Any time you want an adrenaline rush, try bringing a boat into the Gate at night in dense fog. Both of us were up from four a.m. to six, monitoring the radar and talking on the VHF with other vessels and Traffic Service. A huge freighter and a container ship passed half a mile away, and we couldn't see any of their lights. Couldn't even see the bright light of the Point Bonita Lighthouse. All we saw were green blobs on the radar screen. We marveled that anyone would sail a boat without radar, yet we heard on the VHF a freighter telling a sailboat to get out of its way; the sailboat had no radar and was about to cross right in front of the freighter.
We had no problem dodging vessels and buoys; the problem was going to be getting under the bridge. On radar, a bridge looks like a solid wall; you can't tell the towers from the rest of the bridge. Rather than risk a collision, we decided to duck into Bonita Cove and drop anchor until the sun came up and the fog lifted. There appeared to be one or two other boats in there.
As soon as we were anchored, Roy took a much-needed nap (he'd been up since two a.m.), while I kept watch and rang the bell. Once, I heard a motorboat coming straight towards us. I blew the horn. He swerved and passed 50 feet away.
The fog was still thick after breakfast, so Roy changed the oil, and I updated the log. We laughed at the irony of completing a
3000-mile trip by being fog-bound 10 miles from home.
On the VHF, the Coast Guard announced that the "Good News" was abandoned and adrift. They gave the coordinates to warn vessels not to bump into it, but that also means anyone can go out there and claim it as salvage.
We sat at Bonita Cove for more than six hours, waiting for the fog to lift. By noon, we had one-eighth of a mile of visibility, so we decided to try it. Slowly and carefully, we eased out of the cove and under the bridge, following a Coast Guard boat. By the time we were abreast of Angel Island, the sun was shining, the sky was bright blue, the fog was behind us. A zillion sailboats glided about, exulting in the glorious day.
We reached Marina Bay around three o'clock. Rita Coy waved to us from a rowboat. We're home again, safe and sound! We've traveled 3425 miles to Alaska and back, and I didn't get seasick once! We've experienced some exciting adventures. We've seen some magnificent scenery. Best of all, we've enjoyed each other's companionship. Surely, we're among the most fortunate people on earth.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Saturday, October 10, 1992 - On way to San Francisco
Perfect day! Clear blue sky, warm sun, calm water. We left Fort Bragg shortly after six, just as a huge orange moon was setting directly in front of us. At first, we thought it was the rising sun, but then we realized we were facing west, not east.
Motored leisurely down the coast all day, enjoying the scenery. Cleared Point Arena precisely at noon, and Roy told me about his diving days there. A big hotel has been built at Arena Cove since Roy was last there.
Passed Fort Ross just before sunset. The full moon was rising in the east just as the sun was setting in the west. We're going to have another beautiful moonlit night. The deep red of sunset suffused the entire western sky, while the moon cast a silver path across the water to the east. The air was so clear that we could see the bright light at Point Reyes 25 miles away! This made setting a course very simple.
We had planned on spending the night in Drake's Bay, but the weather was so beautiful, we decided to keep going. Figured we'd be knocking at the Gate shortly before dawn.
A little after midnight, we reached Point Reyes -- and immediately plunged into pea soup. The light we had seen so clearly 25 miles away was completely invisible at a distance of one mile.
Motored leisurely down the coast all day, enjoying the scenery. Cleared Point Arena precisely at noon, and Roy told me about his diving days there. A big hotel has been built at Arena Cove since Roy was last there.
Passed Fort Ross just before sunset. The full moon was rising in the east just as the sun was setting in the west. We're going to have another beautiful moonlit night. The deep red of sunset suffused the entire western sky, while the moon cast a silver path across the water to the east. The air was so clear that we could see the bright light at Point Reyes 25 miles away! This made setting a course very simple.
We had planned on spending the night in Drake's Bay, but the weather was so beautiful, we decided to keep going. Figured we'd be knocking at the Gate shortly before dawn.
