"It was a dark and stormy night"… actually it was a truly windy evening with 30 knot gusts meeting us last summer as we made our way from Juan de Fuca into Haro Strait en route to Bedwell Harbor, BC on that fateful day of August 28th.
A brief account of this incident was logged in two parts of last year's blog
(ohanaseachange.blogspot.com), however, as might be expected, this year's crossing raised old concerns. And thus, Part 3 of the fiasco continues.
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| Anchored at Bedwell |
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| Bedwell Customs dock |
Flash forward to this year. We had rounded Turn Point on the northwest tip of Stuart Island on this clear Sunday of June 7, 2015. Earlier that morning, we had cast off from our mooring buoy at Turn Island, ran counter to the ebbing tide up San Juan Channel but raced with the favorable ebb current down Speiden Channel and caught the eddy along the western shore of Stuart Island. We would make Customs at Bedwell Harbor by 2:00pm with an hour to spare before catching the afternoon flood to Montague Harbor. Passports and official boat papers were ready on the chart table. We slid onto the Customs dock after an Express Cruiser chose the section of dock reserved for float planes. Already I was feeling a bit more qualified than at least one other boater. Cinching up the last of the dock lines, and instructing crew to return and remain on the vessel, I noticed two uniformed agents marching past Ohana from the outward arm of the dock. In 12 years, I had never encountered agents at Bedwell upon arrival. And only last year had our fiasco prompted their appearance at all. Interesting. My first thought was "fine, this year at least we wouldn't have to wait for them to motor from Sydney". These were not the same agents. Could they be less pedantic, more reasonable? But wait, we hadn't done anything wrong this year… or had we? Crap! Maybe I should have studied up on the regs. Food, liquor, weapons, money, drugs… I knew all of this, but was there more? I clamored up into the cockpit and down the gangway, collected our documents from the chart table, re-emerged into the cockpit, jumped down on the sturdy wooden dock, stabbed a knuckle into my spasming lower back and made for the Customs office up the adjustable shore bridge. The door to the Customs office was wide open, the officers were inside. One male one female. Both were young, energetic and appeared to have a Canadian disposition. That would be informally formal with interested nonchalance and a dehydrated sense of humor. The female officer was standing to the side of the closest desk just hanging up the corded phone. The male officer was seated at the further desk thumbing through a small stack of papers. I greeted the first officer and stated my business. "Hi, I'm checking in for border crossing", I offered. The officer directed me to the phone bank outside of the office. "Use the phones. We are just here for support, if needed." I cordially extracted myself and eased out to the phones along the exterior wall under the eaves of the office. Carefully placing the passports and boat registration within easy access, I picked up the black plastic receiver which autodialed. "Hello", said a dry voice. That was the normal cue. I stated my location and business. The standard questions were then asked. I'm not even sure that I was asked the prior year's pivotal question, "From where are you arriving?", but I know this time i had an acceptable answer. The question may have been proffered, but my brain was as near to seizure as our boat the prior year. After the standard parlay,"Please hold on", came the vaguely familiar and ominous reply. Last year's experience taught me that this reply takes you down a different path. A path that leads into the bureaucratic backwaters, the swirling eddies and quagmire of customs legalities instead of that northbound flood current. One minute you're on Boardwalk poised to pass Go and the next you're hoping for a Get-out-of-Jail card. "Please go into the office. An agent will assist you". I re-cradled the receiver and slunk back into the customs office. The female officer looked up quizzically. "They told me to come see you for my clearance". "Have you had any problems recently?", she queried. I relayed last year's fiasco in summary form whereupon my education in matters of border crossings, issues, policies and potential reforms continued. This is when I became aware of the Special List. The Special List is special in all the undesirable ways. Listees all share the common trait of having violated some part of the border crossing laws and receiving special recognition for this feat. Whether one has stowed away more than the allotted liquor allowance, dropped an anchor before checking in or actually attempted to smuggle cocaine or slaves, they are all in the same leaky boat, on the same Special List. Thus, associates on the list, if they still have a boat, funds and are not in jail, receive special attention…every time they request to cross the border. Upon producing the Warning document from my ship's illustrious and now maligned portfolio, the female officer remarked, "Oh, this is just a warning". She then explained that unfortunately warnings and outright penalties all are documented in the same system. The officer receiving the next border request cannot distinguish the goofy sailor from the drug smuggler, not to say that the smuggler should not be considered goofy as well. But they are both flagged for special recognition. She went on to say that the agency was discussing expunging the warnings or somehow separating them from the serious offenders, but no reform was expected anytime soon. Her recommendation for future crossings was to proactively point out that the officer should see a flag in my file and this was due to a warning for failing to report immediately at the Bedwell dock on a late evening arrival in 2014. Nevertheless, I should expect to receive the continued special inquiry due to being on the list. With legal matters in our wake, she and her partner then asked who issued the warning. "Can you describe them?". "One was stern and stocky the other kind of lanky and a bit better humored", I replied. They exchanged knowing glances and her partner added wryly, "Ya, you're lucky you didn't have us". Carrying the lighter mood, I acknowledged that could well be the case, but added at the risk of being a suck-up, that I found them both this time to be very understanding. We went on to discuss the coincidence of family relations in medical school and their commitments and busy schedules and the potential advantage of a Nexus Pass for the future and otherwise enjoyed a more Canadian-like exchange before receiving my border pass number and instructions to deposit our two-dozen organic eggs in the dock bin before casting off. Should've cooked them. But alas they joined over 200 other eggs already slowly stewing in the giant trash omelet. Dock lines were let go, we scrambled back aboard and were soon riding the flood... that was now well in progress.
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