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Nautical Dementia
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Nautical Dementia
Some of you may be wondering what Dave's been up to lately. Well, grab a cup of coffee and I'll tell you about ND.
It starts out subtly enough. A stroll through the yacht harbor on a sunny day, a stop to take a closer look at that sailboat with the for sale sign. Hmmm.. the price is affordable, but is she sound? Not wanting to act impulsive you decide to do some research. Let's see, what kind of sailing do we want to do? Well of course we want to cruise. Cruising means free on the sea, to come and go as you wish, to sail to faraway tropical paradises where the dusky native lasses beckon and adventure waits in every port of call! Yup, that's for me! That's how it begins, incipient ND, Nautical Dementia. I've been afflicted with ND for a couple of years now. Fueled by espresso and the latest copy of Latitude 38 we cruise the bookstore for useful information. Let's see, we better bone up on a little naval architecture so we know what shape our vessel should be. And what about seamanship? Have we got enough experience? No, you never can have enough experience, we better get some more of that. Aha, here's a book on celestial navigation, let's learn that 'cause you know your GPS is gonna go belly up at some point. And so on... we've become an armchair sailor, arguably the most comfortable way to enjoy the Pacific coast of California, as any one who has left the warm embrace of the chair to embark on the real ocean can tell you.
Some time passes during which you have absorbed all sorts of arcane knowledge on various facets of life at sea. Navigation, sail trim, optimal hull shapes for cruising boats (a contentious subject these days), electrical systems, refrigeration, fresh water and ways to get it, radios and their antennas, and on and on it goes. By this time we have a fully developed case of ND. We're calling yacht brokers and looking at boats, we're haunting the docks. We're pestering the surveyors with endless questions. And we're going sailing at every opportunity. And listening, to anyone, who will speak of subjects nautical and hopefully impart some hard won knowledge on a useful topic.
A hot tip from the local surveyor leads you to the embodiment of the ideal cruising boat. You check it out. Ho, what's this, we've been aboard this one before, way too expensive. But wait, the surveyor was right. He'll take a -lot- less, we can do it! Hot damn I think we're in business, but let's not act precipitously. OK, just let me do a little checking on her condition. I can pay you cash, but I have to make sure she's sound. He says fine, just don't take too long because he needs to leave town. So it begins. The intensive investigation of a particular craft with the intent to buy generates a certain emotional attachment that has a synergistic effect on ND. But you try to remain coldly rational as you crawl about in the bilge making mental notes of the tasks required to transform this sorry example of neglect into the very picture of shipshape and bristol cruising condition. It won't be easy. We've been up the mast, we've sounded the decks, we've talked to the mechanics, we've sailed her, we've fallen in love and don't even know it.
At long last we decide to go for it. Just do it. Spend the money and call it a learning experience. So we make the call. Hmm.. not there, what, out of town? Ok, tell him I'll take the boat, when can he be here to close? So begins the telephone tag. Time passes and I begin to feel we're being avoided. Finally I run him to earth. What do you mean another buyer? I thought we had a deal going? Oh, I see, a friend.. mmm hmm.. well I have the cash and we can do it now. No huh, well let me know if anything changes. SON OF A BITCH! It hits home how much you've grown attached to her. Your ship of dreams. We rant, we rave, we berate ourselves for not seizing the moment when the seller was hot. A depression sets in. Friends offer encouraging observations that it wasn't supposed to happen because there must be something better on the horizon. Yea, right, so what do we do now? We've told everybody under the sun that we're heading out to sea and we're still on the beach. Time for plan B.
Maybe we better give this cruising thing a little reality check. More out there doing it and less espresso and bookstores. Is the ND in remission? Perhaps. Let's check out the crew list. Maybe we can get on a boat headed to Mexico for the winter. A couple of calls to ads in Latitude generate meager results, and for a time we mope about, contemplating the meaning of life and finding no satisfying answers. The phone rings. It's Doctor Bill, boat owner looking for crew! Things are looking up. We go out for a sail on his Hardin ketch with Jim, a crew member who had made the cut. We talk about the trip, a combination scuba, film making and bush doctor expedition of epic proportions. I offer my services as radio operator and technical fixit man extraodinaire. They say we'll call you. A few days pass and the verdict comes in. You're on board, we haul the boat next week for bottom paint and thru hulls, be at the yard at 8:00. So it begins. As any boatowner knows, time in the yard stretches on interminably as the little details become apparent. Poking around the prop shaft I discover the hose on the packing gland is rotten. A gentle push with the screwdriver and there's a hole! Not a good sign. I call Doctor Bill to the scene to alert him to the situation. He takes a look and asks if it will hold together for the trip. At this point the little voice in the back of my head got louder as it asked me "does our captain know what the hell he's doing?". After all, I was going on this trip to learn, not instruct. I explained that the purpose of that innocent looking piece of hose was to keep the ocean on the outside of the boat, and that should it fail the bilge pump would be hard pressed to keep up with the flow. He allowed as how we should fix it, and told me to take care of it. Ok, so here we go. Get the yard foreman over here to schedule someone to pull the prop and the shaft, and I'll take care of the rest. Hours later, bloody and grimy, the job is done. Days pass. The to-do list marches down the page, new items at the bottom keeping pace with the crossed out ones at the top. A growing concern over the capabilities of our good captain is offset by the obvious competence of my crew mates. I reassure myself that whatever we get into, Jim, Paul and I can handle it, and resolve to think more positive thoughts. In the meantime I repair the SSB radio, hook up the weatherfax receiver, take a couple of trips up the mast to see what's wrong with the wind indicator, string several more yards of ground strap in the bilge, and in general save the good doctor thousands of dollars in tech work due to my now fully inflamed case of ND. As the Labor Day weekend approaches Dr.Bill suggests we take a little test cruise down to Half Moon Bay for the weekend to see how things go. I agree that that's a good idea, and off we go.
