Filed under: 1
I Fought the Law and You Know Who Won.
The sailing from Ecuador to Peru was tough. I intended to go directly to Iquique, Chile but we needed to use the motor a lot to get anywhere.
Caught a lovely mahi-mahi and fried her up, along with a few pieces of sushi. Rico, baby.
This fish costs a fortune in a restaurant. It cost more when you buy a sailboat and catch it yourself.
The wind was right on the nose almost always and the Humboldt current is also 1-1.5 knots against.
It was also cold. I mean 14C at night cold, not freezing, but I didn’t like it. I’m a tropical guy now.
Not fully clothed, but damn near.
My crewman, Jussi, has lots of experience with racing yachts in the Baltic and the slow progress was too much for him so we decided to put in at Chimbote, Peru, north of Lima, to let him off. He is a participant in the paragliding competition in Iquique and he needed time to practise. I thought we could roll in, anchor, put him ashore, buy fuel and leave. We did all those things perfectly. Arrived on a Friday afternoon and I was motoring away at 9:30 the next morning. That’s when I heard the siren behind me. The Guardacostas and their little puny aluminum punt was chasing me down. I wasn’t about to outrun them and when they found out I’d purchased diesel they said, ‘Follow us,’ and I did. That was Saturday morning. It is now Sunday evening and I remain securely tied to their cutter in the security compound of this port. I expect to be released tomorrow with a fine.
I did sneak around town before they nabbed me and had a fine Chifa meal (Chinese) and then walked home to the boat. Along the way I heard music and stopped at an open doorway. Wow. Thirty dancers were practicing their folk dancing. Mostly young women (15-20) and a few boys. Mesmerizing. The practice went on for at least 2 hours and the girls appeared to be in a trance, continuing to dance together when the music recording needed re-setting. I sat on a bench in the background with a bellyfull of chopsuey and an eyefull of swaying beauty. These moments in life are rare and one appreciates them. Wish I had pictures but don’t. Those moments are common.
I bought the diesel fuel from a floating barge in the harbour. This was a shit show of the most immense proportions.
1. The operator had no control over the fuel flow.
2. The fuel hose was made for transferring thousands of gallons of fuel to large vessels.
3. The operator had a mad dog who stopped his barking, intermittently, only in order to vomit.
4. Communications were poor. I speak poor Spanish and the dog understood no English.
I anticipated a large fueling rig, so I opened up my inspection hatch on my fuel tank (in the main salon) to allow a large nozzle. My deck fitting is made for a garden hose and don’t ask me why. So now I am down below, in my cabin with a fire hose and nozzle sized for an aircraft carrier and I say ‘OK’. Nothing happens. I repeat in English, ‘OK’. Nothing. The operator shows up down below and takes hold of the nozzle. He then radios—RADIOS!— to the pump operator on dry land, 1 kilometre away, to start the flow. I’m talking about an FRS handheld Walmart radio–no– a walkie-talkie. He says, ‘we need 50 gallons–about 30 seconds’. Now I am worried. There is no shut off valve. The fuel begins flowing and it soon reaches earth escape velocity. Fifty gallons is a snap of the fingers. I say, ‘Ok’ in all my official languages and he shouts into his talkie-walkie to his compadre ‘OK’ in English (I think.) By now the fuel is flowing everywhere except into my fuel tank, which has been full for an eternity.
Diesel does not evaporate quickly. I have special rags–like diapers–to soak up small diesel spills. In Oregon we would have been shot on the spot for the fuel spill but here there is only the smell to contend with. I emptied my bilge last night when the Guardacostas boys went to sleep. 100 metres from me is the end of the bay. There is garbage 2 feet thick there and 3 dead sea lions, bloated and sunburned. I didn’t feel too bad about the bilging.
UPDATE:
Didn’t get released as expected. A shipping agency took on my case and we dragged all over town to various offices, ending up in the agency office where I reunited with my crewman, Jussi. He tried to clear immigration and all the pieces fell into place for the authorities. He faced a large cost to clear the country and my fine amounted to $3000 US with costs of $1000. Jussi decided to continue with me to Lima.
After 4 days of detention and a whopping fine we motored away at 9 pm, happy as hell to be clear of Chimbote and its morons masquerading as officals.
