I used to laugh every time I heard the story about the guy who spent a small fortune equipping a yacht with all the latest electronics and the most expensive sailing hardware to begin a circumnavigation, or Pacific crossing, only to turn around and put the boat up for sale after clearing the Strait of Juan de Fuca, or any other such dividing line between sheltered, coastal waters and the open water of the ocean. It's a common story, probably re-enacted in every saltwater marina throughout America. These guys, full of dreams and loaded up with gear, had no idea what the ocean would mean to them. Nor did I.
Three months into this trip, Jiayu and I decided not to take then ocean route back to Seattle. We had considered coming down the outside of Vancouver Island, sheltered coastal cruising punctuated by a few short open water passages. But we'd had enough of rain for a while, and the west side is known for rain, and fog, and wild winds. Instead, we opted for the sunny, east side waters, gorgeously protected by the very mountains that give rise to so much rain on the west side.
But I still hungered for a taste of actual ocean travel. So, we agreed to make an overnight passage from Spider Anchorage in the Hakai Passage region down into the inside of Vancouver Island, a route that would take us miles from land, although not quite out of its sight. It was to be our first true traverse of open Pacific waters.
The forecast was good, sunny, winds 10 to 20 knots, seas 1.5 meters and subsiding, and a full moon to light our way at night. It was the ideal time for a first experience. We could not imagine a better opportunity. Who knew seas so small could be so horrible?
As we left, the seas were deceptively calm. They stayed that way just long enough to put us miles out to sea. Once there, our boat was tossed incessantly and relentlessly from side to side. What we had was left-over swell from the south meeting the new swell from the northwest. The waves were tightly packed and disorderly, a “confused sea” with a short period. We made good time, clipping along at 6 knots with our small working jib up and a reef in the main, but there was no stopping the sudden, nearly rail to rail rolls that would assault us as the waves combined at unpredictable angles. There were no fixed patterns, and we never knew for sure when the next bout would strike us.
To ease the ride, we sailed a bit more across the wind than originally planned, tending westward and further out to sea. As the lurching went on, each of us had our first-ever experience with seasickness. Jiayu was hit especially hard. As evening drew in, she went below to get some rest and prepare for her time on deck later that night. I sailed on alone.
That night's sunset was the most terrible beauty I have ever seen. As the sky blazed, I realized for the first time that I was miles from anyone, miles from help, alone. Watching night fall was watching death itself arrive. We floated in our tiny boat, suspended on the surface of liquid blackness. Everywhere in all directions we were surrounded by certain, bone-numbing, cold death. Only that thin skin of fiberglass separated us from our ultimate end. I suddenly remembered to snap my tether to the boat's jacklines. If I went overboard, Jiayu wouldn't even know I was gone until she woke up hours later.
Diabolically shaped and timed four-foot waves incessantly tossed our boat with more force than waves twice their size had on our way up the coast. They wore on my nerves sending me from irritation, through madness, to resignation. In time I was overcome with sadness and longing to be safe ashore. I was terrified, truly terrified. I suddenly understood exactly why those guys had put their boats up for sale.
Overhead were more stars than I've seen since my last trip into the desert. Shooting stars streaked one after another, the milky way was a silver river across the sky. The water was pitch black. In a case of lunar dyslexia, I had completely misread the moon phase and ignored my own nightly experience. It was a new moon, not a full moon. There was not a bit of light to see by in the water—stars above and inky black all around. I struggled time and again to regain my ability to see the beauty amidst my fear, exhaustion, and need to keep my attention sharp and on the task of sailing.
Our course had taken us further and further west, leaving the bounds of Queen Charlotte Sound proper and placing us into the open Pacific. The bouncing continued and continued to madden me, throwing our sails about, violently tossing our boat in new and novel directions. But finally, finally, the lighthouses of Vancouver Island came into sight. It was time to turn eastward.
At this moment, I shared a joy that must have been shared by thousands upon thousands of sailors throughout the centuries, that bright torch on shore announcing that there are other humans in the world who care about us. I took great solace that not only were we closer to land, but that people on shore wanted us to land safely. They were showing us the way.
When Jiayu came to take her shift, it was with extreme gratitude that I laid down on the bunk to huddle up and take some much needed rest. Our sea bunks are good, located where the boat moves the least. I lay for my allotted hours, truly touched that she was out there to keep me safe, tending the boat while I dozed, daydreamed, and slept. Our lives truly were in each other's hands.