So it's just the two of us as we set off through the Gate, fenders and docklines dragging. The captain is in such a rush to get going that I have no chance to get the sail covers off and halyards attached until we are well out the Gate and into the swells and slop that make sailing here such a character building experience. Hmm... We're not having fun yet. I'll spare you the gory details of that weekend from hell. Suffice to say that our good captain's shortcomings were revealed in all their hideous glory on that little jaunt down the coast. The little voice was a roar, "get off this boat before you die a cold wet death". So I did. After making evasive excuses to Dr.Bill, and quite frank ones to the rest of the crew I turned my back on the death ship and set out to find some other way to rescue myself from another drizzling Santa Cruz winter.
Back to the crew list. Lets see here, can we find ourselves a captain who can teach us something about cruising without putting us on the rocks in the process? Phone calls and notes. This one has never sailed out of the Bay, but he's sure he can figure it out on the way. This other guy needs help getting the boat ready, but we've been down that road before. And so it goes. I make a few connections and await the crew party to size up the candidates on the short list. In the meantime I'm faced with the task of moving all of my worldly possessions into a rather small storage unit for the winter. Thinking Dr.Bill's boat was the ride to paradise I had notified the landlord up in the big house on the hill that I was outta here, thank you very much. So I was committed. To what.. was still to be resolved, but I was definitely on my way somewhere. Hopefully it would be a place warm enough to swim in the ocean without half an inch of neoprene armor on ones person.
The night of the crew party arrives and I show up, clipboard in hand, ready for some nautical networking and the ride to manana land. I work my way through the boozers, bullshitters and fixer uppers. The field narrows, the outlook is grim. Dr.Bill and crew are aboard, trying to fill my precipitously vacated spot. They've seized a standup easel from someone else's display and plastered it with pictures of the good ship Blarney in hopes of luring some unsuspecting sailor aboard. On the reverse is something about Seventh Wave, somebody's custom built 57 foot ketch. The captain of the Seventh Wave comes by to tell Dr.Bill that if he's going to steal his easel he should at least position it so both sides are visible. He looks salty enough, so I ask him what his crew situation is. As it turns out Seventh Wave is his third boat, the first two being ferro boats of his own construction which he had cruised extensively. And yes he was still looking for crew. We talked about boats, about cruising, his plans for a circumnavigation. We went out to the balcony to gaze down on the gleaming white hull of his pride and joy. Sparkling in its fresh coat of white Awlgrip under the spreader lights was a classic cruising ketch out of the famed Abeking and Rasmussen shipyard in Germany. Custom designed by Philip Rhodes himself and constructed in steel and aluminum, it was the seagoing equivalent of the brick shithouse. Things were looking better all the time. At this point the party shut down abruptly and we were all shooed out the door. I made arrangements to talk further with Tod in the morning, and pedalled off through the fog on my bicycle.
The Nautical Dementia had me firmly in its grasp when I returned the next morning. Visions of a voyage to the South Pacific filled my head as I toured the interior of Seventh Wave. Private quarters for the crew with head and sink! Two SSB radios with ham band coverage enabled. Twenty gallon per hour watermaker! Hot damn, hot showers anytime. I'm in heaven, where do I sign? What's that? My experience?? "Well I've been crewing up and down the California coast for seven years or so, and I can sail an armchair with the best of them". "Actually I was ready to cruise my own boat but the deal kinda fell apart so I thought I'd do a little reality check". Captain Tod thought that was a good idea, and asked when I could be ready to leave. "Well I've got to hop on a plane for Kentucky in about two hours". "I promised Mom I'd help her move before I took off cruising, but I'll be back next week". Captain Tod declared that Seventh Wave waits for no one, and that they would be moving South before my return. But in a generous gesture he laid out the itinerary and said to catch him down the coast, and if he still needed crew we could talk some more. Hmm... well at least that's something.
Meanwhile it's off to Kentucky to fulfill the family obligations. Dear old Mom has sold the family homestead on the shores of the mighty Ohio, and I've the wrenching task of packing up the remains for storage. I stand on the dock and watch the brown water moving downstream on its way to the sea. It was here that the first seeds of the ND were sown. The resurrection of many runabouts, cruisers, and boats of all descriptions. Poling a skiff through floodwaters to herd the drift out of the yard. The low rumble of a heavily laden barge, five wide and ten long, as it bucks the current on its trip upriver. Engines straining as the pilot powers up around the head of Twelvemile Island and jockeys for the turn. River Rat, through and through. Every kid has a paper route right? Well so did I, in a boat, delivering my papers to other boats. It's no wonder I get all dreamy eyed around a boatyard, hell I've been busting my butt on other peoples boats just to get my fix!
So here we are in Kentucky, carting old outboard motors, oars, boxes of cleats, winches and what have you, off to a storage unit 'cause I can't bear to throw it all away. It's a dementia, like water on the brain, only there's little boats floating in it. A week passes and I get Mom all squared away in her new apartment. Old friends ask me what I'm up to, and I answer that I'm sailing to Mexico for the winter, I think.
