San Francisco

May 25 Wednesday

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Our prize for sailing through the night is the unmatched thrill of riding the swells under the Golden Gate bridge and gawking up at it. What a welcome to this great city!

I have the good fortune to have a new crew member on board from Santa Barbara to San Francisco and beyond. That enables me to have more options and rest on long legs. The leg from Santa Barbara to San Francisco is 24 hours long, and we can easily do it non-stop through the night.

I can not disclose the name of this crew person, nor show who he is, not because he is wanted by the law or because he is in hiding from an ex-wife, but because he is a well-known actor — not quite as well known as a Jeff Bridges or a Brad Pitt, but he plays in that league and has a distinguished career in feature films and plays. I can only use his pseudonym; “Tommy Lee” Henceforth he will be called Tommy in this blog.

We are anchored off Sausalito to await a rendezvous with Donn and Jee on June 3-5. Thus I awake each morning with a view that no million dollar homeowner has. I see the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, downtown San Francisco, the Oakland Bay Bridge, Mount Tamalpias, and Tiburon, houses that dot the hills of Sausalito, the crowded sailboat sticks rising from the several waterfront marinas, and nearby other sailboats spaced about five acres from each other, And a classic yawl draws a line in the water as she glides silently down the narrow channel from Sausalito to the Bay… all reflecting in a glassy sea.

All this teaches me to live with a mind as calm as the water which surrounds me. I can remember when I was a frenetic clod of hopes and fears — living a life of poor me — because I thought my ego was important and the Universe wouldn’t bend to my will.

After I had spent a long time looking at the infinite expanse of sea around me something mysterious began to overtake me. I no longer defined myself as an individual ego and the notion that I was separate and special from everything around me dissolved. Scanning an endless horizon made me feel an integral part of everything there is . It has taken me a lifetime of missteps and seeking to come to this awakening. .

The way to deal with Nature is to be it, to understand it well enough to play your symbiotic part in it — without trying to conquer it! This is how I awoke to the beauty which surrounds me this morning. And coincidentally this is how I sail.

And now it’s time to get on with enjoying friends and the San Francisco Bay area.

Sailing in the absence of light

May 19 Thursday on the water somewhere between Santa Barbara and Morrow Bay

It was dark and foggy when I up-anchored from Santa Barbara at midnight in inky black, and my navigation until first light was exclusively by chart-plotter and Radar. Underway, staring out the windows was like looking into a blindfold. They could have been painted black, for there was not a pinprick of light in any direction, giving me the sense of being blind and suspended in space. Gravity was my only orientation. Throughout the night a blip on my Radar screen was the only indication of a nearby vessel, land or oil rig. The fog was so thick that I couldn’t make visual contact with a vessel appearing as a blip on the screen 1/4 mile away.

RADAR is an acronym for RAdio Detection And Ranging It’s history goes back to the 1880’s but the modern version was developed in secrecy independently by the Germans and the Americans during WWII. It actually alerted the Americans in Pearl Harbor about an approaching apocalypse from the air, but Radar was new, and so its message wasn’t considered credible by the brass (bureaucratic incompetence is a more credible explanation). In any case it has developed into many uses, and mariners use today’s lighter, energy-efficient designs for navigation because it does two things really well:

(1) it “sees” objects around you in low visibility and (2) it accurately displays the distance and bearing to that object. It sees out the window I can’t and alerts me to the hazards of oil rigs, cruisers, fishing boats or obstructions. Unfortunately it doesn’t see whales sleeping , cargo containers, small prams or crab pot buoys lying in wait to tangle my propeller. And its blips need interpretation.
Nevertheless as an article of faith, mixed with a little luck, I give my life to it. It’s my “blind luck” and it propels me safely through a dark and foggy night. I have the same unconditional trust in Radar that I’ve had with my golden retriever (in our 13 years together neither one ever broke trust with the other).

After a while dawn breaks and I get my eyes back and see the magnificence of sea and horizon once more. In the late afternoon I arrive at Morro Bay.

