Santa Rosa – Part 2
Saturday 7/6 7am or thereabouts. Hazy, as always in the morning. The northwest wind is down to like 5 knots, mere ripples cross the water.
The plan for the day is to go ashore and walk about, then, if time, sail back this afternoon to Santa Cruz Island, to shorten the long trip back to Ventura Sunday.
Just arrived, and already i'm planning my escape.
I mount the outboard motor on the dingy, an Avon inflatable, which hangs from davits at the stern, then lower it to the water. The pulley lines it hangs from aren't long enuf (i'll improve the arrangement someday) to bring the dingy around to the side; therefore i must climb over the davit rack and drop to the unstable raft below, then release the pulley lines and pull over to the side. I've placed a boarding ladder there to make things 'easier' (as the Columbia 30 has high sides, which keep much of the spray and splash out of the cockpit, but if i ever fall overboard, even if somehow i can recapture the boat, i may be unable to pull myself back in), crush-bruising a finger in the process as the collapsible ladder collapses unexpectedly.
From the dingy, i take a boat hook and probe beneath the hull. (I have no mask or wetsuit, and no interest in entering the cold water. Besides, it's spooky swimming around alone underneath a hull.) I can clearly feel the outlines of the rudder, the prop, its shaft & mount, and the fin keel. Nothing out of the ordinary. I had fully expected, indeed hoped, to snag a rope and pull up some hulk of something, but there's nothing there. So why is the boat going so slow??
It's a mystery.
I put some water and simple lunch in the day pack, and, back in the raft, struggle to start the outboard.
The salesman who brokered the boat sale gave me the dingy free, and offered me the old outboard for $200. It said it was the best deal i'd ever see, and i trusted him, and it was $200 wasted. The thing is extremely hard to start. In fact the first trip i tried it on i couldn't get it to start at all. I was ready to take it back to him, but i tried it a last time from the marina, and got it going, tho' breaking and subsequently fixing the choke in the process, so i still had the thing.
Yank yank yank yank yank on the cord, nothing. Ok now it sputters occasionally, maybe there's hope. Yank yank yank yank break, yes, the starter cord breaks.
[Fill in expletive here.]
Back to the boarding ladder, i heave the motor back into the cockpit, get back in the boat, re-mount it on the stern rail. Whoops, dropped the mounting board overboard, and it's blowing downwind. Hop back in the dingy, paddle after it, retrieve it, paddle back to the boat, finish mounting.
One of the entertainments of sailing is watching all the trouble others are having, and, as i seem to have more than my share, i must be very entertaining. I always feel watched in an anchorage where i'm not alone. I prefer to be alone.
So i paddle ashore. The pier, where the trailhead is, is a mile off down the shore. With the outboard, i'd have gone there, but paddling i'll go straight to the shore and walk. The wind's straight against me.
It always is.
Rowing a raft is a fair nightmare. The thing has no directional stability, and the oar locks are far aft so you have to sit in the front to row, and so you can't see where you're going. The raft's narrow, so your hands and the ends of the oars are always beating against each other. It's so inefficient. There must be a better way. It's exhausting and slow, and a relief when you get to the beach.
As i got out a wave dumped the raft and me on my ass. I'm sure the other boaters were watching.
Pulled it high up on the shore and tied it off to a big rock. Now i walked back & forth along the beach. It would've been nice if i could walk the beach all the way to the pier, but it ended a third of the way in a rocky beachless impassable point. And all along the beach was backed by a likewise cliff, too steep to climb reasonably, tho at a couple points i tried, and chickened out.
Did finally find a spot.
Atop the cliff i was surprised to find a vast flat meadow, backed by hills. This was nice! I love vast open peopleless spaces. I headed over toward the ranch buildings at the pier, and, reaching their margin, headed up a road into the hills.
I think there's nothing i like more than to walk in an open natural place with views and no one around, most especially if the walking's fairly level and easy, because then one can think unencumbered by physical exertion. The hills southeast of SanJose were such a place. The long beach at Watsonville was another.
So i was having a good time. Off across the drainage was new construction, surely Park Service housing. Sounds of heavy equipment and hammering.
