Excerpts From Personal Log
So, I thought it might be a good idea to keep a personal log (that's what sailor's get to call their diaries) for a couple of reasons. First of all it will save on power by not having to turn my computer on all the time and the second being that I'll have a physical, weatherproof log of my adventures. Of course I'll still be making posts for you guys and they'll probably all come from the log. Let's start from the beginning.
Feb 1, 2010 14:49
We have finally began our long-awaited venture. Two days ago, we finished what we had deemed to be all of the necessary tasks in order to be a completely independent, seaworthy vessel. And if you've been paying attention, that's been no easy task. After five months of work on the Leeway, she's ready to start on her path.
On the 30th of January, we happily cast off from our very small crowd and set sail for Catalina's Isthmus Cove. I was feeling apprehensive towards our departure choice because the VHF radio had indicated light to no winds in the bay and there was definitely zero wind inside the marina, but Dan insisted on it. It turned out to be a good choice because as we motored out we were freshened by a 10mph northwest breeze that we rode all the way into Two Harbor.
Our first passage was incredibly easy-going due to our newly-charged autopilot. We simply set the course, snapped the autopilot on the tiller, and let it control the boat for the next four hours. While she did all the work, we were able to go up on the bow and enjoy the view. After we arrived we scouted out a spot to drop our hook and put our feet up. For the rest of the night, we ate, drank, and were merry for it was a magnificent start to our Pacific cruise. That beautiful sunset that started this adventure:
The next morning consisted of the usual waking routine: I get up, make coffee, and we drink it and eat cookies. But from there it made a tangent. Next thing I knew, I was in the harbor in a thin wetsuit hammering plugs into our hull. That was the main reason we went to Catalina first: we had to hook up our head (bathroom) and that entailed me jumping in and plugging two of Leeway's through-hulls so Dan could complete the installation. After I suited up, I did the toe dip test to see if I really wanted to go swimming after all. It was a shame that I was going no matter how cold my little toesies got from that dip. As I hopped in the water hammer in hand, tapered plugs in the other, my brain clearly iterated to me what a terrible choice this was. I very quickly hammered in the plugs and climbed out of the water, then Dan went to work on fitting the valves for the head's inlet and outlet holes. I completed one more plunge to yank the plugs out and our head was functional. Afterward, we stocked up on rations and water at the Isthmus Cove's floating dock and started to round Catalina to go south. Our temporary mooring at Isthmus Cove, Catalina:
The winds were pretty light, but we made it past the island while figuring out our watch schedules. As we crossed in front of Avalon Bay, we made our final phone calls before starting our offshore passage. A shot of us sailing on a downwind run parallel to Catalina:
After our calls, be began our watch schedule. I was appointed 1600 to 2000 and 0000 to 0400. My first watch was surely not spent at-ease. While no immediate threats cropped up, we were somewhat near a shipping lane and I had to adjust course using the almost non-existent variable winds. I eventually made a course south that would get us barely (it's enough!) around San Clemente's Pyramid Head (its most southwestern edge). I managed to trim the sails fairly well before Dan got on watch at 2000.
Apparently just as he got on, the wind began winding around to useless angles. He ended up tacking around, not going very far, before handing the helm back off to me at 0000 with a beam reach pointed straight for the middle of San Clemente. I wasn't too pleased with the crash course, so I attempted a few different points of sail in the now, basically non-existent wind. I eventually decided to make a course North around the island using a newfound wind. At about 0230, the wind disappeared and I was left drifting. This is the part of the watch that really lives up to its name. I sat there and watched. I watched the moon rise, I watched the sails slat, I watched the wind vane commit very demoralizing 360 degree turns. At one point during the watch a dolphin came and pointed his dues. I figured he was apologizing for Aeolus and thus my spirits were lifted a bit.
After a about an hour at 0330, the wind picked back up to a measly 4 knots and turned the boat around against my will. It frustratingly turned me completely the wrong direction for my calculated course. But as I sheeted in my jib to gain speed to tack back around, I realized I couldn't have created a better point of sail myself! This accidental low-wind tack put me on a perfect course to make San Clemente's Pyramid Head once again. I handed the helm off at 0400, made Dan a cup of joe, and went to rest in my berth.