We made Lima in less than 2 days, motorsailing. Jussi was still keen to get the hell off. He departed again as soon as we had picked up a mooring ball off the Yacht Club Peru. In spite of having all my papers in order, it took an agent, 24 hours and 10 office visits (and $500) to get clearance for Chile. I was able to refuel without flooding the cabin, though, and that was a plus. The officials in Peru really don’t seem to know the rules. Each moron has his own interpretation and the rules change hour to hour. Peru is a country without a central nervous system. It does have its share of bandits, though. I found out after the fact that whilst in Chimbote, thieves came aboard and stole a flashlight and my radar monitor. Only the fact that the radar monitor never worked since the morons in Portland repositioned, it softened the blow. I was about to chuck it anyway. The bandits saved me some work.
Lima to Chile passage next.
Filed under: My Boat
Doesn’t seem right. In Mexican waters the sea temperature was 29C and clear as a bell.
Now I am looking at 12C and a lot of shit floating around. Not that kind, garbage kind.
Left Costa Rica early on a Sunday morning with ebb tide. It was wonderful.
Last rocky coast of Costa Rica, southbound.
I ripped down the Golfo Nicoya at 7 knots which, for me, was ripping. Had 2 nice days of passage making after that and then conditions turned. Wind on the nose. Overcast. Water temp down. Marine layer, difficult visibility–just what you’d expect when you get mixing waters. The Humboldt Current was making its presence known.
I did no fishing this passage as I bought enough grub to last me to Elephant Island. Don’t know why.
I did eat fish, though. A dandy flying fish and a big one too.
He's already dead and I didn't kill him. Head-Smashed-In-Fish Jump.
I think if the Lake Superior smelt has dreams, they are dreams of flight. Dreams of the legendary flying fish. He especially would like to emulate the much feared ‘Leopard-winged Fighter’ as shown here.
Leopoard I Attack Fish.
The fighter was ultra-tasty with breaded batter, lemon, large sliced/fried tomato and some spuds. This was breakfast. The LeopardWingFighter was courageous but dumb. Dumb to hit my boat and dumber not to get away. Such is the nature of the Assault Flying Fish. A poor flyer and an even worse judge of landing strips.
Saw the coast of Ecuador two nights out but was ascared (Powellism) of the rocks so set a course for Indonesia both nights and let the wind take me clear of the hazards.
Some boobies are prettier than others. You can see how his wings can fold back when he dives for his fishes.
Then I crossed the line. 00° 00‘. Been across before, once, in a sailboat. 1978. This time it was at 1 p.m., autumnal equinox. Now that’s downright auspicious.
Ships passing in the almost night.
Last day out I hauled in hard and went for Manta Bay, Ecuador. The wind picked up mile by mile until I was on a beam reach under double-reefed main only and doing 7 kts. I’m happy with that.
A fairly casual fisherman, barely afloat in Puntarenas, Costa Rica.
Getting into the harbour was a different deal.
Manta is the ‘Tuna Capital of the World’, according to large statues and even larger tuna boats.
I had trouble with their nets on the way in. They use poles with black flags attached but I didn’t know the code. The flags go on for kilometres. Double black and single black flags, sometimes with plastic jugs strung between.
I got tired of running parallel to one long set and decided to cross at a 90 degree angle. I was motorsailing so I shut down the motor and coasted across under sail, watching the water closely. Sure enough, a blue line appeared, about 5 feet below the surface and my keel snagged it. Shit and shinola. But it slid clean past the propeller and rudder so no damage done to net or propshaft. I rigged a long pole with my best butcher knife (serrated edge, plastic handle, foot long, 2 hose clamps holding it on) just in case I did snag one next time.
I asked the boys here what the flags mean. Two black flags on one pole mean start or end of net. One flag means middle of set. The nets can be 3 metres down or 40 and run in any direction.
A car carrier. One of the world's ugliest designs. I'd be kind of embarrased to drive this baby.
The tuna boats here have cupolas high above the deck (crowsnests) as well as fixed wing planes as observers. Some have helicopter pads on the rear deck. These boys are serious about their tuna.
I am stuck on a mooring ball about 100 metres from the yacht club and its WIFI. I hail a ’panga’ or runabout when I want to go ashore. $1.00. Here in Ecuador they use the US dollar at par although prices are lower than in US.