I reached a hilltop and figured i'd gone far enuf, but along came an NPS pickup, containing, as luck would have it, the "Island Ranger", Mark H. Nice man. We had a nice conversation, altho': at first he wasn't listening to me. There's this common thing among rangers, they talk to so many 'visitors', and of course all visitors are alike and stupid and boring and all ask the same irrelevant questions, so you just rattle off your standard spiel, and why listen? But i got his attention when i told him mom was like 72 and working as a seasonal at Kings Canyon.
He said he'd like to be doing same when he's that age. And his wife and he were married there, in a sequoia grove, a "natural cathedral".
And he seemed really interested in Acadia too. An island-kinda-guy, guess.
Anyway, he said i should hike Lobo Canyon. He fumbled around for the longest time trying to find maps or brochures or something he could give me, couldn't find anything. I 'spect he doesn't see many people on Santa Rosa Island. But he did point out the route on a map he had. And he suggested that i return via the beach.
You know, while i was fumbling about the beach in disgust, searching for a route, it had occurred to me suddenly: what's the hurry? This is a fantastic place. The water's green, lightened by the sand below, darkened by the kelp and sea grass. There are tide pools, orange starfish hugging the rock clefts. And i'm missing it all for.... ? Slow down!
So i slowed down, and walked to Lobo Canyon. Nice place. The trail had clearly just been seen maintenance and was in good shape. A creek flows thru it, so the bottom's lush green. Chirping birds flit about. Needless to say: no one there. But the principal wonder is the sandstone walls, shaped, tortured by the wind, into all manner of 3D sculptures.
Had the lunch in a little grassy meadow. THE SUN CAME OUT and it was warm and beautiful, and for a long while i just sat there and thot of nothing except repressing the recurrent insistent notion that i ought to be DOING something. Someday, i think, i'll be quite happy to do nothing at all.
Hiked back. And it occurred to me, i ought to be a park ranger again, i should give something back to America.
I think i'll do that. I need a purpose.
At the pier, he said there'd be a ladder, and there it was - a HIGH vertical ladder.
So i headed down the beach, and predictably, ran first into rocky points. I had to take off my shoes and wade, and if the bottom was sand this wasn't a big deal but if it was sharp rock that was a bigger deal, 'specially since the surf was muddy opaque and i had to feel my away along - ouch! - with my feet.
I think the ranger had imagined my boat closer.
And finally there was the BIG point where i had to leave my pack and shoes and pants and SWIM.
Luckily the water was not too cold. Indeed i marveled at the beautiful water and the sand and kelp. It was such a beautiful day and place.
Reaching the dingy, i pulled it back into the water and paddled back to my stuff, then the distance out to the boat. The wind had turned and tho' it was light, it was blowing exactly against me.
It always does.
The rowing seemed forever.
But finally i was there again. I made another sweep of the bottom with the boathook, found nothing, then lifted the raft by the davits and prepped for sail. Remember the two anchors? The 2nd had done its job as the wind changed, but now i found the boat straining against both anchor lines, one fore, one aft - it would awkward getting 'em up. I let the stern line run free and pulled up the bowline without incident, tho' it required the windlass, dug in as it was from the previous nite's blow. Turning attention the the tiny stern anchor, which you may recall i had merely dropped over the side the nite before, i pulled its line in and to my great surprise found that it was STUCK! Absolutely immobile. With the windlass (which is like a winch), i pulled the line absolutely taught, vertical, and could make no further progress.
Ok, no sleep the nite before after a long day's sail, then the struggle with the outboard, and the hard row in to shore, and long hike, and the swim, and long row back, and the first anchor, and now this. I was exhausted, completely discouraged. Sailing sucks!
Of course i tried pulling it with the engine, forward, backward, but that did no good. Contrary to the popular image, an anchor does not hold a boat by virtue of its weight - rather it literally 'hooks' into the bottom. If the bottom condition is right (and sand is best), the harder you pull, the deeper it digs and the better it holds.
To get an anchor out, you 'back it out'. The anchor relies on a sideways pull to hold, what they call 'scope'. If the water's 20 feet deep, you might feed out 100 feet of line, giving a 5:1 scope. The more line, the better the angle, the better the hold. But if the pull is vertical, there's no scope, and in theory, no hold, unless: the thing's jammed in rocks.