A little after midnight, we reached Point Reyes -- and immediately plunged into pea soup. The light we had seen so clearly 25 miles away was completely invisible at a distance of one mile.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Friday, October 9, 1992 - Fort Bragg, CA
Beautiful day. Calm and sunny. We stayed close to shore to enjoy the scenery and stay out of the high winds.
Farther out, the gale was still raging. Around 3:30, we heard a man on the VHF radio, talking with the Humboldt Bay Coast Guard. He sounded young and scared. He was single-handing a small trimaran, 45 miles west of Fort Bragg. He said the wind was blowing 35 and 40 knots, and huge waves were tossing his boat around like crazy. It had been going on all night and all day. He had a sea anchor out and a small stormsail. We really felt for him, especially after what we'd been through last night. But he's in far greater danger than we were. He's all alone, 45 miles from land, in a flimsy trimaran instead of a sturdy, sea-worthy, full-keeled ketch. The Jofian could take the weather he's in; a trimaran can't. Trimarans are fine on a lake, where it doesn't matter if you flip over; they don't belong on the ocean. But the guy wasn't asking for rescue; he mainly wanted to know when the wind was going to let up. He said he'd listened to the weather forecast, and there hadn't been any mention of anything like the stuff he was in. The Coast Guard couldn't tell him when the weather would improve. They told him to contact them again in three hours.
Then the skipper of the "Magic Carpet" came on (one of the sailors we'd heard yesterday). He spoke to him reassuringly. Told him to eat some hot soup and let the wind carry him in towards shore, where it was calm. He also told him to contact him on the VHF any time he wanted to talk with someone.
A fisherman came on (probably the same one I talked with yesterday) and told him the wind wasn't going to die down; it was always rough in that area and two or three boats a year were lost out there. Nothing like cheering the kid up.
Ironically, the name of the trimaran was "Good News".
We soon arrived at Fort Bragg. The entrance to the Noyo River was narrow and tricky but not rough. It would be a mess in a strong westerly, though.
We took one look at the marina and decided not to go into it. It looked crowded and small, with no room to turn around. On the other side of the river was a nice, long float, with only one boat tied to it, so we tied up there, even though we figured it was private. There weren't any "No Trespassing" signs.
When we walked through the gate, we saw a sign that said the dock belonged to the Noyo Fishing Center, which was just across the street but was closed.
We bought some snapper at a nearby fish store and took it back to the boat. As we were getting on the boat, we heard the loudspeaker at the Coast Guard station across the river broadcasting another trans-
mission from the guy on the "Good News", so we quickly turned on our VHF. It was nearly six o'clock, and he was ready to be rescued. He said, "I want to get out of this while I'm still alive." He sounded about ready to cry. He was poorly equipped for a sea voyage; he didn't have a life-raft or an EPIRB, but at least he had a GPS, so he was able to tell the Coast Guard his exact location. What a wonderful invention the GPS is! He also had a wet-suit, so the Coast Guard told him to put it on.
Roy and I walked out to the end of the jetty and watched a couple of SCUBA divers going in the water. It was dark when we got back to the boat. There was a man on the dock cleaning fish. He worked for the Noyo Fish Center, so we asked him for the name and home phone number of the owner. He gave them to us, and Roy phoned him to ask permission to stay overnight.
I listened to the VHF while I fixed supper. The SAR (Search and Rescue) helicopter was ten miles from the "Good News". I could hear the transmission between the two loud and clear. The helicopter had its landing lights on, and the trimaran had its mast lights on. In a few minutes, the helicopter pilot could see the "Good News". He told the guy to put on his wet-suit and PFD and to take off his weight belt. The young man on the "Good News" did as he was told, but he said his PFD (Personal Flotation Device) wasn't inflated. The pilot told him to inflate it and be ready to jump in the water when told to do so. The helicopter lowered a basket and a rescue swimmer. The swimmer swam over to the "Good News", told the guy to jump in the water, and helped him get in the basket. Then the basket was pulled back up to the helicopter. Having watched the Search and Rescue demonstration at Port Angeles, I could clearly visualize the entire operation.