Healthy and happy, crossing the line.
It’s going to be tough from here on in to Chile. The current will be strong and unfavorable and that goes for the wind too.
I do have a mate joining me, Jussi Leskinen, a paragliding pal from Iquique so that will help a lot. Unless he drinks all my gin.
Out in the middle of nowhere, man works, lives and wonders where the fish are.
“There are three types of people: those who worry themselves to death; those who work themselves to death and those who bore themselves to death.”
Winston Churchill
Stay out of those categories. You could be like me and frighten yourself to death.
Somewhere south of the Line. How can life be bad? I mean, really.
Filed under: General shit
“I’ve always wanted to sail to the South Seas, but I can’t
afford it.”
What these men can’t afford is not to go.
They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of security.
The Cancerous Discipline of Security.
In the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine,
and the years thunder by.”
“Thunder by”,
he said.
Sterling Hayden (1916-1986)
It’s hard to find a better quote.
Guatemala to Costa Rica. ‘Pura Vida‘, baby.
Got whipsawed making the passage. No wind one minute, then honking as another thunderstorm set out to find me. Up and down raising and lowering sail, reefing, furling and swearing. A couple of perfect days, though and one forgets the shit.
Have a lot of things figured out now.
Still was in the main shipping corridor so kept a sharp eye and the wondrous electronic gizmos on full time.
Ever wondered how you evacuate a freighter? It’s not for the faint of heart. Here is a picture of the system on a ship that was parked in Puerto Quetzal, Guatemala.
Not for the faint of heart.
When the abandon ship order is given one is herded along a catwalk into this reverse rocket. The first mate would need a cattle prod to get me into this contraption. All are strapped in and some lucky guy gets to hit the ‘release’ button. Damned if I know what happens then and don’t want to find out.
Some comments on the airborne life. There are flyers of various sorts out there in the chuck–I don’t count the shorebirds because when I finally see them I don’t care about them. So, in the chuck we have, from largest to smallest,
1. The brown boobie.
A floating tree 100 miles out provides a roost for the booby and a place to shit.
2. The shearwater.
3. The storm petrel.
4. The diving petrel.
5. Last, but not least, the flying fish.
I did see a couple of albatrosses off the California coast but haven’t seen any since so I leave them out of this comparison.
1. The boobie is a great flyer but occasionally stupid. He flaps his wings to gain altitude (10 metres) and then swoops down to glide over the waves seemingly not moving a muscle for minutes at a time. He is stupid because of two reasons; he tries to catch flying fish on the wing and that is just impossible. He does not give up though and he should. Second, while skimming the wave tops he gets caught out and plows into a slapping breaker. I’m sure he’s embarrassed as hell about it but it causes no harm and he keeps right on gliding. The boobie catches his fish by climbing to his 10 metre ceiling and waiting until the moment critique, whereupon he folds his wings into a tight wrap and augers in at full speed in a vertical dive. He doesn’t swim underwater, just crashes into some poor fish. It works and he seems to feed often enough.
2. The shearwater is very much like an anorexic penguin. Same colouring and body shape, just thinner and he’s a bullet flyer. He doesn’t bother rising above 2 metres and he never gets caught out plowing headfirst into a wave. His wingtips seem to be millimetres above the sea and he is fast. I’d call him a better flyer, but I’ve never seen him eat anything so he loses points there.
3. The storm petrel makes me dizzy watching him fly. He can turn on a dime and give you a nickel change. I think he eats insects just above the sea. He never dives, he never crashes and he occasionally alights on the sea where he pokes his head in the water. Drinking or eating I don’t know.
4. I mention the diving petrel because there is such a bird and I guess I’ve seen it, but couldn’t tell you much about him.
5. The flying fish is a pure delight to watch and also a pure idiot. I know my boat scares them because they fly away from the bow wave. In other cases they shoot clear of the water to escape their predators. To say they fly is a bit of a misnomer. They flap their fins like a hummingbird and scoot along a foot off the water with no control whatsoever. They take off downwind; they crash regularly–no, they crash every time. I suppose they call it a landing.
Can’t wait to see the big albatrosses and I will as I get further south. Now there is a flyer extraordinare. Drawback with him is he has the ugliest head of any known bird. Well, seabird. The Andean Condor is hands down the ugliest of all. Buzzards are like that and they can’t help it.
