Checked into Canada

It was time to leave Stuart Island, our little hurricane hole of the San Juan Islands. The weather had been fairly variable the last few weeks, and Kathy and I had been content to just wait it out. The place was empty, and we had one of the docks to ourselves with not one, but two picnic tables. We’d gotten used to the imagined scorn of the park ranger and the teasing of our friends.

But then it happened: another boat tied to the dock behind us. It was a trawler, or, as Kathy likes to call them, “a motor boat.” It was a pretty Nordic Tug that had all the fancy things a Nordic Tug would have: elegance, room … a genset. They also were towing an 18-foot boat. Jealous, I instantly disliked them.

When this happens, I pull out my old tried-and-trusty. I’d honed my craft from years of family gatherings. I’d just be myself and blather on about anything that came to mind. I could usually clear a room inside of 15 minutes. I jumped onto the dock and introduced myself, but before I could start blathering, he’d beaten me to the punch.

Something about prawns.

There was a big prawn event happening. All his fellow prawn buddies were coming. They were all coming to the dock. I gulped. I attempted to discourage them. I told him the weather forecast. But every attempt to steer the conversation led back to the same place: prawns.

I sulked away and went back to Adventure. Kathy was relaxing and seemed unconcerned that another boat had invaded our sanctuary.

“We have to leave,” I told her.

“Why?”

“Prawns.”

And then another boat came. And then another, so we made plans for our exit. We decided to make a big show of it and leave the country. Canada was our future. Truth be told, this was our plan all along, but the prawn guys didn’t need to know that.

Earlier in the week, Kathy had decided to change strategies before entering Canada. Normally, we’d eat through all our food. Canada, in the past, had always picked a random fruit or vegetable that would be on their do-not-bring list. Terrified that they’d confiscate our vessel, we chose potential scurvy as the alternative.

But Kathy had navigated the Canadian Customs website this time and confidently bought lots of meat and vegetables and—dare I say it?—bananas (which are considered bad luck on a boat). I questioned this strategy but was rebuffed as being “uninformed”.

After an hour and 20 minutes of motoring, we spotted the Customs dock. Kathy and I had recently purchased new headphones so we could communicate more clearly. The Customs dock is in a giant U shape.

Being the captain, I told Kathy to park on our port side.

She then proceeded to tell me that she had a different idea.

She overexplained the process until I had no idea what she was talking about. I then watched in horror as she entered the U, did a 180 with Adventure, and put her on the opposite dock so we were facing out for an easy getaway. We casually drifted to the dock, and it looked like something akin to a scene from Captain Ron. Once again, she had defied my orders, and I took note of this insubordianation.

I went below to retrieve our documentation. Kathy handed me our paperwork with instructions.

“Now, don’t talk to them like you usually do. Just answer their questions.”

“I don’t talk to them.”

“Oh yes, you do. You sing like a canary.”

I scoffed. “Oh, I think not.” I grabbed our paperwork off the table.

“If they ask if we have meat or vegetables, just say they’re in the original packages.”

“You said we’d be okay.”

“It’ll be fine. Just do what I tell you.”

Then she paused, and I saw her eyes grow wide.
“Just a moment. You’ll need our passports.”
She opened a drawer, and I heard panic in her voice.

“They’re not here.”

My knees buckled. “What do you mean they’re not there?”

“I must have moved them … to a better place.”

“Where?”

“I CAN’T REMEMBER!”

I watched as she tore open cabinet after cabinet, bookshelf after bookshelf. My breath shortened. I was getting lightheaded. I wasn’t the kind of guy who could survive Canadian prison.

“How can this happen?”

“WHY DON’T YOU HELP?!”

Then, after what felt like hours but was more like three minutes, Kathy exclaimed, “Found them!”

Turns out they were where they were supposed to be. Kathy had just overlooked them.

I grabbed the passports and our paperwork and left in a huff.

I walked up the ramp, and there were some customs guys inside the office. I looked down at the ground, trying avoid eye contact. One stepped outside.

“Good morning.”

I looked up and stopped walking. There I was, standing mano a mano with Customs. He was tall and good-looking. His uniform, which included a bulletproof vest and sidearm, was immaculate.

I looked down at my unwashed shirt, painfully aware that it had been too many days since my last shower. “Good morning.”

I felt my face flush and my eyes grow wide with fear. My grip tightened around our documentation folder.

“Where are you coming from today?”

A thought bubble appeared over me with an image of Kathy. Just answer the questions … You sing like a canary … Just tell them we have some meat and a few vegetables …

I looked back toward Adventure.
He probably doesn’t mean that. Think.
“Stuart …” I stopped. Is that the name of the island? My mind went blank.

“Reid Harbor. It’s in the U.S. … Washington.”

He smiled, but I wasn’t sure if it was a friendly smile. My inner voice screamed, It’s a trap!

More questions followed. “Who’s with you? Do you have any firearms? Do you have a taser? Do you have any mace?”

My confidence started to return as I answered each question.And then he hit me with: “What kind of food do you have on board?”

“Um …” I stalled for time.

“My wife …”

I nodded my head back toward Adventure. “She buys the food, you know.”

He smiled and nodded.

I stood up on my toes and then back down and continued. “She told me to tell you”—that hopefully gets me off the hook—”that we have some meat and vegetables in their original packaging.”

Another customs guy exited the office and made eye contact with my customs guy.

I swallowed hard.

He then pointed to the Customs and Boarder Patrol phones and told me to finish my check-in with a call, then walked off with the other customs agent.

The phone conversation was quick and easy, and I received our reporting number, which meant we’d cleared customs.

I walked past the boat behind us with three customs agents on it. The customs agent I’d been speaking to stuck his head out of the boat and briefly wished me a good day.

I jumped back into Adventure, and Kathy asked me how it went.

“I just answered their questions.”