When I woke up for my next watch at 0800, it was dead calm. Dan had pulled down all the sails because there wasn't even a puff to fill them. All of today has been spent sitting on the glassy water doing whatever we pleased (except sailing of course). We had been becalmed three days into our voyage. At one point today, we did kick on the diesel to charge the batteries when it unexpectedly died. We went to start checking the fluid levels and realized to had almost no anti-freeze! So we filled her up and motored towards Pyramid Head for an hour. Eventually we cut the engine and have been adrift ever since. The eerie atmosphere I woke to the day we were becalmed north of San Clemente island:
Being becalmed isn't all boredom and sadness, however. The occasional interesting thing does manage to happen. I'll commit these to log in chronological order for history's sake. First we noticed a group of whales off the bow and watched them swim away. The we floated past a kelp raft that had been assimilated by seagulls. And probably the most interesting of the happenings (don't get your hopes up): we were visited by a couple of sunfish. They hung around the boat checking us out for a bit before ever-so-gracefully swimming away (they don't like ham). This is the bird base I spoke of:
22:11
I now stand on watch until Dan's midnight shift relieves me. I am of course once again becalmed, but this time on the other side of San Clemente (we ended up motoring around Pyramid Head). The same wind vane is still spinning its sad, sad spins; except there is a fair-sized swell that bared its teeth once we got out of the lee of San Clemente. So my task now is the try and point this nearly unsteerable (no movement: no steerage) vessel up into the swell to disallow it from propagating a rocking motion in the boat. The main reason for doing this is to allow Dan a good night's (however good you can call 4 hours of sleep). Apparently last night I banged the boat around the whole time and he got practically no sleep.
Thoughts on this watch: the moon has risen from behind the clouds lifting the veil that was upon the wide seas around me. With this, I can much more easily navigate the swells bearing down upon me. I also have realized I feel much more comfortable during this watch than my last. This may simply be chalked up to the fact that I'm not bearing down on an island. But I'd like to think that I'm getting a hang of this sailboat lifestyle.
February 2, 2010 Passage Day 4
05:24
I was awoken for my watch at about 0400 to Dan's hypnotic voice inquiring as to if I was “ready to party”. I tried to slam the snooze button, but Dan didn't appreciate that much. Dan has managed to set the sail to get us making some southerly headway by hoisting up our biggest genoa. It's been pushing us on an almost dead downwind run south southwest. While it isn't always staying completely filled, it's enough to give us a couple of knots in the right direction.
It's been on this watch that I have truly conceptualized how far off the mainland we are. The lighthouses of San Clemente have faded away and all the light left on the horizon is being perpetrated by the moon. It's pretty interesting how it feels. The isolation doesn't make me feel anxious nor sad, but distracted. I haven't been able to read a book in a while, my mind ends up just wandering. But luckily for you guys, I can write. Maybe I've just become a narcissist.
The reason we've decided to take such an offshore passage is tied directly into our mode of power. We are out of season by three months. The normal fall trade winds have tapered out and the coast is full of turbulent winds that are hard, if not impossible, to harness. Dan plotted this offshore course in hopes of finding clearer wind to sail by. The sun should rise from the east pretty soon. The horizon is cluttered with clouds, so it should make for a beautiful sunrise. We'll just have to wait and see.
07:10
This watch is coming along quite fantastically. At about 0700, I altered course back to southeast recalling a forecast for southeastern winds. I figure we may as well go southeast while we can. In order to accomplish this new bearing, I completely my first solo wearabout (downwind tack), which was a wonderful success. I'm now making about 4 knots under jib alone and will probably hoist the main once Dan rises from his slumber. The only negative side to this new heading is the quartering waves. This means the waves are following and hitting the back corner of the boat. Quartering wave situations are the most likely to provoke seasickness. While I have no inkling toward nausea at the moment, it does make for a fairly roily ride.
At once point, Dan mentioned that this was his absolute favorite time to be on watch and now I understand why. You get to view and experience one of the rarest-known parts of the day in complete solitude with nothing around to distract you from it. The transition between night time and twilight is a slow-paced, yet beautiful event. At first you can hardly perceive the difference between the new sun's light and the ambient moonlight. And then, imperceptibly slow, the sky lightens, beginning in the east and it eventually comes to replace the moon's light across the sea. I'm glad to have witnessed such a beautiful event.
14:34
A little listening to our VHF's weather channel has enlightened us of our surrounding meteorological phenomena. Apparently we are in a slow-moving low pressure trough off set by two highs: one in Utah (NE) and one off the coast of San Diego (W). This explains our inability to catch any air; we must have been stuck directly in the middle of the two where all the air is converging and thus becalming us with confused winds. It seems we've now hitched a ride on a nice westerly breeze perpetrated by a high about a thousand miles west of us.
