You can't always get what you want . . .

From the Log . . .


We had a good breeze going from San Pedro to Catalina, where we arrived at about 5:00 o’clock in the afternoon. Poor old Avalon Harbor was almost deserted. There were a few boats hanging around the main pier, but only two or three on the moorings. The floats had been taken on the main fishing pier as well as the yacht club. When we were there, they took in the Tuna Club and Standard Oil floats, so that the whole town was shutting up for the winter. We went to a movie in the large movie hall that accommodates about 2,000 people and we were able to count only 12 customers.

We were the only people in the Catalina Yacht Club, but the secretary gave us every assistance that he could and was most pleasant. While we were at Catalina we painted the scuppers along with some other cleaning and cleaned the side of the boat.

Marilyn and I went up to the bird park. It is always a delight to see. Why the talking mynah birds fascinate me so much I don’t know, but they do. They have various phrases that they repeat and seem to fit them in, in the most humorous fashion. The other birds that are there are also of interest to me in their various peculiarities.

On the way up to the bird park you pass the golf links, that were almost deserted. There were two men playing golf and after they had come down on of the fairways where there are a number of fig trees, we went out and feasted on figs, which there were many spoiling. That night when we went into a bar, a man asked us how we liked the figs, and we were amazed, because he was the bartender, and had been one of the people on the golf course. It appears that you can’t do much of anything in this world, but somebody sees what you are doing.


9/24 – WNS
9/26 – Last BYC Beer Can Race
9/27 – YRA Island Tour – season closer

It’s been a busy week sailing wise. We had a great group on Xpression for last weeks WNS. I’d written a blog about beauty and hope, about balance, trying to capture my thoughts on the sail, the balance between the beauty of sailing upwind towards the sunset, and my disappointment that we couldn’t fly the spinnaker into the harbor. As I started going through the pictures Jorge posted, and combined them with some that I’d taken myself . . .
What a great sail it was! What a great group of friends! I’d started this blog with the intention of writing about last Saturday’s Island Tour – but all I can say right now is:

That’s another story.

Forget the story about balancing beauty and hope; that prose is going to languish on the hard drive for a long time. This is about friends and the balance of one’s happiness and the happiness of being with a great group of people, sharing the experience of a wonderful sail. The time will come when the wind and sea conditions are perfect for a lovely, beautiful downwind glide on a gentle breeze into the harbor with a magnificent expanse of sailcloth leading the way.

This time is for friendship. Moments captured on digital film to be shared with everyone who happens this way. The first shot that captured my attention was one that Jorge took.
There were a couple of pollywogs to this WNS stuff. We don’t cross the line on a WNS, and there is no ceremony, but the rigors of the Olympic Circle on a summer afternoon or evening is a rough enough test to separate the shellbacks from the pollywogs. A smile while at the helm for the first time, as the boat exceeds a 40 degree heel. A smile or shout of glee as a cold wave over the bow douses the victim is enough of a signal to me that a WNS pollywog has been initiated to the status of a WNS Shellback. Ramin, a project manager from the project I’m working on during the day, Joe, a Process Engineer from another project that Jorge invited (or did he invite himself? – No Matter!), and Linda, who I’d traded crewlist emails with for months, but had not sailed with me. They were all pollywogs in my book.

Linda had sent out a crewlist email that Wednesday in the hope of finding a ride with someone that night. From the grin on Linda’s face, I think she found the ride she was looking for, and I knew she was no tourist pollywog.

And Lori! A woman with a grin the size of . . . the golden gate? Lori and I had traded stories outside the clubhouse and on the docks, and I’d sailed with her for the first time the previous Saturday with Anne, Polly, and Shirley; the ladies of the Sea! This was Lori’s first time on a WNS with me. Lori was already a Shellback in my book.

Leigh had sailed with me a lot earlier in the year on the WNS events, and she was back. There was no doubt about her status. About midsummer, I’d stopped concerning myself with who would be aboard and just started letting it happen. Jorge has been on many WNS adventures with me since that epiphany.

The picture Jorge took was wonderful. Everyone bundled up in their sailing gear, the pink glow of the sky lighting up the sky behind the Berkeley Hills. Xpression was at about thirty degrees of heel at the time, with the wind on the circle about 14 kts and falling as we approached Angel Island. Waves were a medium chop, no whitecaps. It wasn’t the warmest night, but far from the cold wet dark fog and fresh breeze we encountered on Friday night – but that is yet another story.

It reminded me just how wonderful sailing on the bay with a group of friends can be (if they are friendly shellbacks that is).

The next picture that really got my attention was of Joe at the helm with Jorge and I next to him. He had never been on a sailboat before, let alone been at the helm of one. It helped that we were sailing off the wind a little bit. To ease him into the joy of guiding a sailing yacht into the sunset we gave him a short lesson (the boat can NOT tip over), then directed him to feel the heel of the boat, as Linda let the traveler down and we eased the main out. Once Joe had the feel of being in the groove down, pointing to the northern tip of Angel Island, we gave him a landmark. He brought us into the windline and we handled the boat through the tack with him at the helm. I don’t think his grin ever faltered.

Earlier, Leigh had been at the helm after we cleared the harbor, and clawed our way upwind through the circle. The wind built from a calm breeze up to a fresh breeze as we neared the X buoy. Lori took over the helm near the E buoy as we started to ease off in 18 kt winds and whitecaps. Lori’s insanely happy grin, when a ray of sunlight lit up her face – it was worth the price of admission, worth the balance of what I’d hoped to do that night, against the joy of taking out a couple of pollywogs and chasing the sun as they rose to the challenge of the initiation with gusto.

There is a beta version of Picasa 3 out, and I downloaded it when I discovered I could do screen captures directly into Picasa as jpg files. One thing I’ve wanted to do is map our adventures. I have a gps logger, but I haven’t worked out how to upload the track to a map that I can post. Bringing a Google Maps Satellite screen capture into Word, then free handing a track, that I can do! Adding text with Picasa 3, I can now provide a better idea as to where we go, and label the landmarks.

On our upwind leg we stayed on port tack, sailing at about 30 degrees off the line of the Berkeley Pier, encountering a building wind; pretty typical for a summer (or end of summer) evening sail on the circle. When Lori took the helm, we started easing off to take some pictures. We’d been heading for Pt. Blunt, with the idea to make our turn there, set the chute and follow it back to the harbor. Instead, as the track shows, we went off the wind, then put Joe on the helm and brought him up on the lighter wind behind the Island. A short starboard tack and we turned down wind for a port set. When we left the wind shadow of the Island, and encountered the stiffer breeze we drove off and passed South Hampton Shoal to our leeward. We weren’t able to carry the chute on a beam reach without broaching, so I put my hope away and considered how and when we’d douse the chute in the gathering dark. On the north side of the circle we had about 17 kts, and with Ramin in the forward hatch, and Leigh on the foredeck, there really wasn’t any way to get a hold of the chute to bring it on deck. Not wanting to go any closer to the northwest, and not wanting to risk wrapping the chute around the jib as we unfurled it, a radical move was taken to do the douse without the jib by turning up wind with the engine assisting us. With Linda on the halyard, we let the chute luff, as I drove the boat to the southwest to get it on the deck in a safe manner given the number of soft shellbacks aboard.

All’s well that ends well. I didn’t get what I wanted, but I certainly got what I needed.

In the next blog I’ll describe BYC’s last beer can race, which surprised everyone.

Sailing with his eyes closed

From the log . . .

