The very first day I arrived in Morro Bay, I just threw my 33lb Bruce anchor down, let out a bunch of scope, and hoped for the best. The following morning, the fat hairy owner of the trimaran next door came over, and advised: "Hey kid, one hook isn't enough in the bay. You need at least two." That began my ordeal to find the perfect anchoring system.
The tides in the bay are very strong, running like a river at times. The tide changes four times a day, so expecting an anchor to reset four times daily isn't exactly the best gamble. So I asked fisherman Jim, who was going by in his dinghy, where I could get another big anchor for cheap. "Well," he replied, "I've got a kedge that'll hold you good. I'll sell it at a buck a pound. 42 pounds, 42 dollars."
It was rusty and awful, but it was the right price, and plus the fisherman would help me set it properly. So we dropped it 180 degrees opposite of my Bruce. That is, whereas the Bruce was lying to the north, the kedge was set to the south, so that one of the anchors would be taught with every tidal swing.
Soon though, the two lines got tangled up on each other. It was clear I needed a swivel to keep them unravelled. I thought, if I'm gonna do it, I might as well do it right. I wanted to set up a semi-permanent system with a mooring ball so I wouldn't have to pull anchor every time I motored to the dock to re-supply. That's a hassle and a headache I wanted to avoid.
I'd heard a 3 anchor system is the most bombproof system possible, with each anchor lying 120 degrees to one another. I already had two small Danforths (14lbs and 18lbs), and I figured I'd use the kedge as the third anchor. They'd attach to a swivel, and come up to a mooring ball, which I'd tie off to my bow cleat. The Bruce would just stay on my bow, for use while cruising.
The system worked great. I left the country for a month and the boat didn't move an inch (thank God!). A week and a half after I returned from travelling, I woke up at dawn to take a pee, and freaked out! my boat had drifted 30 yards. Oh nightmare. The kedge anchor had dragged overnight, with the super strong tidal pull from the full moon. For a month the boat was getting battered by gusty winds, and it had stayed put; now on a calm night, just when I was returned to the boat, it dragged. How amazing was the timing.
I pulled the kedge up- turns out it had fouled on itself. That is one of the disadvantages of a kedge anchor- each sharp fluke has the potential to snag the chain and render the anchor useless.
I dropped it in again- within three days the same anchor dragged. My boat had drifted up against the dry mudflat. Just to think it could have easily drifted into another boat instead. Ahh! Turns out the kedge anchor fouled again - this time on some junk on the seafloor. The issue had to be fixed ASAP.
I hired the services of a local handyman, a resident liveaboard in the bay. Soon I learned that he was an ex-convict, and reportedly not the most stable kind of guy. But we had a good agreement- he really needed the money, and I couldn't afford anyone else. He was cool- as long as he had a stash of tobacco to work with, then he did accomplish a fair bit.
We decided the line on each anchor segment wasn't taught enough - 100 feet three ways - so we pulled them all up, and sorted the anchor rode out. The excess slack on the lines had gathered up a lot of junk - seaweed, trash, and of course jumbled-up knots on the line. It was hard work sorting it out.
When we had them cleared, and it came time to drop them, the handyman used a neat technique: run a line through the head of the second anchor, drop the first one, then pay out the line on anchor two until both anchors were taught- then pull the line through and let anchor two drop. This way both anchor lines are almost horizontal on the seafloor - the swivel between them - and a line coming up vertically from the swivel to tie off the boat. This means the holding power of each anchor is increased.
Instead of using three anchors, we used two, for simplicity sake. I bought a new 35lb Danforth to substitute the two small Danforths. Hence, the big Danforth and the big kedge lie 180 degrees to each other, one to the north and one to the south. They're connected to a swivel, which runs up to a mooring ball, so I can leave and come back to the mooring ball quite easily. The other two light-weight Danforths I now keep aboard as stern/backup anchors, the Bruce on the bow. Ufa! more anchors than I care to deal with!
Throughout all the intense storms we've had in California this winter, I've had this latest system with two anchors and a swivel, and the boat hasn't budged an inch. Knock on wood three times. I hope it stays that way!
Reference: Chapman's Piloting - Seamanship & Small Boat Handling. This classic book has descriptions of different anchor systems, including the three point and two point semi-permanent anchor/moorings I've tried.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Boat Life: ....and the rain ended.
For five days, the rain and wind hammered the California coast. Occasionally some sunlight filtered in, but the gusty wind was unrelenting. Six inches or more fell on the already saturated ground, creating mudslides along Big Sur, and more tragically, La Conchita. Every day the newspapers had another terrible story. Every day my boat was still in the same place, and I'd think "Miracle!"
I hadn't gone out to my boat since the start of the heavy rain. Since I'd get soaked anyway, it just wasn't worth it; I'd usually just sleep in my van. Having an alternative residence is important when your boat is getting blown around the wind-swept bay. My van is quite comfortable actually; it's a 1992 Plymouth Voyager, a "soccer mom" vehicle converted to a "surf bum" mobile. My quiver of 4 boards is strapped to the roof, secured by cable locks, and occasionally my mountain bike hangs off the back. Besides the driver and passenger seats, all the seats were removed, and in their place was assembled a very comfortable double bed. Read more about it in My Surf Mobile (coming soon).
Although I'm sure other boat owners are also concerned about their vessels, I have good reason to worry. Whereas most people in the bay have their boats tied to a mooring, I have mine hooked to a set of anchors. For those who don't know, a mooring is a very heavy weight (a half ton or more) which keeps the boat from moving. My anchors are much less bomb-proof. I have a little technical run down at Anchoring in Morro Bay (coming soon). Suffice it to say that my first two attempts to anchor were piss-poor; I'd wake up in the morning and my boat was butted up on the dry mudflats.