It's pretty interesting to be able to directly observe the local weather patterns and their effects. We are of course much more sensitive to them than most due to our reliance on wind. I can very much see the low pressure system that is currently fueling our sails. There are clouds to the north and east that are much darker than the clouds in the other areas. The wind is flowing directly into them. These clouds look like the water-laden storm clouds of any low pressure system, but we are lucky for the fact that the trough we're in isn't of especially low pressure. They are neither dropping rain nor rattling us around with gale force winds. We seem to have found one that simply gives us a brisk breeze to help us on our southerly way. If we're lucky, since this is a slow moving trough, we may be able to ride on it for quite a while.
February 3, 2010 Passage Day 5
04:20
There has been a major change in plans. Yesterday I noticed our batteries were a bit low two hours before sunset. We have a fair-sized battery bank, so we both figured the meters were malfunctioning (like ever single other meter on this boat). So in order to assess the actual charge, I took a voltmeter to the posts: 11.68V. Way low for any God-loving 12V system on this planet. So we decide it's probably a good idea to kick on the engine to give them some charge before nightfall.
A minute or two after it gets going, it overheats and billows white smoke, a problem we thought we mended yesterday. A hint at the trouble was antifreeze pooling on the galley sole (floor). Upon opening the engine compartment, a battle scene unfolded. Antifreeze had spewed everywhere from a location we still have not been able to ascertain. Now being without an engine on a sailboat isn't exactly the worst thing anyone's been put through. We can still get anywhere we want, but we planned other uses for the diesel as well, such as charging our electrical system. Being without electricity and being completely reliant upon GPS coordinates cannot successfully coincide.
Evaluating the current situation, Dan decides running to port would be the best course of action the closest one being Ensenada, due east. So we set her for an eastern run and end up cranking along at 7.5 knots for an hour. Then, plotting the lat long on the chart, we realized we are approaching the shore far too quickly. We don't want to even get near Ensenada harbor at night; we're unfamiliar with it and it's heavily trafficked. So we decide to implement a very useful tactic for the first time on Leeway: heaving to. This basically means we just use the sails and rudder in conjunction to stall the boat. It provides a stable platform on an unruly sea, requires no attention (tiller is lashed), and gets you no where fast. As dawn approaches, I'll tack through the wind and make a point of sail towards Ensenada.
February 4, 2010 Passage Day 6
11:30
Well yesterday didn't exactly go quite as planned. We made great time getting to the mouth of Bahia de Todos Santos (the bay Ensenada resides in) and that's where the fun ended. As soon as we got the island with our anchorage in sight, the wind died off. We went wing and wing to try and make it around the head of Norte Isla de Todos Santos as darkness closed in. By the time we spotted our desired anchorage, the sun was already resting on the horizon. Sadly, the prospective cove was full of aquacultures. We spotted another cove due south and made a go for it. When we reached the, assumed correct, spot, I dropped the anchor off the bow. It turned out this spot was too deep, leaving our Rocna dangling from the bow with nary a grain of sand to cling to. Having no motor, both the diesel and outboard are shot, complicates the anchoring process dramatically. This is us sporting a wing and wing approach (jib poled out, main sheeted out) and Isla de Toros Santos Norte, respectively:
Dan wanted to make another shot at anchoring, this time closer to shore to seek shallower water. I hoisted the jib back up and we were on a dead beat toward the island. We couldn't beat into the wind well enough, so we tacked back and made another go. By this time, the sun had been long gone and the island loomed only as a large daunting silhouette. Dan signaled me to go to the bow and prepare the anchor to be dropped again. As I was sitting on the bow I grew incredibly disconcerted. My senses were filled a couple of terrible things. The island was now becoming a large black monster of land and this monster's breathing was the destructive sound of waves crashing against its rocky shore. It made me feel terrible. Being one to know when intuition is slapping them in the face, I clambered back into the cockpit to discuss the situation further. We decided to call it off and come up with a different plan for the night. We were in the middle of an unfamiliar, busy harbor at night and knew we only had one choice: head offshore once again.
So we made a course due west out of the bay and that's where we lie now. We were once again becalmed today, so we couldn't make any sort of heading towards Ensenada. We will heave-to once again tonight and head in early in the morning to be sure of our daylight arrival. Here's a snap I took from my kayak the day we were becalmed 10 miles from Bahia de Toros Santos:
We've anchored inside of the harbor now and I'm working up another post. I just felt like I should get this one off just in case I lose connection or some other tragic event occurs.
