The Unknown Explorer

Login Account

The Unknown Explorer

Login Account

He did not conquer the ocean— He endured it.

The Voyage of Alvin Smothers

In 1980, Alvin Smothers departed Portland, Oregon aboard Rhiannon, the 36-foot sailboat he had built with his own hands. Over the course of sixteen months, he sailed an estimated 15,000 to 18,000 nautical miles (17,000 to 21,000 miles) — from the Pacific Northwest to Hawaii, the Marquesas, Australia, and ultimately home again.

This was an era before GPS or satellite tracking. Navigation depended on compass, sextant, LORAN, charts, and constant correction. A single unadjusted degree could mean missing landfall by miles. Precision was not optional — it was required.

The Pacific Voyage

Each marker shows the approximate distance between ports, illustrating the long ocean passages of the voyage.

Dark Blue line = Outbound Journey

Purple line = Return Voyage.

Explore the interactive voyage map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=1gWCknXei6ML5BLrLFIOFXfL6NHf8ZlU

About

Long before the first Pacific swell touched Rhiannon’s hull, Alvin Smothers was already charting his course with care and conviction. He served in the US Navy from 1952 - 1960. Assigned to the Naval Mobile Construction Battalion #11 — the “Lucky Eleventh” — during the closing days of the Korean War. Stationed in the Philippines and later Alaska, he helped build critical infrastructure in remote, demanding environments, receiving the National Defense Service Medal. There, he learned discipline under pressure and the necessity of precision when conditions leave no room for error.

After his Navy service, he became a Superintendent for a commercial construction company, Andersen Construction, based in Portland, Oregon. He constructed two family homes, planning each detail and seeing every project through to completion.

He was outgoing and quick with humor. He enjoyed sharing stories, and welcomed others into adventure.

In 1975, those qualities converged in his most ambitious undertaking. On the family property, he began building a 36-foot Cascade sailboat. For six months, Rhiannon took shape under his steady hands. Every plank, fastener, and line reflected a lifetime of hard-earned knowledge. When she was christened on May 3, 1976, she was more than a vessel. She was the union of craftsmanship and courage.

He trusted the boat completely — because he trusted the work behind it.

Alvin Smothers during his service with the Navy — Naval Mobile Construction Battalion #11-1950’

The Voyage

Departure—Portland to San Francisco

On Wednesday, August 13, 1980, with family and friends gathered at the Rose City Yacht Club in Portland, Oregon, he began a journey that would test every skill he had refined over a lifetime. Rhiannon slipped down the Columbia River and crossed the Columbia River Bar into open water — a transition from river sailing to the exposed Pacific.

A friend, Jerry, joined him aboard Rhiannon from Portland to San Francisco. It would be the only leg of the voyage in which anyone sailed aboard his boat. Another friend, Richard, along with a companion, departed Portland on their own vessel, Different Drummer, bound for the Marquesas. Though they shared the same ocean, the two boats were frequently separated by distance and weather.

Four days into the journey, rough seas closed in and Different Drummer disappeared from sight. Attempts to reach Richard by VHF radio were limited by range — often no more than six to eight nautical miles, occasionally stretching to twenty-five or thirty under favorable conditions.

Alvin and Jerry battled heavy seas for two days and nights. Swells reached approximately fifteen feet, with winds of twenty-five to thirty-five knots. A gale warning — forecasting winds up to eighty knots — lay just south of their position. Preparing carefully, Alvin altered course eastward to make landfall before the storm intensified. Progress was slow with the wind on the bow.

They contacted the Coast Guard with their latitude and longitude to relay to Richard when he was located. For two days, there was no contact.

On Tuesday, August 19, in calmer seas, Rhiannon entered Monterey Bay south of San Francisco. Richard arrived later.

After arriving in San Francisco, Alvin remained in port for ten days. The Pacific crossing ahead was no coastal passage — it was a committed open-ocean leg of more than 2,000 nautical miles. He used the time deliberately: replenishing provisions, refueling, checking rigging, inspecting sails, reviewing charts, and addressing any repairs the rough conditions had revealed.