Back in San Francisco the forces of evil have been at work. My truck, parked in a secure place around the corner from my girlfriends apartment, was summarily snatched from its berth and towed to the city impoundment lot during my absence. Why, I ask the poor abused voice at city hall, did you snatch my truck? "Special event parking, the notices went up the day before". I was screwed, plain and simple. After crisscrossing the city on foot, shelling out two hundred and seventy dollars, and passing various bits of paper through tiny holes in what must have been bulletproof glass, I was reunited with my vehicle. There it sat with the windows open and the seat wet, a final blow to another victim of the system. So what was the special event that robbed me of my hard won San Francisco parking spot? Fleet week. Leave it to the Navy to screw with my nautical karma.
Mobilized once again, I set out to discover the whereabouts of the good ship Seventh Wave. I headed to Santa Cruz Harbor to seek out the Turk. Nothing moves on the waterfront without the Turk knowing about it. "Big white ketch, varnished masts... yeah I seen her, she was here a while, left two, three days ago". Southward on the chase. The harbormasters office in Monterey had no record of her. Some cruisers at the yacht club had seen the boat in Santa Cruz. Telephone calls to every harbor South to LA turn up nothing. The trail had gone cold. Now what. Well let's see, everybody stops in San Diego to stock up before jumping off for Mexico, I'll go hang out there and catch 'em as they go by.
As it happens, my old friend Steve is hanging out at UCSD working on the latest incarnation of mobile audacity, the Microship project. Having installed himself in the university faculty as a prophet of reality in the realm of academia, he orchestrates the efforts of a score of mechanical and electrical engineering students bent on working on -something- of practical application before their graduation and expulsion into the real world. So I'm sleeping in a cardboard box in the microwave lab on the fourth floor of the engineering building while I comb the waterfront at Shelter Island looking for this boat that I've convinced myself will take me someplace wonderful. And I've got the flu. The cardboard begins to get soggy from all the sweat. The Microship mockup, of which this box is a component, begins to sag. So do my spirits. I call Tod's sister for the umpteenth time and finally get a real human on the line. "I think they're in Ventura, they went to Disneyland". Hot damn, the trail is heating up!
I rent a car and drive up to Newport Beach, arriving after dark and locate the harbor by looking for masts. I park somewhere inconspicuous and curl up in the back seat to sleep. Morning comes and I walk a couple of blocks up the street to a breakfast place and work out the kinks. On the way back I pull out my handheld radio and punch up channel 69. "Seventh Wave Seventh Wave Seventh Wave this is Kittyhawk Kittyhawk". I call for the hundredth time in the last month. "Go ahead Kittyhawk, this is Seventh Wave", comes the immediate reply. Well I'll be damned, they really do exist! I tell Tod that I'm still available to crew if needed, and we make arrangements to meet at the Yacht Club later.
I go into the lobby of the Newport Beach Yacht club and explain to the receptionist that I'm here to meet with the captain of Seventh Wave. She looks in her file and finds that the vessel is indeed swinging on their guest mooring, and deciding that I'm legit, tells me to walk down the hall and turn left at the trophy case. Pictures of past commodores and other high mucky-mucks line the walls as I head past a room full of glass shelves sagging under what must have been fifty years worth of filigreed silver monuments to the sailing prowess of the membership. Out the door onto the patio, passing by the flagpole replete with gimbaled brass cannon, and into the nearest patio chair. I try to assume an air of wealth.
At ten o'clock, right on schedule, Captain Tod motors up in his forty horsepower hardbottom Novorania gofast dink at an incredibly sedate pace. Itturns out that just yesterday he blasted past the harbor patrol dock at full throttle, oblivious and grinning, and instigated the most exciting on the water chase scene that the officers had experienced in some time. Apparently it had been a while since anyone had so flagrantly flaunted a disregard for their idea of appropriate behavior of vessels upon their waters, and Tod said they looked about ready to pop when they pulled up. Having both kids aboard he thought it would be a good idea to start up a round of Ol' MacDonald Had a Farm in order to defuse the situation. They had gotten to the "here a pig there a pig" part when the patrol boat came alongside. I wish I could have seen it myself.
We take a seat on the club patio and talk about Tod's idea of the Owner/Crew relationship. It sounds ok, and after he leaves to make a few calls I turn to Van, his crew for the leg down from SF, and ask him what it's really like. He says it's pretty cool, but he's leaving the boat to join his girlfriend in San Cristobol. Hmm.. must get kinda lonely out there. Tod comes back, and I propose that I join them for the leg down to San Diego as sort of an extended interview. He accepts and I feel relieved that I'll get a chance to deal with any surprises before we are in Mexico.
So here we are floating on the serene waters of Newport Beach Harbor. The sky is clear, the air still, and the sun warm. I sit on the foredeck chatting with Kristin and Tod about the finer points of the relationship. The subject of the kids comes up. Oh yeah, the kids. Josey at eight years old and the model of polite behavior doesn't look like she'll be a problem. Travis, on the other hand, two years old and tuning up to be the Conan child is another matter. I allow as how I'll have to do some adjusting. We talk about kitchen work, watches, projects...(the voice is heard inhaling), and an imminent haulout. Oh shit, not another one of those, I say to myself. I nod calmly and let the subject move on. "Have you ever been arrested", asks Kristin. "Well, no", I answer. "Unless you count the time I was jailed in Dodge City Kansas for being a vagrant minor". "I was running away from home at the time". Satisfied that I was no desperado on the lam, Kristin added her stamp of approval to my presence.
