Near death of the Punkin Seed

STORM IN PORT SAN LUIS

Sailing is intimidating because of all the things you do not know. There is simply no way to know the weather; and most everyone doesn't know what to do if the weather gets bad. What if the sails rip? What if the mast breaks? What if you go overboard? On a sailboat, the unpredictable is inevitable.
The Punkin Seed's glory days.

Although you can't learn to sail by reading books, it sure is easier to sail once you've compiled a ton of info. One little piece of advice which I knew - but did not follow, and paid consequences for- was how to anchor a dinghy off a pier: set a stern anchor and tie off the bow on a diagonal to the pier, so that the dinghy is kept off the pilings. Problem is, when I arrived at Port San Luis with a storm kicking in, all I could think about was getting onto dry land.

When I had motored into port at midnight, I had thought strange that there were no other boats in the anchorage. The soft lights atop the masts of other boats are a kind sight when anchoring at night in a new harbor, but I would get no such reassurance. In the morning, I still lay alone, except for a brightly painted red boat which lay on the rocks just inside of where I was. It was big and bold, a converted fishing boat which had evidently succumbed to the last storm.

Still, though, I wasn't worried about my sailboat the Raza. The almighty Bruce anchor had 200 feet of scope, giving me a 7:1 ratio on good holding ground. I was worried about my tender the Punkin Seed, the 7ft fiberglass wonder. She didn't have either a stern cleat or a stern anchor, so she'd be at the mercy of the storm. No matter how much I valued my dinghy, the exhaustion from sailing single-handed from Santa Barbara left me uncaring; I just wanted to get away from the 25 knot winds and sheeting rain.

While the wind blew from the northwest, the Punkin Seed lay nicely to the south of the pier, bopping up and down. However, the forecast was for the wind to switch to the southeast, which might be destructive to the dinghy. I went to town to take care of chores and all the things I'd neglected while dealing with the boat. Life is put on the backburner when your boat is on the line.

I had just checked my bank balance and mailbox when I noticed the flags were flying from the opposite direction. I raced my van back to Port San Luis, having to slow down because buckets of water were coming from the sky. Pouring rain, just what I needed. I arrive at the pier, jump out of the car, and squint throught the grey mist, hoping to see a white speck next to the pier: but I see nothing. I ran out to the end of the pier and saw one small corner of the Punkin Seed fighting to stay above the surging water, the rest of it underwater.

Later I realized that the only thing that saved the Punkin Seed from ultimate destruction was that it was underwater; if I had remained above water the swells would have smashed it to bits on the pilings. But at the time, I thought I was witnessing the the last sinking moments of my tender. Two Harbor Patrol guys were cruising by so I asked for their help. They looked at it for awhile but said they couldn't do much.

"Legally, we're not supposed to aid in salvage operations." The bigger guy said half-apologetically.
"A salvage operation? I'm just trying to keep it from sinking."
"Well, I'd say it's a lost cause even if you manage to save it. Whatever you do, don't hurt yourself."

A lost cause? That sure fired me up; I was going to do everything to show those guys that the situation was far from a lost cause. It took me awhile but finally the snagged bow line came unravelled; and I started dragging the submerged dinghy towards the beach. Like a stubborn mule I pulled, the rope cutting into my hands, the elements going crazy all around.

"Punkin Seed! At least I'm going to give you a decent burial!"

I pulled and pulled, the dinghy getting stuck every 10 seconds in the pilings, then finally releasing onto the beach. I pulled it on the sand, and as I stood there drenched and sweaty, I surveyed the damaged. In my opinion, definitely not a lost cause.

A Single-Hander's Log Book

SAILING AROUND POINT CONCEPTION

Monday, November 1st

11:30AM
Sunny blue skies, light offshore winds. A perfect day in Santa Barbara. Matt the Mechanic is the water taxi out to my sailboat, the Raza. "Bro, just look at this weather. You're gonna be fine. Seriously." The forecast is also ideallic: light variable winds until the end of the week. But this is a big deal to me. Single-handing a sailboat up the coast for 120 miles is no light matter, especially for someone who 8 months ago knew nothing about boats.

The learning curve has been intense.

Matt the Mechanic drops me off, and motors away in his dinghy. He waves in farewell, and I wave back, thinking, "I can't believe I'm actually going to do this." But you do whatcha gotta do. So I hoist the mainsail, pull the anchor, and head out to sea.