Sunday May 15

Donn visited for a short stay: playing his familiar roles as traveling support team, master mechanic, resupply station and friend. How many times can I sa
THANKS AGAIN

Donn as master mechanic

Donn on the go again

Tuesday May 17th
The Cold Springs Tavern and stagecoach stop

Britt picked me up and we drove secondary sinewy roads into the mountains.

Along the way Britt stopped at a roadside yucca plant. It has a delicate smell, and its leaves make a good tea. I was obliged to chew on the leaves for its tea taste. But I was never was a tea lover and I wondered if the word “yuck” might be derived from yucca.

The stagecoaches and pony express were the fastest transcontinental transportation in the 1850s. Wells Fargo routes west of the Missouri River covered 2,500 miles of territory from California to Nebraska, Arizona to Idaho. But many lesser known companies vied for this business. Horse drawn coaches, pulled by teams of four or six horses, bounced along in tight quarters at an average speed of five miles per hour (about the same speed as Raven’s Dance travels). Stops were needed every twelve miles to water or change horses, and about every forty-five miles to allow driver and passengers to eat a quick meal. A Code of Ten Commandments helped promote civility.

The Cold Springs Tavern and rest stop began operations for weary horses and people in 1886. The stop is strategically located on the site of a flowing river near the top of a long mountain grade. It was an essential watering hole for the horses. Today Britt lightly steps on the gas pedal to ascend a mountain, but not so long ago it wasn’t so easy. Walking this authentic property, it’s easy to imagine how hard the horses worked pulling coach, cargo and passengers up the long mountain grade. This stop wouldn’t exist save for the need to water the horses at the top of the long mountain grade.

I bet the coach drivers and passengers worried more about runaways on the downgrade (photo not mine).

Stage coach service was short-lived. It died on continental routes with the completion of the transcontinental railroad in 1869. However it continued to thrive on offline routes until the automobile finally killed it off in the early 1900s.

Today the Cold Springs property is frozen in time, and their literature speaks to that different time in our history before cars and trains. It’s an earthy place to wander around and sense the stories of working people just like you and me living here summers and winters in a bygone era. Today we enjoy lunch and a beer at a picnic table… the antithesis of the art museum’s formal experience.

The Glow of Santa Barbara Part I

Tuesday May 17th Santa Barbara

Britt and I walked the boardwalk together and decided we should top off our remaining time together with ice cream. We stood at the railing overlooking RD and the anchorage, licking our ice cream and feeling like we were on the Queen Mary’s promenade rail (not the Titanic please). Following the final lick of ice cream we hugged and said au revoir, and I dinked back to RD to leave town. Several hours later, looking back at how a distant night Santa Barbara glowed in the sky, I smiled at how perfect the metaphor was.

I arrived in Santa Barbara on Friday May 13 and departed on Tuesday May 17, and in between fell in love with this California coastal city I could enjoy to eternity.

As a mariner I like that I can either take a slip in the marina or an acre in a large anchorage. I choose the latter by preference to enjoy the clean water, a swim off the boat, and the view from my back porch — the broad beach and the panoramic view of the Santa Ynez Mountains are my backdrop. And as a landlubber I can never catch up with all the cornucopia of ongoing activities, events and places to go and to see.

I had been here six months previously on the southbound “Adventure”, and I was looking forward to returning for two reasons: (1) Santa Barbara sets a very high bar for the rest of the California coastal towns, and (2) the opportunity to visit Britt Iliff, a friend with an uncommon joie de vivre and enthusiastic follower of my voyage.

The only “problem” with socially and culturally vibrant Santa Barbara is you can’t do it all. City days are filled with too many scheduled theater, museum, art and special events (car show this week).

As a landlubber of sorts two very special and different places we visited stand out:

The Indian Show at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art
https://www.sbma.net/

It was reminiscent of East Coast galas I attended during Princeton and following years — where men wear a blue blazer, an open blue or white shirt, khaki trousers and dress shoes, and where no one would drink a beer but every cocked arm carried a glass of wine. The ladies have permission for more individualism in their dress code. However they come adorned with sparkling accessories and ready for a high fashion show.