We spend a few days puttering around on the boat on various projects, Tod it turns out, is one of these people who must occupy every waking moment with productive activity. Later, I'm happy to find that partying is also an acceptable use of the captain and crews time.
We've left our mooring to go alongside the dock to take on fresh water and deal with a couple of cubic yards of laundry. Van is left at the laundromat with a fistful of quarters and orders to give a detailed report upon our return on the two young ladies looking sidelong at our rather scruffy selves. Tod and I dash around town in the rent-a-car shopping for a CD player for the boat, having new bearings pressed in the autopilot servomotor, and picking up various must have items for the spares inventory. Back at the dock the word is out on a possible Santa Ana wind tonight, and Tod briefs us on the drill should it arrive. All is peaceful on Seventh Wave after dinner as Tod and I speculate on Van's chances with one of the laundromat beauties he's gone off to dinner with. I turn in at 10:00 with no sign of my fellow crew.
I awake to the rumble of the diesel. It's still dark, so what the hell is happening? I check my watch and it says 2 am. Suddenly I remember about the Santa Anas. I roll out of my bunk and land in a heap on the floor just as Tod comes through the door. "Rise and shine mate" he says, a phrase I would come to dread. Up on deck the wind is howling through the rig at 30 knots or so and the boat is pressing against the dock so hard the fenders are about to pop. My mission is to take a line out with the dink and pull the bow off the pilings so we can get away and set the hook. All goes well as she comes away from the dock and Tod gets her head to wind. We wind through the other boats seeking a passage to open water and room to swing. We find our way clear and kick the hundred pound CQR off the roller and let 200 feet of chain run out. With the engine in neutral we begin to make sternway as the wind takes hold. Shortly thereafter the bow snatches around and the chain jumps out of the water like it was being chased. Tod declares it a good set and everybody relaxes. No sign of Van. We wonder who's having more fun, him or us.
Dawn comes with the wind still howling and an ominous brown smudge on the horizon. The TV news reports that wildfires have broken out to the East and the outlook is grim. We motor over to the club in the dink and find Van curled up in the bottom of the launch. How long he has been there is a matter of speculation. He's playing coy about his adventures of the previous evening.
We wait out the winds for two days as the fireline marches closer and closer, finally crossing the ridge to our East and encountering the shore. A rain of ash is falling from the cloud overhead and the smell of smoke is everywhere. The next morning dawns calm and brown, the sun a dark orange ball. Tod says let's go and we set out for San Diego.
The trip down the coast is uneventful. We troll a couple of lures as we sail along and laugh as Josey explodes on deck hollering "fish on!" with every jingle of the bell. We're pulling in some nice yellowfin tuna, ten to fifteen pounders, and Josey finds this much more fun than doing her homeschooling with Kristin down below. We clean the tuna and wrap it up in the reefer until there's no more room, and drop the next fish in a bowl of lime juice to make a batch of poisson cru, a concoction of raw fish, lime juice, raw onions, and coconut milk. Very tasty stuff!
The winds are fluky and Captain Tod has Van and I doing the yoyo dance with the sails. Up with the main, down with the main, sheet in the genny, let 'er out some, hey- lets try the mizzen staysail huh, awright roll up the headsail, sheet everything else in tight and we'll motor. Not fifteen minutes pass and he's hollering "hey guys we got wind, let's set!", and the whole process repeats. We try to be good sports and console ourselves with the upper body workout as we grind our way to San Diego.
We poke our nose into Harbor Island and blunder around for our slip. We find row H and it's populated with thirty footers. "This can't be right, Kristin get the hotel on the radio and ask 'em what the hell is going on", says our Captain as the light is fading. As we reach row W, flanked on either side by row V and V, we begin to get a clue. Someone with a perverse sense of humor has numbered the docks in an ascending-descending scheme designed to fool the visiting mariner. Tod comes up to H-20, pops it in reverse, and backs all 57 feet of us into the slip without touching a fender anywhere. Hmm... maybe this guy does know a thing or two.
Morning arrives and Tod has Van and I up bright and early doing the spit-shine routine on Seventh Wave. After lunch he calls a crew meeting to wish Van well on his departure and to tell me I'm on as far Cabo at least. I accept, even though the little voice says this may be more work than I was looking for. That done, Tod bids us both farewell and tells me to be back in a week to get ready to go. Finding myself suddenly on the beach for a week I decide to head back to UCSD and my cardboard berth in the microwave lab. As the glamour of being out there sailing is replaced with the reality of being "crew" the ND begins to subside a bit. Underway, crew is a vital part of the passagemaking process. At the dock, once the chores are taken care of, a transformation in the owners outlook takes place and you become a liability, another mouth to feed, another body in the companionway. This was explained to me at the outset, but the swiftness of going from jolly companion to just another guy on the bus with a backpack takes some getting used to.
Back at the Microship lab Steve is in max schmooze mode. Full on espresso powered talk it up. It's amazing. Credit for student help has been arranged, corporate sponsors seduced, major involvement by the Nelson/Marek yacht design group arranged, and of course, the kick-off party. I circulate on the periphery and try to avoid seduction into the maelstrom, deflecting questions of my involvement with talk of sabbaticals and 'visiting advisor' status. I get through the week without making any foolish project commitments, although the campus ambiance had a seductive quality that could have led to all sorts of romantic entanglement.