So, I thought it might be a good idea to keep a personal log (that's what sailor's get to call their diaries) for a couple of reasons. First of all it will save on power by not having to turn my computer on all the time and the second being that I'll have a physical, weatherproof log of my adventures. Of course I'll still be making posts for you guys and they'll probably all come from the log. Let's start from the beginning.
Feb 1, 2010 14:49
We have finally began our long-awaited venture. Two days ago, we finished what we had deemed to be all of the necessary tasks in order to be a completely independent, seaworthy vessel. And if you've been paying attention, that's been no easy task. After five months of work on the Leeway, she's ready to start on her path.
On the 30th of January, we happily cast off from our very small crowd and set sail for Catalina's Isthmus Cove. I was feeling apprehensive towards our departure choice because the VHF radio had indicated light to no winds in the bay and there was definitely zero wind inside the marina, but Dan insisted on it. It turned out to be a good choice because as we motored out we were freshened by a 10mph northwest breeze that we rode all the way into Two Harbor.
Our first passage was incredibly easy-going due to our newly-charged autopilot. We simply set the course, snapped the autopilot on the tiller, and let it control the boat for the next four hours. While she did all the work, we were able to go up on the bow and enjoy the view. After we arrived we scouted out a spot to drop our hook and put our feet up. For the rest of the night, we ate, drank, and were merry for it was a magnificent start to our Pacific cruise. That beautiful sunset that started this adventure:
The next morning consisted of the usual waking routine: I get up, make coffee, and we drink it and eat cookies. But from there it made a tangent. Next thing I knew, I was in the harbor in a thin wetsuit hammering plugs into our hull. That was the main reason we went to Catalina first: we had to hook up our head (bathroom) and that entailed me jumping in and plugging two of Leeway's through-hulls so Dan could complete the installation. After I suited up, I did the toe dip test to see if I really wanted to go swimming after all. It was a shame that I was going no matter how cold my little toesies got from that dip. As I hopped in the water hammer in hand, tapered plugs in the other, my brain clearly iterated to me what a terrible choice this was. I very quickly hammered in the plugs and climbed out of the water, then Dan went to work on fitting the valves for the head's inlet and outlet holes. I completed one more plunge to yank the plugs out and our head was functional. Afterward, we stocked up on rations and water at the Isthmus Cove's floating dock and started to round Catalina to go south. Our temporary mooring at Isthmus Cove, Catalina:
The winds were pretty light, but we made it past the island while figuring out our watch schedules. As we crossed in front of Avalon Bay, we made our final phone calls before starting our offshore passage. A shot of us sailing on a downwind run parallel to Catalina:
After our calls, be began our watch schedule. I was appointed 1600 to 2000 and 0000 to 0400. My first watch was surely not spent at-ease. While no immediate threats cropped up, we were somewhat near a shipping lane and I had to adjust course using the almost non-existent variable winds. I eventually made a course south that would get us barely (it's enough!) around San Clemente's Pyramid Head (its most southwestern edge). I managed to trim the sails fairly well before Dan got on watch at 2000.
Apparently just as he got on, the wind began winding around to useless angles. He ended up tacking around, not going very far, before handing the helm back off to me at 0000 with a beam reach pointed straight for the middle of San Clemente. I wasn't too pleased with the crash course, so I attempted a few different points of sail in the now, basically non-existent wind. I eventually decided to make a course North around the island using a newfound wind. At about 0230, the wind disappeared and I was left drifting. This is the part of the watch that really lives up to its name. I sat there and watched. I watched the moon rise, I watched the sails slat, I watched the wind vane commit very demoralizing 360 degree turns. At one point during the watch a dolphin came and pointed his dues. I figured he was apologizing for Aeolus and thus my spirits were lifted a bit.
After a about an hour at 0330, the wind picked back up to a measly 4 knots and turned the boat around against my will. It frustratingly turned me completely the wrong direction for my calculated course. But as I sheeted in my jib to gain speed to tack back around, I realized I couldn't have created a better point of sail myself! This accidental low-wind tack put me on a perfect course to make San Clemente's Pyramid Head once again. I handed the helm off at 0400, made Dan a cup of joe, and went to rest in my berth.