They are all pretty to look at.
I am parked in a marina in Puntarenas, Costa Rica, these days and let go for Ecuador on Saturday 12th. The marina is in a mangrove tidal estuary and when the tide goes out my boat rests on the loon shit bottom. No harm done and it makes for a rock solid sleep. Can’t leave at just anytime though–must head out at high tide and follow a small ‘panga’ or outboard motorboat guide so as to avoid grounding.
The panga delivers one to shore and back, assuming he's listening on his radio or sees you waving.
Spent a few days in San Jose buying things for the boat. Needed a new shower head; couple of hats; a sun shade for the setting western sun; assorted plumbing gear and a GAFF HOOK for the marlin. This means, of course, that I will never see another marlin in my life.
Notes on Costa Rica:
Nicest country in Central America that I’ve seen. People, food, music, culture and in my narrow-minded opinion, the best coffee in the world. Not a great coast for sailboats though. A lot of the anchorages are not completely protected from the Pacific swells, making for a rolly time of it. The Nicoyan Gulf where I am (Puntarenas) is protected but it is filthy with floating garbage and all manner of tree detritus.
Looking forward to the next passage. I think I’ve got the sails figured out, have replenished the propane, fixed the water bladder tank (I hope). What could go wrong?
When you find your baby, hang on.
An American P3C Orion maritime surveillance aircraft buzzed my ass for a half hour in Costa Rican waters–only two of his 4 engines pulling. They can go for 12 hours. War on drugs and Costa Rica has no military. Big brother steps in.
I'm taking pictures of them taking picture of me.
Filed under: General shit
Gunfire, broken sidewalks, tuk-tuks and 18 year-olds with shotguns. That’s my first impression of Guatemala. It’s a violent country and no one attempts to deny it. I am cautioned at every turn to stay off the streets at night and I do.
No reason to smile if you're packin' a 12 ga. streetsweeper.
I left my boat in a marina on the coast, the port city of Puerto Quetzal. The security looked good, the docks were in good order and everyone was armed. The navy base is next door so I think the banditos give the place a wide berth.
Puerto Quetzal and it’s commercial centre, Puerto San Jose were both dusty, smelly and brooding. I got the hell out of there pronto and went to la Antigua, one of the country’s earlier capitals and a touristy, colonial town. Cobblestone streets, earthquake shattered buildings (un-repaired) and more shotguns.
Young men, big guns.
On a Saturday afternoon the fireworks out in the country would remind one of Hamburg in 1943. The bursts are 1,000 feet high.
With the typical motorcycle-riding holdup artist, the regulations require all riders to wear identification. Presumably so one can identify the robber after he’s taken his automatico from your nose. Nevermind your bowels will be looser than slush in the gutter.
Identification, Guatemala-style.
Of course there are redeeming features. The people are typically latin-American and very friendly, helpful and entertaining. The modes of transportation are unique. In Puerto Quetzal the pedi-cab took me 2 miles to a restaurant for $2. Driver didn’t even break into a sweat.
The pedi-cab, and no, that's not me.
In Antigua they have the tuk-tuk. Built in India, they offer Antiguanos cheap and timely transportation. With their tiny wheels and the cobble-stoned streets however, one’s kidneys soon turn to purée.
The Indian-built 'tuk-tuk'.
And, yes, that is me in the bone-rattler.
There are mist-covered mountains and coffee plantations.
The markets are lively and colorful and have the largest radishes I’ve ever seen.
Killer radishes.
The 'you-name-it, we-got-it' seafood counter.
The fresh meat and flies counter.
Crocodile loaves. Didn't try them but they do look good.
The people seem well-fed. The food is good. The coffee is almost as good as that of Costa Rica. There is marimba music, music from Peru and tonight I’m going to hear a concert featuring some famous Cubano.
The Buena Vista Marimba Club. Apologies to Ry Cooder.
The Antigua cathedral from without...
...and from within.
I will come and go and thank the Guatemaltecos for their hospitality, but…
…there is no good reason to visit this country in peacetime.
Filed under: 1
A Mexican family on holiday visits just before departure in Acapulco.