Returning to Seventh Wave, Tod and I start whittling away at the pre departure to-do list. It's deja-vu all over again. At the end of ten days I'm thinking mutinous thoughts. If it were not for the hot tub at the hotel and an uncanny knack on Tod's part for tossing a cold brew in my direction at the very moment of overload I think I would have walked. In retrospect, I think he's seen this before and has refined it to a high art.
Across the way are Alan and Liz on Hotsauce, also engaged in the let's-get-out-of-here grind. Our buddy boat for part of the trip, they have two daughters aboard that have joined up with Josey for some commotion promotion. Babysitting the three girls and the hell-boy is added to the crew duty roster. Not that I mind though, it gets the skipper off the boat for a few hours and lets me play "acting captain".
One afternoon Liz appears at the hatch with a bottle of Tequila and a pained expression. "Alan is down below working on the refrigeration, and the language is getting -really- bad, can I come aboard and mix a few Margarita's?" We welcomed her with open arms and completely transformed the character of the day. Things were looking up again.
Departure day arrives and we set sail with little fanfare, but much satisfaction. The stores are stored, the rig is right, and the crew exhausted. To everybody's joy we have wind. Our course will take us to Isla San Martin in a couple of days, and we relax into a routine. Eat, do dishes, clean another Tuna, stand watch, take a whack at the to-do list, sleep. The sun is shining, the sea is as flat as I've ever seen it, and the breeze is moving us along at six knots. This is gonna be ok.
We make the anchorage at San Martin and drop the hook. It's dusk and an awesome sunset is underway. Just like your tropical paradise postcard, only without the palm trees. Without even the merest hint of any vegetation taller than a thorn bush. Isla San Martin is the remains of a volcano, and by the look of it, not long inactive. Great jumbles of jet black rock covered here and there with all manner of low growing desert vegetation, and little else. In fact all of Baja is comprised of rocks, ocean, and sky. Not much else, but lots of sky. Morning comes and the sun is slanting through the water. A crowd of fish has gathered in Seventh Wave's shadow and Josey is squealing at us to take a look. I get my snorkel gear together and go over the side to take a closer look. Thinking I would soon be in warm waters, I had left my wetsuit at home. Big mistake. After the initial shock wore off, i.e. numb, I followed the cloud of fish to a nearby reef. I was completely surrounded by fish. The farther I swam, the more I saw. This was what I came for! After a time the cold was getting a bit much and I decided to head back. When I looked up I was closer to shore than the boat, so in I swam. When I got to the waters edge and tried to stand up I found I was having a hard time keeping my balance, and almost splattered by head on a couple of rocks before I made it in. Hmm.. so this is hypothermia. I plastered myself against the blackest rock I could find and willed every available BTU to enter my skin. We came up short. After shivering away for an hour or so, Josey paddles halfway over in the rubber dink and hollers "c'mon Dave swim out and meet me". No way kiddo. Back at the boat I hit the Skipper up for some medicinal rum and put on my woollies just in time to sit down to our Thanksgiving dinner. Tuna.
We spend another night at the island and depart after breakfast. I'm studying the GPS manual as we roll along. Our captain, it turns out, is somewhat of a technophobe. The navigation duties have been Kristin's from the outset, and she knows what she's doing, but Tod finds reading tech manuals too onerous a task and thus doesn't know how to enter a waypoint in the GPS. I'm taken aback by this, being a technoid of the first degree, and endeavor to read every tech manual aboard in case Kristin disappears over the side some day. The wind has left us and we're chugging along on the Mertz, a marinized Mercedes diesel. A very reassuring hunk of iron. Eight a.m. rolls around and I check in to the Baja Net. Weather reports and message traffic from up and down the West coast of California and Mexico roll in. I monitor the progress of various fellow cruisers as we all make our way southward. It seems that some folks are having a rough go of it out there. Twenty-five knot winds and big seas are reported to the South of us. It seems hard to believe on our little patch of flat water, and we hope for some wind ourselves.
Tod comes clean on the watch schedule. Vague when I asked earlier, he spells it out now. Kristin won't be standing any watches, so it's Tod and I on a four hour rotation. I think this is a little slimy to wait till now to reveal this, but on reflection decide that with Kristin handling three meals a day, schooling Josey for several hours, and dealing with the hell-child around the clock, she was pulling her weight. So I have eight till midnight and four till eight for the night watches. This turns out to be ok. Seventh Wave is big enough that I can walk a few laps around the decks if I start to nod off, I just have to remember the harness and keep the tether out from underfoot. It's close to midnight now, and I hear a blow to port. The moon is full and it's quite bright out. I harness up and leave the cockpit for the bow pulpit. Three dolphins have come over to play in our bow wave and they glow in the moonlight. They zigzag back and forth and trade off on the sweet spot directly ahead. Like skateboarders they love the slalom. Bowriding is not a crime.
Tod pops up in the cockpit in stealth mode. It's early in the trip and he's still on the lookout for a sleeping crew. Finding the cockpit empty brings him up a few rungs on the stairs for a look around. I give him a wave to let him know I'm on the case, and come aft to brief him. We have a couple of vessels around us and I give him a rundown on the relative motions. Almost every vessel sighted was invisible on radar until it was so close that the engine block was visible to our beam. Nobody was using radar reflectors as far as we could tell, and it made a good lookout essential. We chat for a while until I'm sure he's awake and then I turn in. I can hear the dolphins whistling through the hull as I nod off.
