Cape Flattery Will Get You Nowhere

(July 9-14, 2014)

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From the Journals of Dipper Pines: Wednesday, July 9: Now I understand why Grunkle Stan had us get passports last spring. We're on our way to Vancouver! That's where Stan and Ford have docked the Stan O' War II, their sloop. We're going out on a little ocean cruise aboard it!

As we drove up, Ford went on and on about the specifications: it's 34.9 feet long, it has a diesel engine and a specially enlarged fuel tank and can go about 250 miles on engine power alone—but it's a sloop, so it has one mast and can be rigged with a fore-and-aft mainsail, a foresail, and a jib (I think I got those right) and can go indefinitely on wind power, of course.

But our plan is to go out in the Pacific for three nights and days and return to port on the fourth day. It's just a pleasure cruise, and so far, the weather forecast looks great for that. It's weird, but White Rock Marina, where the boat is moored, is within sight of United States waters. "But the boat's registered Canadian," Stan explained, "an' it's cheaper to keep it there than in the States."

Mabel is really excited! Of course, on Lake Gravity Falls we've sort of sailed (though she was so full of Dramamine she could have put on the complete works of Shakespeare), but we've never been on a sea-going boat before (well, not if you don't count "It's a Small World" at Disneyland, where she got seasick), and she's eager for the experience. Me, I'm glad to be along. If only Wendy could have come . . . but Soos really needs her right now. The Shack gets super-busy from the Fourth on through the end of summer, and Wendy's Assistant Manager and all. Sigh. Be adult about it, Dipper. Be adult.

Rats. I wish she could be with us!

But, realistically, that wouldn't be practical anyhow. The Stan O' War only has three bunks—one aft (that's in the stern, or back, of the boat, matey!) and two forward, in the prow. I think it's "prow." Note to self: Look that up.

Mabel and I will sleep in the forward bunks, and Stan and Ford will rotate in the aft one—because you have to have someone awake at all times. Stan promises that once Mabel and I get oriented and learn some basics, we can take PART of a watch—at night, Stan and Ford will do four-hour shifts, one of them awake and running the boat for four hours while the other grabs some sleep, and then they'll swap out.

But me and Mabel can stand short two-hour watches in the late afternoon and then in the early morning. We just have to be together and in sight of each other at all times, and either Stan or Ford or sometimes both will be awake, so they're within call if anything happens.

It's nearly night now, and we're on the outskirts of Vancouver. The plan is to stay in a motel tonight, then tomorrow morning spend a little time exploring the town, and then we'll drive a few miles to the marina and set out on our adventure.

Here we are, just turning in at the motel! I'll close for now—Stan says the marina should have the Stan O' War II cleaned up and in the water and fully stocked, so sometime tomorrow afternoon we'll go aboard and, I guess, weigh the anchor? Or cast off? Anyhow, we'll be on our way!

The proper term turned out to be "casting off." A dockhand slipped the mooring line over a cleat, tossed it aboard to Stan, and waved them off; Stan coiled the line and stowed it while Ford, at the wheel, backed the boat out, then turned it and headed south into Puget Sound. To the right and ahead lay a scatter of islands, not very imposing and blue with distance; to the left a flattish shore littered with tons of driftwood slipped past.

"Ready to raise sail, Stanley?" Ford called.

In his grumpiest voice, Stan answered, "Aye, aye, Cap'n Bligh!"

"Mainsail haul!" Ford ordered.

"Oh, this is so hard!" Stan complained as he pulled on a lever. An electric motor raised the triangular sail, Stan pushed it to the right—to starboard, Dipper mentally corrected—the wind caught and filled it, and the boat leaned eagerly. Ford cut the engine, and as the roar stopped, Dipper heard the bow cutting through the calm water, like the sound of shears scything through silk.

The afternoon was warm and perfect, the wind gentle, barely rippling the surface, and they might as well have been on Lake Gravity Falls. Ford easily threaded the passage between Saturna and Patos Islands, then between Vancouver and San Juan Islands, and then they turned to starboard and trimmed the sails—by then Stan had raised the jib as well—for the long haul down the Strait of Juan de Fuca, heading for the open water of the Pacific.

Just with the sails they made good time, and Ford explained how they were sailing on an imaginary line that was the border between Canada on the right and the USA on the left. "Aha!" he said finally. "If you look off to port just ahead, you'll see Cape Flattery. Once we're past that, we're in the ocean!"

"Yay," Mabel cheered, though she was looking green. True, they enjoyed the smoothest of sailing, but the water was salt water, and the boat was even bigger than Soos's, and . . . Mabel got seasick.

"Starboard rail!" Stan ordered. "Barf on the side the wind's blowin' away from!"

So she leaned on the rail and heaved. Once. Then twice. And true seasickness struck with full force.

Well, Mabel was seasick. Dipper enjoyed watching, though, and timing her bouts of nausea and feeding the fishes. "How was that?" she asked after the third one, wiping her mouth.

"Not bad. Two minutes and twelve seconds."

Mabel punched the air. "Yes! A new personal best!"

When she decided she had given her all, they went to the port rail and watched the rugged, wind- and water-carved rocks of Cape Flattery as they hit the first long Pacific swells and the Stan O' War II began to rise and fall in a way that made even Dipper feel a little queasy—though not enough to throw up.

"Why's it named Cape Flattery, Grunkle Stan?" Mabel asked.