For my third attempt, I recruited the services of a local boat handyman; trying to collect bits and pieces of information from guys hanging around the docks just wasn't going to cut it anymore. Turns out my handyman was an ex-convict who had just gotten out of jail, and who was happy so long as his tabacco stash was plentiful. But he wasn't just any ex-con, he was my ex-con, and he was helping me secure my boat. And it worked! That was back in August, and the anchors haven't budged an inch all winter.
Nevertheless, the other night I had a dream my boat had sunk. I'm sure my sailors have this dream. In the dream, I had tied my boat to the dock, and the wave action had become so vigorous it overwhelmed the boat. When I woke up I reassured myself I never leave my boat on the dock. Funny enough, the dock seems like the safest place to keep a boat, but in Morro Bay the storms can create little waves that bang against your boat, bang, bang, bang, and eventually stuff breaks. When the storm is approaching, people ask me, "Why don't you get a slip just to be comfortable?". But it's more comfortable to be afloat that tied up to a rigid object like a dock during a storm.
Actually, I heard of one guy who's boat sank this winter while it lying in the slip. It got so banged up it began to take in water, and that was it. The Raza remains though, happily afloat right next to the Bird Sanctuary. When the blue sky came back I rowed the Punkin Seed out. I wasn't sure if the cabin would be soaked inside, but I guess I learned something from the previous storm: get rid of the carpets, move the sheets and towels out of the way, and let the water flow down into the bilge. Don't obstruct the work of gravity. I opened the hatches and lit up some incense, to eliminate the damp odors. I sat out in the cockpit, book in hand, under the sunny skies, and I thought, "Wow, I feel quite warm. Almost hot." That's the beauty of winter in California. So long as the rain is gone (despite it being January) there'll still be moments when sun-bathing seems entirely reasonable.
I hadn't gone out to my boat since the start of the heavy rain. Since I'd get soaked anyway, it just wasn't worth it; I'd usually just sleep in my van. Having an alternative residence is important when your boat is getting blown around the wind-swept bay. My van is quite comfortable actually; it's a 1992 Plymouth Voyager, a "soccer mom" vehicle converted to a "surf bum" mobile. My quiver of 4 boards is strapped to the roof, secured by cable locks, and occasionally my mountain bike hangs off the back. Besides the driver and passenger seats, all the seats were removed, and in their place was assembled a very comfortable double bed. Read more about it in My Surf Mobile (coming soon).
Although I'm sure other boat owners are also concerned about their vessels, I have good reason to worry. Whereas most people in the bay have their boats tied to a mooring, I have mine hooked to a set of anchors. For those who don't know, a mooring is a very heavy weight (a half ton or more) which keeps the boat from moving. My anchors are much less bomb-proof. I have a little technical run down at Anchoring in Morro Bay (coming soon). Suffice it to say that my first two attempts to anchor were piss-poor; I'd wake up in the morning and my boat was butted up on the dry mudflats.
For my third attempt, I recruited the services of a local boat handyman; trying to collect bits and pieces of information from guys hanging around the docks just wasn't going to cut it anymore. Turns out my handyman was an ex-convict who had just gotten out of jail, and who was happy so long as his tabacco stash was plentiful. But he wasn't just any ex-con, he was my ex-con, and he was helping me secure my boat. And it worked! That was back in August, and the anchors haven't budged an inch all winter.
Nevertheless, the other night I had a dream my boat had sunk. I'm sure my sailors have this dream. In the dream, I had tied my boat to the dock, and the wave action had become so vigorous it overwhelmed the boat. When I woke up I reassured myself I never leave my boat on the dock. Funny enough, the dock seems like the safest place to keep a boat, but in Morro Bay the storms can create little waves that bang against your boat, bang, bang, bang, and eventually stuff breaks. When the storm is approaching, people ask me, "Why don't you get a slip just to be comfortable?". But it's more comfortable to be afloat that tied up to a rigid object like a dock during a storm.
Actually, I heard of one guy who's boat sank this winter while it lying in the slip. It got so banged up it began to take in water, and that was it. The Raza remains though, happily afloat right next to the Bird Sanctuary. When the blue sky came back I rowed the Punkin Seed out. I wasn't sure if the cabin would be soaked inside, but I guess I learned something from the previous storm: get rid of the carpets, move the sheets and towels out of the way, and let the water flow down into the bilge. Don't obstruct the work of gravity. I opened the hatches and lit up some incense, to eliminate the damp odors. I sat out in the cockpit, book in hand, under the sunny skies, and I thought, "Wow, I feel quite warm. Almost hot." That's the beauty of winter in California. So long as the rain is gone (despite it being January) there'll still be moments when sun-bathing seems entirely reasonable.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Holding the Boat, 3
January 7th. Friday morning.
The wind starts kicking in strong around 2:00AM. The noises keep me awake. Halyard lines slapping on the mast; the magnified drumming of rain on the deck; the water slurping and gushing around the boat.
I get out of my cocoon-bed every so often, and shine the flashlight on the anchor line. Looks solid. The wind buffets my hair, fine shards of rain hit me horizontally. I shine the light beam on the other boats- they're still the same distance from me as before. Good, go back to sleep.
The bed in my v-berth is so cozy. It's called a v-berth because it's at the front of the boat, shaped like a "V". Two massive duna blankets cover the bed, riding up the walls from their sheer breadth. I tuck them underneath me, to keep the blankets from moistening; the condensation which comes off the walls, in droplets of water, must be kept at bay.
I wipe the wall down with a towel I keep handy, and feel the water rushing by outside. It's weird, I'm actually sleeping just below the waterline. The steady trickling sounds, the slight tremor effect, and the actual condensation, all make me feel like I'm sleeping inside a waterfall. A very cozy, protected shell in a waterfall.
8:00AM. I put on my snowboard jacket and stick my head outside the companionway. The wind is frantic, gusting hard like it needs to be somewhere in a hurry. The rain is light but prickly, the clouds are black and grey. It feels very... raw. I like it.
