Goodbye But Not Farewell

Puget Sound Boating Season Begins

There’s a hush that falls over the dock when someone casts off for the Puget Sound boating season — not silence exactly, but the kind of pause that makes you look up and wonder where the water will take them.

At Foss Harbor Marina, the change is subtle at first. A coil of dock line disappears. A fender hangs neatly against a piling that was pressed flat for months. A boat that’s been your neighbor since October is suddenly not there when you walk down the float with your morning coffee. You think, Did they go already? And then you smile.

Because this is how the season begins.

The Quiet Start of Boating Season
Puget Sound boating season doesn’t always announce itself. There's no calendar date that brings perfect winds or longer days, but the subtle shifts in light and rhythm signal its arrival.

For those of us who spend our days on the dock — whether we live aboard, work here, or simply walk the floats because they feel more honest than sidewalks — there’s something almost sacred in this seasonal rhythm.

It’s not just the weather changing. It’s the feeling that something is beginning again — a rhythm familiar to those who live the liveaboard lifestyle or keep a boat ready to go.

Boaters come out of hibernation like bears with tool bags. One slip over, someone’s reinstalling their canvas. A few docks down, there's a half-day battle with a stubborn outboard. The conversations shift from “How’d your winter go?” to “Where are you headed first?”

The Romance of Departure
There’s an undeniable romance to watching a boat leave the marina.

Sometimes it’s a crisp maneuver — lines off, slow reverse, a practiced pivot, and they’re gone before you can wave. Other times, it’s a drawn-out affair: a scramble for forgotten ice, a dog that refuses to come back aboard, one last walk to the head. Both are beautiful in their own way.

I still think about the time a couple left their slip on D Dock with such cinematic flair — lines tossed perfectly, fenders already stowed, the boat pivoting like they’d rehearsed it for weeks. Everyone on the dock gave a little golf clap as they cleared the fairway.

Three minutes later, they were back. Forgot the dog.

That’s how it goes, sometimes. We prepare for months. We polish and provision and make checklists and backup checklists. But the truth is, the magic of the season doesn’t come from flawless execution — it comes from showing up. From casting off, even when the weather’s uncertain or the oil change ran late. From making space in the stern for unexpected laughter, foggy mornings, and that one anchor that always drags on the first night out.

We leave anyway. That’s the thing.

And when we do, we leave a bit of ourselves behind — a whiff of diesel, a story traded at the laundry room bulletin board, a note passed to the marina office: Gone cruising. Back when the weather turns or the wine runs out.

We Hold the Dock
But for every boat that leaves, someone stays.

We hold the dock for them — caretakers, coffee-drinkers, liveaboards, and wanderers waiting for their next window. The marina never empties out, not really. It just breathes differently in the summer. The stillness between slip departures is like the space between waves — temporary, rhythmic, expected.

And those of us who stay behind find our own magic in the quieter days. The early morning mist lifting off the water. The clinking of halyards in a warm breeze. The shuffle of bare feet on fiberglass and the occasional clang of a dropped winch handle echoing off the docks.

There’s a community here, even when the cruising crowd thins out. It’s in the shared glances when a boat pulls in late and everyone peeks out to lend a hand. It’s in the gentle ribbing at the fuel dock, the borrowed tools, the potluck that somehow comes together even when no one planned it.

There’s comfort in the staying, too.

The Return
Eventually, the ones who left return.

Sometimes sunburned, sometimes soggy. Always with stories.

And their return is just as sweet. You hear them before you see them — the diesel rumble of a boat that’s been underway for hours. Maybe they come in under sail, engines off, gliding back to the slip they know by heart. Either way, the marina feels whole again when a boat comes home.

You can feel it. The shuffle of fenders back onto the rail. The small bump of fiberglass against rubber as the dock lines go on with practiced hands. Someone hops off and laughs. Someone else holds up a crab pot or a bottle of something from Friday Harbor.

We don't always make a big deal out of it. But deep down, there's something special about watching a boat return to where it belongs. There's something anchoring about it. A full circle you didn’t know you were waiting for.

The Wake and What It Means
The wake left behind when someone departs is more than a trail of ripples. It’s a sign that they’re moving forward, that the season is underway, and that we are all part of something bigger than our own boats.

It reminds us to check our oil, refill our propane, patch the canvas, and get our own adventures in motion. Or to pause, and appreciate the stillness while it lasts.

Because this is more than just the start of boating season. It’s the renewal of a rhythm — the pulse of Pacific Northwest cruising, A heartbeat we share, whether we’re underway, waiting for weather, or just sitting on the dock watching the boats go by.

Boating season has begun.

Whether you're the one leaving the dock, returning to the marina, or keeping the coffee warm for the next story to arrive — this season belongs to you.

We’ll be here when you get back.