Rhiannon sailing off the coast of Oregon

The beginning of rough seas along the way

The Crossing—San Francisco to Hawaii

When Rhiannon departed San Francisco on Monday, September 1, 1980, the coastline gradually dissolved into open horizon. Ahead lay more than two thousand nautical miles of uninterrupted Pacific — no landmarks, no margin for careless navigation.

It was the farthest Alvin had ever sailed offshore. He counted every day.

On a calendar he carried aboard, he crossed each square off as the miles accumulated beneath the keel. The crossing was not vague in his memory; it was measured. Time, distance, heading, coordinates — all recorded.

The Pacific offered beauty alongside responsibility. Trade winds filled the sails. Flying fish burst from the water in silver arcs. On one occasion, fish landed aboard the boat themselves, “jumping fish,” he wrote, sparing him the need to cast a line.

There were also moments that demanded calm resolve. During a stretch of heavy seas near dusk, a sail caught in strengthening wind and wrapped forward around the bow, looping beneath the hull. With waves building and daylight fading, he worked methodically for nearly forty minutes before freeing it. Damage was avoided. Control restored.

The boats were again separated by distance. For several days, Different Drummer disappeared beyond sight and unreliable radio range. Eventually Alvin located him. By then, Richard and his companion had gone a couple of days without fresh provisions. Alvin had caught a dolphin fish and passed it to them before the ocean widened between the boats once more.

Eighteen days, two hours, and fifty-nine minutes after leaving San Francisco, on Friday, September 19, 1980, the mountains of Maui rose slowly from the horizon.

Landfall was not luck. It was calculation confirmed.

For eighteen days he had trusted discipline, mathematics, experience, and the 36-foot vessel — Rhiannon.

And he arrived exactly where he intended.

Maui, Hawaii in the distance

1980 September calendar marking each day of the San Francisco-to-Hawaii crossing

Hawaii—Preparation and Patience

Hawaii was not merely a waypoint. It was a milestone.

He remained in the islands for approximately two months, sailing among them — visiting every major island except the Big Island. After the intensity of the crossing, he allowed himself time to rest, repair, and prepare before committing again to open ocean.

He restocked provisions. Reviewed rigging. Checked fittings. Evaluated sails. Studied charts for the next and far longer leg: Hawaii to the Marquesas — deeper into the South Pacific.

On Monday, November 3, he visited the French Consulate to secure the necessary visa for entry into French Polynesia.

Nothing was left to chance.

Provisions were inspected and repacked with care. Cans were removed from cardboard boxes and coated lightly with petroleum jelly to prevent rust from salt exposure. Even eggs were rubbed with a thin layer to extend their life at sea.

These were small, methodical acts — invisible to most — but essential to long-distance sailing.

Hawaii proved something important.

He could cross thousands of miles of open ocean and arrive exactly where he intended.

Enjoying the beautiful sunset in Maui, Hawaii

Postcard sent from Hawaii during the voyage

Hawaii to the Marquesas

On November 19–20, 1980, his first attempt to depart Maui for the Marquesas was met with immediate adversity. Seas were choppy, and Rhiannon began taking on water through the chain locker. He spent the day and night bailing steadily with sponge and bucket, trying to keep the bilges clear. Exhaustion overtook him; he managed only about twenty-five minutes of sleep.

At 2:00 a.m., he attempted to go on deck to address the leak but could not do so without taking on heavy spray, which left him seasick. By 4:30 a.m., fatigue pressed hard, yet he remained focused on making harbor. At 6:00 a.m., the Maui channel came into view. He aimed for land and reached safety by midday.

Afterward, he wrote that he hoped never to endure another night like that again.

After resolving the chain locker issue and making necessary repairs, Rhiannon was made ready once more. On Tuesday, November 25, 1980, following a small going-away gathering in Hawaii, he set sail again — this time committed fully to the South Pacific.

The Pacific did not make it easy. On Thanksgiving Day, November 27, he spent six to seven hours sewing a torn jib in heavy wind. He wrote of missing family and the silence — for weeks, the only sound that was heard was the wind humming through the sails, the gentle rhythm of waves against Rhiannon’s hull, and the quiet company of his own thoughts.