I heat up some milk for my oatmeal. The stove is slightly angled, but fairly stable. Inside the boat it is remarkably calm, actually, even though the storm is hitting full strength. If I were at sea it would be a different story. But the bay has swell or waves to toss the boat around; and the tidal movement tends to keep the boat very solid. Like a piece of log stuck in a fast-flowing river, the boat is held taught against the anchor, allowing little sideways motion.
I'm very grateful for this. However, the only reason it's so stable is because the tide can be terribly strong. When it comes time to row my dinghy back to shore, I realize both the tide and the wind are going in the same direction. Whereas usually I make a bee-line for the beach, this time I was swept me down several hundred yards. Every effort to row harder was countered by a stronger gust, or a more violent tidal push.
Just as I was reaching the muddy beach, the rain started to come down in sheets. Pounding rain. I was a drenched puppy,
but I was warm. Actually, I was sweating, as I dragged the dinghy along the water's edge, making slow progress towards my "parking spot". After I had everything tied up, and was sheltered under a tree, I looked out at the bay: it was choppy, muddy, and insane looking. I wouldn't even consider paddling back out!
I felt fine about leaving my boat now. It just sat there calmly, taking the storm's punches with an unflinching expression. The chaffing gear around the anchor line was holding up; the anchor wasn't dragging. I'd keep an eye on it for the next few days, but while it's raining cats and dogs, I think I'll stay on shore.
The wind starts kicking in strong around 2:00AM. The noises keep me awake. Halyard lines slapping on the mast; the magnified drumming of rain on the deck; the water slurping and gushing around the boat.
I get out of my cocoon-bed every so often, and shine the flashlight on the anchor line. Looks solid. The wind buffets my hair, fine shards of rain hit me horizontally. I shine the light beam on the other boats- they're still the same distance from me as before. Good, go back to sleep.
The bed in my v-berth is so cozy. It's called a v-berth because it's at the front of the boat, shaped like a "V". Two massive duna blankets cover the bed, riding up the walls from their sheer breadth. I tuck them underneath me, to keep the blankets from moistening; the condensation which comes off the walls, in droplets of water, must be kept at bay.
I wipe the wall down with a towel I keep handy, and feel the water rushing by outside. It's weird, I'm actually sleeping just below the waterline. The steady trickling sounds, the slight tremor effect, and the actual condensation, all make me feel like I'm sleeping inside a waterfall. A very cozy, protected shell in a waterfall.
8:00AM. I put on my snowboard jacket and stick my head outside the companionway. The wind is frantic, gusting hard like it needs to be somewhere in a hurry. The rain is light but prickly, the clouds are black and grey. It feels very... raw. I like it.
I heat up some milk for my oatmeal. The stove is slightly angled, but fairly stable. Inside the boat it is remarkably calm, actually, even though the storm is hitting full strength. If I were at sea it would be a different story. But the bay has swell or waves to toss the boat around; and the tidal movement tends to keep the boat very solid. Like a piece of log stuck in a fast-flowing river, the boat is held taught against the anchor, allowing little sideways motion.
I'm very grateful for this. However, the only reason it's so stable is because the tide can be terribly strong. When it comes time to row my dinghy back to shore, I realize both the tide and the wind are going in the same direction. Whereas usually I make a bee-line for the beach, this time I was swept me down several hundred yards. Every effort to row harder was countered by a stronger gust, or a more violent tidal push.
Just as I was reaching the muddy beach, the rain started to come down in sheets. Pounding rain. I was a drenched puppy,
but I was warm. Actually, I was sweating, as I dragged the dinghy along the water's edge, making slow progress towards my "parking spot". After I had everything tied up, and was sheltered under a tree, I looked out at the bay: it was choppy, muddy, and insane looking. I wouldn't even consider paddling back out!
I felt fine about leaving my boat now. It just sat there calmly, taking the storm's punches with an unflinching expression. The chaffing gear around the anchor line was holding up; the anchor wasn't dragging. I'd keep an eye on it for the next few days, but while it's raining cats and dogs, I think I'll stay on shore.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Holding the Boat, 2
January 6th. Thursday night. The calm before the storm.
I'm driving my old van around the windy roads at Montaña de Oro State Park, listening to KPIG radio. It's nighttime, there's a few clouds blotching the sky but I see the intermittent star shining through. There's no wind to speak of- yet. My plan was to spend the night in the state park campground, and get an early surf session before the storm. Sometimes the south-east winds that blow before a storm make the waves at Montaña de Oro quite good, so I'm gambling that I'll get some waves.
A funky bluegrass song plays on KPIG. When it's done, the radio announcer, Ralph Anybody, talking in his quirk yet serious tone, de-briefs us on tomorrow's weather: "Yeah folks, we're going to see some strong winds early tomorrow morning, upwards of 40 miles per hour, and you know what that means! Trees on the roadway, fallen power lines, that kind of stuff. Keep the kids and piggies indoors, and batten down the hatches." Hum... did he really say "batten down the hatches"? I had never considered what that actually means. Hatches. Boat hatches. Battening down because the storm might blow them open. Hum... It's time to go hold the fort.
I do a three-point turn on the narrow, eucalyptus-lined road, and start heading back to Morro Bay. Not that KPIG radio is the most reliable source of weather info, but the chances of good surf tomorrow is virtually zero. And as a boat owner, the responsible thing to do is be aboard, in case anything goes wrong. That's what everyone tells me, anyway. Not that my boat is irreplaceable, if it ended up on the rocks; but if it starts dragging anchor, or worse, breaks free and starts floating downstream, it could crash into another boat or pier. And that would cost ten times as much as my boat costed me.
I park my car near the Bay. The breeze is starting to rustle the trees. Was that a raindrop I felt? Not sure. I put on all my snowboarding clothes - jacket, pants, beanie, and load up my backpack with stuff. The temperature is around 45 fahrenheit, or 10 degrees celcius. I walk right by the Inn at Morro Bay, where I have my day job, which overlooks the bay and happens to be in line of sight with my boat. It's quite reassuring to go out to the veranda and glance casually at my boat, to make sure it's fine.