I carry one such outfit on Raven’s Dance suitable for a wedding, a funeral or such an elegant event. Bear in mind I just left six months of sailing in Mexico where shirts and shoes are never required in restaurants. My idea of formal dress is put on a shirt and a warn pair of Sperry Topsiders.

The event was the West Coast’s version of “evening at the Met”.– in warm open air. Suffice it to say it was upscale, refined, formal, elegant, and above all enjoyable. All this socializing was wrapped in authentic Indian dancing, free authentic Indian food and an international-quality museum show makes for a memorable evening (no photos allowed inside the museum). If you are looking for Ivy League West you will find it in Santa Barbara. I come away with the feeling that the last vestiges of the F. Scott Fitzgerald era have been successfully replicated in Santa Barbara, and anyone with the $25.00 for a ticket can purchase an evening’s worth.

I liked living the high-life for the evening. I was one of the actor’s in the play; I met interesting people and entertained a few; clapped for the dance presentation and became more aware of the India’s rich culture and heritage (a culture about which I now know a bit more). Then I returned to RD to bag and store my costume, while it waits for the next event (which I pray is anything but a family funeral).

Southern California Ports

Note: I rewrote in my last blog: Civilization as I Know It. https://youtu.be/zUctxmz3zOY
You might enjoy the expanded version before proceeding to this blog.

May 10 to May 13 San Diego to Santa Barbara

Commercial fishing boat

Glass-bottom tour boat

Avalon Bay in my wake

Iconic casio – Avalon

Sometime the water is…

sometimes the water is …

Sometimes the water is…

Bird on his private island

Weather front

Speed: 7.3 knots WOW

A sailor’s day

Yes, you can ride for awhile

Fishing on the breakwaater

Breakwater

Low visibility motoring

what is there?

Looks like an aircraft carrier

No. It’s an oil drilling rig

Tuesday May 10
I sailed from San Diego to Oceanside today. I was ready to get going for a variety of reasons: (1) Jim and crew aboard Double Angel were busy making last-minute preparations before joining the Pacific Puddle. (2) I had adroitly timed my anchoring in special anchoring zones to avoid fees and my luck was running low (3) the spirit of adventure was calling me. A late departure meant going no further than 30 miles to arrive in Oceanside before sunset.

The weather rules my course and my progress, and the prevailing northwest winds make sailing an uphill challenge, every day.

Wednesday May 11
I sailed from Oceanside to Avalon, Catalina Island, today. I was last here on a family vacation when I was 15… over 60 years ago!! I was flooded with memories of Mom and Dad, and my four sisters. I think I was on this very same glass bottom faux submarine pictured above. The Wrigley family has preserved it — or frozen it in time and it hasn’t changed much — maybe more upscale than I remember?

Thursday May 12
I sailed from Avalon to the Channel Islands harbor (Ventura, CA) today. I left Avalon before dawn to travel the 65 miles to Channel Islands Harbor by nightfall. The afternoon bash is reliably 25-30 knots and choppy seas at 3 pm until they blow themselves out at sunset. Fortunately I’ve been able to dodge most of them and use the winds to my benefit at least part of each day. Until this afternoon when I got my butt kicked for a couple of hours of bashing upwind in 30 knots and 8-10 foot chop from 3 to 5 pm. It’s the first time the RD’s deck has been awash in salt water in quite some time.

I should have known better than to be exposed to the regular afternoon blow. Fortunately the harbor entrance was easy , and I escaped into another “safe harbor”.

Superstitious sailors (that’s all of us) would not begin a long voyage on a Friday. This superstition is sourced from a British Navy fleet disaster that began on a Friday. I’m not THAT superstitious, however I would not begin a long voyage on Friday the 13th (tomorrow). If there is a force called luck, I want it on my side.