We bounced along toward the east, still many, many hours from shore, when the solid thunk of a small piece of driftwood sent me shooting on deck. Due to the pervasive logging of British Columbia's coastal forests, inland waters are rife with logs and deadheads, many of which could easily sink a boat if the wrong combination of waves and boat speed coincided. Drawing towards land, with no moon to see by, it was time to stop.
But how to “stop?” We could have taken down our sails and bobbed like a cork, but the motion was bad enough already. To lose the stabilizing effects of the sails would have made our night truly intolerable.
The classic method of stopping a sailboat is “heaving to.” To do this we tacked the boat while leaving the headsail back-winded. While this calms our boat and is handy for reefing the mainsail, it doesn't actually stop our boat. The slowest I could get the boat to go was 1.5 knots, and in the gusts it would do 2 knots. So I played with this technique for an hour or two, but finally I had to get the boat to stop. Our progress was entirely in the wrong direction. And even at 2 knots, I didn't want to hit anything. So I got to work.
Eventually I found that with our mainsail double-reefed, the jib removed entirely, and the tiller hard to leeward the boat would lie docilely at about a 50 degree angle to the wind and waves, nearly the perfect angle. The wind stabilized us and helped tame the tossing. We took our lumps as gracefully as possible. Our boat trotted in place, safe, but making no progress and leaving us with a long day ahead to follow our long night.
At first light, I took over from Jiayu and made ready to sail. No sooner had I raised sail into the relentless wind than it died. We were left with only the waves, and our sail which had stabilized the boat in the wind was now a liability, thrashing from side to side, filling with air with a pop and then thrashing to the other side, a danger to both physical and mental health.
I went below cursing to get my sail ties, complaining loudly to Jiayu, who slept like a rock through every moment of my tirade. I took down the sails and motored. Not even our bone shaking 25 year-old diesel could disturb Jiayu's much needed slumber. We motored through the remaining chop, and for the first time I made friends with my noisy, stinky, ancient engine. When Jiayu finally did awake, I curled up inside next to the engine compartment, the clamor that usually enervates me and drives me to distraction was a warm comfort as I fell off into sleep. By this time, the motion was no longer maddening. Our seasickness had eased. We had acclimated.
Looking back, there were many, many moments where I was ready to swear off ocean travel altogether, and Jiayu vowed to regret this crossing for the rest of her life. These were small seas in settled weather. What of big seas in heavy weather? How could I face it?
But it only took a few hours in harbor for me to remember that not all seas are so diabolically rough or confused. Even much larger seas can be more comfortable than what we faced. And as even my non-sailing mom reminded me, the waters of Queen Charlotte Sound are renown for their roughness. Likewise I now have a new set of skills and knowledge to approach my next dip into open water. Experience eases fear as well. I will never have to spend my first night at sea ever again. I have already cleared that hurdle.
The ocean still calls to me. My time will come. I am looking forward to it. I am more ready than I was, but also humbled. It is with a shiver through my body that I contemplate my next ocean passage.
But most of all, nothing can possibly replace the sweetness that Jiayu and I shared at the end of our ordeal. It is with deep love and appreciation that we cared for each other and looked after each other through the passage. Our relationship has deepened and quickened for this experience. More than ever I know I am with right person.
（翻譯）
Three months into this trip, Jiayu and I decided not to take then ocean route back to Seattle. We had considered coming down the outside of Vancouver Island, sheltered coastal cruising punctuated by a few short open water passages. But we'd had enough of rain for a while, and the west side is known for rain, and fog, and wild winds. Instead, we opted for the sunny, east side waters, gorgeously protected by the very mountains that give rise to so much rain on the west side.
But I still hungered for a taste of actual ocean travel. So, we agreed to make an overnight passage from Spider Anchorage in the Hakai Passage region down into the inside of Vancouver Island, a route that would take us miles from land, although not quite out of its sight. It was to be our first true traverse of open Pacific waters.
The forecast was good, sunny, winds 10 to 20 knots, seas 1.5 meters and subsiding, and a full moon to light our way at night. It was the ideal time for a first experience. We could not imagine a better opportunity. Who knew seas so small could be so horrible?
