Sunday, December 17, 2006
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Grenades from Ipanema
Rio looks deceptively clean and safe on first impression. Trash isn't piled on the curbs; streetkids aren't flocking on every streetcorner; even the traffic is relatively tame. Wait.... it's a holiday, so everybody is home. And there's more: the evening news announced that alongside the girls in bikinis, there were grenades in Ipanema today.
The villains from a nearby favela clashed with police forces in broad daylight next to a popular supermarket, the Zona Sul. No one was hurt. But machine guns and grenades can't be pleasing to the ear during lunchtime. The monster of poverty and crime gets swept under the rug and shows it's ugly head when least expected.
My brother and I continue our nostalgic tour of Rio. In a little rental car, we maneuver past the distant suburbs of Barra and Recreio, where we used to live 10 years ago. The endless sandy beach is backdropped by skyscrapers; then the lagoon takes over, a long waterway that leaves just a thin strip of land next to the shore. Mountains resembling Mickey Mouse and baloons sit placidly in the distance.
We used to drive along this road every day, on the way to school. It used to be quite neglected and beautiful. It is now well maintained and beautiful - with just a token of idiosyncracy. Kiosks line the promenade with stone work; speed moderating bumps keep cars at a safe velocity. Eventually we arrive at the remotest beaches, Prainha and Grumari, our childhood hangouts during weekends. The grenades and machine guns are so far away we decide that Rio isn't so bad, after all.
The villains from a nearby favela clashed with police forces in broad daylight next to a popular supermarket, the Zona Sul. No one was hurt. But machine guns and grenades can't be pleasing to the ear during lunchtime. The monster of poverty and crime gets swept under the rug and shows it's ugly head when least expected.
My brother and I continue our nostalgic tour of Rio. In a little rental car, we maneuver past the distant suburbs of Barra and Recreio, where we used to live 10 years ago. The endless sandy beach is backdropped by skyscrapers; then the lagoon takes over, a long waterway that leaves just a thin strip of land next to the shore. Mountains resembling Mickey Mouse and baloons sit placidly in the distance.
We used to drive along this road every day, on the way to school. It used to be quite neglected and beautiful. It is now well maintained and beautiful - with just a token of idiosyncracy. Kiosks line the promenade with stone work; speed moderating bumps keep cars at a safe velocity. Eventually we arrive at the remotest beaches, Prainha and Grumari, our childhood hangouts during weekends. The grenades and machine guns are so far away we decide that Rio isn't so bad, after all.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Chaos in the Brazilian Airports
SAO PAULO AIRPORTS
Sao Paulo, "Guarulhos" airport, 5:45AM, and my bags haven't arrived in the baggage claim. The Copa Air representative looks at my ticket stubs and leads me to a pair of cute, flowered small bags, announcing, "Aqui estao suas malas." Aha... so I ended up with my 3 year old niece's bags. There is dire need to rendezvous with my sister-in-law and niece, who were boarding a connecting flight to southern Brazil at 8:00AM... in a different airport - "Congonhas". So I race on a 30 minute cab ride, whose driver was better educated about politics and world affairs than most Californians, and arrive just in time for their check-in. Baggage transfer was successful, frenzy in airports as usual; but nothing like we'd witness the next day, on the connecting flight to Rio de Janeiro.
BRAZILIANS LOVE SCANDALS
There's always some sort of crisis in Brazil to incense public imagination and that common reverberation, "See! that's what's wrong with our country." Last time a priest associated with the ruling political party was caught with barrels of dollars in his underwear, as he boarded a flight. A week later another US$200K was found in a politician's briefcase on a private jet. The corruption scandal nearly brought the whole government down.
This time the crisis is in the aviation industry, which is doing a precarious pitchpole after a private American jet collided with and brought down a 150 person Brazilian airliner in the Amazon jungle. There were no survivors from the airliner. The flight traffic controllers immediately went on strike, perhaps in fear of being scapegoated, especially since their safety procedures are tremendously flawed. Media reported on de-classified aviation documents of multiple "near-misses" of large planes in the last few months.