Our stay at the Los Angeles Yacht Club was only about 24 hours long. We went up to see the Mitchells on the 2nd of October, which was our first wedding anniversary. We spent the afternoon watching CAL on the television and went to a party with the Mitchells, that night, in Hermosa Beach, were we all had an excellent dinner with plenty of liquid refreshment.

On Sunday, the 4th of October, we scrubbed the deck of the boat in preparation of painting the scuppers. The various mechanics and the trip to the Hawaiian Islands had left the teak deck very badly spotted, so that Jonsson and I spent the whole morning, scrubbing off the deck with all sorts of solvents, chore girls, brushes and even scrappers. When we got through the scupper and deck was clean and it was really delightful to walk around in your bare feet along the clean white decks.

The pictures we took from the Olson 25 of the Rolex Big Boat series last Saturday are now up as a public web album.

The 9/17 WNS was fantastic!

It was a close group of good friends, with gentle winds, and a not too cold bay. We had the J105 Energy that night and it was appropriate. Sailing like this gives me great energy. The group was Meghan (M1) Jorge, Lori, Ray, and myself. Leigh canceled late in the afternoon, but sent me an email to an account I don't use much, so we waited and waited and finally left the dock a bit late.

So we got on the water at about 6:40 pm and decided to motor up to D mark before really

starting to sail. No reef this time, the wind meter indicated 12 knots true wind and we found ourselves at about 30 degrees of heel on a calm Olympic Circle. Got some good photos of the gang enjoying themselves, and on closer inspection noticed Ray was sailing with his eyes closed.

When Lori took the helm the joy on her face was wonderful.

Made our way up to Pt. Blunt and bore off to set the spinnaker. which was hopelessly twisted for some reason. Ray and Meghan and Jorge had us drop it to the foredeck and they walked the tapes to straighten it out. This seemed to take forever, and as we were sorting it out, Bradley, Ari and Sarah passed behind us in a Catalina 36. We got it back up with plenty of time to play before reaching the harbor. Although not in daylight! There is something magical about flying the spinnaker at night. I had hoped to heat it up and find our friends to windward, but could not find them in the dark.

Stern lights, red and green bow lights were scattered across the circle, indicating where some of the fleet was, but the darkness was such that it wasn't possible to make out who was where. The moon had not risen over the Berkeley Hills, so it was very dark.

Not long after getting the chute up we found F mark and were assured that we had the entire circle to play in as our WNS sandbox.

Sweet!

We searched for the X mark, but never saw it as we jibed back and forth in the darkness. The wind changed to a more northerly direction, and we decided to drop the chute before entering the harbor.

I"ll be updating this later, it's Saturday morning, and I'm supposed to be down on the dock getting ready for another day of sailing!

Watching Closely

From the Log . . .

We left Santa Cruz Island at about 10:00 AM on the 2nd of October, 1953 and headed for Pt. Fermin. We sailed a considerable amount of the way, but when nightfall fell turned on the motor and carried the engine all the way into Los Angeles Yacht Club where we picked up a mooring.

We had rather a difficult during the last few hours of the watch in as much as a low fog came in that obliterated anything adjacent to you. You could see the glow of the lights on Santa Monica, but were not able to see Pt. Fermin light, ever, until we were almost right on top of it. As a mater of fact, we went in so close to the shore that a rocky point cut off the light and finally we came almost to the base of the light. During this period we were all on deck watching as closely as we could. Some steamers that were adjacent to us, were also having their troubles in attempting to make a landfall and we and the steamers were both going about 1 knot, during the process of picking up Pt. San Vicente light.

When I edited this shot and went to name the file, I zoomed in to get the boat names. Lo! the boat in front is 'Racer X' - a Farr 36, and the boat behind, with the twisted spinnaker is 'Z' (Zamazan) - registered as a 52 ft sloop. It begs the question, what happened to 'Y'. So the photo is named "what happened to". I love this shot for a lot of reasons. The reflection of the chute on the water is beautiful, as is the way the slope of the Island leads the eye to the right and gives the whole thing a sense of motion. A few pictures later, I got a complete shot of Racer X and it's reflection, but I decided to post this one here.

I may get around to publishing a web album of the shots we took, but first I wanted to capture a spectacular day. UPDATE! the web album can be found here.

Thanks to a friend of mine, Kanjana, for teaching me the meaning of spectacular. To be engulfed in beauty is a theme of the blog, and she and I were musing on the different kinds of love, and what it meant to be 'in love' vs. just loving.

She turned to me with a twinkle in her eye and said:

"Ah, to be in love . . . it's spectacular!"

I'm 'in love' with sailing.

The day began in a less than spectacular way. Anne and I chartered the Olson 25 #7. Anne was the charter skipper, I, the crew. We'd intended this to be a day where Anne would take a major step up in her learning curve. We got a somewhat later start than I'd hoped for, add to that light winds . . . and so I suggested that we just motor out and find the race course for the 2008 Rolex Big Boat Series.

It wasn't hard to find, just to the west and north of the end of the Berkeley Pier, kind of obvious as the boats were flying spinnakers to make their way to the line on time. An area I always describe as downwind of the slot. So we chugged along and got to the starting line just after the first start, watching the truly big boats surge to windward.

It put us in a good position for the next start and we maneuvered so that we'd be to leeward of the IRC B fleet as it made it's way to weather. Keeping a reasonable distance, we found ourselves at one point in their path at the start, so we headed a little off parallel to their course to slide below. As they caught up to us, we where about 4-6 boat lengths (their boat lengths, not ours) to leeward. With the outboard on #7 at about 80% of max, we were just a little slower than the race boats, giving us a great view as they closed on us and passed us well to windward. The boat in the worst position in the fleet, fully to leeward and in the bad air wasn't having a good day. With the crew on the rail, one of the sailors (perhaps the tactician or the owner) was waving his arms and pointing to leeward calling something out. We looked around to make sure there wasn't someone astern, or to leeward of us, but were too far away to hear or understand what his gestures meant. It was a little comical. There were several motorboats (some of the Protectors) near us, and I gradually got the impression that he wasn't happy that we were where we were. If he was indeed the tactician, I think he'd have been better off focused on what was happening to windward, rather than potentially distracting the helmsman or owner with something unrelated to the race.

Oh well, I'll never know.

They all pulled ahead, and we continued on our course, eventually finding ourselves on the layline to the weather mark, and the J105 fleet (on a different race course) to our leeward. That was a sight! They had started and the fleet was lined up, pointing toward us, but a good half mile away. So we changed course, stayed above the lay line to the big boat weather mark, and headed that way to stay away from the J105 fleet. As we neared the weather mark, most of the power boats, including the buoy tenders and protectors were camped out upwind of the weather mark and offset mark to watch the show. We throttled back and stayed upwind of the offset mark and about 300 yards down along the reaching course.


I got out my 'good' camera and started taking pictures as the fleets made their way up to and around the marks for the second time. Anne enjoyed the show as I called out instructions for her to cruise back and forth at low speed upwind of the fleet, always prepared to throttle up and skedaddle out of the way should we drift too close to the course.
I named this shot 'Here we come' - the Transpac 52s are overtaking the Melges 32 fleet. It gives a good perspective on our position. I had to take a good look at the photo, that's the Richmond / San Rafael Bridge in the back ground, and the yellow weather mark is almost lost in the traffic to the left of the orange turning mark. We are in a perfect position for what happens next:

We catch 3 of the transpac 52's in a row heading downwind looking good withing a few boatlengths of each other. This is racing! When you can almost spit at your competition.

We are in a great spot to catch some good shots as the boats cruise by.

This one of Flash turned out well. Going into the day, I wondered if I could even come close to the photography of Charlie Bergstedt.

I'm pleased, in the right spot and calm conditions, I feel I did ok.