1:15PM
Westerly breeze 10-11 knots in the Channel, which gives the ocean a slight rustle, but not enough to start whitecaps. At first I head at a bearing of 210 degrees, in a southwesterly direction. Then as I get further offshore the wind swings to the north, and eventually I'm heading to 250 degrees. According to my archaic, early 90s GPS, my speed is about 3.5 knots.

I turn on my VHF radio and listen to the automated weather observations: Anacapa Island NE wind 40 knots with 50 knot gusts. Only 35 miles away it's blowing gale force, while I'm cruising in easy winds. The "Santa Ana" winds are in full effect, blowing hot dry air from the desert towards the ocean. Anacapa Island lies offshore from a valley which funnels and magnifies the offshore winds, creating wind waves up to 4 feet tall. You really don't want to be in the middle of that.

But I'm heading in the opposite direction, towards Point Conception - the "Cape Horn of the Pacific". Santa Ana winds are rare, but they do create mellow conditions around the Point. During normal weather patterns though, the wind howls all day at the Point from the north-west, and together with the large swells and currents also coming from the north-west, makes the task of travelling north-west very difficult. That's why it's taken me a month and a half to finally do this trip; trying to coordinate time off work with brief windows of calm weather was tricky. But when I suddenly had a week off work, and noticed that the Santa Ana winds were blowing, I decided to go for it.

3:30PM
I'm about even with UC Santa Barbara, and 6 miles out to sea. It's taken me two and a half hours to cover the same distance a car drives in 20 minutes. Slow going!

The genoa - the big headsail - is balancing the mainsail perfectly, so that the boat sails straight without having to touch the tiller. Everything has to be just right, the wind speed, the sail trim and size; then you can go into the cabin and make a sandwich, come back and the boat is still on course. Pushing along, bit by bit, with the power of the wind.

6:30PM
The wind died down. I have two choices: motor towards shore and anchor for the night, or just float in the Channel until the wind picks up at dawn. It's one nice thing about being alone. I don't have to feel responsible for someone else's safety or comfort, I can make my own choices - wisely or not! My energy level is very high (though I could fall asleep in an instant), and I don't feel like wasting the time to find an anchorage. I'd heard reports that the boat will make slight headway overnight if you let her drift; or at least, she won't loose ground. I leave my running lights and anchor light on so other boats can see me. So I begin to take down GPS coordinates to make sure I'm not going in the wrong direction. After all, I don't want to get too close to the shipping lanes or oil platforms while I sleep down below.

6:45PM
Latitude: 34d 20.82 N
Longitude: 119d 56.42 W
Wind west 5 knots, sails down (bare poles). Boat is rolling around wildly.

11:00PM
Latitude: 34d 19.65 N
Longitude: 119d 50.15 W
Wind calm. Oil platforms far away. Shipping lanes are at 34d 16.00N so they're still far away.

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Tuesday, November 2nd

1:30AM
Light easterly wind, decent enough for sailing. I feel rested and ready to go. However, my battery is almost dead, since I left the lights and GPS on all night, and the battery hasn't been recharged since before the trip. The only way to charge the batteries on my boat is by plugging into shore power, or running the engine. There is a special battery just for the ignition, so I fire up the Atomic 4, my precious yet fickle engine - motor sail up the coast, until my secondary battery charges up.

WISH LIST: solar panels or wind generator.

3:00AM
Shut down the Atomic 4. Hoist up the genoa, balance the sails under light breeze as best I can, and fall asleep in the cockpit. I'm tired. Wake up every once in awhile to make sure things are Ok, going in the right direction.

7:00AM
The Raza is cruising up the coast on her own. Although we've had our share of arguments in the past, now that we're homeward bound and there's no turning back she's behaving herself quite nicely. As the sun is rising, bringing that magical glow that only dawn reveals, we cruise by the big bright oil platforms, like floating casinos. "Harmony" and "Heritage" are their names, as written in the nautical chart.

Oil being one of the great political issues of our generation, suddenly I'm reminded that today is Election Day! I'll have to really hustle north if I'm going to make it to civilization by this afternoon, and fulfill by democratic obligations. Actually, it's borderline impossible for me to make it, but I still use that as motivation to keep going. I've got to sail north as fast as possible, get my vote out, change my country!

9:30AM
Approaching Cojo Ancorage. This is the point of No Return, the last south-facing beach before Point Conception and the fury of the central coast. Usually, sailboats spend the day at Cojo, wait until midnight when the winds are calmest and motor around the Point. But the buoy reports on the radio tell me it's blowing SSE 5 knots at Conception, a rare blessing. I decide I can't miss this opportunity. Plus, the latest forecast had an abrupt change, saying that the wind on Wednesday (tomorrow) would pick up to a dangerous 15-25knots. I'd have to wait at least a whole other day at Cojo until the weather calmed down. So I went for it.