As we left, the seas were deceptively calm. They stayed that way just long enough to put us miles out to sea. Once there, our boat was tossed incessantly and relentlessly from side to side. What we had was left-over swell from the south meeting the new swell from the northwest. The waves were tightly packed and disorderly, a “confused sea” with a short period. We made good time, clipping along at 6 knots with our small working jib up and a reef in the main, but there was no stopping the sudden, nearly rail to rail rolls that would assault us as the waves combined at unpredictable angles. There were no fixed patterns, and we never knew for sure when the next bout would strike us.
To ease the ride, we sailed a bit more across the wind than originally planned, tending westward and further out to sea. As the lurching went on, each of us had our first-ever experience with seasickness. Jiayu was hit especially hard. As evening drew in, she went below to get some rest and prepare for her time on deck later that night. I sailed on alone.
That night's sunset was the most terrible beauty I have ever seen. As the sky blazed, I realized for the first time that I was miles from anyone, miles from help, alone. Watching night fall was watching death itself arrive. We floated in our tiny boat, suspended on the surface of liquid blackness. Everywhere in all directions we were surrounded by certain, bone-numbing, cold death. Only that thin skin of fiberglass separated us from our ultimate end. I suddenly remembered to snap my tether to the boat's jacklines. If I went overboard, Jiayu wouldn't even know I was gone until she woke up hours later.
Diabolically shaped and timed four-foot waves incessantly tossed our boat with more force than waves twice their size had on our way up the coast. They wore on my nerves sending me from irritation, through madness, to resignation. In time I was overcome with sadness and longing to be safe ashore. I was terrified, truly terrified. I suddenly understood exactly why those guys had put their boats up for sale.
Overhead were more stars than I've seen since my last trip into the desert. Shooting stars streaked one after another, the milky way was a silver river across the sky. The water was pitch black. In a case of lunar dyslexia, I had completely misread the moon phase and ignored my own nightly experience. It was a new moon, not a full moon. There was not a bit of light to see by in the water—stars above and inky black all around. I struggled time and again to regain my ability to see the beauty amidst my fear, exhaustion, and need to keep my attention sharp and on the task of sailing.
Our course had taken us further and further west, leaving the bounds of Queen Charlotte Sound proper and placing us into the open Pacific. The bouncing continued and continued to madden me, throwing our sails about, violently tossing our boat in new and novel directions. But finally, finally, the lighthouses of Vancouver Island came into sight. It was time to turn eastward.
At this moment, I shared a joy that must have been shared by thousands upon thousands of sailors throughout the centuries, that bright torch on shore announcing that there are other humans in the world who care about us. I took great solace that not only were we closer to land, but that people on shore wanted us to land safely. They were showing us the way.
When Jiayu came to take her shift, it was with extreme gratitude that I laid down on the bunk to huddle up and take some much needed rest. Our sea bunks are good, located where the boat moves the least. I lay for my allotted hours, truly touched that she was out there to keep me safe, tending the boat while I dozed, daydreamed, and slept. Our lives truly were in each other's hands.
We bounced along toward the east, still many, many hours from shore, when the solid thunk of a small piece of driftwood sent me shooting on deck. Due to the pervasive logging of British Columbia's coastal forests, inland waters are rife with logs and deadheads, many of which could easily sink a boat if the wrong combination of waves and boat speed coincided. Drawing towards land, with no moon to see by, it was time to stop.
But how to “stop?” We could have taken down our sails and bobbed like a cork, but the motion was bad enough already. To lose the stabilizing effects of the sails would have made our night truly intolerable.
The classic method of stopping a sailboat is “heaving to.” To do this we tacked the boat while leaving the headsail back-winded. While this calms our boat and is handy for reefing the mainsail, it doesn't actually stop our boat. The slowest I could get the boat to go was 1.5 knots, and in the gusts it would do 2 knots. So I played with this technique for an hour or two, but finally I had to get the boat to stop. Our progress was entirely in the wrong direction. And even at 2 knots, I didn't want to hit anything. So I got to work.
Eventually I found that with our mainsail double-reefed, the jib removed entirely, and the tiller hard to leeward the boat would lie docilely at about a 50 degree angle to the wind and waves, nearly the perfect angle. The wind stabilized us and helped tame the tossing. We took our lumps as gracefully as possible. Our boat trotted in place, safe, but making no progress and leaving us with a long day ahead to follow our long night.