When I woke up for my next watch at 0800, it was dead calm. Dan had pulled down all the sails because there wasn't even a puff to fill them. All of today has been spent sitting on the glassy water doing whatever we pleased (except sailing of course). We had been becalmed three days into our voyage. At one point today, we did kick on the diesel to charge the batteries when it unexpectedly died. We went to start checking the fluid levels and realized to had almost no anti-freeze! So we filled her up and motored towards Pyramid Head for an hour. Eventually we cut the engine and have been adrift ever since. The eerie atmosphere I woke to the day we were becalmed north of San Clemente island:
Being becalmed isn't all boredom and sadness, however. The occasional interesting thing does manage to happen. I'll commit these to log in chronological order for history's sake. First we noticed a group of whales off the bow and watched them swim away. The we floated past a kelp raft that had been assimilated by seagulls. And probably the most interesting of the happenings (don't get your hopes up): we were visited by a couple of sunfish. They hung around the boat checking us out for a bit before ever-so-gracefully swimming away (they don't like ham). This is the bird base I spoke of:
22:11
I now stand on watch until Dan's midnight shift relieves me. I am of course once again becalmed, but this time on the other side of San Clemente (we ended up motoring around Pyramid Head). The same wind vane is still spinning its sad, sad spins; except there is a fair-sized swell that bared its teeth once we got out of the lee of San Clemente. So my task now is the try and point this nearly unsteerable (no movement: no steerage) vessel up into the swell to disallow it from propagating a rocking motion in the boat. The main reason for doing this is to allow Dan a good night's (however good you can call 4 hours of sleep). Apparently last night I banged the boat around the whole time and he got practically no sleep.
Thoughts on this watch: the moon has risen from behind the clouds lifting the veil that was upon the wide seas around me. With this, I can much more easily navigate the swells bearing down upon me. I also have realized I feel much more comfortable during this watch than my last. This may simply be chalked up to the fact that I'm not bearing down on an island. But I'd like to think that I'm getting a hang of this sailboat lifestyle.
February 2, 2010 Passage Day 4
05:24
I was awoken for my watch at about 0400 to Dan's hypnotic voice inquiring as to if I was “ready to party”. I tried to slam the snooze button, but Dan didn't appreciate that much. Dan has managed to set the sail to get us making some southerly headway by hoisting up our biggest genoa. It's been pushing us on an almost dead downwind run south southwest. While it isn't always staying completely filled, it's enough to give us a couple of knots in the right direction.
It's been on this watch that I have truly conceptualized how far off the mainland we are. The lighthouses of San Clemente have faded away and all the light left on the horizon is being perpetrated by the moon. It's pretty interesting how it feels. The isolation doesn't make me feel anxious nor sad, but distracted. I haven't been able to read a book in a while, my mind ends up just wandering. But luckily for you guys, I can write. Maybe I've just become a narcissist.
The reason we've decided to take such an offshore passage is tied directly into our mode of power. We are out of season by three months. The normal fall trade winds have tapered out and the coast is full of turbulent winds that are hard, if not impossible, to harness. Dan plotted this offshore course in hopes of finding clearer wind to sail by. The sun should rise from the east pretty soon. The horizon is cluttered with clouds, so it should make for a beautiful sunrise. We'll just have to wait and see.
07:10
This watch is coming along quite fantastically. At about 0700, I altered course back to southeast recalling a forecast for southeastern winds. I figure we may as well go southeast while we can. In order to accomplish this new bearing, I completely my first solo wearabout (downwind tack), which was a wonderful success. I'm now making about 4 knots under jib alone and will probably hoist the main once Dan rises from his slumber. The only negative side to this new heading is the quartering waves. This means the waves are following and hitting the back corner of the boat. Quartering wave situations are the most likely to provoke seasickness. While I have no inkling toward nausea at the moment, it does make for a fairly roily ride.
At once point, Dan mentioned that this was his absolute favorite time to be on watch and now I understand why. You get to view and experience one of the rarest-known parts of the day in complete solitude with nothing around to distract you from it. The transition between night time and twilight is a slow-paced, yet beautiful event. At first you can hardly perceive the difference between the new sun's light and the ambient moonlight. And then, imperceptibly slow, the sky lightens, beginning in the east and it eventually comes to replace the moon's light across the sea. I'm glad to have witnessed such a beautiful event.
14:34
A little listening to our VHF's weather channel has enlightened us of our surrounding meteorological phenomena. Apparently we are in a slow-moving low pressure trough off set by two highs: one in Utah (NE) and one off the coast of San Diego (W). This explains our inability to catch any air; we must have been stuck directly in the middle of the two where all the air is converging and thus becalming us with confused winds. It seems we've now hitched a ride on a nice westerly breeze perpetrated by a high about a thousand miles west of us.