The alarm is going cheep cheep cheep in my head as I awaken. Arrgghh... 0355, my watch. I pull on my woollies, grab my harness, and appear on deck at 0400 on the dot. Tod is wedged in the cockpit reading, and I check to make sure his eyes are really open. The Mertz is chugging along in a steady unbroken rhythm and the sea is calm. We do the chat and I bid him good night. The dawn watch is really the best thing going. Once you get through the first ten minutes and shake off the sleep you're home free. It's a little slow for the first hour and a half, and then you get some light in the East. Sunrises are even more beautiful than sunsets I think. Watching the pink work its way down the cloud tops I wonder if Maxfield Parrish was ever a sailor. The sun pops up and -pow- right in the eyes it's time for the sunglasses. I peel off a layer and greet Kristin as she comes up. Travis is wonderfully silent this morning and she enjoys her moment.
We motor through the rest of the day puttering, eating, sleeping. No wind comes to fill our sails and we chug into Turtle Bay around 1700 and drop the hook. It's a nice spot and the sunset is beginning to bathe the mountains in orange light. We toast the good life and relax in the growing darkness. The moon rises from behind the hills looking huge. There's a total eclipse later tonight and I wonder if I can stay awake. I decide to take a short nap and get up later to have a look. A ray of sunlight stabs me in the face through the open port. Hmm.. guess I missed the eclipse huh. Breakfast in the cockpit is glorious. I feel I've made a transformation. The reality is better than the armchair! This is cruising. Dawn in a new place, coffee steaming in the mug as we rock gently at anchor. I think about my case of Nautical Dementia and decide that if this is being crazy then I'll enjoy it!
Tod begins to fidget as the coffee takes hold. I can see it coming. It's project time. Poof goes my reverie as I'm reminded that I'm not the master of my destiny on this trip, just an assistant to someone elses realization of theirs.
That evening we dink in to the pier and climb the rusty iron ladder on our way to an exploration of town and a couple of cold ones. I'm going up this ladder that must have been built in the days of Cortez, with one foot in a rubber dink, the other on the first slimy rung, and fifty pounds of garbage slung over my shoulder. Tod looks down and wonders what is taking me so long as I do the one handed jump-grab up to the top, looking like a salty Santa Claus come totown. Fortunately we find a trash barrel just up the street and I unload. We pass a hunched figure headed for the pier and say hola, he says hi. A moment later he turns and comes back. "Tod, is that you? It's me, Bob"! Over beers Bob's story tumbles out. He's singlehanded down from Seattle where he was a boatyard neighbor of Tod and Kristin. Leaving his girlfriend of several years behind he has set out on his vision quest. Alone on the ocean with his thoughts he comes to the conclusion that she was where it's at, and is heading back. Only one problem. She won't have him. As we pass the telephone office on the way to the next cantina you can see his steps begin to angle off in hopes that another telephone call might bring better news. Over the next round Bob's anguish begins to pick up speed as he declares "Ya know, singlehanding gives you a lot of time to think... too much time really". Hmm.. looks like Bob is on a real bummer here. We head back to the boat and leave Bob at the telephone office for another stab at redemption.
We set sail out of Turtle Bay on a good breeze and make for Bahia Magdalena. it's good wind for the first day and then it's back to yoyo mode for the next two. We make landfall in the wee hours of the morning and the watches get busy with numerous radar contacts and lights flitting about in the darkness. Our greatest fear is running down a sleeping fisherman in a panga, his lantern out of gas. Dawn finds us at the entrance to the bay and we anchor up just inside to rest up from our vigil. We spend a lazy day in company with a few other boats who have also opted for the first available anchorage after a long passage. The next morning we set to on the project list. I spliced cables while Tod mounted a transducer for the fish finder on the hot rod dink. We finish work late in the day and I leap over the side for a refreshing swim in the first warm water of the trip. We up anchor and motor over to Man'O War cove, the local nexus of the cruising community. We pass close alongside Hotsauce with all hands on deck in a raucous chorus of happy birthday to Alan before moving off to drop the hook.
The rusting hulk of an unfortunate fishing boat graces the shore as I scope out the town with the binoculars. it's not much, but it is civilization. Molly, daughter of Jon and Barb on Mystic is a fluent Spanish speaker and sets up some soccer games with the local kids. I join in even though I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I just need an excuse to run around after a few weeks on the boat. We're playing barefoot on a concrete slab and these kids are good! They've got the moves down pat and the gringos are no match for them. Still it's great fun and becomes a daily thing. Work on the to-do list slacks off as the days pass and life gets comfortable. A day trip to the ocean over the sand spit with some other crews gives us all a welcome break from our skippers. I'm really getting to like this! Back at the boat the word is we're leaving tomorrow.
We set out at 0700 for a days run to Cabo. As we round the point at Cabo Falso the hotels and condos come in to view. Toto, I don't think we're in Mexico anymore. After a few weeks of fish camps and rickety ladders we're back in Southern California. Jet Skis buzz around the anchorage like waterborne mosquitoes, glass bottom tourboats cruise the shore looking for tourists, and the beach is wall to wall hotels. Hmm.. not my idea of a tropical paradise really. The illusion begins to fade as we penetrate beneath the veneer of hotels and traipse all over town doing the check-in paper chase. Immigration, Port Captain, Customs, back and forth we go. This one needs more copies, that one needs the other stamp first. Fifty bucks for an agent starts to seem like a bargain. As I wander the broiling streets I run into Derek, a coworker at the research institute. The world shrinks a little more. The heat in town is pretty oppressive and everybody's happy to get back out on the water. We spend our days zooming around in the dink and playing in the water. I go out to the local snorkeling hot spot for a look see. Thousands of tropical fish surround a pinnacle that just breaks the surface. Hundreds of glass bottom boats surround the pinnacle as well. I head back to the boat before I lose any arms or legs.