At first light, I took over from Jiayu and made ready to sail. No sooner had I raised sail into the relentless wind than it died. We were left with only the waves, and our sail which had stabilized the boat in the wind was now a liability, thrashing from side to side, filling with air with a pop and then thrashing to the other side, a danger to both physical and mental health.
I went below cursing to get my sail ties, complaining loudly to Jiayu, who slept like a rock through every moment of my tirade. I took down the sails and motored. Not even our bone shaking 25 year-old diesel could disturb Jiayu's much needed slumber. We motored through the remaining chop, and for the first time I made friends with my noisy, stinky, ancient engine. When Jiayu finally did awake, I curled up inside next to the engine compartment, the clamor that usually enervates me and drives me to distraction was a warm comfort as I fell off into sleep. By this time, the motion was no longer maddening. Our seasickness had eased. We had acclimated.
Looking back, there were many, many moments where I was ready to swear off ocean travel altogether, and Jiayu vowed to regret this crossing for the rest of her life. These were small seas in settled weather. What of big seas in heavy weather? How could I face it?
But it only took a few hours in harbor for me to remember that not all seas are so diabolically rough or confused. Even much larger seas can be more comfortable than what we faced. And as even my non-sailing mom reminded me, the waters of Queen Charlotte Sound are renown for their roughness. Likewise I now have a new set of skills and knowledge to approach my next dip into open water. Experience eases fear as well. I will never have to spend my first night at sea ever again. I have already cleared that hurdle.