There was one shot that surprised me even as I took it. When I was editing the photos and posting them, I had to go back and forth to find a pair of shots that proved I had in fact seen what I thought I had.

The first shot was of Vincilore with the Melges 32 RED. At the time I was impressed with how much bigger the Transpac 52's looked. When I went to upload the photo, I did a double take. Perhaps the 'smaller' big boat was just farther away. So I found the second photo, and sure enough, it isn't farther away, it's just scurrying away from the larger boat, jibing to find some clear air on the other side, out of the tremendous shadow of big brother:

And here is the second shot:
After I posted this I did some research. There was a Melges 32 division, and obviously they were mixing it up with the IRC divisions. There are big boats, and then there are BIG BOATS, and of course, even BIGGER BOATS:

I had to zoom way OUT to capture this shot of Akela, a R/P 78 . In no time at all, I began to realize I'd used up all my memory, taking 90 shots in all. Good thing, had we stayed an longer, I think my heart would have pined for the days when I danced on the foredeck of Big Boats in my youth. This prompted me to google this evening to gets some facts straight on a memory. In 1978, I sailed with Don Tucker, Bruce Powell, George Pedrick, and others on Wild Turkey, a Farr design. I can't remember just what size that boat was, whether it was a Farr 36 (like Petard) or a 44, or something else, but to us going from Don's Santana 30 'Obsessed' to Wild Turkey, it was a BIG boat. Until we found ourselves between Kialoa III (79 ft) , Windward Passage (72 ft) and Christine (84 feet) in drifting conditions off of Pt. Knox. We were completely boxed in, within a stone's throw of all three of these maxi racing boats.

Back to the present, I swapped my Canon SureShot for the now full Nikon D100 and snapped a few departing shots as we headed the puny Olson 25 for Ayala Cove, where I planned to download these photos to my laptop. . . and get on with the day's activities.

As we motored around Pt. Knox, Anne was wondering why we didn't set sail and go with the wind instead of laboring under the outboard. There were a lot of reasons, some of them emotional. I wanted to get the photos off the card on the camera because I had other photo plans, I was balancing my memory of my youth against the reality of the present, and just didn't want to leave those thoughts behind and embrace the wind quite yet. It was complicated and the simple joy of sailing wasn't something I was ready for.

She was patient with me and we got to the cove in due time. I directed her to pass close by the buoys and watch the way the water moved in relation to them to judge the tide currents, get a feel for how the water was flowing out of Raccoon Straits even though we were at 'slack' at the gate according to the tables.

There were no bread bowls at the cafe, 'summer' being officially over at the concession stand (just have to come back next year). I took the photos I wanted at the cove and we departed, setting sail for Sausalito. We put in to Schoonmaker's, got to the bay model too late to check it out, but had a nice meal at Paradise Bay, then headed back out for Anne's 'lesson'.

To the north of Yellow Bluff, the wind howls off of the fog and blasts down the hillside, hitting the water with tremendous force. Anne had wanted to learn the art of handling the boat as it worked hard to go out of control, and to recover when the inevitable happens. So we close reached our way past the ferry and headed for this blast zone. What wind looks like on the water is obvious here. You can see a gust coming with sunglasses on in the fog.

I demonstrated how to pinch up when the rail is forced under. Not too fast, and straighten out just as the boat starts to level out.

"Pinching? that's not pinching, that's feathering"

Anne states firmly.

As gust after gust threatens to knock us over, Anne takes the helm and I talk her through it.

We debate pinching vs. feathering.

"Feathering is intentionally rounding up to level out"

"But that is just pinching"

"No, when you do it on purpose it's feathering, pinching is bad"

"No, it's the same thing, you are doing the same thing" I say.

"but nobody wants to pinch" Anne retorts.

"Well, ok, but feathering is just pinching on purpose"

We agree to disagree, but an understanding is reached. It's also obvious that if you can calmly debate what to call it while you are doing it, you've mastered it.

Lesson over.

As we leave the blast zone, the sun has gone down behind the fog spilling over the Marin Headlands and the lights of the Golden Gate are presented against a dark grey curtain. The wind and water is a calm and delightful 10-15 knots, and I'm mentally calculating whether it's going to be a long ride home in light air in the dark, should the wind drop further.

So we turn downwind away from the Gate, no sense in going up to the bridge if it's going to be a long ride back.

BOB goes for a swim!

MAN overboard!

Anne wanted to practice this, and in the darkening twilight, I decide it's now or never, to give her an unexpected MOB drill. She's startled, but recovers quickly and starts through the sequence. It's not perfect, but we get back to BOB, I fumble the snatch and he goes adrift behind us (we weren't slow enough, but that's the point, find out what we need to work on). As we recover from the aborted 'rescue', we notice that a pair of tugs and barge are approaching. By the time we've assessed how far away they are, BOB is lost in the waves and gloom. We have enough time to go find him again, and execute a better recovery before the tow arrives in our vicinity.

We jibe and head off for the face of Angel Island and get away from any more traffic as the sky darkens and the moonlight becomes stronger than the fading twilight. The trip back to the marina is magical. We get in close to Angel Island, jibe again to pass to the south of the green buoy marking Pt. Blunt. Checking the shipping lanes, we transit them in the direction of the northeastern tip of Treasure Island. Watching the angle of lights on the Berkeley Pier, we mark our position and start looking for the light at the end of the Island. Sailing into the moonlight, it clearly highlights where the Island ends and the waves begin.

Thus our course takes us up to the corner of TI, and we know precisely where we are relative to the end of the pier. Just jibe and head north. The waves build as the shallows approach, surfing our way in the moonlight. Life is good.

Until we head up a little to catch a wave, and catch a tug boat bearing down on us from the dark side of the moonlight instead. Far enough away, our craft passes in front, and we surf continuously on it's wake for about a quarter mile. Sweet!

There is the red light at the end of the pier and watching closely, note how the gold lights of the fishing portion narrow until the red light is on them and we pass by to the west to place the ruins in the moonlight. Now all we have to do is find the green light of the channel mark on it's pole about halfway down the pier.

A few more jibes and we find it and pass it close enough to see it clearly, far enough to be comfortable.

And on we go, with a few other OCSC boats for company as we approach the harbor.

Spectacular, returning from the gate on a full moon and a light breeze, the beauty of wind and water and friendship.

Thank you Kanjana, you were with me in spirit. And thanks to you, Anne, handling the skipper duties so I could relax as crew, letting me acheive what I wanted out of the day, holding your desire to practice, practice, practice, in check. I'm sure your crew on Sunday was more firmly under your control.

Sheep and Skulls and Submarine Nets

From the log . . .


We left Santa Barbara on September 30, 1953, about 10:00 AM and made an anchorage on Santa Cruz Island about 2:30 PM. I cannot go down the Santa Barbara channel without stopping at one or two of the beautiful coves that are present on the Santa Cruz Island. We stayed, in all, two nights on Santa Cruz Island, the first night in one of the coves along the easterly portion of the island and the second night at a cove that is called the East End Anchorage or more commonly called Scorpion Anchorage.





Dr. McGovaney knew the owner of the east end of the island and we brought a letter, from him, to his three employees, that live in a most interesting situation at east end anchorage.

The eastern end of the island which comprises a coast line of 10-15 miles is owned by Mr. Pierre Gherini of Santa Barbara. He runs a sheep ranch and has three employees at East End Anchorage, a Mr. and Mrs. Nilsby and a Mexican, by the name of Pete. In addition to that they have a dog, who is a type of Great Dane breed by the name of “Sam”. Sam was 6 months old and the most lovable puppy that I have ever seen. He was so lovable that when he put his paws on your shoulders, he almost knocked you over. He was our most constant companion while we were on shore walking around the roads and up the canyon adjacent to the ranch house.

