Santa Rosa – Part 1
B & i & the dog Hatch left the Ventura Marina only a little bit late shortly after noon 7/4. No sun, 'hazy' as they call it here - it's fog but you can see a couple miles, wet but not too wet, cool but not too cool. There were waves, erratic but not at too big, maybe 3-foot. There was wind, but not too much wind, but it was coming from exactly the direction we wanted to go.
It always does.
Neither B nor the H had been out in the boat before, and both proved good companions. Hatch initially was enthused, wandering about the small deck, sniffing the breeze, interested in all that passed, tho' before long he about passed out on the cockpit floor (bored, or already sick of the sea). B did better, steering much of the way as i fussed with the sails & charts & GPS. She sailed close to the wind, making 3-4 knots, but before long the land intervened and we pulled in the sails and motored.
Problem: couldn't make better than slightly over 4knots. This was weird because the wind and seas were not bad and from experience we should be making about 6. The engine seemed fine, developing its 2200 RPM. If this was the East Coast trip again, i'd think i'd snagged another lobster pot, but no line streamed from the rudder. Disturbing. Either something large was somehow caught below, or there was something wrong with the prop. And, me, intending tomorrow to sail for San Miguel Island, one LONG way, and uncomfortably exposed to the Pacific Ocean. MAP
Whatever.
Made Santa Barbara about 6 pm as i recall. Anchored off East Beach, where the fireworks spozedly would be, but, suspiciously, no one else seemed to be there. B had a newspaper, and a little research produced a detailed map of the site. We up-anchored and moved. Yes, here there were some clustered boats, but we were still front-row against the virtual line traced by blue-lite-flashing harbor patrol craft. The wind and swell abated and THE SUN CAME OUT. We ate good Von's supermarket fried chicken, drank wine, and marveled at the mountains and beach palms and the sunset. The sunset went on and on. Just when you thot it had final-ed, it encored. Over & over. B said it was the most magnificent she'd ever witnessed.
Hatch, confused, wondered when he would go home.
The fireworks were marvelous.
We slept under the stars in the cockpit. Contrary to the literary romance, the rocking of the boat did not lull us to sleep - indeed the occasional lurch tends toward the opposite extreme. And it was cold. But: quiet, special, memorable.
Morning, up-anchored. Motored into the Santa Barbara marina. Nothing else was moving. I dropped her off, and the dog, at the dock.
Hug.
San Miguel? The wind was blowing from exactly that direction.
It always does.
Motoring, i felt was out of the question - i'd use all my gas just getting there. And there was that speed mystery. So i decided to make for the alternative - Santa Rosa Island, not quite as far, not quite as exposed. I sailed.
Trouble was: that wind that i was running just off was all of 5 knots. Initially i made all of .5 to 1.5 knots. If i was only Jesus, could've made twice that afoot.
A few hours of this and the coast lost itself in the haze. Alone on the big sea just me and this small boat, 'Fast Girl' the former owner named her, but is that awful? I make a list of alternative names, 'Comftably Numb' from the Pink Floyd song. 'Stand on the Ocean', Dylan. 'Living Off the Land', 'Put Away Wet'. Etc.
But mostly i considered what to do with the rest, this last third, of my life.
Many activities are described as 90+% boredom & the remainder stark terror.
You could say that about sailing -- no, let's call it "voyaging". "Sailing", to me, is the sport of playing around outside the harbor entrance, trying to go "fast" (as if 7knots could be fast). "Voyaging", on the other hand, is going somewhere, 'out there', thru as wild and inhospitable place as any on earth, in other words, "Nature". And never forget: Nature doesn't care. She's just there, beautiful sure, but we hu-mans are always just on the edge of existence. Voyaging, you know that. Sure, no matter how bad it's been for me, i've handled it, but it's always in my head, whether at a fog-shrouded 1-knot in a glassy 2-foot swell or hypothermic in 40knots under double-reefed main in a beam sea that throws the boat over 45 degrees, cabin pots/pans clattering, dishes shattering, waves splashing over the side, clothes soaked, and there's now that huge dark hulk of a container ship emerging from the mists: ok, i can handle this, but what's next?