This time of the year is the time of the hurricane in the eastern Pacific. There are twenty or so each year but they are not as destructive as their colleagues in the Caribbean because these hercs are spawned offshore and usually head further offshore. If they don’t hit land, hurricanes are a non-news item. To a sailor on the grey and perilous sea they are a never-ending source of bowel-loosening anxiety. For this reason I chose to hug the shore of the Mexican coast whilst heading south. The hurricanes should be west of me and they should stay there. I didn’t reckon on the thunderstorms.
In summertime it’s hot in Mexico. Cherry-red, crack-pipe hot. This heat leads to overdevelopment over the highlands of Mexico and round about 5 pm one can see the massive thunderheads billowing to 40,000 feet. One trembles.
These storms are formed over land but they do their hunting at night.
As I sailed, or motored down the Mexican coast, about 100 miles offshore I could see the battleship row of monsters lining up. I knew I was in for it. About 11 each night these bastards would cut loose from the shore and head out to sea, hunting for nervous sailors. Not every storm was lucky, but always one was. The sailor was never lucky.
I can run but I cannot hide.
The flashes would start about 10 pm. For 100 miles the coastal reach was lit by continuous sparking. I took the usual precautions. All cushions below; all sails down except for a triple-reefed main; foul weather gear handy and a good scan of the horizon for other ships. Then it was wait.
The gust front hits with 50 mph winds and knocks us sideways. Things start flapping, the things I have neglected to tie down properly. The rain is horizontal and the lightning splits my nerve endings. Three hours later it is over and I am back to sleep. Four nights in a row. Enough of the meteo.
There were thousands of turtles floating around. Some got lucky.
A couple of turtles getting lucky.
I was in the main shipping corridor from Panama to Japan and the US west coast.
A shipping corridor looks like this on the screen.
And like this in the flesh.
The sailing was either very good or non-existent and I used the motor a lot.
A cold bevvie needs a lot of ice and a lot of insulation. The power hour at 5 pm.
This guy visited for the day.
I wanted to get to Costa Rica, south of the hurricane belt but my son’s wedding was creeping up too fast so I made for Guatemala. Know nothing about the place. Saw a nice-looking port on Google Earth, Puerto Quetzal and I decided to park there and fly home from Guatemala City.
When I arrived it was just after a large USCoast Guard ship had pulled in. It was liberty for the sailors that night and we all sat in the oceanside bar, me haggard and nervous and the young Yanks in their tank tops and tattoos, ball caps on backwards and calling me ‘sir’.
My son gets married on August 22nd and that will be a happy day. After that it is on to Costa Rica, la ‘Pura Vida’, baby. More happy days.
Filed under: 1
Repairs in Cabo. Always something.
A brown booby catches a ride and shits everywhere.
An hour out of Cabo I had both my fishing lines set. One is a handline, a 300lb test tied to an aft cleat. It has a rubber snubber attached to it so big fishes won’t break the line. It has a plastic wobbling thingy hooked in just ahead of the lure and the whole set up is deadly for tuna and mackerel. My other rig is a Penn reel and rod set in a rod holder on the stainless handrail. I use smaller lures in the hopes of nailing more mahi-mahi.
The wind was up and we were doing 7+ knots downwind when I hooked into something big on the rod. Zinging away she went. I tried to ‘set the hook’ as they say but there was a hell of a lot of pull on the line and the line was still zinging out. The I saw the marlin break the surface, leaping clean out of the water and tail-walking. Wow.
For the next three hours I struggled with this fish. I was sailing too fast to reel him in properly so I tried to drown him. By rounding up into the 20 knot wind I was able to get him to the boat three times but even after three hours he had a lot of life left in him. I had no gaff hook and could not lift him into the boat. Besides, it was too dangerous to have him thrashing around the rudder and propeller and when he broke my rod I cut him loose. The pics do not do him justice. He was either a blue or a striper and I’ve never seen either before so what do I know? Magnificent.
The pic does not do him justice but he was not cooperating.
After Mr. Marlin got through with my 'deep sea' fishing rod.
The days got hotter. A lot of turtles in the water but they won’t let me come close.
Gettin' too hot for Pete Powell.
A hell of a lot of ships coming from the Panama Canal headed to Los Angeles and Japan. I left my AIS on all night in the hopes they would not run me down and they didn’t.