It appeared my anchor was jammed.
I tried various maneuverings about, no avail. I was about to give up. I considered staying another nite, trying again tomorrow, and of course since that wouldn't change anything, cutting the line. But: 1 more try. I fed out some line, then carefully motored a full 360 degrees around the anchor point, keeping the line taut, theory being that if there was any way out of the rocks, this would discover it.
Didn't.
So i winched it up tight one last time, then gradually upped the engine revs. Either it would be freed, or something would break. I hoped if the latter, it would be the anchor or the rode, and not the deck hardware. The knot-meter showed 0.0. More throttle. 0.0. More throttle. 0.0. More throttle. 0.4. How'd that happen? 0.8. Dang, it worked.
I imagined the eyes from the other boats watching as i pulled up the anchor, success. Free.
But i'd wasted an hour an half in the struggle. Now it was 3pm, maybe barely enuf time to get somewhere else before dark, and i was worried.
At least the wind had come up strong, and, hey, blowing in the direction i wanted to go!
It never does that.
A mainsail is so much trouble, one must turn into the wind to raise it, likewise to lower it, raising it generally a struggle because things catch on other things, lowering it likewise because the thing billows heavily all over the deck and it must be gathered and tied up. So i proceeded under jib alone. The roller furling jib, by contrast, is a relative joy - there are 2 lines, operated from the safety of the cockpit. To raise the jib, let off on one line while pulling hard on the other. To lower it, reverse the process. Sure, even this is a little tricky and generally is accompanied by loud raucous random flapping of the huge sail, but this a minor annoyance compared to the alternative. Yes, no main means a loss of speed, but even that's a blessing if the wind comes up really strong - it's hard to reef the main, easy to reef a jib - just pull on the lines.
Wind gradually increased to 25 knots, and i was making good speed - over 5 knots. I imagine that the drag that had slowed me earlier had been a giant squid suckered onto the hull, and i'd scared him off with boathook probing. Who knows? The seas were not high and it was actually fairly easy going. Tho' scary: because: sure i was ok, but what's next?
Haze obscured the island behind as it revealed the one ahead, scrolling reality.
Turning the corner at West Point, the wind dropped to 15. I studied the charts - where to put in? I was aiming for Fry's "Harbor", a narrow cleft in the cliffs, said to be calm but always crowded - would there be space for me? And what if not, where then. The shoreline of Santa Cruz is towering vertical cliffs. Here & there, boats, power & sail, tucked up against the walls with seemingly the most insignificant protection against the western swell. If they choose such poor places, surely Fry's is packed. So i debated miles and cove alternatives and time and speed, and finally here was Fry's, smaller & narrower than i'd imagined, but only 5 boats. I dropped the jib and motored in.
Parking at the back of the pack, i imagined disapproving eyes. When boats are in close proximity as this, one bad anchor job can threaten all. If one drags or swings, the others can be struck, or there own anchors caught and dislodged. So i was self-conscious. I lined up with them, according to the wind, and laid my main anchor, then moved to the stern to drop a 2nd to prevent swing. To my horror, by the time i'd made the stern, my boat had swung 90 degrees perpendicular to the others - no danger, yet, but it didn't look right. No doubt they thot me a rank amateur. What was actually happening was that the low swell was having more of an effect on the boat than the weakening wind. A boat left to drift on a single anchor-line from the bow will face into a strong wind, but if the wind is weak it will turn 90 degrees and lie beam-on to the waves. But it didn't look right, so using the motor i got it straightened out again, then dropped the 2nd anchor to hold it there.
I think it was the most insecure anchoring job i'd ever done. Little scope, little digging in. But the wind and swell were dropping. Maybe it would be ok. I'd just have to be vigilant. And hope for the best. At worst, i could up-anchor in the nite and head for the relative safety of the open sea. For "the greatest threat to a boat's safety is not the sea, but the land." I pre-programmed the GPS with the coordinates that would take me tomorrow across the shipping lanes and back to Ventura.
And had a beer. And went to bed.