I'm saying: it's NOT 90% boredom - the fear is always there. "The ocean is so big, my boat so small." It's there from the first moment i conceive of the trip. It's there thru the preparations. It's there as i pass the breakwater and the whistle buoy. And out in the haze.
But so are the seals and dolphins, the wave-skimming lines of pelicans and bobbing seabirds, the occasional ocean sunfish.
The autopilot quit responding. "Otto" does all the work when i voyage, while i sit, shiver, appreciate nature, despair of my life, and contemplate crisis. I tweak the dial in response to the latest advice from the gps, and nothing happens. The dial feels funny, disconnected. How can something as simple as a stupid dial break? It managed. I take the thing apart - nothing visibly amiss, and the workings all sealed up, inaccessible. But i find that if i leave the bottom off, i can reach up underneath inside and turn the housing manually. A workaround.
The wind built gradually, as i knew it would. Finally, moving. A container ship appeared, passed in the distance. Later, another, this one likewise bound my way from the opposite direction, and, immediately, another huge dark shape in the mist, this one, miles off, but heading it seemed right for me. With the hand-bearing compass i monitor their ominous progress. If the angle between us stays the same, well, that would be a bad thing.
It's not that i actually fear being run over by them. The odds are quite against it. Rather the problem is: what am i supposed to do? The big ships are considered quite unaware of small boats. 100-ft commercial fishing boats have been run over & sunk by cargo ships, without the ships' crews even noticing. Even if alert there's little they could do - big ships don't wiggle well. Me, i can wiggle, but i have no speed (they're no doubt doing better than 20 knots). So ultimately they must plow on and hope i stay out of their way, and, i, well, can only hope. And worry.
Finally i realize the first 'new' ship is actually the same one i passed earlier, moving the opposite direction as i thot. (How do you tell? From miles away you can't tell the pointy-end from the other.) And the one headed right for me of course passes behind.
The west end of Santa Cruz Island appears to port out of the fog. Desolate, but otherwise looking like a very rugged California coast-range. Wind is up to 20 knots. White caps appear.
As i leave SCI behind, Santa Rosa appears miles ahead in the gloom. And then: THE SUN COMES OUT. Wind rises higher & higher and now i'm moving, heeled over in the headwind, the boat bucking thru the waves, but still only doing like 5 knots. It should be faster. I convince myself that some malicious diver, in port, has hooked a big 'something' to the rack that supports the prop - because there's nothing else underneath for anything to catch on.
Bechers Bay, Santa Rosa Island - i can see the pier and ranch buildings. The wind's built to 35 knots, which is quite fast, and now i need to lower the sails, while Otto steers us into the wind. He & i this time work well together, with no wasted motion. Sails down, i motor along the shore and pick a spot beyond the 4 other craft anchored there. Anchor. The wind is extreme, but the day, thank goodness, is over.
I have a beer.
Folks seem to have some view that once at the anchorage, the assembled sailors party down, together. Not in my experience. Especially if the wind is high, the proximate boats are as alone as if there were no others in sight. There is a feeling of just holding on. If another boat was to break loose and blow to sea or to the rocks, likely none would/could do anything but observe in horror - "thank god it's not me". It could just as well be.
I toss another anchor off the stern, because paradoxically, if the wind finally dies in the nite, there may be a weak breeze fill in from the opposite direction - the boat will swing around on its rode, and, having survived the gale, will be impaled on the rocks while i sleep. There is so much that can go wrong
I lay my bed on the floor, because the motion is less there, down low. Lines - there are 7 of 'em - whack the hollow metal mast like a hammer on pipe. I venture out into the cold and tie them back the best in can but random motion is much more clever than i. Finally i sleep anyway, dreams surprisingly pleasant.
Suddenly i'm awake: What was that? The cacophony has fallen silent, the waves flattened to innocuous lapping. Above, the moon's a sliver. Bioluminescence, the first i've seen since Mexico, sparkles green against the anchor line.