I caught a number of mackerel. The first one I filleted and fried up. He tasted like shit so the rest of them I let go. Nailed a nice yellowfin tuna for dinner and he was great.
Mackerel. Good for not much but bait for bigger things.
A nice yellowfin tuna, before.
Mr. Tuna, after the hand-waving.
I was close to land (within 50 miles) most of the way down the Mexican coast and the lightning storms over the mainland at night were spectacular.
More boobies, also shitting furiously.
Then I got nailed two nights in a row. Always at night.
Sleeping in the cockpit about 2:30 in the morning I awoke to slightly cooler breeze. No stars. Wind picking up. Scramble to furl the headsail. I have a triple reef in the main. There is lightning everywhere. I know it’s going to blow really hard at any moment so I put on the foulies and cower in the companionway. Two bad nights like this then I see the Acapulco headlands in the morning.
One amuses one's self as one is able.
Dolphins on my bow.
I’m parked in the Club de Yates in the centre of town. After re-victualization I will continue south on Monday. Will be flying home for Chuckie’s wedding from somewhere.
Ok, it's a very bad hat. Keeps me alive, already.
Filed under: 1
I fished. I’m not a fisherman but fresh food is a luxury I didn’t want to miss. I used a hand line trailed 50 metres behind the boat with my delicious tuna killer and BANG, we hit a lovely yellowfin tuna off of Ensenada, MX.
He provided us four beauty steaks and two dinner meals. I sautéed those babies and with some new spudaters and chopped carrots we dined like kings.
Next day the deep sea rod I had set zinged out and I pulled in a 3 foot Mahi-mahi. Up to the boat that is, whereupon the knot I’d tied let go and fish, lure and most of my pride disappeared. I am practicing my knots.
We saw 20 pilot whales slide next to the boat. Dolphins were scarce but pleasing to see. The wake began fluorescing with the sea creatures and every night it was 30C. This passage was pure delight after the opening gambit from Portland. This sailing I remembered and it was glorious.
The wind gave out the last day and a half and we motored on and off. Mostly on into Cabo San Lucas, the southermost tip of the Baja Peninsula of Mexico.
We fueled up and tied up at the Marina Cabo San Lucas. Very pricey at $145/night but I’m staying only 3 nights. Full water tanks, fuel tanks and fresh vittles and I’m off to Puerto Vallarta on Wednesday, July 22nd.
The immigration folk were pleasant enough but disappointed me by shaking me down for $40 when I was almost done the paperwork.
The port Captain was more professional and helped me understand the Mexican ways and means.
The folk here in Cabo cater to the tourist, mostly Americanos and they are very friendly and non-badgering. Helpful and kind, like people the world over.
I expect to travel from here alone, perhaps all the way to Costa Rica and I know I can handle the boat alright. It’s the company that I will miss if none of my chickenshit friends are not able to make it.
Nothing broke on this passage.
Way mo’ betta.
I am having trouble posting pictures with my new computer. Will try later.
Filed under: General shit
I arrived in San Diego June 30th after 13 days on the chuck. This is what happened.
I left Astoria, the coastal port city of Oregon at 3 a.m., in a cool drizzle. I was a little nervous about getting underway in a crowded marina, alone and with a breeze blowing one way and the Columbia River current setting the other but it all went well.
I followed the river buoys to the ocean and after 10 miles of motoring I was close to the river bar. I put the engine in neutral and went below to make some coffee. I raised the sail (double reefed) and headed south west just as the eastern sky brightened. I motored over the bar during the beginning of the flood tide and it was silky smooth. I passed the last, ‘safe water’ buoy at 6 a.m. and listened to the sea lions bark and tussle over a tiny resting place.
The last buoy for a 1500 miles.
It was great to be finally at sea. I let out a few whoops. The day was warm and the sea kindly. I’d taken a couple of gravol with my morning coffee but I never did feel sick. For me this is unusual but welcome. To be seasick is normal. If you are not seasick you are not more manly.
Underway.
I tried various sail combinations and puzzled over the wind vane, the mechanical steering device. No matter what I seemed to do the damn thing worked. It worked perfectly. If there is a hero’s medal on this passage it goes to the wind vane. ‘Fleming’. Australian made.
The first night the wind began rising. Shit.
The gale comes looking for Pete Powell.