The ocean still calls to me. My time will come. I am looking forward to it. I am more ready than I was, but also humbled. It is with a shiver through my body that I contemplate my next ocean passage.
But most of all, nothing can possibly replace the sweetness that Jiayu and I shared at the end of our ordeal. It is with deep love and appreciation that we cared for each other and looked after each other through the passage. Our relationship has deepened and quickened for this experience. More than ever I know I am with right person.
（翻譯）
以往，當我聽到有人花費不貲，為他的遊艇添購最新電子儀器、最昂貴的航行裝備以開始長途航行、或跨太平洋之旅，結果只度過西雅圖北方的小海峽（或任何開放水域）就決定將船賣掉，我總是嗤之以鼻。這個故事並不罕見，可能在美國每個碼頭都有類似故事傳誦。這些航行者，充滿夢想、滿載裝備，卻無知於海洋對他們的意義。
孰不知我也一樣無知。
在航行了三個月之後，Jiayu和我決定不走海洋路線返回西雅圖。我們曾考慮由溫哥華島的西岸回去，穿插保護水域的海岸航行與數個開放海域航行。但是，我們已經受夠了細雨綿綿的氣候，而西岸卻以雨、霧、狂風著稱。因此，我們選擇陽光普照的溫哥華島東岸（溫哥華島的高山阻擋了西岸的雨霧）。
但是，我仍渴望能淺嘗真實海洋航行的經驗，所以我們決定從派得灣航行一段開放水域進入溫哥華島東岸，這段航行會讓我們離岸數百里之遙。雖然陸地仍會依稀可見，這會是我們第一次真是的太平洋航行。
氣象預報聽來不錯：晴天、風力每小時10-20英里、浪高1.5公尺，逐漸消退。我們無法想像更好的時機。但是誰知道如此短的航行會如此可佈？
啟航時，海面欺人似的平靜，就等待我們投向懷抱。一旦進入開放水域，我們的船不間斷地被無情左右搖晃。之前南風推進的舊湧浪和西北風形成的新湧浪相遇，海浪密集而混亂，海水似乎也困惑不已。我們順利航行，僅以小前帆和收緊一節的主帆，就能扣在6節海里上下前進。但是我們無法停止當浪群以無預期角度相遇而攻擊船形成甲板幾乎碰到水面的的大幅搖晃。浪群沒有固定模式，我們無法得知何時下個海浪會襲擊而來。
為了緩和顛簸，我們更測風航行，比預期航向更朝西方的海域前進。隨著船蹣跚前進，我們經驗第一次的暈船，特別是Jiayu。當夜晚接近，她到船艙內休息，以備晚一些與我交換掌舵。我獨自航行。
那晚的日落是我經歷過最恐怖的美麗。在天空布滿燦爛晚霞時，我突然驚覺我們遠離人群、遠離救援、孤單無援。看著夜晚降臨宛如目睹死亡本身來臨。我們如同一葉小舟，懸浮在黑暗液體的表面。四面八方，我們被篤定、毛骨悚然、冷冽的死亡所圍繞，僅以一層單薄的玻璃纖維與我們的終極去向相隔。我赫然記起將我的安全索扣環扣在船上的安全繩。如果我意外落海，Jiayu要到數小時後醒來才可能知曉。
四尺高的海浪不定時猙獰地搖晃著我們的船。他們挑起我的不耐，以致幾近憤怒，最終屈服。然後，難過與希望安全回岸的意念佔據了我。我很害怕，真實的恐懼。我剎然完全瞭解為何那些航行者決定將船售出。
頭頂上的星星比我之前在沙漠中看過的星星更不勝其數。流星一顆接一顆劃過天際，銀河如奶水般灑過天空。海水漆黑一片。我錯讀月曆，把新月當滿月。水面無光──星光在上卻四周如墨般漆黑。我一再費力的從恐懼、疲倦中重見仍能讀美的能力，以及保持清晰的注意力以持續航行任務。
我們的航向讓我們更向西行，離開夏綠蒂海峽的邊界而真正進入太平洋。搖晃的海面持續左右拋擲我們的帆面、狂暴的以不同組合晃動我們的船而令我憤怒。但終究，終究得以望見溫哥華島上的燈塔。是轉向東行的時刻了。
此時，我和數世紀以來不計其數的水手們享受著相同的喜悅：岸上明亮的燈炬宣示著在世界上仍有其他人關心著我們。我感到極大慰藉──我們不但逐漸接近岸邊，而且岸上的人也希望我們平安返岸。他們指引著我們方向。