My friend Jonas, a waiter at the Inn, is also in the carpark, talking to a cute girl. My buffy snowboarding outfit catches his eye, and he says, "Hey Beadle, you going out to your boat? That's hardcore bro. It's gonna rain tonight! You can come crash at my house, if you want." I don't know if Jonas is being hospitable to impress the cute girl, or if he's genuinely concerned about me. But either way, I'm on a mission. "Nah, man, it's cool. I've gotta be out there. You know, to hold my boat's hand, in case things go wrong." He wishes me good luck and I keep walking, away from the Inn.
The Inn is adjacent to a bird sanctuary, and there's a nice path running underneath eucalyptus trees towards the little beach. That's where I keep my dinghy- tied up to a tree on a muddy beach. I put on my rubber boots and drag the dinghy through the mud. It's no fun when the tide is low- I have to drag it 50 feet on soggy, muddy layers of condensced bird crap. High tide is a lot better, sometimes I can just hop on my dinghy and row away.
The wind's already picking up, making zooming noises around the boats. As I row through the darkness, the wind swirling around, I feel stabs of adrenalin hit my heart. The storm's coming in, and I have no idea what's going to happen. A vision comes into my mind: the lone fisherman, taking his boat out to sea to "ride out the storm", anxiety and determination all over his face. I'm so proud of that damn fisherman, putting himself on the line for the sake of his vessel. Maybe one day, that'll be me.
But for now, I'm in a fairly harmless situation. Even if all hell breaks loose, I couldn't be too much safer than inside this narrow bay. After all, I can swim pretty well! I check my chaffing gear on my anchor line- duct tape and rubber hose still intact. Good- now I can go into the cozy cabin, and wait for the storm.
I'm driving my old van around the windy roads at Montaña de Oro State Park, listening to KPIG radio. It's nighttime, there's a few clouds blotching the sky but I see the intermittent star shining through. There's no wind to speak of- yet. My plan was to spend the night in the state park campground, and get an early surf session before the storm. Sometimes the south-east winds that blow before a storm make the waves at Montaña de Oro quite good, so I'm gambling that I'll get some waves.
A funky bluegrass song plays on KPIG. When it's done, the radio announcer, Ralph Anybody, talking in his quirk yet serious tone, de-briefs us on tomorrow's weather: "Yeah folks, we're going to see some strong winds early tomorrow morning, upwards of 40 miles per hour, and you know what that means! Trees on the roadway, fallen power lines, that kind of stuff. Keep the kids and piggies indoors, and batten down the hatches." Hum... did he really say "batten down the hatches"? I had never considered what that actually means. Hatches. Boat hatches. Battening down because the storm might blow them open. Hum... It's time to go hold the fort.
I do a three-point turn on the narrow, eucalyptus-lined road, and start heading back to Morro Bay. Not that KPIG radio is the most reliable source of weather info, but the chances of good surf tomorrow is virtually zero. And as a boat owner, the responsible thing to do is be aboard, in case anything goes wrong. That's what everyone tells me, anyway. Not that my boat is irreplaceable, if it ended up on the rocks; but if it starts dragging anchor, or worse, breaks free and starts floating downstream, it could crash into another boat or pier. And that would cost ten times as much as my boat costed me.
I park my car near the Bay. The breeze is starting to rustle the trees. Was that a raindrop I felt? Not sure. I put on all my snowboarding clothes - jacket, pants, beanie, and load up my backpack with stuff. The temperature is around 45 fahrenheit, or 10 degrees celcius. I walk right by the Inn at Morro Bay, where I have my day job, which overlooks the bay and happens to be in line of sight with my boat. It's quite reassuring to go out to the veranda and glance casually at my boat, to make sure it's fine.
My friend Jonas, a waiter at the Inn, is also in the carpark, talking to a cute girl. My buffy snowboarding outfit catches his eye, and he says, "Hey Beadle, you going out to your boat? That's hardcore bro. It's gonna rain tonight! You can come crash at my house, if you want." I don't know if Jonas is being hospitable to impress the cute girl, or if he's genuinely concerned about me. But either way, I'm on a mission. "Nah, man, it's cool. I've gotta be out there. You know, to hold my boat's hand, in case things go wrong." He wishes me good luck and I keep walking, away from the Inn.
The Inn is adjacent to a bird sanctuary, and there's a nice path running underneath eucalyptus trees towards the little beach. That's where I keep my dinghy- tied up to a tree on a muddy beach. I put on my rubber boots and drag the dinghy through the mud. It's no fun when the tide is low- I have to drag it 50 feet on soggy, muddy layers of condensced bird crap. High tide is a lot better, sometimes I can just hop on my dinghy and row away.
The wind's already picking up, making zooming noises around the boats. As I row through the darkness, the wind swirling around, I feel stabs of adrenalin hit my heart. The storm's coming in, and I have no idea what's going to happen. A vision comes into my mind: the lone fisherman, taking his boat out to sea to "ride out the storm", anxiety and determination all over his face. I'm so proud of that damn fisherman, putting himself on the line for the sake of his vessel. Maybe one day, that'll be me.
But for now, I'm in a fairly harmless situation. Even if all hell breaks loose, I couldn't be too much safer than inside this narrow bay. After all, I can swim pretty well! I check my chaffing gear on my anchor line- duct tape and rubber hose still intact. Good- now I can go into the cozy cabin, and wait for the storm.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Fat Storm a-brewing
January 5th. Wednesday afternoon. I'm standing on my deck, looking at the super glassy water in the bay, with my celphone pressed up against my ear. I'm calling the Morro Bay Harbor Patrol. The upcoming storm this weekend, the "triple threat, meteorological event of the decade" is getting me worried. How strong IS the wind going to be? Will my anchors hold? These were my thoughts this morning as I read the newspaper.