Roy and I were very happy the sea drama had reached a successful conclusion. And we had permission to stay at the dock.
Farther out, the gale was still raging. Around 3:30, we heard a man on the VHF radio, talking with the Humboldt Bay Coast Guard. He sounded young and scared. He was single-handing a small trimaran, 45 miles west of Fort Bragg. He said the wind was blowing 35 and 40 knots, and huge waves were tossing his boat around like crazy. It had been going on all night and all day. He had a sea anchor out and a small stormsail. We really felt for him, especially after what we'd been through last night. But he's in far greater danger than we were. He's all alone, 45 miles from land, in a flimsy trimaran instead of a sturdy, sea-worthy, full-keeled ketch. The Jofian could take the weather he's in; a trimaran can't. Trimarans are fine on a lake, where it doesn't matter if you flip over; they don't belong on the ocean. But the guy wasn't asking for rescue; he mainly wanted to know when the wind was going to let up. He said he'd listened to the weather forecast, and there hadn't been any mention of anything like the stuff he was in. The Coast Guard couldn't tell him when the weather would improve. They told him to contact them again in three hours.
Then the skipper of the "Magic Carpet" came on (one of the sailors we'd heard yesterday). He spoke to him reassuringly. Told him to eat some hot soup and let the wind carry him in towards shore, where it was calm. He also told him to contact him on the VHF any time he wanted to talk with someone.
A fisherman came on (probably the same one I talked with yesterday) and told him the wind wasn't going to die down; it was always rough in that area and two or three boats a year were lost out there. Nothing like cheering the kid up.
Ironically, the name of the trimaran was "Good News".
We soon arrived at Fort Bragg. The entrance to the Noyo River was narrow and tricky but not rough. It would be a mess in a strong westerly, though.
We took one look at the marina and decided not to go into it. It looked crowded and small, with no room to turn around. On the other side of the river was a nice, long float, with only one boat tied to it, so we tied up there, even though we figured it was private. There weren't any "No Trespassing" signs.
When we walked through the gate, we saw a sign that said the dock belonged to the Noyo Fishing Center, which was just across the street but was closed.
We bought some snapper at a nearby fish store and took it back to the boat. As we were getting on the boat, we heard the loudspeaker at the Coast Guard station across the river broadcasting another trans-
mission from the guy on the "Good News", so we quickly turned on our VHF. It was nearly six o'clock, and he was ready to be rescued. He said, "I want to get out of this while I'm still alive." He sounded about ready to cry. He was poorly equipped for a sea voyage; he didn't have a life-raft or an EPIRB, but at least he had a GPS, so he was able to tell the Coast Guard his exact location. What a wonderful invention the GPS is! He also had a wet-suit, so the Coast Guard told him to put it on.
Roy and I walked out to the end of the jetty and watched a couple of SCUBA divers going in the water. It was dark when we got back to the boat. There was a man on the dock cleaning fish. He worked for the Noyo Fish Center, so we asked him for the name and home phone number of the owner. He gave them to us, and Roy phoned him to ask permission to stay overnight.
I listened to the VHF while I fixed supper. The SAR (Search and Rescue) helicopter was ten miles from the "Good News". I could hear the transmission between the two loud and clear. The helicopter had its landing lights on, and the trimaran had its mast lights on. In a few minutes, the helicopter pilot could see the "Good News". He told the guy to put on his wet-suit and PFD and to take off his weight belt. The young man on the "Good News" did as he was told, but he said his PFD (Personal Flotation Device) wasn't inflated. The pilot told him to inflate it and be ready to jump in the water when told to do so. The helicopter lowered a basket and a rescue swimmer. The swimmer swam over to the "Good News", told the guy to jump in the water, and helped him get in the basket. Then the basket was pulled back up to the helicopter. Having watched the Search and Rescue demonstration at Port Angeles, I could clearly visualize the entire operation.