With the heat becoming a bit much I head into town to get a haircut. This is sure to be a bit of an adventure with my limited language skills. I wander around lost for an hour or so trying to locate a place I saw during our paper chase, my fractured Spanish sending me off on several diverging tangents until I zeroed in on the place. "?Cuanto por ...hmm.. uh, haircut?" I say, making scissoring motions with my fingers while pulling on my sweat soaked locks. "Viente pesos" comes the timid reply. I hop in the chair and make some hopefully instructive gestures with my hands as to the desired results and leave the rest to fate. She starts out well enough but I begin to get an uneasy feeling about the proceedings. Her hands are trembling and some very large clumps of hair are landing on the floor. I had indicated I wanted it short, but this was getting scary. I decided to try to relax and give her a chance. Just as I was about to bolt from the chair the proprietress returned and decided that her pupil had had enough of a chance already. Seizing the comb and scissors she was able to rescue me from what surely would have been a bad hair day! We made several attempts at small talk, but it was obvious there was quite a gulf in understanding when the topic strayed from the job at hand. Just when I was relaxing a bit she unwraps a brand new double edge razor blade, and holding it in her fingers begins a little trim work. No time for a sneeze. I emerged with both ears and a clean neck and considered myself lucky.
That evening Tod asks what my plans are. I knew this was coming as Cabo San Lucas was a re-negotiation point. I didn't want to be stuck on the beach here, and had already decided to stay on longer in hopes of reaching a better spot to hang out for a while. I said I had no hard and fast plans, and I was having fun so far, so I would stay with the boat if that was ok with them. Tod said that was good, that things were working out ok, and I could continue aboard. Kristin was more candid and yelped "oh goody!". I think a little babysitting goes a long way with her. Tod likes to play it close to the vest, giving the crew the impression that it's a great privilege to be aboard and polish his brightwork. Kinda like Tod Sawyer and that bucket of whitewash. I played along, knowing they were coming out ahead on this one. The discussion turned to where to go next. I was pushing for La Paz, thinking it a great place to jump ship and find a less family oriented boat. They were thinking mainland. In the end it came down to Puerto Vallarta.
The crossing was uneventful. On again, off again wind as usual. Dawn finds me curled in the bow pulpit watching dolphins with Kristin and Josey as the sunrise turns the clouds psychedelic. I'm staring at the horizon awaiting the appearance of the first sliver of the sun's disk... and pow! It happens. The green flash. With the intensity and purity of a laser, only milliseconds long, it was unmistakable. It was gonna be a good day!
The next afternoon we make landfall. We've decided to put into Yelapa and anchor for a few days before going on to PV. Our large area chart shows no such place, but we know it's there from the description in Charlie's Charts. I take a guess at the location, put a dot on the chart and transfer the coordinates to the GPS. Up pops a graphic display of heading and cross track error and away we go. And I had wanted to practice my celestial on this trip. Technology can be very seductive! We get to our waypoint and hail a fisherman in his panga. "?Donde esta Yelapa por favor?". "Aqui", he says pointing at the cove right off our bow. Talk about a lucky guess! We motor in with the sounder going, looking for the steep shelf close in shore to set the hook. We find it alright, the depth goes from two hundred feet to about sixty right off the beach. We kick the anchor over and back down on it. When we're set, our stern is less than a hundred and fifty feet off shore. No place to be in a blow for sure. I scan the shore with the binoculars. Lots of palapas and a group of gringos at one end of the beach, two solitary women sunbathing at the other. Steep hills covered with palm trees and lush vegetation descend to rocky outcrops on the shore at each side of the narrow inlet. Very tropical looking, and quite a contrast with the desert of Baja. I swing the binoculars back to the two women. It looks pretty good from the boat, so I decide to do a little socializing. Before Tod can find something for me to do, I'm in the water swimming for shore.
Leslie was on holiday from London where she worked as a model, her friend Hanna was a fashion designer from LA. The fellow sprawled in the sand a short distance away from the table was Michael, we would later learn. The girls had been to Yelapa ten years before and were back for a look see. Apparently time was taking its toll on the village and things were looking a little run down. Michael woke up and joined the conversation and we all became friends as we told our stories. Michael recounted the tale of his first fishing boat breaking up as he was trying to round Pt.Barrow in Alaska, and his subsequent attempts to recover the wreckage. It entailed a couple of 45 mile hikes in survival suits, a plane crash, and an attempted Christian conversion at the hands of a friendly Eskimo fisherman before the wreckage was finally recovered.