I lowered sail and set a course for offshore. Far offshore. I didn’t want to deal with fishing boats and inbound freighter traffic. Soon we were roaring along into the ink.
For the next 3 days the wind increased. I heard a weather report. ‘Gale warning’ it said. What the hell does that mean? There could be a gale, or, there is a gale and you are a jerk for being out in it. 35 knots of wind was the outcome and I took down all sail. We tore along at 6 knots with nothing but the mast providing windage. The wind vane didn’t care and steered like the champ it is.
Hiding behind 4mm of plexiglass.
This was the first time I’d sailed the boat in any kind of wind. How would things hold up? The sails were not new. The hardware had seen action. Anxiety leaked through the scuppers and drains and it was cold. Toque and winter jacket weather.
Hard to smile when you're shit scared.
The wind was up but it was in the perfect direction for a run to San Diego so south we went.
The wind increased and away we went. I turned on my sophisticated chart-plotting gear and my AIS – so I could see any other maritime traffic (and hear, by alarm).
The waves caught me now and then. Pooped the cockpit.
I went to sleep. For seven days it was thus. It was rough. I was bounced around the cabin just trying to make coffee or soup. Bruises and skinned knuckles are still healing. The toilet flooded. Then things started to break:
- one hanging locker door split off its hinges.
- the dining room table parted its anchors.
- port side shroud (a wire cable that helps support the mast) began tearing loose.
- the starboard side shroud soon followed. Moaning and creaking, it followed its port side mate.
- during some poor sail handling, the top four sail slides of the main sail split open, leaving the mainsail unattached to the mast. This is bad.
- I tried to start the engine during one maneuver with my brand new start battery. Nothing.
- I was unable to completely furl the headsail on my new roller furling gear. This was due to lack of experience by operator but the consequences were bad. I couldn’t slow the boat down as much as I wanted to and I couldn’t fix it with the seas that were running. Finger-crossing time.
- the cabin door to the quarterberth cut loose and smashed itself into two big and pretty pieces.
- the boom banged away at my new cockpit cover until it split the fabric it 4 places. Total operator error.
- there being little else to break and the carnage ended.
Dining room table upside down. Safer that way.
The first weld gives way. I am very nervous about my mast coming down. It is swaying like a calypso queen.
The wind moderated. The temperature climbed 5 degrees. Dolphins appeared. Whales on the horizon leapt into the air like watermelon seeds squirted from a farm boy’s lips. Why do they do this? Because they can?
Seas moderate. My spirits lift.
I set my brand new hand line for tuna. This is called fishing, not catching. The lure, a tuna clone, looks good enough to me. Sautee some onions, take out the hook and I’d eat it. Tuna were not interested.
Looks good enough to eat to me. The tuna thought differently.
100 miles out of San Diego the USNavy paid a visit. The sky was a gray, ground glass and featureless blanket. I heard the rumble and then, dropping out of this geshtalt was the Lockheed P3 Orion maritime surveillance aircraft, purposefully overhead. I grabbed my handheld radio and tuned to the common frequency. Sure enough, he wanted to talk to me. After 6 passes and 100 gallons of avgas he knew my boat’s name and that I was the only soul on board. Mission accomplished.
Landfall at 05:30. San Clemente Island, California. Another whoop.
San Clemente Island. Land ho!
My chartplotter screen entering California waters.
Then it got busy again. San Diego is a hell of a big naval port, after all. An amphibious assault ship was squarely in my path conducting vertical takeoff flight operations. I knew enough to steer clear of him. Then a guided missile frigate swept by to my left. The helicopters were continuous throughout the day. Grey, ugly Blackhawks with their silly landing gear permanently down.
Got it made now, brother.
Mast and skipper still standing.
Nightfall and the California coast proper. I followed the lighted buoys and range markers into the port. I had to divert a number of times to avoid kilometer-wide floating kelp beds (didn’t want to foul the prop or rudder) and tied up at a municipal dock at 10 p.m.
I phoned customs and they checked me in without a visit.
Sleep. Quiet, motionless sleep.
Made it.
Filed under: General shit
After a pleasant 10 hour motor down the Columbia River we made Astoria, a funky sea town on the Oregon coast, about 10 miles from the great water.
The Columbia River is spanned by a spectacular bridge, under which we motored.