10:00AM
Just before the Point, the wind dies down. I knew it would pick up again in 1/2 a mile but without sail power I'd spend all day getting there. I crank up the Atomic 4. And it promptly stalls. That's weird. I try it again- it barely starts, then stalls again! What now. My heart is in my throat. We're at a critical point and the Atomic machine is letting me down. Don't quit on me, Number Four! I fire her up again and vrooom! give her full throttle and hope whatever was clogged burns off. It seems to work, after a few huffs & puffs. The Raza is feeling kind today, so far. Knock on wood. Not to say that I couldn't sail all the way north, especially with the current conditions. But given my inexperience I really like to have the Atomic power to fall back on, when the going gets rough.

4:30PM
Slow... slow... so slow. Sailing is so slow. The Raza advanced about 18 nautical miles in 7 hours. Just under 3 knots speed. But it is very beautiful- flocks and flocks of seals swim right by, jumping clear out of the water where the boat's wake makes the surface glassy. As the sun is about to set, the sky becomes littered with wispy clouds, indicating high altitute wind. Though it is glassy calm right now, the wispy clouds tell me that tomorrow the wind will be tooting. The automated weather forecasts have changed throughout the day, gradually predicting that the conditions on Wednesday (tomorrow) will be worse and worse. From "a chance of showers", to "likely thunderstorms, 30 knot winds, 12 foot seas". Now the mission isn't to arrive in time to vote; it's to find safe harbor before the storm. The sunset lights up the clouds, both mesmerizing beauty and a reminder of tomorrow's violent seas.

The anxiety begins the build. Decisions need to be made... I have three choice of anchorage. The closest is Point Sal, 5 miles away, next to Vandenburg Airforce Base; there is no harbor or protected waters, so it'd be a sketchy anchorage at best. The next anchorage is at Port San Luis, 16 miles away; they have a harbor patrol, 3 piers, and I'd be close to home. The final choice would be Morro Bay, my destination 31 miles away; but I ruled out the chances of getting there without total exhaustion. Different parts of me wanted different things. My adventurous part wanted Point Sal, because it was unexplored territory (inaccesible by the public) and it was the closest- my energy level was pretty shot already. I always have to consider the possibility that the motor might fail at any moment. My sensible part wanted Port San Luis, guaranteed safety and ability to go into town if needed. And my grumpy part, which was getting tired of dealing with this boat saga, wanted Morro Bay so I could get all this out of the way. Between watching the amazing sunset and listening to the storm forecast, I debated my options.

As luck would have it, by the time I got to Point Sal darkness was complete; and there was no way I'd try to anchor in pitch black, if I could avoid it. Though it was tempting, I discounted that option, thank goodness, for the storm which came was fiercer than all the forecasts. As I set my course for Port San Luis, I looked at the glowing lights at Vandenburg Airforce Base. The missile silos, warehouses, and landing strips were ringed in lights like the bonfires of an invading army.

7:00PM
The wind is calm, I rely completely on the Atomic to get me to the harbor. I give up worrying about whether or not I'll arrive. I'm tired of stressing out. The storm will come; I will do my best to reach safety; if I get caught in it then I'll deal with it. The Atomic feels really solid though, kicking forth like a young buck. When the smells of the home port mix with an approaching storm, the engine finds its gallop.


1:00AM
The moon rose like a yellow serpent's eye behind the mountains. I stare at it, transfixed, as the hours roll by, running on caffeine and adrenalin. Finally I pull into the harbor, weaving through the red and green indicator lights.

"Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, come in, Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, this is the Raza. Over."
I don't know where I was going in this dark harbor. Minutes roll by before I get a response.
"This is Port San Luis Harbor Security. Come in vessel Raza. Over."
It's great to hear a voice to guide me into safety, as the cold wind is already strengthening. The Harbor Security tells me to anchor between the steel and wooden piers. There's no boats nearby, so it's hard to judge where to anchor. I bring out my jury-rigged depth sounder and find a safe depth of 30 feet, toss the anchor, make sure it's set, and close the hatches.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh........

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Thank you Raza.

Thank you Atomic.

Thank you wind and sea.

Thank you warm blanket and multiple pillows that I curl up into, and sleep soundly until the rain starts hitting in the morning.