Unlike the passage to Hawaii, where he logged coordinates daily, entries during this leg became less frequent. For four consecutive days, no journal entry appears. Storms demanded full attention. Writing had to wait.

On Monday, December 8, he recorded mounting damage: the top port safety line lost, the leech line in the mainsail gone, salt water throughout the cabin, and a broken VHF antenna. The seas were stronger than before.

When conditions became unsafe for sail handling, he dropped all canvas, secured deck gear, battened down the hatches, and turned Rhiannon into the waves as best he could. Clipped into a safety harness below deck, he rode out the storm.

Every decision carried consequence. There was no second watch. No relief crew.

Though Richard’s boat was somewhere on the same ocean, most days it was out of sight and beyond reliable radio range.

Not every day was hardship. There were moments of unexpected grace. Pods of porpoises surrounded Rhiannon and played for nearly an hour. Whales surfaced nearby and sharks moved through deep blue water beneath the hull.

But much of the time was labor. Sails were adjusted repeatedly for shifting wind. Course corrections were constant. Equipment required inspection and repair. Sleep came in fragments. Exhaustion accumulated quietly.

A vessel of this size typically requires at least two sailors for safe offshore passage. He sailed her entirely alone — no one to stand watch while he slept, no one to steady the helm while he ate, no one to share the long nights.

On December 16, he crossed the Equator between 7:30 and 8:30 in the evening. At one point he believed his fresh water had run dry, only to discover that air in the lines had mimicked an empty tank — a reminder that even small mechanical illusions could carry large emotional weight at sea.

Twenty-six days and twelve and a half hours after departing Hawaii, on Sunday, December 21, 1980, Rhiannon entered the harbor at Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas.

He was exhausted. But he had crossed the South Pacific.

Different Drummer in the distance.

1980 December Calendar marking the days of the Hawaii-to-Marquesas passage.

Alvin sighting with the Sextant

Nuku Hiva — Marquesas

After twenty-six days at sea, Nuku Hiva rose from the Pacific—steep green mountains lifting sharply from deep blue water. Here, his journal ends, but not his journey.
What remains from this period are postcards and a telegram sent home. In them, he wrote of the beauty of the islands and the kindness of the people he encountered. Islanders shared generously—more than one hundred pounds of bananas, mangos, pamplemousse, limes, and avocados. Fresh fruit after weeks at sea—simple abundance.

He also noted the high cost of goods and the realities of island life, far removed from Oregon.

Postcard sent from Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas

Sailing through French Polynesia

From the Marquesas, the voyage continued through French Polynesia — Tahiti, Bora Bora, Fiji, and neighboring islands — before turning farther southwest across open ocean once again.

By this stage of the journey, Alvin had unquestionably mastered the art of navigation. Thousands of nautical miles were already behind him. Celestial fixes, compass headings, wind patterns, and current corrections were no longer tests of ability but tools he commanded with confidence.

He was free to go where he chose.

A telegram sent from Tahiti mentioned plans to sail to Bora Bora. He expected to begin the journey home by the end of May. But the Pacific rarely follows strict schedules.

Front and back of Telegram sent during the voyage from Tahiti, French Polynesia

Australia

By mid-1981, Alvin’s voyage had carried him across the South Pacific to Australia.

He remained there for approximately two months — long enough not simply to arrive, but to experience the country beyond the harbor.

In a postcard sent from Sydney in June, he wrote that he had traveled to Canberra, Wodonga, and Melbourne. Of them all, he described Sydney as the most interesting and beautiful. He toured the Sydney Opera House, a structure as bold and distinctive against its harbor as Rhiannon must have seemed in distant ports.

The man who had once marked days carefully on a Pacific crossing was now walking foreign streets, moving easily through places that had once existed only on charts.

In June, a postcard arrived from Sydney, Australia. The message was simple:

“You never know where I’ll end up.”

It wasn’t uncertainty. It was freedom — the freedom that comes from knowing you can point your bow toward any horizon and find your way.

But eventually, the horizon turned east.

