The next morning we hop onto the water and head south, keeping a steady forward pace all morning. Around noon, I hear a soft "puff" sound in the distance. I pause and hear another. I scan the horizon. A six-foot, black fin emerges a couple hundred feet ahead of us. Orcas. A smaller fin appears briefly, then a calf surfaces behind it. I hold my breath and wait to hear them again. They rise again the same distance away, this time to the right of us. The pod is quickly heading north, surfacing now and then as it moves into the distance.

The water stays calm and there’s a light northwest wind as we make our way past Banks to the southern tip of Pitt Island. When gales begin blowing the next morning, we realize that we made the right choice of routes.

Five weeks into the trip, we arise at 5:00 on the northern end of Price Island. It’s another surprisingly dry, warm day. I awake to the unzipping of Jody’s bivy sack beside me on the beach. I didn’t hear my watch’s alarm. The crackling of the weather radio breaks the morning silence and we all reach for our pens and logbooks, to record the daily forecast. Robyn imitates the smooth, sexy voice of the computerized woman who gives the ocean buoy reports, and we all chime in, laughing. The weather should be good, and Buffy is soon at the stove, firing up hot drinks and a pot of Cream of Wheat.

I unfold my fleece shell that was tucked under my head as a pillow the night before, and slip it on. Cringing slightly at the cold, I slide my feet into my dew-covered sandals that are lying beside me in the sand. Now it’s time for the grand schlep of lugging dry bags, tarps and food to the water. The tide is creeping up the beach, and we carefully gauge where we set our gear so that the boats will be floating as soon as we are ready to climb into them. We have no assigned tasks, just a common goal of being on the water by seven.