Roy and I were very happy the sea drama had reached a successful conclusion. And we had permission to stay at the dock.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Thursday, October 8, 1992 - Shelter Cove, CA
Lost our calm water overnight, but the wind and waves are in back of us, so we're still zooming south.
Debated going into Eureka, but the forecast was favorable, so we continued south, sailing nicely wing-and-wing.
Passed Cape Mendocino around five p.m. in dense fog. Good thing the radar works. By then, the wind was howling at 30 to 40 knots, despite the prediction of 10 to 20 knots, and the waves were really kicking up. Worst of all were the huge swells from the west. When they went under the boat, Jofian tilted first one way, then the other, and slipped around all over the place. Guess we should have gone into Eureka, but there's no turning back now; we can only go where the wind takes us.
We heard some other sailboaters talking on the VHF. One was safe at Fort Bragg, but the other was taking a pounding off Point Delgado. She said the wind was blowing 40 knots and the waves were horrendous. So much for weather forecasts. A fisherman came on and advised them to go into Shelter Cove, but they had already passed it, so they had no choice but to go on and hope for the best. The fisherman said that Punta Gorda (where we were heading) was always the worst place on the entire coast.
We were sailing under reefed main and reefed headsail, doing 7 to 8 knots and sliding off the tops of waves at 10 knots. I was struggling to hold our course between 120 degrees and 150 degrees, but even with a spread of 30 degrees, I couldn't hold it when the swells hit, and then Roy had to get us back on course; I didn't have the strength.
Roy started the engine and then went out in the gale to take in the main. That's easy to write, but it was a half-hour struggle. He also pulled in all but a couple of feet of the headsail. This made steering much, much easier, so I was able to more or less hold the course.
By now, it was nighttime. The fog lifted and a brilliant moon lighted our way. We zoomed past Punta Gorda in howling winds and wild waves. Roy wisely decided to head for Shelter Cove, 20 miles southeast of us. It was after midnight when we got there and dropped anchor in 48 feet of water. Boy, did it feel good to be out of the wind and waves! We ate a bowl of soup for supper and went right to sleep.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Wednesday, October 7, 1992 - California
Lovely, calm, sunny morning. The ocean couldn't be any flatter. No waves, not even a ripple. Of course, that means no wind for sailing, but that's ok; we zipped along under power.
In the afternoon, there were a few ripples. Roy put out the main and headsail, wing-and-wing, but we used the engine, too. We're back in California!
We had planned on going to Crescent City, but the weather's so beautiful that we decided to keep going.
We heard some other sailboaters chatting on the VHF. Most of them are doing what we're doing: taking advantage of the good weather by continuing south.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Tuesday, October 6, 1992 - Coos Bay, OR
Another clear, sunny, beautiful day. A very nice man, Bob Carman, came by to visit. He lives on his 38-foot sailboat, the Ka'u, on Dock 8. He's a captain and delivers boats all over the world. We enjoyed a pleasant chat. He's in the Coast Guard Auxiliary and spends a lot of time at the Coast Guard station. He told us one or two boats a year are lost crossing the bar.
We had a hard time deciding whether to go or stay. This is a lovely place. We'd have liked to ride our bikes around and to walk along the beach, but we need to be getting back to Richmond, so we finally decided to go down to Coos Bay. That's less than 20 miles, but it's that much closer to home.
The afternoon turned out to be absolutely beautiful. We were able to turn off the engine and sail with the main and headsail wing-to-
wing. It was so quiet and peaceful. We made four to five knots. Reached Coos Bay a little after six.
The Coast Guard were Johnny-on-the-spot. We'd scarcely gotten two throw lines attached to the dock -- hadn't even turned off the engine -- when two Coasties were there wanting to board. They were very nice. They checked our registration, life-jackets, flares, placards, VHF license, etc., but they didn't inspect the boat. We passed with flying colors.
After supper, we walked to a little store and bought some vegetables.
There are good showers here, too. You get a long three minutes for 25 cents.
The weather outlook is favorable for several days.
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