CHAOS IN GUARULHOS
On top of all this, a severe storm hammered all of southern Brazil on the evening we spent at one of Sao Paulo's all-you-can eat sushi houses, for US$10 a person. Outside our raw fish heaven, lightning and gale winds wrought havoc. Dozens of flights were cancelled.
The following morning my brother and I walked into a madhouse at the Guarulhos airport. In an otherwise empty airport, a frantic crowd was gathered at a check-in counter, shouting and chanting in unison, a company representative standing ontop of the counter screaming back at the people. We managed to wiggle towards our gate; the angry mob followed half an hour later. "We've been waiting for thirteen hours!" These were the folks that had flights cancelled in last night's storm.
They got hold of a microphone connected to the PA system and began to proclaim their revolution: "We've waited long enough with no word! We're working people, we've got jobs to go to! We don't want no stinking hotel and lunch now! We want justice! Everyone without a flight, let's go back to the check-in counters and take over, cause we won't stop until... we have revenge!!!" In another airport, angry mobs actually went into the airplane runway and prevented departures. Our flight only delayed 2 hours; we considered ourselves lucky.
RIO FINALLY
Thence my brother and I arrived in Rio de Janeiro, cidade maravilhosa, rented a budget car without A/C or handholds, and headed towards the statue of Christ overlooking my aunt's apartment and the rest of the city.
Sao Paulo, "Guarulhos" airport, 5:45AM, and my bags haven't arrived in the baggage claim. The Copa Air representative looks at my ticket stubs and leads me to a pair of cute, flowered small bags, announcing, "Aqui estao suas malas." Aha... so I ended up with my 3 year old niece's bags. There is dire need to rendezvous with my sister-in-law and niece, who were boarding a connecting flight to southern Brazil at 8:00AM... in a different airport - "Congonhas". So I race on a 30 minute cab ride, whose driver was better educated about politics and world affairs than most Californians, and arrive just in time for their check-in. Baggage transfer was successful, frenzy in airports as usual; but nothing like we'd witness the next day, on the connecting flight to Rio de Janeiro.
BRAZILIANS LOVE SCANDALS
There's always some sort of crisis in Brazil to incense public imagination and that common reverberation, "See! that's what's wrong with our country." Last time a priest associated with the ruling political party was caught with barrels of dollars in his underwear, as he boarded a flight. A week later another US$200K was found in a politician's briefcase on a private jet. The corruption scandal nearly brought the whole government down.
This time the crisis is in the aviation industry, which is doing a precarious pitchpole after a private American jet collided with and brought down a 150 person Brazilian airliner in the Amazon jungle. There were no survivors from the airliner. The flight traffic controllers immediately went on strike, perhaps in fear of being scapegoated, especially since their safety procedures are tremendously flawed. Media reported on de-classified aviation documents of multiple "near-misses" of large planes in the last few months.
CHAOS IN GUARULHOS
On top of all this, a severe storm hammered all of southern Brazil on the evening we spent at one of Sao Paulo's all-you-can eat sushi houses, for US$10 a person. Outside our raw fish heaven, lightning and gale winds wrought havoc. Dozens of flights were cancelled.
The following morning my brother and I walked into a madhouse at the Guarulhos airport. In an otherwise empty airport, a frantic crowd was gathered at a check-in counter, shouting and chanting in unison, a company representative standing ontop of the counter screaming back at the people. We managed to wiggle towards our gate; the angry mob followed half an hour later. "We've been waiting for thirteen hours!" These were the folks that had flights cancelled in last night's storm.
They got hold of a microphone connected to the PA system and began to proclaim their revolution: "We've waited long enough with no word! We're working people, we've got jobs to go to! We don't want no stinking hotel and lunch now! We want justice! Everyone without a flight, let's go back to the check-in counters and take over, cause we won't stop until... we have revenge!!!" In another airport, angry mobs actually went into the airplane runway and prevented departures. Our flight only delayed 2 hours; we considered ourselves lucky.