Home awaited.

Alvin entering the Sydney Harbour — Sydney Opera House on the left

Postcard sent from Sydney, Australia

The Return Voyage

He departed Australia near the end of July 1981, turning Rhiannon toward the long eastern horizon — the final leg of his journey back to Oregon.

This time there was no companion vessel on the horizon. No radio check-ins between boats. No shared landfalls. Only the wind, stars, and the 36-foot boat he had built.

The return would take approximately three to four months.

The journal of this final leg — which he had written so diligently throughout the voyage — was sadly lost over the years. What remains are fragments: postcards, dates, and the knowledge that he arrived safely home.

The Pacific did not shorten simply because the bow pointed home. Trade winds, shifting weather patterns, currents, fatigue — all remained. Sleep would still come in measured intervals. Sails would still require constant adjustment. Equipment would still demand attention.

But something had changed.

The ocean that had once represented vast unknown distance now felt familiar. He understood her moods. He knew the balance of Rhiannon’s hull under load, the sound of strain in the rigging, the precise trim that would carry them efficiently through open water.

This was no longer a proving ground. It was a passage home.

Months passed. Latitudes climbed north again. The air gradually cooled. The constellations shifted overhead, reversing the sky he had studied on the outward journey.

And then, in early November 1981 — more than sixteen months after he first departed — Rhiannon entered the Columbia River once more.

He returned to the Rose City Yacht Club in Portland, Oregon — the same waters from which he had set out.

Family and friends were there again to greet him.

The circle was complete.

He had left with preparation and resolve.
He returned with mastery — and the quiet knowledge that he had crossed the Pacific alone, built his own vessel, trusted his own calculations, and found his way back.

Rhiannon carried him faithfully across thousands of miles.

And he brought her home.

Capturing the sunset on the journey home — a dream that became a reality.

Family Adventures

Before Rhiannon ever crossed the Pacific, she carried something just as important—family.

The boat was named Rhiannon, inspired by Welsh heritage. In Welsh mythology, Rhiannon is a powerful figure often interpreted as a great queen — a fitting name for the vessel that would carry Alvin across the Pacific.

Alvin’s journey was originally planned with his wife Sherri, but she had passed away two years earlier. He initially hesitated to undertake the voyage they had planned together. Eventually, he refocused his energy on preparation. His solo voyage honors both her memory and the life they shared.

Alvin and Sherri Smothers were lifelong adventurers. From 1965–1972 they were avid SCUBA divers along the coasts of Oregon, Washington, and California, exploring underwater worlds few had ever seen and earning more than 100 trophies between them. Newspaper articles document some of their achievements, including Sherri’s North American record for catching a 20 lb 12 oz cabezon. One of the articles shows Sherri with trophies, and her son Terry beside her with diving equipment and paddleboards.

They embraced exploration as a way of life, encouraging their children—Elaine and her two brothers, Terry and Jimmy—to participate fully in these adventures. Alvin also taught the children to sail independently in open ocean conditions, learning navigation by compass, sextant, and stars. The children were trained to handle the vessel alone in case they were the only survivors after a storm. These experiences shaped not just seamanship but character, courage, and self-reliance at an early age.

Their adventures extended beyond the water. They rafted the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, rode mules to Phantom Ranch and back—earning a “Master Mule Skinner” certificate—explored abandoned mines in Nevada, hiked mountains, fishing and camped extensively.

In 1972 they purchased their first sailboat, a 28-foot vessel named Sigame’. They began their training on the Columbia River before venturing into the Pacific Ocean. On the river they practiced constantly, tacking back and forth to understand wind, sail balance, and boat handling—learning the skills that would eventually carry them into open water.

As their experience grew, they sailed Sigame’ north to Port Townsend, Washington, where they moored the boat year-round. From there they spent weekends exploring the San Juan Islands and Victoria, British Columbia. Family trips extended around Vancouver Island and into the waters of Alaska. The Strait of Juan de Fuca—with its winds, strong currents, and unpredictable weather—became their training ground.