Harbor Patrol:
"Uhh, yeah our slips are pretty much all taken. The docks are quite full during winter you know. You said your boat was a..."
"A 29 foot sailboat."
"Yeah, see, you could tie up to one of the big fishing boats, but your little boat might get really banged up. It's hard to say. Your call."
I decided to keep my boat in the anchorage. It is time to hold the fort.
There's a few things I could do to minimize any problems. I went in my cabin, underneath the couch, and pulled out my toolbox. Duct tape, knife, hammer - I took these to the bow, and got down on my knees.
Where the anchor line meets the boat is a critical point- the line is constantly rubbing against the bow "chock". In a storm, the friction can get so vigorous that a thick 3 strand rope can get sliced through in a matter of hours. So I learned a trick with my friend Dave, to protect the line from chaffing: put a rubber hose around it. And to make sure it doesn't move around, spiral a whole bunch of duct tape around it.
I hear birds crawking all around me. The egrets, blue herons, and sea gulls of Morro Bay are doing one last Hurra! before the rain quiets them. They fly in convoys, skimming the surface of the glassy bay. There is absolutely no wind- but far away in the distance, beyond the Rock, I see the purple shades of rain, looming. Which reminds me: I need to fix my leaks.
Spreading the Marine Goop stuff all over my hatches, I feel 50/50 that this will help. The water will continue to drip in, I'm sure. The cabin carpets will get soaked, not to mention stinky, so I get them out. I lay towels on all the surfaces. I think it'll be under control.
Tonight, I've got a hot date with Samantha - we're going to eat dinner at Taco Temple and then watch Garden State at her house. I'm already late, but it was worth it. I've got to be able to enjoy our time together, without worrying too much about the boat.
Harbor Patrol:
"Uhh, yeah our slips are pretty much all taken. The docks are quite full during winter you know. You said your boat was a..."
"A 29 foot sailboat."
"Yeah, see, you could tie up to one of the big fishing boats, but your little boat might get really banged up. It's hard to say. Your call."
I decided to keep my boat in the anchorage. It is time to hold the fort.
There's a few things I could do to minimize any problems. I went in my cabin, underneath the couch, and pulled out my toolbox. Duct tape, knife, hammer - I took these to the bow, and got down on my knees.
Where the anchor line meets the boat is a critical point- the line is constantly rubbing against the bow "chock". In a storm, the friction can get so vigorous that a thick 3 strand rope can get sliced through in a matter of hours. So I learned a trick with my friend Dave, to protect the line from chaffing: put a rubber hose around it. And to make sure it doesn't move around, spiral a whole bunch of duct tape around it.
I hear birds crawking all around me. The egrets, blue herons, and sea gulls of Morro Bay are doing one last Hurra! before the rain quiets them. They fly in convoys, skimming the surface of the glassy bay. There is absolutely no wind- but far away in the distance, beyond the Rock, I see the purple shades of rain, looming. Which reminds me: I need to fix my leaks.
Spreading the Marine Goop stuff all over my hatches, I feel 50/50 that this will help. The water will continue to drip in, I'm sure. The cabin carpets will get soaked, not to mention stinky, so I get them out. I lay towels on all the surfaces. I think it'll be under control.
Tonight, I've got a hot date with Samantha - we're going to eat dinner at Taco Temple and then watch Garden State at her house. I'm already late, but it was worth it. I've got to be able to enjoy our time together, without worrying too much about the boat.
Dodging the Storms
For about 8 months, there wasn't one decent rainfall in Morro Bay. Since I bought my sailboat in March, all the way to October, the only form of precipation was fog. There was plenty of fog, plenty of grey. But everything was calm for months. Then the first storm of the season swooped down on us, the unsuspecting prey, and several boats ended up on the mudflats. 50 knot gusts had turned the bay into a wild sea, but luckily my boat was in the Santa Barbara marina. I had taken the train down there on a moment's notice and motored the Raza vessel from her anchorage by the pier to the marina's protected waters.
After the storm wrecked havoc, the sunshine came out. Blissful autumn days, warm and calm, were in full effect. A few weeks later, the morning after I pulled my boat into the Port San Luis Harbor, the second storm hit. It rained like crazy for three days straight and my dinghy got obliterated- but I was able to fix it eventually. The weather reverted back to perfection - hot offshore winds for several weeks, everyone was out in their flip-flops in December. Then the third storm hit.
Nobody had talked about it in the news. It wasn't a big deal. Then LA and Ventura counties got record rainfalls. Hollywood was flooded. It kept raining for over a week, hard driving rain. My boat was absolutely soaked. I stayed a few nights out with it, to make sure the anchor gear was holding, and that my cabin wasn't flooding; but it was holding up fine. However, like an old house, my old boat has all kinds of leaks and eventually it was quite soggy inside. Even my previously "dry safe" areas - the couch, the bed- were getting damp. Thankfully the rain stopped, and I took everything to the laundromat.
The ocean was murky brown from the rivers, dumping the accumulated mud and soot which had finally broken free. 8 inches of rain had flooded the streams, and filled the big lakes. On New Year's Eve the last remains of that storm drizzled down, teasing us with the occasional sunshine. We had 3 days of dry weather. Then I looked at the local newspaper's front page, this week:
"TRIPLE THREAT OF STORMS THIS WEEKEND"
Holy Moly here we go again. This time, no one was complacent about it. Meterological experts analyzed how three different storm systems, the "Pineapple Express" coming from the west, the "Artic Express" from the north, and an unnamed tropical flow coming from south of Mexico, were on a collision course this weekend in California, in what could be the region's "meteorological event of the decade". The TV had images of people buying sandbags to protect their driveways. Radio stations advised trailers and trucks to watch out for high winds. Reports said "Friday morning could see winds rapidly increasing from 20 to 40 knots, with possibility of 60 knot gusts". And more: "Central coast could see another 7 inches of rain on already saturated ground; beware of floods."
