The Curve of Time - M Wylie Blanchett
From Yachting Monthly June 2026 - Issue #1454
In this issue, Julia selected M Blanchett Wylie's marvellous book The Curve of Time as her Book at Bunktime. This was recommended to her by a YM reader who has sailed in that area and is well worth seeking out. It was first published in 1961 and describes the summer-long explorations of the author, her five children and family dog.
Six Minutes Slack
MWB and her children are attempting to reach Seymour Inlet, just south of Cape Caution, British Columbia. But first they must negotiate the Nakwakto Rapids. They meet a fishing inspector who has tried and failed.
He showed us the splintered bow -- a major job to be repaired. The stern was almost as bad, not to mention the propeller. Plainly, he himself was badly shaken. He strongly advised us to keep away from the place. Finally, he suggested that we spend the night at his wharf and go up next morning to the little cove with the shelving beach and the Indian shack. There, if we climbed the steep mound to the other to the side of the shack, we would overlook the rapids. We could watch for a while and see what we what we would be up against. Then we could go through with the flood at lunchtime.
‘You'll see the little island in the middle that splits the flood tide into with its pointed bow -- a great wave to either side. The fellows tell me that if you stay on it for a tide, the whole rock shakes and trembles with the force of the waters. Turret Rock, they call it. But don't forget, slack only last six minutes,’ he warned.
The next morning found us lying on top of the high mound above the rapids, watching that fearsome roaring hole in action. Turret Rock was not breasting the current but bracing itself against it on its tail. It was hard to tell whether our mound was trembling or the island was trembling, or if it was just the motion of the rushing water. Probably the air was in motion from so much turbulence. I am supposed to look calm and collected at such moments, and my crew watch me furtively to see that all is well. I was busy, furtively arguing with myself. It was stupid, lying there holding on to the ground, working ourselves up into a panic. We were used to all the other narrows on the coast. Yuculta, Surge, Seymour, Hole-in-the-Wall. They were all fearsome, and how flat they were at slack! Six minutes slack, I told myself, is not much worse than twelve minutes. In all the other narrows, you don't worry about twenty minutes on either side of slack. We would be going in on the flood. If all went well, we could get past Turret Rock in six minutes. We always tow our dinghy -- even if the engine stopped, we could tow the boat past the island in ten minutes and then we would be through the worst. The fishing inspector had been in the dark and he had lost his propeller at the first hit. Looking at the cliffs below, I thought there might be fewer back currents on the flood tide -- always supposing you got past the island. If we hadn't met the inspector, I wouldn't be thinking any of this.
‘Come along, youngsters,’ I said. ‘Let's get lunch over and get things ready.’
‘Are we really going?’ They asked as they slid down.
‘When it's dead flat,’ I said.
I left them on the beach and went back to the boat to get an early lunch ready --preparing for the six minutes. While waiting for the kettle to boil, I cleaned the sparkplugs and checked the gaps. Then I cleaned the points on the magneto. Then I wished I hadn't touched anything. Far better to leave an engine alone if it is running well. What possessed me to touch it?
Then I called the children out for lunch. I snapped at everybody. Then someone raised the question whether our decrepit-looking clock was right. I hadn’t the faintest idea. We usually judge time by the sun. How could anyone judge slack water in a roaring hole by the sun? I should have to go up on top of the mound and watch it. I pulled up all but the last few feet of the anchor rope, then rowed ashore, leaving a worried-looking crew behind me. I started whistling to cheer them up. Usually if I whistle, they know there is nothing to worry about. It was hard to keep in tune … a silly whistling woman climbing up a mound … whistling out of tune.
I watched … I saw the currant hesitating … I threw myself down the mound, I rowed breathlessly to the boat. I tossed the painter to someone and told him to tie her close. I pulled up the crank. The engine started first pull. I tried to swallow -- for some reason I was breathless. I yanked up the anchor and worked out the bay -- stood well out in case we were pulled in …
There was nothing to pull us in. A still passage lay ahead of us. Turret Rock stood in the middle, looking perfectly quiet and relaxed. We went gently through, resisting the temptation to speed up. The channel opened out into a comparatively wide section. Then the swells began to form around us. The six minutes must be up, but we were through. I only speeded up because I didn't know where those treacherous back currents might start. How stupid it had all been! Just because we had seen a smashed-up boat. And heard a first-hand account from worn-out man who had a bad experience.
Peter shook his head sagely. ‘You were scared too weren’t you, Mummy?’
I winked at him. ‘Weren’t we sillies!’ I said.