We went dove hunting on the second day that we were there and Sam accompanied us frightening all of the doves away before we could ever get a shot at one. As a matter of fact, we did shoot one dove, but were not able to get close enough to any of the rest of them, due to the enthusiasm of the loveable Sam.

The houses and equipment about the old ranch house is most interesting. The house was built in the 80’s and had walls that were about two feet thick. They are made of cement and rock. The baking oven looks very much like one of the old fashioned bakery ovens that we used to see in bread and pastry bakeries. It is an enormous rock oven that is heated building a fire within the oven itself and then cleaning out the fire and pulling out the bread and other things that are to be baked.

They have a wine house, where they used to make their wine. This is built into the stone and has a ventilation system through a tunnel in the top of the wine house. It is guarded by heavy iron doors.

In an old barn, we found a number of Indian skulls and various other Indian types of stone instruments that they used in their cooking. There were various types of stone bowls, stone ladles and grinder for grinding corn and grain.

The employees at the ranch did not know much about them, or rather the skulls that were there, other than the fact that some scientists that came to the island many years before their arrival. They many have been there five years and the bones have always been sitting around the barn and have never been moved.

Before we left, we attempted to give the lady of the island, anything that she needed, but she said that the only thing that she was shourt of was nutmeg, so that we were only able to make this addition to her welfare. We returned to the boat and got her a can of nutmeg.

While we were lying in East End Anchorage, a very heavy wind came up and rocked us around pretty severely during the night. Our anchorage was good however, and the new chain and anchor that we have certainly is a satisfactory one. The new winch that we put on, likewise, is most satisfactory and is so much better than the old one that it almost makes pulling up the anchor a pleasure.

While we were at Santa Cruz Island, Marilyn caught several breakfasts of pan fish that were delicious. I did not know that one could catch the fish off Santa Cruz Island. I thought that they were all so educated that they took your bait and left the hook. Certainly, I have had a great deal of that experience, but she had some mussels that we obtained and gave us a couple of excellent breakfasts of pan fish.

I feel very lucky to have lived in these times. One of my lesser passions is geography. If I knew how to grab the google maps terrain images and turn them into jpgs, this blog would be full of images of the geography along the way.

I grew up before the world wide web, was around Silicon Valley when Compuserve, then Mosaic, and finally Netscape was launched. One of my cherished possessions is a photo album from my grandfather's first attempt at circumnavigation. It, like the logs, sits quietly waiting for me to crack it open.

That I can transcribe 'Dr. Holcomb's' logs on a laptop, and google Scorpion Anchorage, and zoom into the satellite view to spot the farm house he's talking about, then download a photo or two . . . it makes me grin as I type this. I can remember when none of this was possible. When my grandfather raced in the transpac, he was required to use Loran, which was a rather new technology back then. He couldn't figure it out, so he heaved it overboard off the coast of California. I have the charts he used on his first attempt, with positions from star and noon sights penciled in. Now, gps could upload a track to an electronic chart.

And here I am, years later, the view of the harbor from a boat triggers memories of anchorages on Landfall II in the lee of the Tiburon Peninsula. The beach at Scorpion Anchorage looks like the same sort of rocky beach we walked on as kids, after getting permission to launch the dinghy from the boat and go ashore. Wanting it to be sand, we had to put up with a more difficult trek along a beach made of palm sized small rocks covered in kelp and moss. One of the more interesting places along the shoreline to this future Mechanical Engineer was the Net Depot.

I finaly used the right keywords and confirmed the history of this place. I can remember Grandfather explaining that this was where the submarine nets were stored during World War II. As an 8 year old boy standing on the deck of a schooner at anchor off the lee of the Tiburon Peninsula, well, you can see the influance. The link has a picture of the buoys used to hold it up. Is this where the Olympic Circle Course bouys from my memories came from? Sure seems plausible.

My plan to transcribe a paragraph, write a post, etc. has gone overboard like my Grandfather's loran set. As I begin to type, I gulp down a page at a time now.

Tomorrow, I'm heading out on an Olson 25 with Anne. The plan is to get to Ayala Cove, where I plan to take some pictures, then Sausalito for lunch (we might stop by the Bay Model), then to the Rolex Big Boat Series, although I can't imagine doing a better job of taking pictures than Charlie.

We'll look for heavy wind and practice the art of going out of control safely and recovering.

One of these days I'll sail back to the Net Depot and take some pictures.

Tourist Sailing

From the Log . . .

The first week end, we went to Santa Barbara with them in their beautiful Chrysler station wagon and saw two football games played by UCLA and Kansas and on Saturday saw the UC and Minnesota game. /the trip was memorable for me in many respects. First of all, I can never go into the Coliseum that it does not remind me of the Olympic Games for which the Coliseum was built. Then too, I have seen many football games in the Coliseum during the succeeding years and last of all, we had about tow hours to spend and went into the Los Angeles County Museum, which is just in back of the Coliseum and houses reproductions of pre historic animals that were found in the La Brea Tar Pits.

We have all heard of those reconstructions many times, but usually, people are so busy doing things in Los Angeles, that they never go to the museum. It is well worth and hour or two anyone’s time and should be on musts on most peoples Los Angeles visiting list.

Gee, I didn't know grandfather was such a tourist. But then I'm not as smart as I look. You'd have to be quite the tourist to sail around the world.

I've puzzled over the origins of the Olympic Circle off the Berkeley Marina for some time.

I've got an email out to Rich Jepsen, and I'm sure he can supply me with an accurate account. The World Wide Web as of now is strangely silent on this subject. The closest I can get it is that there were four regional training sites in the thirties, when there must have been a huge case of Olympic Fever, and national pride. In '32 the games were held in Los Angeles, in '36, Berlin.

My earliest memories of the Olympic Circle are from racing Fireballs out of Richmond Yacht Club on the 'circle' as it's known in the Bay Area racing scene. I crewed for a lot of Fireball skippers, and spent one season sailing with Gordon Danielson, who is now a dentist in Larkspur. Back then he was a dental student, and a member of St. Francis Yacht Club.

He also made a huge impression on me, and other Fireball sailors in the '70s. He'll appear in some future blog posts. For now, after an 18 hour nearly nonstop drive from Lake Dillon Colorado (site of the 197? Fireball Nationals), he and I decided without having to talk about it, that our campaign was over. I got on a bus, he went to sleep, and next year, Paul Cayard was his crew. Gordon and Paul were made for each other :)

I was very happy to compete against them in the following year. Sometimes we crossed the finish line ahead of them, other times behind. The most exciting racing I've ever done was when we finished with seconds of them, and strangely enough who won was not as important too me as how far apart the finishes were (at least to me - Gordon and Paul may feel differently).

Back to the Oylmpic Circle. I suspect that the circle may have been upgraded after World War Two. When I started racing on it, the bouys were these big round steel balls. Sailing by the construction site of the new bay bridge span, it's now clear to me that these bouys were originally mooring balls for large ships. Given the history of ship building in the area, it would not surprise me if these bouys came from the Richmond or Sausalito shipyards.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll turn to the subject of this post. Tourist Sailing.

I was nervous all week leading up to last night's Wednesday Night Sail. Meghan (M1) agreed to be my first mate. The rest of the souls on board were tourists. One a good friend of mine from the Minneapolis area, the rest people I really didn't know. I had my Minneapolis friend wear a dinghy suit from my racing days, and a float coat that was a little to small for me. The other tourists were fitted out with the 'foul weather' gear that OCSC rents out for $5 on Wednesday nights. The 'other' tourists were friends and family of Alice, a summer intern where I sort of work when I can get my mind off of sailing.

