Sep 24, 2025 3 min read

A March to Montague

Morning spilled open with rain, dissolving islands into ether and blistering the water with tessulate undulations. But the wind was elusive. It was a day to go below and wrap yourself in rumination. Instead, we were on the move.

A long night had passed with the boat's rudder drawing close to the rocks, before the tide again lifted us clear. As dawn approached the towering stars were curtained with clouds that came fast over the horizon, only to slow and settle above us in heavy folds.

Finally, the morning spilled open with rain, dissolving islands into ether and blistering the water with tesselate undulations. But the wind was elusive. It was a day to go below and wrap yourself in rumination. Instead, we were on the move.

As far as protection from the elements while making way, we have a canvas enclosure for the cockpit, but it’s low and sleek and complements the lines of the boat while minimizing excess windage. Which is the positive spin on saying it's small and cramped and you can’t lean back or stand up or develop a fear of enclosed spaces. Katherine opines the boat was designed for sailing between Swedish islands in an endless summer, which seems about right.

Hunched in the enclosure, while islands protrude from the mist.

Still, since we were motoring anyway, we huddled in the small space, steered clear of fast-moving ferries, dodgy fishing boats, and rocky islands and outcroppings lurking in thick, roiling mist, and dutifully marched our way to Montague Harbour.

As we approached, the rain surrendered its energy and the clouds relented. We took a mooring ball related to the marine park between Gray Peninsula and Galliano Island, and dinghied over to the Crane and Robin for dinner. This is when we learned how serious Canadians are about the precise dates that bracket "summer."

It turned out to be the last open night of the season for this shoreside pub. The end of summer is a solemn occasion marked by a date, which might vary from place to place, but seems to reliably be the second weekend of September. It’s a scheduled day and after that day, no more summer, and everything changes no matter what the weather does. Maaaybe some places taper off to reduced hours, but in many places it's a hard stop, as in "closed until next year. Sweltering temperature and climate change cannot even change the date, at least not yet. Luckily we squeaked in for the final night of the year which, naturally, was a raucous celebration. At Crane and Robin it was a parade of live music in a melange of styles, featuring locals and visitors, covers and originals.

One of my most curmudgeonly aspects is my feeling that eating and music are distinct events that really ought not be mixed and the frequency with which "live, local music!" is celebrated in restaurants and bars is among the most annoying traits of civilization. But, you know, I'm trying to be a less petty person and if I can't quite embrace the traditional solace sailors have always found in a tavern filled with song and grog after leaving a damp, cold boat, I can at least fall back on my lifelong passion for casual public eavesdropping. We were lucky to get a table and it was entertaining to observe. So, while I'm not going to claim we ended up dancing on the piano until the doors were forcibly shut, I'm not going to deny it either.

The following day, we took our time departing—either because there was no rush or because we needed the extra time for personal reasons. We were now short-hopping to a staging ground for a slightly longer exploration that would be a greater test of ourselves, our sailboat, and our ability to navigate trickier waters.