Friday May 13
I sailed from Channel Islands Harbor to Santa Barbara. The wind was holding its breath, and the water was so still I can not detect a wind or swell direction . It seemed as if the sea is apologizing for the pummeling she gave me yesterday afternoon. Or she is just being her devilish self by trading dynamic winds for the hush of fog.

I am having my first bout with famous Southern California fog. I can detect my traffic on RADAR about a mile before I can make visual contact. I “see” a vessel passing me within a quarter mile, but I can’t make visual contact. I see a vague image of an aircraft carrier in silhouette just four miles off my port beam. I refuse to call a warship “she”. He paints the largest brightest target on my RADAR that I have ever seen (twice the size of a cruise ship). Military vessels do not transmit an AIS identification. Therefore they do not show up on my AIS screen — presumably to minimize their identification and course information. They only identify themselves as “This is warship #___. And they will say with a courteous authority: “Captain, I advise you change course to *** degrees. The military rules these southern California waters and the VHF voice traffic — presumable protecting this influential part of the country from the enemy. Hey guys, WWII is over!

Now that I’ve ranted a bit about the military, let me tell you that the joke is on me. The aircraft carrier on my horizon turned out to be an oil drilling rig. (see pictures above).

I plan to spend a pleasant R&R weekend enjoying the land called Santa Barbara — Saturday with Britt and friends, and Sunday with Donn — who always brings me provisions running the gamut from fresh oil to special foods. Hey, Donn I’m running desperately low on dark chocolate treats. .

Civilization as I Know It

May 11 Wednesday Oceanside to Avalon, Santa Island, CA

I’ve puzzled recently over why I’ve lost the happiness I sustained during the adventure. How temporary that permanence now seems. The return-to-civilization decompression process has me in its grips. The weather is participating in this process. ln Enenada was the 80+ degrees and clear skies that has become my Mexican norm. As soon as I crossed into the U.S. the skies became overcast and the temperatures were in the low 60s. How does the weather know the border?

I have been waiting for sun for four days, without success. But i have learned from the sea gods to accept the weather as it is, so it is not the source of my mood.

Then there is sticker shock. I wandered into a pub in Oceanside to exchange use of their wifi for a beer. Beer and drinks are more than double what I’m accustomed to paying. And slip fees! But neither the weather nor the sticker shock is the source of my dower mood. I can adjust to these.

And a little ego thing: I loved the apparent wealth and celebrity-like attention in Mexico. While I don’t need the attention of a Donald Trump, I do enjoy my modest celebrity status. Clerks and vendors and fishermen and… well everyone treats you like you are special. In Mexico, you are the upper class.

And then there is the incomparable natural beauty — the endless coves and turquoise waters. There is a lot to like in this country.

The heart of the matter is the loss of the cruisers’ community. In Mexican towns where expat cruisers collect there is always a morning cruisers net with the same format (it’s the morning newspaper delivered to your VHF receiver). It begins with medical emergencies and ends with items for trade (expats can not legally buy and sell items in Mexico, so we “trade for coconuts”). In between you listen for which of your boat friends are in this harbor, and you get to announce your arrival. Everyone takes an interest in everyone else’s welfare. I’ve experienced real community, and it is not Facebook. There is no equivalent on land.

As I pass the border into the U.S. I am out of range of a morning net. Additionally I see no familiar AIS identification names on my chart-plotter. I am a stranger in my own land. And no one cares (except you my dear blog readers).

My bleakness is with the process of reconciling my ordinary life and the extraordinary experience. What I call “the ordinary” contains everything I know and all the places I’ve been and everything that is in my wake. There is a sort of weltschmerz (world weariness) wrapped around it all. What I call “the extraordinary” contains everything new that I’ve experienced these past six months. The two are weaving into the fabric of who I am becoming. And I fear I’m becoming ordinary.

Already I’m mixing up locations and can not recall a few. Sadly, the memories can never be as vivid as the experience. Shortly after a crew member departed I would wake up in the morning sensing he/she was still on board, and until I came to my senses I would think of saying “good morning”. But now the ghosts of my crew friends are becoming distant… perhaps fading into RD’s teak or plastic.