I had taken Alice and other interns sailing earlier in the summer, and Alice walked up to me the week after and exclaimed:

"JOHN! I'm so glad to see you at lunch!"

I really didn't get much else out of the conversation that day. She was clearly excited, and I was clearly confused.

About a month later I get an email from her - can she come sailing one of these Wednesday nights and bring some friends.

Since sharing my passion for sailing is a high point in my lifestyle, I agreed. Little did I know that she was married - a summer intern, I kind of assumed she was single. She's from Taiwan, going to UCLA, and English not being her first language, our conversations have been a little confusing. Don't get me wrong, I'm worthless language wise (I'm a Mechanical Engineer by education) I'm amazed I can write, let alone master a second language other than mechanics, dynamics, software, etc. A foreign language - forget it! 7 years of Spanish, 2 years of German, so far down the drain, you'd have to use a mile long plumbers snake to even come close to where it went.

And names and faces! I meet someone and 30 seconds later I forget their names. So her friends were her husband, a girlfriend, her girlfriends husband, and another girlfriend. All from Taiwan. Alice, David, Evelyn, Stanley, and Vivian. But do NOT ask me which was which (I only remember the names from the OCSC paperwork). Alice was the only one I could keep straight. I use as an excuse that they were all wearing yellow foul weather gear. Any port in a storm, right? Good thing Meghan had her own (not yellow), and my Midwestern friend was using mine (red and white and blue).

And I was nervous. From the moment this deal was set up a week ago until we reached the upwind point in our tourist sail and headed back to the safe harbor.

I had no doubts about my ability to handle the boat, but what about the tourists ability to handle the weather conditions on the Olympic Circle on an early September evening? Tourist sailing in my mind is when I, as 'Captain' am responsible for the well being of people I don't know. What ever I might want to do sailing wise is secondary to their well being. Such as it is.

Crack off the mainsheet and level the boat? That's what you do. Head for calmer waters as soon as you can? Absolutely. Raise the main in the harbor? no matter that it is not what I usually do, I adjust my decisions with the tourists on board.

We started with the reef set. In the harbor.

Mother Nature is in charge, and I'm trying desperately to not make her mad. She can be mean. So I tiptoe around her skirts.

On the Olympic Circle, this means that it can be 29 knots of wind at 6:30 pm, with short steep chop as you leave the breakwater behind. And that's when she's in a good mood.

Leveling out the boat is a challenge. Young Arthur sent me an email today. With glee behind his words, he said:

"The experience was fantastic! When the boat was heeling I felt like I was rock climbing! I especially liked being at the helm."

The tourists were huddled in the cockpit, a mass of yellow. Spray was coming over the bow (25 feet ahead of us) and landing behind us - well, some of it anyway. I was at the helm, Meghan was trying to encourage some of the braver yellow backs to sit on the weather rail with their feet over the side. My friend behind me, arms wrapped around the aft stanchions.

The main was out, and we were footing off for all we were worth. Making for the gentle side of the circle as fast as we could. We were on the J105 JGPC, which has a heeling indicator on the side of the cabin in the front of the cockpit. It goes up to 50 degrees. The little ball was rolling around between 40 and 45. Some of the tourist eyes were fixated on it. I was going to say they shouldn't worry, it hasn't maxed out, but thought better of that. Arthur would have loved it. Several of the tourists were getting queasy.

I made for an old tug boat at anchor well to the north of the circle. It's been a fixture in this part of the bay all summer. Often down by Brooks Island, for some reason last night it was out in slightly deeper water. I set my sights on it and headed that way to give the tourists something to fix their eyes on.

"It will get better over there by the tug boat" I assure them.

It does.

We pass within spitting distance to give them something to look at and remember, then tack.

"Heading back will be much easier" I comfort them.

And of course it is. A broad reach through the waves, I can relax and play a little. Enjoy myself. I suggest that anyone who wants to go forward and enjoy the ride on the foredeck. No one goes past the mast, but several take positions on the cabin top and rail deck.

I'm feeling good, Meghan is having a blast, and we surf a little, see how far above 7 knots we can get with a small jib and reefed main.

The sun goes down and I have to encourage the tourists to look behind us.

There is no way we can flake the main properly before reaching the slip, and I encourage the tourists (and my friend who is cold) to head to the club house, Meghan and I will put the boat away. Once we get the main cleaned up and covered, she and I head up to join them, I'll finish the job after checking on their health.

I arrive in the clubroom, and they are all very excited. They've had a good time, even if one or two got a little seasick. This is a great way for Alice to share her sailing experience before she and her husband head of to Yosemite, and return to LA.

I'm happy. It went well. Not exactly a ride in a station wagon from Santa Barbara to LA, but everyone had a good time.

Poppa Pat's question

From the Log . . .



Then came a search for a new casting for the end of the motor, which carried us all over the Pacific Coast by phone and by telegraph and finally to Detroit. It was determined that there were no new castings anyplace in the United States, so that the casting that we had, had to be welded and then re-machined.

The motor was finally put together and when it ran, after this overhaul, it really ran beautifully. It has used practically no oil at all since the date of its last repair. Another thing that happened in our last overhaul, was that they left one hose plugged with rubber, and that was repaired. Now the motor runs about 40 degrees cooler thank it did before an we do not use any oil. It is the first time that the motor has run decently since 1949.

It took us 10 days to get our motor fixed in Santa Barbara, but it was one of the most delightful times that we have had. We went to see Dr. and Mrs. Richard McGoveney of Santa Barbara on first day there, and they were our constant companions and hosts, during our Santa Barbara stay.






This post is dedicated to 'Poppa Pat', a fellow sailor I had the great honor to sail with. This kindly gentleman of a grandfather signed up to sail with a woman who had traveled to OCSC from Alabama to obtain her BBC certification earlier this year. The three of us went out with Bruce Powell on the second day of her BBC private lesson (she passed).

Poppa Pat does deliveries, sailing yachts from one place to another for their owners.

I'm hoping that he'll send me some pictures from his life at sea, or his constant repairs and improvements on his boats up in Bodega Bay, if he does, I'll add them to this post later. I think he can relate to the above section from my grandfather's log.

He wrote me with a question:

"Next trip is this weekend bringing a Hunter 38 from Dana Point to San Rafael, my buddy bought it a couple months ago and we just now have had time to get crew available for the passage. They are all friends of his that have a bunch of 'Delta' and some Bay sailing but no off shore experience, for their initiation and the boat's he wanted to have them all together at once under his and my mentoring, since they will each be sailing with him offshore at various times and I may not be around to help he figured a common learning experience would be good. Along that line, have any suggestions for me and how I approach being coach/mentor/advisor or should I not bother and just go along as crew/navigator for the most part? I know I have a good feel for the boats but am never sure how I interact with people. Probably comes from years of damage&crisis control without time to consider the feelings of the folks involved until after whatever action had been taken and by then it was already a fact accomplished. "

My friend, I'm not sure I would have been able to answer that were it not for an experience I had earlier this year.

I was doing a Wednesday Night Sail in June, I think. We sailed over to the area of South Hampton Shoal, and set the spinnaker. There were a number of people on board with only a small amount of experience to guide them. There were no 'race crew' types with the experience to understand the implications of say . . . a broach with the Asymmetrical chute up.

When I learned the finer points of rocketing through the waves with this huge sail pulling us along, I did so with a couple of 'old hands' on board. So as we encountered the inevitable broach, we were whooping and hollering and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. There was much screaming and yelling and FUN.