當Jiayu上到甲板上換手時，我滿懷感激在艙中躺下，取得我所需的適時休息。船艙中間的長椅位於船晃動最小之處，我在椅墊上躺下，感動於她在甲板上保護我的安全，在我瞌睡、作夢、沈睡中守護著船。我們的生命真正放在彼此的手裡。
我們顛簸著往東前進，仍然離岸有數小時之搖。突然一塊小型浮木撞擊船艙聲讓我閃電般衝上甲板。加拿大西岸充斥著伐木業，因此水面常充滿浮木。若是船速與海浪的組合錯誤，巨大浮木可輕易將船撞沈。我們朝岸前進卻又無月光可辨識四周，是停船的時候了。
但是怎麼「停船」？ 我們當然可以卸下船帆，像酒塞般在水中載沈載浮。有帆支撐船的擺動就已經夠受了，若失去風帆穩定船舶的效力，我們的夜晚將會更難以忍受。停止帆船的傳統方法稱之為Heaving to”。此法是在逆風轉舵時將前帆仍留在上風處不動。這麼做讓船安靜了下來，可以用來收主帆，但卻無法真正讓船停止，船速仍最低仍保持在1.5英里小時，陣風2英里/小時。所以我花了一、二個小時反覆嘗試此技術，希望最後終於將船完全停止。
最後我發現若將主帆縮兩節，收起前帆，舵完全扭至下風處，我們的船就能安靜的停在與風成50度的角度，幾乎是完美的方向。風逐漸平穩，搖晃程度減小。我們盡量保持優雅忍受一切。我們的船安全靜止，但是停留原地也意味著我們仍有漫漫長夜等著度過。在曙光乍現時，我由Jiayu手中接過船舵，準備航行。我才將帆升起，整夜不停的風卻消逝無蹤。陪伴我們的是海上的波浪。原先在風中協助船隻穩定的風帆立刻成為負擔，因一陣微風吹脹，風消逝後又急速甩晃至另一方，反覆拍擊。對身心造成威脅。我一邊咒罵一邊跑下船艙拿綁帆布的繩帶，向Jiayu大聲抱怨，她卻早已睡的不省人事。我獨自收起風帆，開啟引擎。連我們25年垂垂老矣，震天聲響的引擎聲都無法打擾Jiayu需要的睡眠。我們在殘存的浪中前進。生平第一次，我和吵雜、油臭的老舊引擎建立友誼。當Jiayu終於醒來時，我蜷曲靠在引擎艙的不遠處，曾經令我神經衰弱、注意力無法集中的噪音卻在我緩緩睡意中給予慰藉。此刻，船的律動不再令我們煩躁，暈船感覺減輕。我們居然適應這一切了。
再度回首，我在這次航程中數次已經準備發誓絕不再做海洋航行，而Jiayu則是發誓要一輩子後悔此次夜行的決定。這只不過是在穩定氣候下的小小海域，若是真正的海洋與惡劣的天候呢？我怎麼面對？
但是進入港灣後僅數小時的時間就讓我記起不是所有洋面都如此具挑戰性與混亂。大洋也可能比我們面對的海域更容易。連我從不航行的母親都提醒我：夏綠蒂海峽本來就以其險惡著稱。如今我具備新的技術與知識面對我下一次的開放海域航行。經驗也會減低恐懼。我再也不會有「第一次」夜航，我已經通過這一關了。海洋仍然呼喚著我。適當的時機將會來到。我很期待。我比以前有更多準備，也更加謙卑。想到下一個可能的海洋航行就讓我感到一陣電流通過身體。
但最重要的是，沒有任何能夠取代航行之後Jiayu和我分享的親密。我們在航行中因愛與感謝而彼此照顧，這次經驗讓我們的關係更加深厚。更甚於前，我知道我找到對的人了。
孰不知我也一樣無知。
在航行了三個月之後，Jiayu和我決定不走海洋路線返回西雅圖。我們曾考慮由溫哥華島的西岸回去，穿插保護水域的海岸航行與數個開放海域航行。但是，我們已經受夠了細雨綿綿的氣候，而西岸卻以雨、霧、狂風著稱。因此，我們選擇陽光普照的溫哥華島東岸（溫哥華島的高山阻擋了西岸的雨霧）。
但是，我仍渴望能淺嘗真實海洋航行的經驗，所以我們決定從派得灣航行一段開放水域進入溫哥華島東岸，這段航行會讓我們離岸數百里之遙。雖然陸地仍會依稀可見，這會是我們第一次真是的太平洋航行。
氣象預報聽來不錯：晴天、風力每小時10-20英里、浪高1.5公尺，逐漸消退。我們無法想像更好的時機。但是誰知道如此短的航行會如此可佈？
啟航時，海面欺人似的平靜，就等待我們投向懷抱。一旦進入開放水域，我們的船不間斷地被無情左右搖晃。之前南風推進的舊湧浪和西北風形成的新湧浪相遇，海浪密集而混亂，海水似乎也困惑不已。我們順利航行，僅以小前帆和收緊一節的主帆，就能扣在6節海里上下前進。但是我們無法停止當浪群以無預期角度相遇而攻擊船形成甲板幾乎碰到水面的的大幅搖晃。浪群沒有固定模式，我們無法得知何時下個海浪會襲擊而來。
為了緩和顛簸，我們更測風航行，比預期航向更朝西方的海域前進。隨著船蹣跚前進，我們經驗第一次的暈船，特別是Jiayu。當夜晚接近，她到船艙內休息，以備晚一些與我交換掌舵。我獨自航行。
