The sail was uneventful until a mayday call cracked through Channel 16📻. August heat ☀️pressed through my pants while the Salish Sea lay smooth, like blue liquid silk stretched to the horizon. I scanned the waterline and a shadow lifted from the mast. The great blue heron was already long gone, leaving only a glimpse of the bald patch on his torso, a familiar marker that he is a resident of the marina. A loner, he is a master of waiting. His long legs often stay motionless for long stretches, his neck coils and his bill strikes fast for a passing feast. 🪶🐠 Like the heron, a quiet sail gave way to scribbled coordinates. A ferry had run aground near Point Atkinson. When her engine fired up, in an instant she was no longer cruising, but a rescue vessel. Not long after, a lone sailor drifting near the edge of Crayola Beach lost his engine. I stood ready at the bow with line in hand, to toss so he could anchor to the nearby buoy. 🏝️ A quiet exhale followed until we slipped past the ...