But I found myself with a group of people who might not react well to the deck going from horizontal to vertical, and water rushing into the cockpit under true knock down conditions.

"Damage and Crisis Control" might be how you'd naturally handle it if by yourself, but with less experienced crew that you are mentoring, a sensitivity to how you naturally react might get in their way and cause alarm and fear - not something that will help them learn to meet the challenge calmly and head on.

On top of that, it was my first time on the helm without really experienced crew to back me up in the 'normal' conditions on the Circle in June.

So I took some time before the hoist to explain what was about to happen, and what might happen. I explained that if we lose control, it's no big deal, the boat will find a safe place on it's own. I told them what I would say, and how I would say it.

When the inevitable came, I suppressed my own feelings, I refrained from raising my voice and hollering. I fought to control my emotions, even though that wasn't FUN. Instead of getting excited and having fun with it, I calmly said:

"I've lost it, we are going to round up".

Many years ago, while training for a St. Francis Big Boat Series, I was on 'Wild Turkey' with Bruce Powell and George Pedric. George was on the helm when we lost it.

I will never forget his reaction.

He simply said:

"Oops"

and as we went sideways with the rudder out of the water, I think it was Bruce Powell who laughed quietly, and remarked,

"Ah, somebody's going to have to go down there and uncleat the spinnaker sheet"

It seemed like the cleat was 3 feet under rushing water at the time. It was more like 6 inches.

The calmness of George and Bruce's reactions really broke the ice. It taught me a lesson that I was able to apply earlier this summer. I suppressed my own 'FUN' for the sake of the less experienced crew, and in so doing, gave them the confidence in me and themselves that they needed so they wouldn't freak out.

So we broached for the first time (it wasn't the last), the boom went into the water, the boat rounded up, and I just waited for that moment where the rudder had an effect on the boat's course, and we regained control.

"Ease the sheet when we do that next time"

Was a simple quiet request.

On the third or forth one, the crew started to laugh and I was able to join in and really enjoy myself.

Let me know how it turns out Pappa Pat,

Captain John

cptnjhn@gmail.com

Latter on, I'll add an installment from the log, and some pictures, so check back. For now, it will just be the post.

The View from the Foredeck

From the Log . . .

The mechanics in Santa Barbara did not want to take the job at all. They looked at the engine, said that it might take a long time: they did not know where the leak was coming from: and that are not at all certain as to the character of the oil leak or the character of the seal. We had the directions for the motor, fortunately, and after two or three days, they finally pulled the whole motor up and out of its bed, took off the front portion of the fly wheel and found that when the fly wheel had been placed back on the shaft in 1949, that two oil rings had been crushed so that they were bent and constantly leaking oil.

So there is some down time ahead for my Grandfather's trip. Time to go tourist. But before I start talking about that, there is time to report on a race.

Friday, Sept. 5th, 2008 - The Berkeley Yacht Club BeerCan race started as a windless bounce in the chop of the Oylmpic Circle. I keep trying to find a good link that explains the what the circle is, the closest I can get to it is Googling "Olympic Circle Course".

Oh, what the hell, I'm just out here for fun, 'dancing on the foredeck' of the Ranger 33 Genesis. It's what I would call a 'plastic classic' - if you haven't figured it out, I love the classics.

The photos here are 'the view from the foredeck'. The boat flying the spinnaker behind us is the J24 'Vitamin J', with friends Bradley, Knut and Chris on board. I love it when they are behind us, and I get to watch. There wasn't enough wind at the beginning of the race, and they'd left their engine behind to save weight, missed their start, crossing the line about six minutes behind. They were playing catch up all the way to the finish.

Paul, the owner of Genesis, is a great guy to sail with. He's had the boat for about two years, and is entering the world of racing through the Friday Night Races. He's absorbing everything he can on each and every race. One of these days, or maybe next year, his competition, the R33 'Boogie Wogie' is going to look back and see Genesis on it's tail. That's going to be fun, and I expect to be around to see it.

It was a light wind for the circle, and I thought it would be 'dry', so I put my camera in the pocket of my 'foul' weather bottoms. Life is a risk right? Worst case, I'll need a new camera. When I pulled my wet gear out of my sail bag, the camera came out of the pocket dry, and fired right up.

Hey look! there is a Bahia to starboard, looking good in the twilight!

To see all the photos (untouched), see the web album.

From the pointy end of the boat,

'Foredeck John'

I wear my sunglasses at night . . .

From the log . . .

When we went to Honolulu in 1949, the Parker Diesel Company took down my diesel engine at my request, so as to be certain that it was alright and in good shape. They found many thins that they thought needed repairing to the tune of approximately $860.00. however, from that time on the engine constantly leaked oil. We would find oil in the bilge and would have to put in about 2 quarts every time we went out. We never used the engine very much, so that there was not much oil used.

Going down the coast from Oakland to Santa Barbara, the oil pressure would constantly fall and we use about 8 1/2 gallons of lubricating oil between Oakland and Santa Barbara. During the process, it seemed obvious that I was the only one that could find the leak in the oil line, although I had advised the mechanics, just before we left that there was a leak some place and they assured me that everything was dandy.

It was perfectly obvious when close inspection was made under way, that there was a leak that came out the front of the crank case, just below the fly wheel. It seems as though there was an almost constant stream of oil running down into the bilge and I determined that we would have it fixed in Santa Barbara, if possible.




Throughout the transcription of the log, I come upon Xpression(s) that really make me pause.

"When close inspection was made under way" . . .

There have been a couple of times when I’ve taken boats out from OCSC, and I’ve had to make ‘close inspections under way’ while the boat is bucking up and down in the close steep chop of the Olympic Circle. Cleaning the rotor of the knot meter while underway, for example; sailing on Echo, I’d been asked to take the helm many times, while the owner went below to do it, eventually I wanted to learn to do it, and asked Jack to walk me through it at the dock - it is unnerving the first time. Pulling the thing out of the hull, you are in fact opening a hole in the hull while underway. That’s spooky. The hull is supposed to be water tight, and you’ve just violated that. You have pulled a plug and there is now a hole. When you pull the plug on a bath tub the water goes out, pulling this plug, the water comes in . . . yikes!

It’s pretty easy really, and one day I might post something to guide others in this particular ‘close inspection under way’. Unfortunately, I challenged the BBC certification, so I don’t know . . . if I’d taken the class, maybe they demonstrate this. Inspecting through holes, now that was pretty easy to understand, but intentionally opening one – it takes a little nerve to do it on your own for the first time.

If anyone who charters wonders why there is a big flashlight in the egg crate on the boats, and smirks every time they fill out the check list . . .

There we were – running downwind with the spinnaker, rocking and rolling and having a good time. The sun was going down, the J105 Energy behind us . . .

By the way - Chris emailed me after reading the last post – that was them, they had no more than ‘the usual’ rocking and rolling after making a complete transit around Angel Island and flying the chute on a WNS– God I love those guys! If you ever get a chance to sail with Knut, or Chris – go for it!

. . . and we had no instruments, no cabin lights, the navigation lights getting dimmer and dimmer. Something was wrong with the electrical system, and there was no effective way (that I knew of) to prevent what was about to happen.

Landfall II had very little in the way of electrical systems. It had an engine (it even had an engine room!). So reading that part of the log, imagining a ‘close inspection under way’ as they motored down the coast to Santa Barbara, and thinking about what could have been done on Xpression Wednesday night, I don’t know, I can’t imagine what I could have done differently.