In so many ways my eyes have been opened and my heart swelled. in Mexico. There has been a magic in this adventure beyond reason.

A Grand Adventure Completion

May 07 Saturday San Diego

I have pulled an “all-nighter” to sail the 50 miles from Ensenada, and my sunrise arrival at the Coronado Islands marks my return into the United States of America. I last passed this spot at the beginning of the 2015 Baja Ha-Ha rally on October 25, 2015. Technically I have just completed my own “Grand Adventure with Raven’s Dance” that I wanted to do. Any sense of celebration is muted by my mixed feelings and tiredness.

I anchor at Shelter Island and use the posh San Diego Yacht Club (http://www.sdyc.org/) as my host for Internet. It oozes sailing history. Dennis Conner, https://www.google.com/#q=dennis+conner the only person who has ever both lost and won an America’s Cup yacht race, was sponsored by this club. Perhaps San Diego, Annapolis MD, and Newport RI rank as the three mega-centers for sailing and training Olympic-bound sailors in the U.S.

Fortune has smiled on me again. I met up with Captain Jim McCarthy, s.v Double Angel, https://svdoubleangel.wordpress.com/ who helped me with the lay of the land and hot tips on how to avoid dock fees. He is leaving San Diego on Tuesday to sail the pacific Puddle Jump — something we wisely decided not to do with RD. The pull to cross the Pacific is still with me.

But I have more mundane thoughts of logistics — of provisioning and fueling and organizing for the next 1,000 miles between here and Seattle.

Fast Friends

May05 Thursday Ensenada

From the moment I made RD fast to the dock in Cruiseport Marina, Ensenada I was warmly welcomed into the “E” dock community. I have been swept along in a tidal wave of friendliness and support by a bustling community of cruisers who stay here for the season rather than travel.

Two yachts immediately adjacent to me stand out. On the T dock is Kick Back, a 1930s classic wooden trawler. I had a tour of her and she equals anything I’ve visited in the San Diego Maritime museum.

Additionally I’m sharing my slip with Orca, a one-off cruising yacht of truly unique design, owned by Kojii and Cha Cha Banks.

We were each flying the “world flag” which instantly signaled our simpatico in values. It’s easy to label him anti-establishment, but I rather describe him as an original thinker who like Thoreau has re-chosen his early acculturation in favor or original values.

He and his wife ChaCha have been married for 40 years and sailing Orca for the past ten, and they are so charming interacting you get the impression they just met yesterday. He is a living guide book on harbors and gave me detailed information of Pacific ports. And I chose to trust him to winch me up my mast to untangle an errant spinnaker halyard, and to set me down gently. My trust was correctly placed.

Orca is a one off sleek sailing machine with an original rigging. The mast is a rigid structure well aft and all sails meet the wind unobstructed by the turbulence of a mast at the luff. Additionally it uses the same principle that birds use to fly — using their furcula (breast or wishbone) bone for compression and release for lightweight strength and power. Perhaps Orca, like her owner, is ahead of his time.

Doug Monroe took Kojii and me on a long guided tour of the commercial area and Gringo Gulch (the intensely commercial street and corridor that the passengers from cruise ships are herded along) and local specialty shops he loves for the best of fruit, bread, fish and staples. I apologize for calling it a “forced march”. The tour is my lasting impression of the vibrancy of the city of Ensenada.

A pot luck Cinco de Miyo party was scheduled for the evening, and the cornucopia of food rivaled any hotel’s Sunday brunch. A speaker gave us a summary history of Mexico and noted that the holiday is celebrated more in the U.S. than in Mexico. He conjectured that the reason was that Mexicans know that “Mexico won the battle but lost the war.” so their celebrating is muted.

Prior to my sunset departure, I had the good fortune to attend one more party, aboard Kick Back.

I have not felt this level of inclusion at my own birthday party.

Here are a few gracious friends make me feel like I’ve been here months, and want to stay months more.