The Astoria bridge to Cape Disappointment. Hard times for someone.
Lots of marine activity here including sport fishing. They were catching salmon (not many) and sturgeon (quite a few). The sturgeon are fresh/saltwater and look to be about 20 pounds or so.
A sturgeon hoisted by a guy who wanted to show off his pipes.
Did some last minute shopping today at Englund Marine. Met Connie there. Connie sailed across the Pacific 18 years ago in a 45 footer by herself. Her father was a commercial fisherman so Connie showed me the way when it came to fishing gear. I have 2 great rods hanging on my salon ceiling but I have no idea how to use them. Now I have a vague idea.
I bought hand lines, tuna clones, rabbits, leaders, sparklers and all manner of related fish shit. The difference between real fisherman and me is that fishermen think like fish. I will trail a line behind the boat and if something commits hari-kari on the end of it he’s mine. As Connie says, ‘practice F&R fishing’. For those of us who don’t know what it means—filet and release.
I topped up the fuel tank here, the water tank and the jerry cans I’ve purchased. Two 5 galloners for water and 2 for diesel. I store the fuel on deck in the yellow jerry cans and the water down below. More than enough is quite sufficient.
I stopped by the mariners memorial today to pay my respects. The sea-faring life takes its toll. The memorial was well-kept and was situated on the river bank with a beautiful view of the mighty Columbia river.
Seamen and their poetry.
The local knowledge is to leave early on a flood tide to mitigate the effect of the outrushing river current at the river mouth (bar). Than means I will let go at 3 a.m. to make the bar about 5:00. After that spell of motoring it will be ‘see how the mainsail sets’.
If you want to follow my pilgrim’s progress, go to the website:
http://www.marinetraffic.com/ais/
There you can click on my transmission signal with my AIS—‘Automatic Identification System’. This is some electronic wizardry that allows me to transmit my position (when I have the device on) to the rest of the world. I can also see all commercial traffic and determine whether there may be collision issues. I won’t have the thing on all day because of power drain but I will turn it on each evening at 6 p.m. PST. Or I will try to remember to.
If you’re looking for me look offshore on the west coast of Oregon/California, about 50-200 miles offshore. I will be catching tuna.
Even the wind vane is ready to go. I took off the mainsail cover after I took this pic. Now we're ready.
See youse in San Diego.
Filed under: General shit
‘A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drownded,’ he said, ‘for he will be going out on a day he shouldn’t. But we do be afraid of the sea, and we do only be drownded now and again.’
J. M. Synge
Got all the booze. Got the soups, the beans, the breads, the oranges the lemons and the limes. Oh, and one purple cabbage. Tony Watkins always favoured the purple cabbage for its freshness. Just peel off a leaf a day and he is right.
Packed shit away all day today. My cousin Pete showed up on Friday and helped do the manly tasks of bringing la Rosa up to a semblance of sea-going state. We had a couple of last suppers and lots of laughs.
I’m away tomorrow. Not at the break of dawn because I have to return my rental car in the morning, stow some more shit and sit around wondering what I’ve forgotten.
I could make the coast in one long day from here in Portland but it doesn’t make sense. I have to check in with the customs/border patrol/weirdly paraniodal boys at the coastal town of Astoria and their office closes at 4 p.m. so I will go as far as St. Helens tomorrow, tie up at the municipal dock for the night and continue on to Astoria on Tuesday. Fuel up there and maybe buy a jug of fresh milk. Couple of handfuls of Gravol and I should be ready to go Wednesday morning.
Need to hit the tide right to reduce the ugliness of crossing the Columbia River bar and that means leaving at 3 a.m.
Gots to go sometime.
I have the mainsail rigged with a double reef in it and I will unfurl ½ of the jib as well when I head out into the chuck across the bar under motor. If anything should happen to the motor train during that dicey time I will at least have the sail up when I have my heart attack.
I don’t have my Single Side Band modem hooked up yet so I won’t be able to update this blog during the passage to San Diego. I expect it to take 2 weeks but I have never really sailed this boat before and there are a lot of new things aboard besides me. It might take 3 weeks or 10 days. One needs wind (and not too dang much of it).
I may be able to post from Astoria on the Pacific coast and will try.
Let you know how the river running went.
