The Gate

From the log . . .

I went through the Golden Gate on a beautiful calm, and clear morning. We rigged salmon lines immediately after rounding Seal Rock and we trolled at about three knot speed until we were off Pt. Montero. We did not catch anything, much to our sorrow, because on the last trip down the coast we had two large salmon. Apparently, the salmon were north of the gate or even inside of the gate.

The Gate! Seal Rock! Pt. Montero!

These are magical words. Words to spark the imagination of the young, trying desperately to be be 'seen and not heard', to not interrupt the stories heard round the dinner table.

Pitcairn, The Bounty, tales from the South Pacific fueled my childhood. What can I share with Anne's kids to equal those dreams?

I do what I can.

I've a few tricks up my sleeve. I've developed a system through this summer of Wednesday Night Sails at OCSC with somewhat older but none the less 'least' experienced crew. It breaks the ice.

As soon as we leave the shelter of the Berkeley Marina, I take the least experienced member of the crew and put them on the helm. I've found that this settles everyone down.

I modify this slightly,

"Today, I need the least experienced, AND the youngest to come aft!"

"I AM Captain John, and you all agreed to obey my command while aboard this vessel!" (this thing with the hat . . . mmmm, it has some advantages).

"Who among you is both the least experienced AND the youngest?!"

I cry out as my eyes bore into those of Ilana, 8 years young and smiling shyly.

She nods her head and makes her way from the companionway, climbing the obstacles of the traveler and stepping around the pedestal. At about 10 degrees of heel, this is like a jungle gym.

The wheel is as tall as she is.

"Can you see?" a crewmember calls out laughing.

"Ha! who needs to see? what SHE needs to do is to FEEL the helm"

And so it begins. Ilana's introduction to controlling a sailing vessel that she can get lost in. Her envious brothers are comforted by the statement:

"One by one, you will ALL have to perform at the helm before the day is done!"

It's really not so hard. I'm there at her side, eyes sweeping the rig, the water, the sheets. I explain what it is to 'come up', 'go down', to turn the wheel so that the top of it goes up or down in the direction the boat is heeling.

Ilana braces her feet on the helmsman's station (she has to stand where one would normally sit), and is assured that the bulk of my body is between her and the rushing passage of the bay to leeward.

Before we get to within a 100 yards of mark '3', the flashing Green marker on the edge of the channel that runs to the north of the ruins of the Berkeley pier, Ilana has enough control that she can do as I ask-

"Bring us to within 40 feet of the mark on our port side".

The lingo being translated by other members of the crew.

As we pass, the 'Amazing' Oliver (as he likes to be known) is summoned to relieve his younger sister (by a year).

She and Arthur, her oldest brother, a very mature 11, are sent to the bow to find the next mark on our course, "F", a yellow can on the windward side of the Olympic Circle.

When we reach that mark, it's Arthur's turn. He'll take us to the red bell buoy marking the edge of the shipping channel. The older 'kids' will finally get their turn.

11 am, on the last Sunday of the month of August, is a perfectly mellow 10 knots, and the kid's introduction to sailing something larger than a Coronado 15 begins with . . .

'The Gate'

in the distance.