It's pretty interesting to be able to directly observe the local weather patterns and their effects. We are of course much more sensitive to them than most due to our reliance on wind. I can very much see the low pressure system that is currently fueling our sails. There are clouds to the north and east that are much darker than the clouds in the other areas. The wind is flowing directly into them. These clouds look like the water-laden storm clouds of any low pressure system, but we are lucky for the fact that the trough we're in isn't of especially low pressure. They are neither dropping rain nor rattling us around with gale force winds. We seem to have found one that simply gives us a brisk breeze to help us on our southerly way. If we're lucky, since this is a slow moving trough, we may be able to ride on it for quite a while.
February 3, 2010 Passage Day 5
04:20
There has been a major change in plans. Yesterday I noticed our batteries were a bit low two hours before sunset. We have a fair-sized battery bank, so we both figured the meters were malfunctioning (like ever single other meter on this boat). So in order to assess the actual charge, I took a voltmeter to the posts: 11.68V. Way low for any God-loving 12V system on this planet. So we decide it's probably a good idea to kick on the engine to give them some charge before nightfall.
A minute or two after it gets going, it overheats and billows white smoke, a problem we thought we mended yesterday. A hint at the trouble was antifreeze pooling on the galley sole (floor). Upon opening the engine compartment, a battle scene unfolded. Antifreeze had spewed everywhere from a location we still have not been able to ascertain. Now being without an engine on a sailboat isn't exactly the worst thing anyone's been put through. We can still get anywhere we want, but we planned other uses for the diesel as well, such as charging our electrical system. Being without electricity and being completely reliant upon GPS coordinates cannot successfully coincide.
Evaluating the current situation, Dan decides running to port would be the best course of action the closest one being Ensenada, due east. So we set her for an eastern run and end up cranking along at 7.5 knots for an hour. Then, plotting the lat long on the chart, we realized we are approaching the shore far too quickly. We don't want to even get near Ensenada harbor at night; we're unfamiliar with it and it's heavily trafficked. So we decide to implement a very useful tactic for the first time on Leeway: heaving to. This basically means we just use the sails and rudder in conjunction to stall the boat. It provides a stable platform on an unruly sea, requires no attention (tiller is lashed), and gets you no where fast. As dawn approaches, I'll tack through the wind and make a point of sail towards Ensenada.
February 4, 2010 Passage Day 6
11:30
Well yesterday didn't exactly go quite as planned. We made great time getting to the mouth of Bahia de Todos Santos (the bay Ensenada resides in) and that's where the fun ended. As soon as we got the island with our anchorage in sight, the wind died off. We went wing and wing to try and make it around the head of Norte Isla de Todos Santos as darkness closed in. By the time we spotted our desired anchorage, the sun was already resting on the horizon. Sadly, the prospective cove was full of aquacultures. We spotted another cove due south and made a go for it. When we reached the, assumed correct, spot, I dropped the anchor off the bow. It turned out this spot was too deep, leaving our Rocna dangling from the bow with nary a grain of sand to cling to. Having no motor, both the diesel and outboard are shot, complicates the anchoring process dramatically. This is us sporting a wing and wing approach (jib poled out, main sheeted out) and Isla de Toros Santos Norte, respectively:
Dan wanted to make another shot at anchoring, this time closer to shore to seek shallower water. I hoisted the jib back up and we were on a dead beat toward the island. We couldn't beat into the wind well enough, so we tacked back and made another go. By this time, the sun had been long gone and the island loomed only as a large daunting silhouette. Dan signaled me to go to the bow and prepare the anchor to be dropped again. As I was sitting on the bow I grew incredibly disconcerted. My senses were filled a couple of terrible things. The island was now becoming a large black monster of land and this monster's breathing was the destructive sound of waves crashing against its rocky shore. It made me feel terrible. Being one to know when intuition is slapping them in the face, I clambered back into the cockpit to discuss the situation further. We decided to call it off and come up with a different plan for the night. We were in the middle of an unfamiliar, busy harbor at night and knew we only had one choice: head offshore once again.
So we made a course due west out of the bay and that's where we lie now. We were once again becalmed today, so we couldn't make any sort of heading towards Ensenada. We will heave-to once again tonight and head in early in the morning to be sure of our daylight arrival. Here's a snap I took from my kayak the day we were becalmed 10 miles from Bahia de Toros Santos:
We've anchored inside of the harbor now and I'm working up another post. I just felt like I should get this one off just in case I lose connection or some other tragic event occurs.
Now *that* is an exciting depature tale.
ReplyDeleteBest of luck with your engine!