"Well, Sweetie, that's an interestin' question," he said. Both Stans looked a little strange, dressed in pea jackets, Stan's green and worn, Ford's Navy blue and brand-new. "Ya see, it was discovered by John Jacob Flattery, a guy who got rich 'cause he knew how to woo wealthy women with his romantic words." He wiggled his fingers. "In fact, all the ladies said he had a silver tongue—"

"Oh, Stanley, please!" Ford said from the wheel. "Kids, Captain James Cook came this way on his final voyage of exploration in 1778. He and his crew were looking for a safe anchorage, and when they spotted the entrance to the straits here, he wrote in the ship's log that they spied, quote, 'a small opening which flattered us with the hopes of finding an harbor.' He somehow missed the harbor, but he named the spot 'Cape Flattery.'"

"My version's juicier," Stan said with a suggestive grin.

They had life-jacket drill—though at the moment the boat rode with a gentle motion—and the kids learned where the life jackets were stored—in six different spots, just in case. They were bright yellow and featured flashing lights, plus GPS beacons. "Cool," Mabel said. "Even if we fall off, we can't get lost!"

"Yes, but don't fall overboard," Ford warned seriously. "The North Pacific water's cold—usually at this time of year, it's somewhere in the fifties Fahrenheit. In the sea, you'd succumb to hypothermia in about three hours!"

"So you'll sleep with the life jackets next to you," Stan said. "And if the weather gets even a little rough, you'll wear them twenty-four seven."

"We won't be out for seven," Mabel said reasonably.

"Then you'll wear 'em until I say take 'em off," Stan growled.

As evening approached, Mabel decided she could probably keep some food down. Stan took the wheel, Ford went to the galley, and Dipper accompanied him to help. Mabel could cook, if you allowed an offbeat definition of the word "edible." Ford wasn't very good at it—his idea was to open a couple of cans and heat the contents until they were lukewarm. He started heating beef stew on the compact little stove, and Dipper suggested sandwiches, which he took charge of making.

He also encouraged Ford to stir the soup often and heat it more than he usually did. Meanwhile, Dipper built sandwiches: thick-sliced light rye bread, onions, garlic, and zucchini sautéed in olive oil and seasoned, roasted red peppers, Greek olives, and feta cheese. Then he grilled the sandwiches in the same pan he'd sautéed the veggies in until the bread was crusty and the cheese melted. By that time, the stew was bubbling hot.

Mabel carried Stan's portion up to the deck, along with a frosty-cold Rimrock Beer—no, he told her, she couldn't sample it—and returned for her own soup and sandwich, but with a Pitt's instead of a beer, and took them up to have dinner with Stan. Dipper and Ford sat in the galley below decks and ate.

"Very good sandwich, Mason," Ford said, munching appreciatively. "Where did you learn how to do that?"

"Aw, from Wendy," Dipper said, shrugging. "She's an occasional part-time vegetarian. Usually when she thinks she's put on a few pounds. She knows all these great recipes, though, for everything from venison to vegetable stew!"

Ford smiled and shook his head. "I never learned to cook properly," he said. "Every explorer should, though. I can tell you, in a few of those alternate dimensions I ate things that I couldn't even stand to look at when they were alive!"

Dipper cleaned up the dishes, and then he and Mabel got to take a turn at the wheel—though Ford and Stan hovered close by with advice and were quick to correct them if they made a wrong move. Their short two-hour watch ended at nine p.m., Ford and Stan flipped for the first watch—Stan won, which meant he'd turn in for some sleep—and they all watched the sun set around 9:15 PM. It went down in a blaze of red and gold, sending a bar of glorious light across the wide Pacific horizon to the west; behind them, night crept up toward the zenith like a violet cloak, bringing out the stars.

"Well-p," Stan said as he stretched, "I'm goin' below to catch some z's. Wake me at one A.M., Ford! Don't go tryin' to take an eight-hour watch on me!"

"I'll wake you," Ford promised. "Kids, you want to turn in now?"

"No!" Mabel said. "I got my sea legs! I want to lie on the deck and see the stars over the ocean!"

"Good night for it," Ford admitted. "Rare to have a night like this at sea without a cloud in the sky. Very well—but both of you put on your lifejackets. You'll do that on deck whenever it's dark. And take them with you to your bunks when you go to bed."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n Blight," Mabel said cheerfully.

So the twins did lie on the deck staring up, past the sail and the mast, into the dark depths of the universe. And they saw a brilliant scatter of stars and counted nine meteors before they started to yawn and at last shuffled forward, down the companionway, through the narrow corridor, and to their adjoining berths. "Night, Dippingsauce," Mabel muttered as she got into her sleep shirt and shorts.

"Night, Sis," Dipper returned as he decided to sleep in his shirt and undershorts. It was dark anyway. The bunks were against the forward bulkheads, and they slanted toward each other—in fact, the bottoms had no panel between them, so they could touch feet if they wanted—but the heads of the bunks were separate. The night had turned cool—nights in the North Pacific had a way of doing that—and they both snuggled under a couple of blankets. Soon Dipper could hear Mabel snoring gently, and he smiled.

He'd got used to that sound during their first summer in Gravity Falls. It was comforting, whether in a tent or . . . he yawned until his jaws creaked . . . or way out . . . at . . . sea.

And then he, too, drifted easily into sleep.

He didn't even feel the change when, in the cockpit, Ford altered their course. He was staring at one of his anomaly detectors.

"Odd," he murmured to himself. "Not very far, and not very strong. Well, it'll never hurt to check."

Still—just in case—he donned his own life jacket.

Because he knew all too well that when you chased an anomaly—you never could tell what you might find.