TSJ: Hitting Logs and Losing Props on the Georgia Strait

Greetings adventure enthusiasts and thrill seekers.

In my first newsletter, I mentioned that my goal was to deliver a weekly letter/story to you. As much as I love setting goals for myself, I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it now. If you know me even a little bit, you’re probably aware of my tendency to overbook myself and juggle a million things at once. So, I’ve decided to shift my goal. From now on, I’ll aim to deliver a monthly newsletter, potentially Bi-Weekly — I’ve never been one to keep a rigorous schedule…

 Anywho, thank you for sticking around for another edition of The Thrill Seekers Journal! I greatly appreciated all the feedback given to me. I hope this month’s edition captivates you just as much. 

Facebook Isn’t All That Bad

“So you’re telling me that you answered an ad on Facebook, then got on a boat with total strangers for two weeks, knowing nothing about them?” Todd, a very skilled guitarist and a friend of mine, questioned me with a “what were you thinking” tone. I paused for a moment and saw a flicker of realization on his face. After all, just under a year ago, I had answered a Facebook ad seeking a vocalist for an energetic band that played a wide variety of covers ranging from the '70s to modern rock. Jumping on the opportunity to be in a band, something I hadn’t done since high school, I replied. About a week later, I found myself belting out classic rock tunes to four middle-aged men I’d never met, giving a performance only previously experienced by steering wheels of various vehicles I’ve owned—and sometimes wrecked—over the years.

“Okay, but that’s different because you were on a boat with them for two weeks, not just in a studio on land for three hours.” Todd doubled down on his disbelief before I could pull out my “It’s not the first time I’ve done this” rebuttal. Despite my instinct to argue, I knew his question wasn’t out of line.

Later that evening, I let the whirlwind of the past two weeks consume my thoughts. I already missed the wild, bright, and brilliant group of individuals I’m fortunate to now call my friends. I would have never imagined that simply responding to a Facebook post would lead me to these unique individuals. From an adventurous, ever-stylish girl determinedly working towards her GED while making the most of life, and her partner, a brilliant engineer who tore apart the boat to get our desalination system up and running. To two former Scientologists, who had escaped the cult now filling their lives with thrilling trips and fascinating experiences. If it hadn’t been for the intelligent, level-headed, and quick-thinking Captain J, I would never have had the pleasure of meeting them. The camaraderie and mutual respect demonstrated throughout the trip led me to realize I had discovered a rare kind of community I didn’t even know I was looking for.

Now, onto the events that caused Captain J, P, and I to be adrift in the Georgia Strait.

~ I will be referring to m friends as J and P to respect privacy in this story ~

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Tuesday, September 3rd, 2024, 5:00 PM, Somewhere in the Strait of Georgia

“There it is! There’s the tow boat!” P shouted, his voice bursting with excitement and relief. After five long hours of drifting on the Georgia Strait, watching BC Ferries adjust their routes around our stranded vessel, our salvation was finally in sight. The tow boat, with its bright lemon-yellow hull, was unmistakable as it approached our port side and slowly turned towards our bow. J, P, and I rushed forward, eager to catch the rope that would connect us to the boat of our new favorite person: Dave.

Tuesday, September 3rd, 2024, 6:30 AM, Schooner Cove

I woke up after a half-decent sleep, my mind churning with a mix of excitement and a tinge of poignancy. I was thrilled to be making our way further down the coast, knowing that in just a few days, I’d finally get to hug my best friend—and sister—Jamie. She lives and works in the Greater Victoria area, and with our last stop in Canada being the city’s famous downtown marina, there was no way I was missing a chance to see her. I’d already decided I’d disembark in Victoria, giving me the perfect opportunity to spend some real time with Jamie, knowing full well that J and P could handle the rest of the trip home on their own.

However, beneath the excitement, there was an undeniable pang of sadness. Seeing Jamie would mark the end of yet another incredible adventure—one I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to. As I prepared coffee for the three of us left on the boat, as opposed to the group of six I had become accustomed to, the reality set in: this journey was winding down just as quickly as it had begun.

We set out around 10 AM that morning with our sights on a quaint marina at Sidney-by-the-Sea, just around the corner from Victoria. I had tucked myself away in my cabin aboard the Pineapple Dinghy, answering long-neglected texts and emails and preparing to get some writing done. BANG!! I felt a sudden, unusual jolt slam the boat. The thud came from directly beneath me, and the impact was powerful enough to send my heart racing. I jumped up, trying to steady myself as the boat’s motion shifted from its steady pace to a slow drift. We were no longer under power.

