Sea Kayaking by Mother Ship

Getting ready for a hard days paddle .

What we did see was lots of wildlife. Bald eagles were as routine as gulls, puffins as common as crows. Rounding the island’s southern point, Cape Ommaney, we smelled a large group of Steller sea lions basking on the wave-washed rocks before we actually spotted them. Minutes later we were drifting in the tidal current, surrounded by 30 to 40 humpback whales, alternately rolling on the surface and diving beneath it, momentarily holding their enormous tail flukes aloft before slipping noiselessly into the sea. Later, while paddling in swells amid an outer-coast rock garden, we inadvertently came upon a sea otter nursery, where a large raft of mother otters glided effortlessly on their backs while clutching their fuzz-ball pups on their chests.

But there’s no denying it. Besides the wildlife-viewing potential, one of the best things about kayaking from a mother ship is comfort. As indicated earlier, Alaska can be wet and cold. Paddling in the rain is no big deal, but it can be a drag to camp in it night after night. On one kayak trip to Glacier Bay, Laura and I aborted a day early simply because we grew tired of the continuously soggy conditions. On a mother ship, not only is it cozy and dry, but there are also a host of other little luxuries: soft bunks instead of hard ground, tasty meals instead of reconstituted glob, flush toilets instead of cat holes, and a hot shower instead of stinky polypro.

On the last morning of our circumnavigation, the Home Shore’s engine gurgled to life around 4 a.m. I swayed gently in my bunk as the anchor clanked while being weighed. The thought of drifting back to sleep was appealing, but the sun was already peeking around the porthole curtain next to my face and I loathed the thought of missing anything. Hoping to see another bear, I scoured the shoreline with my binoculars from the aft deck, but gave up as we pulled farther away. I grabbed a cup of coffee in the galley and climbed up to the pilothouse to join the skipper. “Mornin’ Ross,” Jim said, while slowly opening the throttle after passing the last shoals between us and the open waters of Sitka Sound.

Facing the waters of chatham Strait, Baranof's lee shore.

Beneath a tangerine sky, we motored into a Japanese landscape painting. On the horizon rose Mount Edgecumbe, a perfect pastel pyramid. Near the dormant volcano’s base was a faint watercolor spot—St. Lazaria Island—the destination for our last paddle. Jim dropped anchor and cut the engine when we arrived in the small island’s lee more than an hour later. The squawks and cries of shorebirds filled the air. Rhinoceros auklets skimmed inches above the sea, while tufted puffins flew so close overhead I was certain that one would hit the boat’s rigging. The vertical dark cliffs of St. Lazaria were crowded with thousands of pigeon guillemots and common murres.

The rest of our crew had risen, and soon all kayaks were launched. We craned our necks to watch the puffins dive-bomb into their island burrows overhead, then paddled into a dark sea cave on gentle swells. Lazily we paddled around the island, through confused reflective waves on the outside, before returning to our starting point in time for breakfast.

Some mother ships offer yachtlike luxury, but one of the things I liked most about the Home Shore is that she’s a working boat, a seiner, with a long and proud history in Alaskan waters. Built in 1944, she is just one year older than her skipper. True to the boat’s heritage, we enjoyed several meals of freshly caught king salmon. Even better, at the end of the season, when kayak tourists like me and the other guests pack up and head south, the cushy staterooms on the boat’s aft deck can be lifted off, converting the Home Shore back to what she knows best—fishing. n