How much of this is hype, and how much I should worry, is a fair gamble.
After the storm wrecked havoc, the sunshine came out. Blissful autumn days, warm and calm, were in full effect. A few weeks later, the morning after I pulled my boat into the Port San Luis Harbor, the second storm hit. It rained like crazy for three days straight and my dinghy got obliterated- but I was able to fix it eventually. The weather reverted back to perfection - hot offshore winds for several weeks, everyone was out in their flip-flops in December. Then the third storm hit.
Nobody had talked about it in the news. It wasn't a big deal. Then LA and Ventura counties got record rainfalls. Hollywood was flooded. It kept raining for over a week, hard driving rain. My boat was absolutely soaked. I stayed a few nights out with it, to make sure the anchor gear was holding, and that my cabin wasn't flooding; but it was holding up fine. However, like an old house, my old boat has all kinds of leaks and eventually it was quite soggy inside. Even my previously "dry safe" areas - the couch, the bed- were getting damp. Thankfully the rain stopped, and I took everything to the laundromat.
The ocean was murky brown from the rivers, dumping the accumulated mud and soot which had finally broken free. 8 inches of rain had flooded the streams, and filled the big lakes. On New Year's Eve the last remains of that storm drizzled down, teasing us with the occasional sunshine. We had 3 days of dry weather. Then I looked at the local newspaper's front page, this week:
"TRIPLE THREAT OF STORMS THIS WEEKEND"
Holy Moly here we go again. This time, no one was complacent about it. Meterological experts analyzed how three different storm systems, the "Pineapple Express" coming from the west, the "Artic Express" from the north, and an unnamed tropical flow coming from south of Mexico, were on a collision course this weekend in California, in what could be the region's "meteorological event of the decade". The TV had images of people buying sandbags to protect their driveways. Radio stations advised trailers and trucks to watch out for high winds. Reports said "Friday morning could see winds rapidly increasing from 20 to 40 knots, with possibility of 60 knot gusts". And more: "Central coast could see another 7 inches of rain on already saturated ground; beware of floods."
How much of this is hype, and how much I should worry, is a fair gamble.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
The Myths of Sailboat Life
There are two myths of sailboat life, on either side of the spectrum: one is the romantic ideal of "sailing into the sunset"; the other is the uncontrollable fury of nature's Perfect Storm. Movies and songs always reinforce these two images. The lone fisherman/sailor fighting for his life. The retired couple sunbathing in the Carribean. These are the stereotypical extremes, but the weird thing about sailing, is that both extremes are true.
When people find out I live aboard a sailboat, either they think I'm nuts, or they're totally envious. The reaction is never ambiguous, depending on which stereotype they have in mind. Everyone freaks out, either at how cool or how crazy the idea is. The concept of living afloat, and being completely exposed to the elements, is very foreign to the majority of landlocked folks. It's such a different world than what the average person is used to, that people are really curious about it. "Is your boat on the dock? No? So how do you get out there? Rowing a boat, right. But what about a bathroom. Do you have a shower?"
There are a lot of people that have lived in boats all their lives. In comparison, I'm a fledgling - I've lived aboard my 29 foot Columbia, the Raza, for only 10 months. Everything is still new to me. I'm in a constant state of adjustment to my marine environment. Although I've spent all my life by the ocean, I'm still a landlubber in many ways; the sailboat life was foreign from the start and continues to be intimidating. But that's Ok! A distinguishing trait in my personality is that I enjoy the intimidation; the Challenge, that is. Which makes every day an adventure- what more could I ask for.
So my task is to record all the intricacies of boat life, while I'm here doing it. I don't know how much longer I'll have my boat. For the benefit of those who are curious, and for my own introspective delight, I'm going to begin a multi-part series entitled Boat Life. I'm going to use flashbacks from the past year, and details of the current moment, everything from the mundane to the extraordinary. The extremes of romance and fury come and go; but there's more to it than just the myths. Boat Life is a thing all of its own!
When people find out I live aboard a sailboat, either they think I'm nuts, or they're totally envious. The reaction is never ambiguous, depending on which stereotype they have in mind. Everyone freaks out, either at how cool or how crazy the idea is. The concept of living afloat, and being completely exposed to the elements, is very foreign to the majority of landlocked folks. It's such a different world than what the average person is used to, that people are really curious about it. "Is your boat on the dock? No? So how do you get out there? Rowing a boat, right. But what about a bathroom. Do you have a shower?"
There are a lot of people that have lived in boats all their lives. In comparison, I'm a fledgling - I've lived aboard my 29 foot Columbia, the Raza, for only 10 months. Everything is still new to me. I'm in a constant state of adjustment to my marine environment. Although I've spent all my life by the ocean, I'm still a landlubber in many ways; the sailboat life was foreign from the start and continues to be intimidating. But that's Ok! A distinguishing trait in my personality is that I enjoy the intimidation; the Challenge, that is. Which makes every day an adventure- what more could I ask for.
So my task is to record all the intricacies of boat life, while I'm here doing it. I don't know how much longer I'll have my boat. For the benefit of those who are curious, and for my own introspective delight, I'm going to begin a multi-part series entitled Boat Life. I'm going to use flashbacks from the past year, and details of the current moment, everything from the mundane to the extraordinary. The extremes of romance and fury come and go; but there's more to it than just the myths. Boat Life is a thing all of its own!
Monday, January 03, 2005
Yerba Mate, the Coffee Slayer
There is a worldwide dependence on coffee. Almost as bad as our dependence on oil. Whereas oil runs machines, coffee runs people. It has tons of caffeine, which keeps people wired, focused, and productive. Besides an occasional splurge, I've never bothered with coffee; it makes my stomach feel funky, and besides, I always have plenty of energy. I don't need to kickstart my battery in the morning, it comes pre-charged.