I scrambled up to the deck to find J looking back over the aft deck. I followed his gaze to the navy-colored water, anxiously searching for the cause of the disruption. Moments later, it surfaced—a massive log bobbing about fifteen feet behind us, its wet, darkened surface glistening in the sunlight.

P joined us on deck, inquiring about the noise. J explained that we had hit a log and tried putting the boat back into gear. The engine roared to life, but despite the revving sound, we were dead in the water. There was no forward movement, and no wake behind us. The realization set in: something was seriously wrong.

J turned to me and, with a look that brooked no argument, ordered me to get into my wetsuit. We needed to assess the damage. After what felt like a never ending battle with the skin-tight material, I successfully pulled myself into the neoprene suit. It hugged my body like a second skin, warming me while preparing me for the shock of the Pacific Canadian waters. Grabbing a mask, I jumped into the dark waves clinging to the swim ladder, not wanting to get swept away by the mild current. The initial shock I got after entering the water was not due to a drastic temperature change, rather the unease of being submerged into an environment where visibility was cloudy and limited, oxygen was only attainable after surfacing, and all hearing was muffled and distorted. Humans may be able to swim, but we are not evolved for the complexity of underwater life.

 Getting over my initial, dare I say fear, I pulled myself under the hull. Focusing first on the rudder, I quickly assessed it was still intact. If I could breathe underwater there would have been a sigh of relief. As I moved forward I expected to see a bent, cracked, or seriously damaged propeller. My eyes darted around, confused as to what exactly I was staring at. It should have been just in front of the rudder, and behind the keel, but all I could see was a metal shaft that bore no blades.

Now, I'm no expert on boat mechanics, but it was clear even to me that we had a serious problem. The propeller—the essential piece that drives the boat forward—was gone. Missing. Torn clean off, and most likely on a rapid path to depths of the ocean I will never see. We were stranded and drifting without power amidst a highly trafficked ferry route, halting our journey south.

Taking a moment before coming up for air, I continued to stare at the long piece of teal, jutting out from beneath the boat. the propeller was gone. Not damaged, not bent—completely gone.

I surfaced, the salty water dripping from my face as I relayed the bad news to P and J. “The prop is supposed to be in front of the rudder, right?”

They both confirmed this fact to me in unison.

“Well, it’s gone. There’s no prop at all.”

“What do you mean it’s gone? Like, totally gone?” J asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yeah, exactly. The log must have torn it right off. All that’s left is the shaft.” 

“Are you certain?” They asked, with the sliver of hope maybe I had made a mistake. I ducked my head back under the water, just to be absolutely sure of myself.

”Pretty damn sure.” I confirmed upon re-surfacing.

With no immediate solution in sight, we were left to consider our options and figure out how to navigate the next steps. Hauling myself back on deck, my wetsuit no clinging to me with less of a warm hugging sensation, and more of a leech that just won't let go” feeling, I decided to keep it on, letting myself breathe a bit before entering the battle of removing the tight, damp wetsuit. 

P examined the bilge pump, and lower compartments to ensure we hadn’t unknowingly cracked the hull, and weren’t taking on water. Meanwhile, J slipped into his wetsuit, and jumped in the water just as I had done, to examine the baffling lack of a prop for himself. 

Once we were all back on deck, we discussed our next moves. Despite the unfortunate lack of wind, we threw up the sails and hoped for the best. P managed to get a hold of a towing company, who reported that they were not able to get to us until 5:00 pm. We booked them for 5, and proceeded to drift, occasionally catching wind, but never exceeding a speed of 2 knots.

Hurry Up and Wait

”Check!” I proclaimed proudly, shocked I had made it this far in the chess match against J, but doing my best not to let it show. J moved his chestnut king in an attempt to evade my ivory queen, but it was no use.

”Check.” I said again, trying to figure out a way to turn my moves into mate. An increasingly difficult task, realizing I only had a single pawn, along with my king to support my strongest piece. J placed his king behind his bishop, sheltering it yet again. 

“Check.” I swiped his bishop, giving me a direct line to the trophy piece I wanted so badly. The game of cat and mouse continued on for multiple moves.

“I'm pretty sure there is only a certain number of moves you can make before it's considered a stalemate.” P mentioned from the couch across from us.

“Yeah, something like 13 consistent checks to reach a stalemate.” J agreed.

 I am not the most well-versed in the rules of chess, so I didn’t argue. We had been focused on the game for nearly an hour, and although it was a fantastic way to distract us from watching the time as it agonizingly ticked closer to five o’clock, we were both ready to call it, and move on.

”Good Game.” I stuck out my hand, in a show of sportsmanship that had been ingrained into me ever since I was young and played on the local youth soccer team. J accepted the gesture, grasped my hand, and said “Good game” in return. 

