.

For me, there was a beauty to this trip that has seldom been equaled. Each day began with something equivalent to the Fourth Movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony when, after a long warm-up of the glow-plugs, the main diesel engine fired off. Raven came to life. Lights came on, the radio chattered, hot water flowed, coffee perked, bacon fried, the anchor winched up, anchor light off, running lights on, and Raven was underway, snuggled in between Floyd and Roger.

Daylight came, dishes were done, boat chores accomplished. Morning coffee. Watches changed. On the CB, discussions of weather, water and elk-burger's frying. Reports on the VHF. Lunch. Naps. Some relaxed time as the watch changed again. Afternoon coffee. The three small boats slowly making their way north through the Inside Passage. Evening. Dinner. Dishes. Coffee. Darkness coming on. Running lights on. Finally to anchor. Running lights off, anchor light on. A radio discussion of the day and plans for the morning. Bedtime preparation.

Finally the engine is quieted. Silence happens, and, exhausted, we crawl into bed.

Each day, new territory outside, but inside, a routine settled in. And beneath the various activities and chores, always the steady, unwavering throb of the diesel.

Somewhere, maybe along about Grenville channel, an ontological shift occurred. What had begun as a background of quiet, interrupted by the noise of the engine reversed itself. Now the steady throb of the diesel became the background and quiet became an unnatural and artificial interruption. The diesel was no longer something we controlled. It became the uncaused cause, creating a magical journey and we were fortunate enough to be invited along.

Conventional Wisdom has it that while diesel engines are practical, The ultimate aesthetic cruising experience is a boat under sail; no sound but the wind in the rigging and the lapping of waves against the hull. To crank up the engine is to destroy the fantasy, the mystery of sails in a fair wind.

There is another aesthetic, however: the aesthetic of the diesel. Always there, always providing creative power--heat, light, movement, nourishment. There is the confidence that comes from some knowledge of just what is providing the energy. The oil and water that are checked every day. The filters, zincs, belts and gaskets changed every year. The engine hours, water temperature, oil pressure, exhaust temperature monitored. And there is the mystery--injectors, fuel pumps, connecting rods, cylinder liners, bearings, seals, cam shafts, valves, valve seats, pistons, rings. Finally there is a resignation, a relaxation. I do not have to understand it all. I only have to realize that if I care for what I do know, every day it starts and runs, providing the fundamental energy that makes everything else happen.

Unconsciously, we become exquisitely sensitive to any variation in the background sound. Harbor-hopping back in the San Juans, we pretty much ignore the diesel. We can always check things out when we get to port. But here, where port is just the next empty anchorage, we become acutely sensitive to the health of the diesel. It is all we have.

As carefully and consistently as the sailor monitors the shifts in the wind, we monitor shifts in the background energy. Hourly, as regularly as the glass was turned in the old days, we inspect the engine room. Was that a momentary drop in RPM's? Or was it just the way I turned my head? Has the oil pressure dropped abnormally, or is that just the usual result of mid-day warmth? Did the same thing happen yesterday? Check the log. We listen. Nothing changes. All is well. Eventually, after many days, we learn to relax without losing our awareness.

The state of relaxed awareness becomes a second nature. The steady throb of the diesel becomes a source of confidence and freedom. It's aesthetics have liberated us from both over-confidence and fear. Somewhere about Grenville Channel we have moved into a new state of awareness: a gift of diesel aesthetics. We can relax.

Of course there are no absolutes. Hoses burst. Seals fail. Filters clog. But these are merely the edge of the unknown. They are the signature irregularity in the pattern of an oriental rug. Underneath it all is the steady throb of the diesel, bringing the boat and its crew to life.