There is one circumstance that I like to drink coffee. When I had to pull all-nighters in college, I'd have one tasty coffee and I'd be set for the night. The night is an amazing time for productivity. For those of us sun-lovers, there are fewer tempations at night - you can't just run down to the beach for a surf, or procrastinate because the weather is nice. At night, the darkness is silent, devoid of vision. Most people are asleep; they're not calling your phone every ten minutes. I can work peacefully at night - but caffeine is an essential tool for keeping awake.
Enter Yerba Maté. It's a plant, a leaf, nothing more than old fashioned tea. But it's also highly nutritious and highly caffeineted. It taste a bit like earth; yerba maté is more dirty than coffee, but it has none of the bitterness. It's smooth like a mudbath on your face - without actually drinking the mud. My friend Keri went to Chile once an brought me back a maté gourd, along with a bombilla, which is the metal "straw" that strains the loose leaf as you sip. So there's a nice traditional element about it. It's fun to look at a handsomely carved gourd, standing lightly on its thin, sculpted, metal legs, in between your productive thoughts.
Actually, once upon a time, I got a similar nostalgic feeling from coffee. When I was travelling in Vienna, Austria, I heard that coffee houses were of utmost cultural importance. I went to Café Roma, which two Austrian friends recommended. It wasn't about drinking coffee, it was about the coffee experience. A waiter wearing an immaculate black tuxedo brought over a menu of coffee, and I picked a Mocha, while sitting on cushy velvet and surrounded by tall glass windows. It turns out the waiter brought me an extra dark espresso (Note: a Mocha has no chocolate in Austria). As I watched the grey drizzle outside, I reflected on how nice it was to be inside, sipping my coffee.
So that was a worthy coffee moment. But I'm not in Austria. I'm in my sailboat, sitting on my thrift-store cushions, typing away at 1:00AM. I want to keep writing, because the night has no distractions. The curves of my wooden maté gourd fit in quite nicely with the generous teak wood (slightly faded) in my cabin interior, so I refill it with hot water, and sip at the earthy goodness.
Reference: http://www.guayaki.com
There is one circumstance that I like to drink coffee. When I had to pull all-nighters in college, I'd have one tasty coffee and I'd be set for the night. The night is an amazing time for productivity. For those of us sun-lovers, there are fewer tempations at night - you can't just run down to the beach for a surf, or procrastinate because the weather is nice. At night, the darkness is silent, devoid of vision. Most people are asleep; they're not calling your phone every ten minutes. I can work peacefully at night - but caffeine is an essential tool for keeping awake.
Enter Yerba Maté. It's a plant, a leaf, nothing more than old fashioned tea. But it's also highly nutritious and highly caffeineted. It taste a bit like earth; yerba maté is more dirty than coffee, but it has none of the bitterness. It's smooth like a mudbath on your face - without actually drinking the mud. My friend Keri went to Chile once an brought me back a maté gourd, along with a bombilla, which is the metal "straw" that strains the loose leaf as you sip. So there's a nice traditional element about it. It's fun to look at a handsomely carved gourd, standing lightly on its thin, sculpted, metal legs, in between your productive thoughts.
Actually, once upon a time, I got a similar nostalgic feeling from coffee. When I was travelling in Vienna, Austria, I heard that coffee houses were of utmost cultural importance. I went to Café Roma, which two Austrian friends recommended. It wasn't about drinking coffee, it was about the coffee experience. A waiter wearing an immaculate black tuxedo brought over a menu of coffee, and I picked a Mocha, while sitting on cushy velvet and surrounded by tall glass windows. It turns out the waiter brought me an extra dark espresso (Note: a Mocha has no chocolate in Austria). As I watched the grey drizzle outside, I reflected on how nice it was to be inside, sipping my coffee.
So that was a worthy coffee moment. But I'm not in Austria. I'm in my sailboat, sitting on my thrift-store cushions, typing away at 1:00AM. I want to keep writing, because the night has no distractions. The curves of my wooden maté gourd fit in quite nicely with the generous teak wood (slightly faded) in my cabin interior, so I refill it with hot water, and sip at the earthy goodness.
Reference: http://www.guayaki.com
Sunday, January 02, 2005
The Big Buffet
Some people love a good buffet, others only settle for à la carte. In terms of life's experiences, I'm definitely a buffet eater. Take, for example, my various "projects" last year. Although I began 2004 with an empty plate, momentum picked up very quickly.
First I started with a job at the pizza shop, making just enough money to be a surf bum. Then I turned to the hors d'oevres section: Oooo, massage sounds good! So I enrolled in a 3 month course to become a certified massage therapist. I figure, $50/hour and a flexible schedule giving back rubs is a sweet deal. I'm mid-bite and I'm already eyeing the main course. A sailboat. Aha, if I buy a sailboat to live aboard, then I don't have to pay rent. I can sell it later and get my money back.
By that stage I'd already upgraded from the pizza shop to a catering job. Catering is great because every week is different- the hourly wage is decent, yet you can call ahead of time and say, "I'll be out of town on such-and-such a date so don't schedule me, please." That's how I managed to get a week off to pick up my boat in Long Beach. In the next few months I learned how wonderfully tough it is to live on a sailboat. A non-stop adventure. I love it.
As if I wasn't chewing on enough food yet, another entrée made its way to my plate: the flyfishing business. Hummm... "So Kristian, have you ever, like, gone flyfishing before?" "Uhh, no...." Well, it was a good opportunity to learn about the business world AND help out my dad and his friend, all at once. They had a bunch of new flyfishing baskets that were being sent from the chinese factory, and there was nobody to sell them. So I stepped up to the plate. The "plate" as in baseball, not the dinner "plate" from the buffet metaphor that I'm writing about. I know, I know, it's confusing.