As we approached the central entrance, Energy slipped past and made their way into the harbor. They had jibed the chute to the north while we had taken ours down (anticipating we wouldn’t have an engine). I was confident I could sail into the slip, but not confident that I could get the chute down in the harbor, with the crew on board.

One of whom was wearing sunglasses at night. I forget who it was, but they started singing the lines from that tune:

“I wear my sunglasses . . . at night, I . . .”

“Hey, they are prescription” George begins to explain.

“I left my . . .”

Before he can finish the sentence, I call out to Bradley:

“I think we are aground!”

“Yeah, you’re right”

We are about 10 yards inside the breakwater, not moving an inch.

We try a couple of things, rocking, unfurling the jib, sheeting in, but nothing gets us free.

Jamie (one of OCSC’s service guys) is on shore, and he calls out:

“You in the mud?”

“Yeah, the battery’s dead, no engine”

We drop the main and flake it while Jamie and Rich come out in the inflatable to pull us free and tow us to the gas dock.

Having a big flashlight is very helpful as we put the boat away.

Death Roll

From the Log . . .

We had plenty of good food that had been prepared before we left and the whole trip was a very nice one. The only fly in the ointment, was a situation that had developed long before and that I had never been able to find the answer to.



A situation that had developed long before . . .

‘Skipper’ as he was affectionately known by family and friends was very good at seamanship, less so on . . . well, I’m going to leave that to a future post.

My situation that had developed long before (one of many) has to do with the inspiration for this blog. I’ve sailed since I was 5. My brother, 2 years older had also sailed since he was 5. My father, was good at woodworking, but had little interest in boats and sailing. He endeavored to keep his family together and happy. Long story short, he built my brother and I El Toro sailboats so that we could take to the water ourselves, and perhaps be steered away from the rather poor influence of my grandfather’s, well . . . drinking?

Drinking was just one of a long list of potential influences that my grandfather’s rather complicated life might inflict on us. It probably had the greatest impact, but that is yet another story.

Skipping ahead, my brother took to owning boats; I took to crewing on them. There are many, many stories along that path.

So I found myself on the foredeck last night and Bradley at the helm. I, however, was the ‘skipper of record’. And there was a fly in my ointment, one on the surface that I could see. There was another deeper down below the surface.

We’d just turned down for the run back to the harbor, the sea conditions moderate, wind just a 'moderate breeze'. Just below a ‘fresh breeze’ on the Beaufort Scale. As I approached the bow, the wind was a ‘fresh breeze’, but at the bow, a little less. Approaching the mast, it was much less. A 'gentle breeze' (I must confess, I like gentle things).

Had I been the crew, it would have been someone else’s decision to raise the chute. Had I ‘just’ been the helmsman, or cockpit crew, it would have been the same. Had we been racing, there would have been no doubt – “Get the thing up smartly!” Would have been the order – I’m being polite here, on many boats a lot of profanity would have been on the wind.

For what seems my whole life, it’s been some one else’s call, and that’s been just fine with me.

But Anne’s gentle push (into the deep end) with that hat, I AM CAPTAIN JOHN.

It is my call, and my responsibility. No matter that the crew all pitched in and shared in the cost of the charter. The responsibility is mine alone. Anne and I had a long talk about it today. For me this is not fun, it violates that #1 rule of mine – have fun.

If we get the chute up with no problems, that’s F U N !!!!

But there is a death roll out there with my name on it.

Bradley, Meghan #1, (M1) they are up for it. Elena is getting there (did a fine job on the helm upwind), but Meghan #2, her boy friend George, Fred and Vicky? - they are tourists. As Captain, I’ve got a very heavy responsibility – especially with tourists.

Broaching is one danger, a Death Roll is another, shrimping isn’t so much a danger as potentially expensive. Losing the rig? Let’s not even think about that.

As to shrimping, that's is what happens when the spinnaker winds up in the water behind the boat. I saw a couple of my childhood friends go shrimping last month near Yellow Bluff in the HDA YRA races. I won't mention their names . . .

I judge the distance to the pier, where we are, what tack, the conditions upwind in the slot, there are so many variables. It’s my call and I make it. We are going to raise the chute!

I’ve elected to keep the jib furled during the raise. It’s a gutsy call, but I like to see what condition the chute is in as it goes up. I’m jumping the halyard for that reason. I know Bradley can handle the helm, and we won’t even worry about the sheet until the sail is ‘made’ – all the way to the top (it’s a mast head rig).

We (I) don’t get there. M1 is getting the slack out, she’s doing fine keeping up, but I’m distracted. About 60% of the way up, the sail starts to fill. If I had a good, experienced trimmer, he (or she) could deal with it, but I don’t so I’m screwed. I call for Bradley to turn down to cause the chute to pull all the way out of the bag (we are launching from the rail). It takes some of the load off of the halyard, and I can get it up to about 85%. We leap over another wave, and with a little luck we are at 90%.

We can crank it up with the winch from there. I just hope Bradley doesn’t broach before I can get on the sheet.

We’ve got the second reef in the main, so there is less chance of that.

I sheet in, M1 is getting from 90% to 100% inch by inch, and off we go.

Woo Hoooooo!

Every one is where I put them, George is on the mainsheet, I’m to leeward of Bradley at the helm. M1 is on the halyard winch, M2 on the windward deck. Fred and Vicky are on the cockpit benches, up against the cabin, just like I told them. Elena, I don’t recall where she was, just that she was safe.

As I mentioned in the previous post, we BROACH, recover, broach again. We are talking George through his responsibilities on the mainsheet; he’s not going to be a tourist much longer.

And then the B R O A C H. George gets it, and the main goes out, but the boom hits the water, the deck is about as vertical as it gets, and I ease the Spinnaker Sheet.

We recover and take stock.

“Ah, we don’t want to do that on Starboard tack with the pier (what’s left of it) to windward”

We are going to have to jibe. It’s clearly a ‘fresh’ breeze.

I decide to reposition the crew, George needs more room. I ask Vicky to stand inside the companionway and hang on, with Fred on the cockpit bench at the companion way. I’m going to leave Bradley on the helm, and George on the mainsheet. I get George to understand that he needs to be well forward as the boom comes across. I’m going to blow the spinnaker sheet, pass behind Bradley and sheet in on the ‘lazy’ to get the spinnaker across.

Everybody gets that this is were the . . . well, you can use just about any ‘Xpression’ you want.

It’s anticlimactic, goes off pretty sweet, and the reaction of the crew (George is no longer a tourist) is a sight. They are amazed, relieved, and when their hearts are back where they are supposed to be, they are elated (that takes about 88 long seconds – I timed it).

Sweet

I’m starting to have fun, so I take the helm, we’ve got nothing to windward, so I start to relax . . . except, the sea conditions are now ripe. And we’ve got the second reef in the main.

I’ve been on many a race boat. I’ve seen the rock and roll hit parade of the St. Francis Big Boat Series, from the (fore) deck of a Big Boat. But I haven’t been on the helm, and I’ve never been THE CAPTAIN or the ‘Skipper’. I’ve seen Death Rolls, even one up close. They definitely violate my Rule #1 (the FUN rule).

Elena mentioned to me later that she was nervous on the upwind leg at the helm. Well, Elena, I was nervous at the helm on the downwind leg. There was a boat behind us as darkness closed in. A blue hull and green chute, it must have been Energy, or JGPC. A glance was all I got. Bruce Powell’s #1 rule is to LOOK GOOD! There are so many ways to violate that.

A death roll is one.

I SO wanted to be a crew, and watch the boat behind us. Are they rocking and rolling? Am I good enough? Place my faith in some other captain.

