Good morning from Victoria, BC. I’m sitting on our cold, quiet boat, looking out at the lit-up Parliament Buildings. It’s 5:27 AM—and why am I up so early? Well, this actually feels like sleeping in compared to the past couple of weeks. So, I’ll take it. I know it’ll take time for my body to recover from the extraordinary push leading up to launch.
But we did it—launched exactly on time at 10 AM on May 3 from Cap Sante Marina in Anacortes, Washington, with the most incredible send-off anyone could ever imagine.
It’s hard to describe the emotions I felt—a confluence of so many feelings crashing together that I went numb. I knew I had to compartmentalize everything just to get the boat safely out of the slip. There would be time to process it all along this 14-month journey.
We chose the route through Thatcher Pass because of the 15–20 knot wind and the opposing current—it was going to be rough out in the Strait. As we waved goodbye to the last boat that paraded us out of the marina, Mike opened the engine room door, and a billow of smoke filled the cabin. We shut the engine down immediately and unfurled the jib. Needless to say, my stomach dropped.
The girls, Grace and Tess, sprang into action and opened the hatches. We had made it as far as Spencer Spit on Lopez Island. My gosh, I didn’t want to have to turn back. It had taken every ounce of strength to say my goodbyes and motor away from that dock—especially to my best friend Sarah, who is fighting stage 4 lung cancer.
Moments later, Mike reported that the antifreeze cap had jiggled off and fluid had spilled all over the engine room floor. He worked to cool the engine, and after a few tense minutes, said we could restart it.
To our relief, the motor turned over and held a stable temperature as we continued around the north end of Lopez Island.
That engine scare shook all of us—I could taste the adrenaline still coursing through my body.
We exited Cattle Pass and entered a very angry Salish Sea. Cresting whitecaps hit us immediately, and we pounded through the weather and opposing current for several relentless hours. Every unstowed bag, wrapped gift, and loose glass bottle became a flying projectile. Water poured into the V-berth through the hatches we’d opened to air out the smoke. We took turns cleaning up soaked belongings and mopping up seawater that sloshed across the V-berth and galley floor.
I looked around at the crew and wondered who might tap out after this wild first day. I even wondered if it might be me.
By the time we reached customs in Victoria, I was completely drained—physically, emotionally, mentally. And customs took a couple of hours. I guess they don’t see too many expedition boats preparing to circumnavigate North and South America. I wondered if they were going to tear our boat apart, but honestly, I didn’t care—the sea had already done that for us.
We finally docked in Victoria Harbour late in the evening and were greeted by some loved ones and dear friends. But what we all craved was sleep.
Today is a new day. Everyone on board is still asleep, and I’m looking out at the Empress Hotel and the flapping Canadian flag. It’s comforting to be back in my homeland. I feel like yesterday’s shakedown was exactly what we needed—a stark reminder that this is real, it’s happening, and we need to be fully present to handle whatever comes our way. It grounded us immediately, as we knocked off the first 30 miles of our 27,000-mile journey.
So no—there’s no turning back for me. I’m all in, as I’ve been from the very beginning. I’m going to enjoy my time in this beautiful home territory.
Love to all, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for that incredible send-off. I believe that love and support will carry us through many, many more miles to come.
Cheers, eh!
Jenn