Meanwhile, I found myself a gorgeous girlfriend. That was the desert, the sumptuously warm pecan pie with icecream right after a hearty meal. God, how delicious, but that big meal takes some energy to digest. I sat satisfied with a full tummy, eyes half-closed, when suddenly I realized: I had a day job (catering), two enterprises (massage and flyfishing), a floating home which wanted to float away (sailboat), and a lovely lady (girlfriend). I was just barely hanging in there. Good thing I'm not bulimic.
But the buffet wasn't over yet- only towards the second half of the year did I discover writing. Well, actually, I've been writing all along, mainly journal-keeping; but I prepared my first article for submission to a magazine, and the process revealed several things. I liked doing it, despite the rejection slip that came at the end. Yeah, they didn't accept my article at the Surfer's Journal but I'm going to try other publications. But I didn't care; just the thought of being able to make money from my words, regardless of where and how I wrote them, was very liberating. Here was a genuine career path that seemed to complement my need for flexibility. Wow! I never thought I'd actually consider a "career path".
Of course, making a living as a writer is far from easy. And since my stomach is so full already, I haven't been able to fit anymore food. I'm just stuffed. I haven't been able to put the time into writing that writing deserves.
Like the effects of eating at an infamous Las Vegas $10 buffet, I need a serious purge. I need to de-tox my system 'cause it's bogging me down. Some things really contribute to my direction; others are becoming more of a hindrance. Simplify is the verb which leads to success. That's the only way I'll get anywhere, by simplifying things so I can focus on what's important.
Simplify! Simplify! Simplify. Try to eat à la carte, for once, for heaven's sake.
First I started with a job at the pizza shop, making just enough money to be a surf bum. Then I turned to the hors d'oevres section: Oooo, massage sounds good! So I enrolled in a 3 month course to become a certified massage therapist. I figure, $50/hour and a flexible schedule giving back rubs is a sweet deal. I'm mid-bite and I'm already eyeing the main course. A sailboat. Aha, if I buy a sailboat to live aboard, then I don't have to pay rent. I can sell it later and get my money back.
By that stage I'd already upgraded from the pizza shop to a catering job. Catering is great because every week is different- the hourly wage is decent, yet you can call ahead of time and say, "I'll be out of town on such-and-such a date so don't schedule me, please." That's how I managed to get a week off to pick up my boat in Long Beach. In the next few months I learned how wonderfully tough it is to live on a sailboat. A non-stop adventure. I love it.
As if I wasn't chewing on enough food yet, another entrée made its way to my plate: the flyfishing business. Hummm... "So Kristian, have you ever, like, gone flyfishing before?" "Uhh, no...." Well, it was a good opportunity to learn about the business world AND help out my dad and his friend, all at once. They had a bunch of new flyfishing baskets that were being sent from the chinese factory, and there was nobody to sell them. So I stepped up to the plate. The "plate" as in baseball, not the dinner "plate" from the buffet metaphor that I'm writing about. I know, I know, it's confusing.
Meanwhile, I found myself a gorgeous girlfriend. That was the desert, the sumptuously warm pecan pie with icecream right after a hearty meal. God, how delicious, but that big meal takes some energy to digest. I sat satisfied with a full tummy, eyes half-closed, when suddenly I realized: I had a day job (catering), two enterprises (massage and flyfishing), a floating home which wanted to float away (sailboat), and a lovely lady (girlfriend). I was just barely hanging in there. Good thing I'm not bulimic.
But the buffet wasn't over yet- only towards the second half of the year did I discover writing. Well, actually, I've been writing all along, mainly journal-keeping; but I prepared my first article for submission to a magazine, and the process revealed several things. I liked doing it, despite the rejection slip that came at the end. Yeah, they didn't accept my article at the Surfer's Journal but I'm going to try other publications. But I didn't care; just the thought of being able to make money from my words, regardless of where and how I wrote them, was very liberating. Here was a genuine career path that seemed to complement my need for flexibility. Wow! I never thought I'd actually consider a "career path".
Of course, making a living as a writer is far from easy. And since my stomach is so full already, I haven't been able to fit anymore food. I'm just stuffed. I haven't been able to put the time into writing that writing deserves.
Like the effects of eating at an infamous Las Vegas $10 buffet, I need a serious purge. I need to de-tox my system 'cause it's bogging me down. Some things really contribute to my direction; others are becoming more of a hindrance. Simplify is the verb which leads to success. That's the only way I'll get anywhere, by simplifying things so I can focus on what's important.
Simplify! Simplify! Simplify. Try to eat à la carte, for once, for heaven's sake.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
My Resolution for 2005
I have one resolution for 2005. There's just one thing I really want to commit to.
Writing!
Over the course of this last year I learned that writing is in my future. Why? First, writing is an innate talent which comes natural to me. It feels good to write. That's a big plus when considering where I should devote my energies! Second, writing will support the lifestyle I seek; and in turn that lifestyle will support my writing.
That lifestyle being... adventure.
I'm not a creative fiction writer. I don't know how to weave stories out of thin air (not yet, anyway). What I do best is feel inspired from whatever powerful, unconventional, or challenging experiences I may have. This means I have no other option but to open myself fully to self-expression; lay bare the thoughts and emotions that swirl around my life; and hope they appeal to a massive worldwide audience.
Heck, might as well try.
Writing!
Over the course of this last year I learned that writing is in my future. Why? First, writing is an innate talent which comes natural to me. It feels good to write. That's a big plus when considering where I should devote my energies! Second, writing will support the lifestyle I seek; and in turn that lifestyle will support my writing.
That lifestyle being... adventure.
I'm not a creative fiction writer. I don't know how to weave stories out of thin air (not yet, anyway). What I do best is feel inspired from whatever powerful, unconventional, or challenging experiences I may have. This means I have no other option but to open myself fully to self-expression; lay bare the thoughts and emotions that swirl around my life; and hope they appeal to a massive worldwide audience.
Heck, might as well try.
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