I am a better person because we met.

I depart tonight feeling I could be happy living here for a lifetime. Goodbye Mexico, and my fast friends on “E” dock.

Sleep deprivation

Wednesday May 04
The pattern of seas calming during the night has been consistent, so I’ll place my bet that it will happen again. (I am making better bets than the weather man). At six am I awaken to a lonely cove with only one other yacht, my buddy-boat friends on Unleashed. I up-anchor with just enough light to see my way clear of the entrance.

For the second consecutive day there has been no visible sunrise — just low gray overcast. No sunset and no sunrise rituals. It’s been over six months since I’ve seen a sunless sky (eat your heart out Seattle) and it gives me an eerie feeling that something is wrong on the planet. Perhaps a nuclear winter is upon us and I haven’t gotten the news. I haven’t seen the news since Prince died of a drug overdose about a week ago.

It has been a glorious night of sorts — not the penultimate romantic sail in moonlight but glorious nonetheless. RD and I have motored through the night in light winds and one foot seas — the calmest we’ve encountered in a week, and we are making the best of it by motoring directly from Punta Baja to Ensenada, about 130 nautical miles (about 30 hours).

Sleep deprivation is a killer. RD doesn’t seem to suffer from sleep deprivation, but I do. Why humans are programmed to sleep the way we do is the unsolvable mystery. I must stay awake on my watch and I must get some sleep are the tensions I will feel all night. Sleep is natural; staying awake is an act of will. I have stayed awake sailing for over 50 hours each on two different occasions on this trip, so 30 should be a walk in the park.

I have become friends with my deprivation symptoms. Time moves neither slow nor fast; you might say it becomes timeless. First you just want to go to sleep. Later when your sitting your head does the tip and jerk… a handy way to keep awake. Then you enter a catatonic state in which I’m not sure if you are more awake than asleep, or vice versa. The ability to think clearly gradually degrades. Navigation and math become major puzzles. I measure my ability to do simple math in my head. When I can’t do it I get up and walk around, or shout at myself to loose some cobwebs. Further down the road the multitude of sailing sounds become flashes of a human voice talking to you. And hallucinations are not unknown.

Of course through all this mental mix-up you MUST keep you and your crew safe. If you make a mistake, “what was I thinking?” won’t sufficeas an explanaation! It’s an unpleasant part of the human design that sailors and warriors have been facing for hundreds of years and automobile drivers for a hundred. And I faced last night. But I did have a choice to stop at Colonet and get a good night’s sleep. But that would get me to Ensenada a day later, and with the possibility that I would be pinned in there. The choice is as simple as “go when the going gets good” — and keep going until it’s not, or until you are a danger to yourself and ship.

It is morning and I am past my mental numbness. Coffee and a regular breakfast and excitement about an Ensenada arrival by noon coax me to awakeness to a new day.

La Paz – take two

March 13 Sunday

I arrived in La Paz at sunset (seems to be my habit), and I’m anchored adjacent to the channel in the vicinity of The La Paz marina. For the next two days I appreciate the marina amenities and what has become my favorite Mexican town.

What other town has the humor, creativity and public will to make the garbage can lids into works of art?

What other town has such eye-catching statuary along its malacon?

What other town is as friendly to yatisas as La Paz?

La Paz is town has about 250,000 residents, a melting pot of just the right size for Spanish and Gringos. It is the jumping off point for cruisers visiting the Sea of Cortez. It has a large harbor with plenty of anchorage area, multiple marinas, and meets the needs of the yastitas, whether they visit for a few days, or liveabord for seasons or longer. The daily 8 am net is the local newspaper, and the Club Cruceros is the gathering place for yastitas who live in and about the harbor.

La Paz translates as “The Peace”, and I find the inhabitants living their namesake. Sebastian Vizca , a Spanish explorer, visited here in 1596, and named it La Paz, so I guess the culture hasn’t changed in the intervening 400 years.

The Cathedral of La Paz is eclectic, but no less impressive because of its eclectic architectural style.