那晚的日落是我經歷過最恐怖的美麗。在天空布滿燦爛晚霞時，我突然驚覺我們遠離人群、遠離救援、孤單無援。看著夜晚降臨宛如目睹死亡本身來臨。我們如同一葉小舟，懸浮在黑暗液體的表面。四面八方，我們被篤定、毛骨悚然、冷冽的死亡所圍繞，僅以一層單薄的玻璃纖維與我們的終極去向相隔。我赫然記起將我的安全索扣環扣在船上的安全繩。如果我意外落海，Jiayu要到數小時後醒來才可能知曉。
四尺高的海浪不定時猙獰地搖晃著我們的船。他們挑起我的不耐，以致幾近憤怒，最終屈服。然後，難過與希望安全回岸的意念佔據了我。我很害怕，真實的恐懼。我剎然完全瞭解為何那些航行者決定將船售出。
頭頂上的星星比我之前在沙漠中看過的星星更不勝其數。流星一顆接一顆劃過天際，銀河如奶水般灑過天空。海水漆黑一片。我錯讀月曆，把新月當滿月。水面無光──星光在上卻四周如墨般漆黑。我一再費力的從恐懼、疲倦中重見仍能讀美的能力，以及保持清晰的注意力以持續航行任務。
我們的航向讓我們更向西行，離開夏綠蒂海峽的邊界而真正進入太平洋。搖晃的海面持續左右拋擲我們的帆面、狂暴的以不同組合晃動我們的船而令我憤怒。但終究，終究得以望見溫哥華島上的燈塔。是轉向東行的時刻了。
此時，我和數世紀以來不計其數的水手們享受著相同的喜悅：岸上明亮的燈炬宣示著在世界上仍有其他人關心著我們。我感到極大慰藉──我們不但逐漸接近岸邊，而且岸上的人也希望我們平安返岸。他們指引著我們方向。
當Jiayu上到甲板上換手時，我滿懷感激在艙中躺下，取得我所需的適時休息。船艙中間的長椅位於船晃動最小之處，我在椅墊上躺下，感動於她在甲板上保護我的安全，在我瞌睡、作夢、沈睡中守護著船。我們的生命真正放在彼此的手裡。
我們顛簸著往東前進，仍然離岸有數小時之搖。突然一塊小型浮木撞擊船艙聲讓我閃電般衝上甲板。加拿大西岸充斥著伐木業，因此水面常充滿浮木。若是船速與海浪的組合錯誤，巨大浮木可輕易將船撞沈。我們朝岸前進卻又無月光可辨識四周，是停船的時候了。
但是怎麼「停船」？ 我們當然可以卸下船帆，像酒塞般在水中載沈載浮。有帆支撐船的擺動就已經夠受了，若失去風帆穩定船舶的效力，我們的夜晚將會更難以忍受。停止帆船的傳統方法稱之為Heaving to”。此法是在逆風轉舵時將前帆仍留在上風處不動。這麼做讓船安靜了下來，可以用來收主帆，但卻無法真正讓船停止，船速仍最低仍保持在1.5英里小時，陣風2英里/小時。所以我花了一、二個小時反覆嘗試此技術，希望最後終於將船完全停止。
最後我發現若將主帆縮兩節，收起前帆，舵完全扭至下風處，我們的船就能安靜的停在與風成50度的角度，幾乎是完美的方向。風逐漸平穩，搖晃程度減小。我們盡量保持優雅忍受一切。我們的船安全靜止，但是停留原地也意味著我們仍有漫漫長夜等著度過。在曙光乍現時，我由Jiayu手中接過船舵，準備航行。我才將帆升起，整夜不停的風卻消逝無蹤。陪伴我們的是海上的波浪。原先在風中協助船隻穩定的風帆立刻成為負擔，因一陣微風吹脹，風消逝後又急速甩晃至另一方，反覆拍擊。對身心造成威脅。我一邊咒罵一邊跑下船艙拿綁帆布的繩帶，向Jiayu大聲抱怨，她卻早已睡的不省人事。我獨自收起風帆，開啟引擎。連我們25年垂垂老矣，震天聲響的引擎聲都無法打擾Jiayu需要的睡眠。我們在殘存的浪中前進。生平第一次，我和吵雜、油臭的老舊引擎建立友誼。當Jiayu終於醒來時，我蜷曲靠在引擎艙的不遠處，曾經令我神經衰弱、注意力無法集中的噪音卻在我緩緩睡意中給予慰藉。此刻，船的律動不再令我們煩躁，暈船感覺減輕。我們居然適應這一切了。
再度回首，我在這次航程中數次已經準備發誓絕不再做海洋航行，而Jiayu則是發誓要一輩子後悔此次夜行的決定。這只不過是在穩定氣候下的小小海域，若是真正的海洋與惡劣的天候呢？我怎麼面對？
但是進入港灣後僅數小時的時間就讓我記起不是所有洋面都如此具挑戰性與混亂。大洋也可能比我們面對的海域更容易。連我從不航行的母親都提醒我：夏綠蒂海峽本來就以其險惡著稱。如今我具備新的技術與知識面對我下一次的開放海域航行。經驗也會減低恐懼。我再也不會有「第一次」夜航，我已經通過這一關了。海洋仍然呼喚著我。適當的時機將會來到。我很期待。我比以前有更多準備，也更加謙卑。想到下一個可能的海洋航行就讓我感到一陣電流通過身體。
但最重要的是，沒有任何能夠取代航行之後Jiayu和我分享的親密。我們在航行中因愛與感謝而彼此照顧，這次經驗讓我們的關係更加深厚。更甚於前，我知道我找到對的人了。