In 1975, after several years of sailing, Alvin decided they were ready for a larger vessel. Having already built two family homes, the decision came naturally—he would build the boat himself.

Rhiannon was constructed on the family property. The dining room table often held construction blueprints on one side and ocean charts on the other—a daily reflection of how his life bridged craftsmanship and navigation.

For our family, Rhiannon was never just a boat.

We watched her take shape from an empty hull into the graceful vessel she would become. Every plank, every line, every sail was placed by my father’s hands. By the time she first slipped into the water, she already felt alive to us.

She was the color of the ocean itself—a deep blue—and when she first touched the Columbia River she looked majestic, resting quietly in the water as if she had always belonged there.

When she sailed, she moved through the waves with elegance—sleek, steady, and sure.

Adventure was never a phase for our family.

It was simply the way we lived.

Rhiannon’s hull during construction, with Jimmy standing inside.

Rhiannon being lowered in the Columbia River for the first time.

Rhiannon sailing around the San Juan Islands, British Columbia

Journals & Artifacts

Throughout the voyage, Alvin documented his journey through journals, postcards, telegrams, and personal notes sent home.

Some of these pieces have survived over the years—small fragments of a much larger story. Together they offer a glimpse into the daily reality of a sailor crossing the Pacific before the age of modern navigation.

Journal Pages from the Pacific Voyage

Journal entry of the storm along the California coast

Journal entry of 1st attempt leaving Hawaii - having to bail water throughout day & night

Journal entry of sails used and coordinates

Journal entry of Doldrums (deadly zone) & porpoises playing around Rhiannon

Journal entry marking the crossing of the Equator

Journal entry describing the sighting of land after weeks at sea

SCUBA Diving Newspaper coverage

Newspaper article highlighting Alvin and Sherri Smothers’ scuba diving achievements, with their son Terry pictured demonstrating diving equipment and a paddleboard.

Newspaper photo from a spearfishing championship showing Alvin Smothers (top row, second from left) in the men’s division and Sherri Smothers (bottom row, second from right) winning 1st place in the women’s division.

Certificate & Record

North American Record certificate for Sherri’s 20lb 12oz Cabezon — Sept. 20, 1969

Photographs of Sailing and Scuba Diving

Sherri, Alvin and Terry in Scuba gear - 1966

Rhiannon completed, getting ready to be moved from our property to the Columbia River - 1976

Tammy (L), Me-Elaine (M) and Sherri (R) arriving at Victoria, British Columbia - 1976

Alvin (at helm), Jimmy (middle deck) & Terry (Bow) - Sailing around the San Juan Islands, British Columbia

Beautiful sunset Bora Bora in the distance - French Polynesia

Alvin relaxing on Rhiannon bananas hanging on the lines. Cooks Bay, Moorea - French Polynesia

Tribute

Even though I have not sailed in many years, my parents instilled in me their love of adventure, and it gave me many wonderful adventures of my own. Growing up, there was rarely a weekend when we were not doing something outdoors.

My father has long since passed, and with him many of the stories that might once have been told around a campfire. But the memories remain as vivid as if they happened yesterday. My parents taught me to appreciate the beauty of the landscape, to respect the sea, and never to take either one for granted.

Writing this story often felt like stepping back in time. When I imagine my father alone on the Pacific, I can picture him clearly—as if I were standing there beside him, hoisting the sails, adjusting lines to keep the sails from fluttering, etc. I can imagine the exhaustion, the loneliness, and the constant vigilance required to sail alone across such vast water. But I can also picture the warmth of the sun on the deck, the steady rhythm of the ocean, and the night sky stretching endlessly above him.

For many years I have wanted to share the voyage my father undertook across the Pacific Ocean. He navigated Rhiannon, across waters that were powerful and unforgiving. He knew every plank, every line, every sound of that vessel. At sea, when something broke or failed, there was no manual to follow—only experience, judgment, and ingenuity.

He was not fearless.
He was not heroic.
He was not invincible.

But he was an extraordinary man.

He prepared for years, trusted his work, and ultimately completed the journey he had set out to make.

I share my father’s voyage in honor of what he accomplished.

Elaine Edgel