We rock, we roll, we rocket towards the Berkeley Shoal. We DO NOT Death Roll. Whew. I kind of wish we had battery power so the instruments could tell us how fast we were going. Depth would be nice too, it’s low tide, below 2 ft, and well, I had enough to think about.

I decide to do a ‘Mexican Take Down’ – get the jib out, jibe, and drop the chute to the deck inside the jib on the other tack. I kinda wish I had a race crew with me. Geoff Love, Will Matievich, I’d be having FUN. I’ve got a crew that believes in me (imagine that) and some tourists. One of which is below. Why is that? We check to see if Vicky is OK, and Fred (in the companionway) assures us she is. It’s rather dark down there without power.

If I knew I had an engine (it won’t start without a battery), I’d jibe the chute and carry it in, but I don’t, so take down is what we do. It goes well, not exactly race swift, it doesn’t want to collapse into the jib, but we get it down without incident.

Well, I’ve finally found the answer to the situation I’ve been headed for. I’m not the ‘skipper’ my grandfather was, but I won’t question whether I can call myself

Captain John

P.S. Thanks to Richard Jepsen at OCSC. When we got in, he casually asks:

"Did you fly the Chute?"

"Yeah, sure did"

"Goood"

(Cool ! I'm a Captain now! the death roll with my name on it is still out there, but that's another story)

For yet another story check out this Express 27 story.

For those who made it this far, check out these photos from "Carnage at the Weather Mark, Race 1-2007 Express 27 Nationals, Tiburon YC deedsphotos"

This is what happens when the boom hits the water:

And when the rocking and rolling goes just a little too far:
In the immortal words of George Pedrick: "oops"
I knew I should have worn my wet suit.
This is what a death roll looks like from the comfort of another boat.

A great site is Charlie Bergstedt's blog: - Sailing on S.F. Bay in his Thursday, September 11 post he caught some great shots of the Rolex Big Boat Series, including a sequence of LIFT IT, going shrimping at the bottom of the post.

Sailing Backwards and BROACHING!

From the log . . .

The motor boat trip down the coast included Marilyn and myself, Ray Jonsson and his brother Harold. Harold seemed to enjoy himself, in spite of the fact that we had no sailing. He stood the 8-12 watched like the gentleman that he is and was very helpful and pleasant the whole way down.

Well friends, I haven’t quite got this figured out. If I transcribe a paragraph, write a blog entry, then transcribe another paragraph . . .

Then I have to write a blog entry, and so on, and so on . . .

When do I . . .

How do I stop?

Perhaps I should just transcribe a paragraph, write an entry and call it a day.

This is the day after the 9/3 WNS.

WNS is the abbreviation for the OCSC (google that!) Wednesday Night Sail.

It’s a long story, so I’ll just blog a tidbit for you.

Is it possible to sail backwards? Yes! In the seamanship course at OCSC, you are taught how to do this. At least I think they do, I haven’t actually taken the course, but I’ve heard some stories. But I don’t think they teach what I’m about to describe.

The crew of Xpression last night consisted of Bradley, Elena, Vicki, Fred, Meghan (#1), Meghan (#2), George (#2’s boyfriend), and myself. Divide the charter fee by eight and it’s like $15.
Sweet!

Fred and Vicki were first timers, so I decided to include a bit of what I’ll call ‘Tourist Sailing’ – with a twist.

We did the usual, setting sail on the Olympic Circle, and heading upwind for Angel Island. There is usually a ‘wind shadow’ to the lee of Angel, and it was a cool dusk downwind of the slot. So I instructed the helmsman to continue into the area off the East Garrison.

“But there isn’t much wind there” he says.

“Go in close anyway”

I replied as not so much a command, but a gentle suggestion, firm, but not overbearing. Hey, we have tourists on board.

The tide was close to the low point of the cycle, what you would think would be the last of the ebb. But the currents have their own ideas. We came to be on the windline; that particular place where the wind is transitioning from existence to being nothing at all. We also came to be on the tide rip, the place where the water can’t figure out which way to go – around Pt. Blunt, or past China Cove?

It was a warm day, at least ‘well inland’ that place that local weathermen use to describe the part of that bay area that is away from the bay itself.

Imagine the surprise of the crew! Tucked into the East Garrison, in the bubble of air that can’t go anywhere, we have ‘well inland’ temperatures!

And balanced on the windline, AND on the tideline, we are in a mythical place. Enough wind to keep the sails full, but not to overcome the tide currents. We are ‘hove to’ without the usual rudder and sail configuration.

“Who wants to eat?” suggests Vicki

She has brought some interesting yellow bread; we break out the drinks and think about taking off the foul weather gear as we bask, not in the sunshine, but in the dusk on a warm summers eve.

Fun
The crew begins to ponder our situation.

“Are we going forward or backward?”

The knot meter shows speed, but is it forward speed or backward speed?

They begin to take bearings on the shoreline, and it dawns on them that we aren’t moving at all.

Curious

We sit there seemingly motionless, but also seeming to move . . . forward!?

It is very pleasant and we enjoy ourselves with a close in view of the Island and buildings of the East Garrison.

After a while it becomes clear that we are actually moving backwards, very slowly, with complete control. Vicki offers up some cake, and we enjoy that as well.

When we’ve had our fill, I take the helm, and we sail sideways, then pivot and head for the wind twisting it’s way around point blunt.

Everyone buckles their gear tight, we play in the waves, Bradley takes the helm, I jump the halyard to set the chute and we . . . BROACH, recover, broach, recover, and BROACH one last time.

“Now you are getting the hang of it!”

I call out to George letting out the main at the right time, as Bradley recovers. I’m on the spinnaker sheet, gauging whether the water will actually enter the cockpit on the third B R O A C H.

The transition from straight and sideways, sailing backwards, in the warm air, and George’s feet standing on what used to be the vertical sidewall of the cockpit, inches from swirling water around his ankles . . .

It’s quite the contrast.

So I ease the sheet and we turn down for a rocking and rolling run back to Berkeley.
Not exactly a motor boat trip down the coast.

In fact, the batteries died, and we were a true wind ship, not being able to get the motor started, but I’ll leave that for a future post.

The Hat

From the Log-

The trip was exceeding smooth all down the coast. There was not a wave large enough to actually be called a wave. You might well have thought you had been motoring on San Francisco Bay on one of its clear and calm days. We had no fog and the weather was delightfully warm as we reached Santa Barbara around 1:00 o’clock on September 20, 1953.

And so it begins . . . I like to start things. That is the essence of the creative process. From nothing comes some . . . thing. The finishing . . .
Well, I’m not so good at that.
The beginning - That’s where I rock!
I'm competent in the middle.

The way the Internet works is a lot like how my mind works. Information goes in, gets divided up into packets and then is routed along a very large number of paths. At the other end, at the destination, the first piece lands, and then all the other pieces get added to it one by one in their proper order until the list of packets is complete and the information is displayed. It all works at blinding speed. The difference is that I don't know where the information is coming from, and rarely can I fathom how to line it up at the end.

This blog thing is cool. I cast my net onto the stream of thoughts and ideas, and pick out the letters, line them up into words, form sentences . . . and hopefully it all makes sense.

This blog begins with a hat, the inspiration for 'Captain John', and the gentle push I needed to open my grandfather's logs, which had been sitting on my bedroom dresser for nearly seven years, unread. I'm using the chronological order of the log entries, paragraph by paragraph to help line up a small fraction of the thoughts that swirl around in my brain. I transcribe a paragraph, write a blog entry, and then transcribe another paragraph.

The last of those packets should be my grandfather's arrival back home.

I know he made it; otherwise I wouldn't have this love for the wind and waves,

If not for his stories; I wouldn’t have this love for words.