We all went off to dinner and had a great time together that evening. Leslie and Hanna, agreeing that Michael and I were better company than the lot at the other end of the beach, decide to stay another day. We hike up the river that runs through the village and on into the forest. Occasionly we have to leave the trail as yipping vaqueros drive cattle and horses back and forth along the narrow track. We come upon some boys in a tree and ask what fruit they are after. "Passiflora" says one as he tosses me a yellow-green object about the size of a peach. I cut it open to find lots of seeds, each surrounded with a delicious fluid filled sack. Munching and slobbering, spitting seeds left and right we continue. Farther up the river we come to a swimming hole and stop for a dip. I could spend a week here. As usual when these thoughts arise it means that the captain is about to move us. As I peek out Leslie's window the following morning I see Tod moving about in the dink and Seventh Wave swinging free. Not a good sign. He's hauled the stern anchor and the boat is rolling like crazy. He motors over near the hotel and gives three blasts on the airhorn. I'm screwed. I run down to the jetty to see what the plan is and get the word that we're leaving. Now. All hopes of a leisurely breakfast and lingering over coffee are dashed as I rush back to say my goodbyes. On the way one of the hotel staff takes exception to my presence and wants to know if I will pay. Leslie, being somewhat fluent, starts to argue over the rate. I, on the other hand, am willing to capitulate in order to preserve the peace of the morning. She's not willing to back down however, and goes on a while longer in defense of my twenty dollars. In the end we lose, and I pay the full rate instead of the extra person rate. Revenue must have been hard for the hotel to come by that year. We say our goodbyes on the jetty and I head out once more, the loyal crew.
We motor the short way to PV. Tod and Kristin had spent an uncomfortable night while Seventh Wave rolled and bobbed and were happy to be leaving, I on the other hand, could have hung around quite a bit longer! Josey has made sure that whenever we are underway the fishing lines are out. She's the most bloodthirsty eight year old I've met when it comes to fishing. While working on her geography lesson down below her finely tuned ears pick up the tink tink tinkle of the bell as a fish takes the lure. Line zzzings off the reel as she flies up the stairs hollering "fish on!". I turn just in time to see something leap clear of the water and am caught up in the excitement. As Tod begins to play the fish it becomes apparent that this is not another tuna and the speculation begins. As he works the fish in close we can see brilliant flashes of color as we recognize the Dorado on the line. A second fish is right next to the one we've hooked and is keeping close company. I get the net ready and climb down in the dink to land her. The companion follows closely right up to the surface and does not leave until I hoist the fish aboard. As we bring the Dorado on deck it flaps madly as the colors start to fade. Tod deals the death whack, and all is still. Later, while cleaning the fish we discover she was full of eggs and decide that she must have been close to laying them because her mate was staying so close. Josey gets a concerned look on her face and asks if we can toss the eggs over so daddy can fertilize them. We try to explain that that's a pretty long shot, but heave 'em in anyway.
We pull into the marina in PV and I can hear in my mind the voice of Robin Leach going on about what the rich and famous people do here. We're in megayacht country. For most of the trip Seventh Wave was one of the bigger boats around. Not any more. We were dwarfed. We tie up alongside a hundred-and-some-odd foot long techno-ketch from some Italian yard. Not one winch visible anywhere. All hydraulic, self-tending, furl-o-matic automation. Two uniformed crewmen scurry about the decks polishing and adjusting. Once upon a time, when my Nautical Dementia was in full swing, I would have thought it a glamorous occupation. Now I know better.
If there's one thing this trip has taught me, it's that I'm my own captain, and nobody's crew. I can play the role well enough to be welcome on most any boat, but I find it a less than satisfying salve for my ND.
And so it happens that when Tod and family fly back to Seattle for Christmas and business, I catch a plane for San Francisco. Before I depart Tod tells me I'm eligible to crew for the South Pacific leg, Marquesas, Tuomotus, Tahiti. I am tempted, but I already know the answer. I tell them I'll let them know after the holidays.
Back in the Bay Area I check in with old friends. John and Laura invite me to join them for Christmas, and Laura picks me up at SFO. It's great to be back, brimming with energy, stories to tell, a tan. I catch the ugly cold and hack and spit with the rest of the population. I spend a week with Dave and Wendy and baby Daniel and find his cries don't bother me. Trained as babysitter by Travis the hell-child has left me a capable uncle. New years with Dick and Edress in Half Moon Bay, and a look around the docks to see what's happening.
I consider my next move. Mexico was nice, it was warm, I could use some more of that. I begin to equip my truck for a road trip. I spend two weeks with Dave and Becky in their workshop in preparation. A new battery, spare tire, oil change. I install a mobile antenna and ham radio to keep in touch with the yachties. I fabricate tie downs for all manner of gear in the back to keep entropy from taking over. And best of all, Dave has loaned me his kayak for the trip. Strapped atop my truck, however humble, is my ship. I'll get to La Paz after all.
Which brings us to the present. I'm sitting in my storage unit in Santa Cruz typing these words as the chill creeps into my feet and fingers. Started a week ago as short update to friends and family on what I've been up to, it has taken on a life of its own. Unable to just write a brief note, the story keeps coming and I keep typing. I should have left two days ago but I couldn't leave this undone. Now LA is in a shambles and my route uncertain. But I'll get there just the same, and I'll tell you all about it when I get back.
Stay tuned, the adventure continues...
-Dave 1/19/94
Copyright 1994 by David Keeler Wright
This is a true story. Certain names have been changed, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is because they were there. The Baja roadtrip was great and may be the subject of a future piece when the muse returns. My Nautical Dementia was in remission for a while but seems to be reappearing. I have caught myself looking a little too closely at some of the older neglected boats in the harbor of late. Time will tell what is to come of this latest outbreak. I'll be sure to let you all know if it results in a vessel of my own.
Dave Wright is an independent designer of things electronic. When staring at the computer or poking around with a 'scope probe get to be too much for him he heads for the boonies in something that rolls, floats, or flies.