The hours that ticked by before J pulled out the chess board had been filled with lounging around, and J frequently considered attempting to drop anchor under sail rather than waiting for rescue. An idea that P and I were not particularly enthusiastic about. 

All of us on deck were laying back, relaxing, and enjoying the views. We heard a sharp, sudden spray. A sound I know all too well, and will never cease to make my heart race and cause me to jump and scream similar to a child on Christmas morning.

”WHALE!!!” J exclaimed in disbelief at how close the majestic animal was to our powerless raft. I instantly jumped up and catapulted myself to the port side for a better view. Despite the fact that I have been fortunate enough to see hundreds of whales over my lifetime, I will never fail to be awestruck each time I'm graced with their presence. We observed the humpback as it surfaced one..two..three times before hunching its back and preparing to dive deeper under the surface.

”Tail… Tail… TAIL!!!” I shrieked while clapping my hands and vibrating excitedly. Within mere moments, the gorgeous tail emerged through the surface, a cascade of water falling from the shimmering surface, and causing the animal to disappear to an unknown world. We were left wondering, struck, and speechless. 

Not long after the breathtaking experience, we saw a bright yellow vessel speeding in our direction. We were saved. It almost felt like our whale friend had come up just to bid us adieu. 

Dave secured us to the tow boat, revved up the engined of his vessel which was less than half the size of ours, and started out, en route to Departure Bay, Nanaimo.

Tuesday, September 3rd, insert time here , some Irish pub in Departure Bay, Nanaimo, BC.

“Umm... okay let me think… One: I escaped a cult… Two: I hired a bounty hunter to find my stolen plane… Three: I drink gin and coke every day.” P had initiated the first round of two truths and a lie, placing the bar pretty high with his first three options. We sat together at a high top that overlooked the water, waiting for our dinner. After an eventful yet non eventful day, we were all quite exhausted. James had offered to treat us to dinner at the closest pub, Carlos’s Obrians, a Canadian chain where under different circumstances, I would have scouted out any other establishment to eat at. 

We spent the rest of dinner playing the game which prompted us to exchange stories and laughs. Once the bill was paid, we retreated, bleary-eyed to the boat that was perched 15 feet above the ground. Scaling the A-frame ladder one by one, being extra cautious not to misstep knowing a fall from that height would be anything but pleasant. J and P retreated to their respective cabins to prepare for sleep. Meanwhile, I grabbed my trusted ukulele and made my way to the stern of the boat. I had been unable to shake the odd sensation of rocking on waves, despite the boat being as still and solid as a tree. I laughed at the idea of not yet having my land legs back, and being all too accustomed to my sea legs after so much time swaying and stabilizing myself on the water. 

As I performed my melodies to a boatyard full of hoisted-up vessels, all longing for their return to the ocean, I felt yet again grateful for the calm, Competent, level-headed, and fascinating crew I joined up with on a whim. I truly could not wish for better people to be stuck at sea with. Thank you J and P. 

Me Paying ukulele on the hauled-out Pineapple Dingy

Dave to our rescue

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LUND, BC, CANADA

If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s the perfect mix of small-town charm, mouth-watering food, and breathtaking scenery. And when those three elements come together in one place, it feels like discovering a hidden treasure. That’s exactly what I found in Lund, a picturesque town tucked away on the west coast of Canada, just north of Powell River.

Perched at the end of Highway 101, a winding 100-mile stretch that hugs the rugged coastline of British Columbia, Lund is more than just a dot on the map—it’s a haven for adventure seekers and food lovers alike. Mornings start with the irresistible aroma of fresh coffee and warm, gooey cinnamon buns from Nancy’s Bakery, the kind of breakfast that lures you out of bed no matter how late you stayed up the night before. The days are filled with endless possibilities: hiking trails that carve through lush forests, kayaking the serene waters that surround the town, or simply wandering the quiet streets, soaking in the views that seem to stretch on forever. And as the sun dips low, painting the sky in fiery hues, there’s no better way to wrap up the day than with a plate of the town’s legendary fish and chips—crispy, golden, and a worthy contender for “world’s best fish n chips”. 

Just a stone’s throw from the jaw-dropping beauty of Desolation Sound, Lund is a quintessential stop on any West Coast adventure—a place where you can truly feel the pulse of the Pacific Northwest in every sip, every bite, and every sunset.

Lund harbor at sunset

The world famous fish n chips from Lund

Thank you for reading, stay adventurous and keep your eye out for next week's edition, and as always, never stop being a thrill seeker!

Carly Ball

”I’ve decided I’m going to live this life for some time to come. The freedom and simple beauty is just too good to pass up.” - Christopher McCandless

Happy Carly in an actual dinghy