RIO FINALLY
Thence my brother and I arrived in Rio de Janeiro, cidade maravilhosa, rented a budget car without A/C or handholds, and headed towards the statue of Christ overlooking my aunt's apartment and the rest of the city.
CSM On Energy Efficiency
Recent Christian Science Monitor articles:
Surprise: not so glamorour conservation works best
Greener, cleaner... and competitive?
On the road to green fuels, automakers cover some ground
Can Florida's new marine reserve replenish the Gulf's fish?
In Britain, wind turbines offer homespun electricity
Never mind altruism; 'saving the earth' can mean big bucks
Cooling the Planet at the gas roots
New Combatant against Global Warming: insurance industry
Surprise: not so glamorour conservation works best
Greener, cleaner... and competitive?
On the road to green fuels, automakers cover some ground
Can Florida's new marine reserve replenish the Gulf's fish?
In Britain, wind turbines offer homespun electricity
Never mind altruism; 'saving the earth' can mean big bucks
Cooling the Planet at the gas roots
New Combatant against Global Warming: insurance industry
Overbooked in Panama City
Turns out Copa Airlines is a Panamanian airline which ensures all coach class passengers must be either ardent yoga practicioners or have a Latin spark for human intimacy in order to fit in microscopic seating arrangements. The resulting cramped limbs were a factor in my lack of sleep that night, even though I had my brother's 200 lbs to snuzzle up against.
OVERBOOKING VOLUNTEER
My slight delirium and occasional wafts of humid air in the Panama City airport led me to a questionable decision. As we were about to board our connection to Sao Paulo, the stewardess announced the flight was overbooked and they were giving US$300 for passengers voluntarily waiting until the next flight. In retrospect, I should have just stayed for a week or two in the Intercontinental Hotel suite that Copa sponsored; and live a dirty tourist existence between picturesque la Vieja Ciudad and my lounge; with my daily allowance of $10 per meal I could have done just fine.
I briefly considered being a professional overbooking volunteer, selecting flights that were sure to be full and getting paid cash to sit tight. However there familial obligations awaiting me in Brazil. So I went with my bandwagon of pissed-off "voluntarios", a Colombian, a Guatemalan, and two other Brazilians, and hopped on the next sardine-packed tin flight to the Atlantic seaboard.
OVERBOOKING VOLUNTEER
My slight delirium and occasional wafts of humid air in the Panama City airport led me to a questionable decision. As we were about to board our connection to Sao Paulo, the stewardess announced the flight was overbooked and they were giving US$300 for passengers voluntarily waiting until the next flight. In retrospect, I should have just stayed for a week or two in the Intercontinental Hotel suite that Copa sponsored; and live a dirty tourist existence between picturesque la Vieja Ciudad and my lounge; with my daily allowance of $10 per meal I could have done just fine.
I briefly considered being a professional overbooking volunteer, selecting flights that were sure to be full and getting paid cash to sit tight. However there familial obligations awaiting me in Brazil. So I went with my bandwagon of pissed-off "voluntarios", a Colombian, a Guatemalan, and two other Brazilians, and hopped on the next sardine-packed tin flight to the Atlantic seaboard.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Sailboats, Sustainability & Stuff
Sailboats, Sustainability, and Getting Rid of Stuff.
6:00PM TUESDAY November 7th, UC Santa Barbara, Multicultural Center.
This slideshow will focus on how life aboard a sailboat leads us to a heightened sense of sustainability. Every system required for life - energy, water, waste, transport - is fine tuned for simplicity. This isn't necessarily for the sake of eco-consciousness, but rather for maximum efficiency. Whereas a complex society's needs are hard to fathom, the sailboat let's us pierce into the heart of the matter. Sustainability, and getting rid of stuff, becomes a practical issue, not just for safety but also for quality of life. After all, the joy is in going places, not in dealing with stuff. These insights can be applied to make our day-to-day life (on land) simpler, more sustainable, and hence more enjoyable.
NOTE: this slideshow will draw on the themes from the City College presentation (see below) but will be slightly different.
...click on the space below for the next slide...
6:00PM TUESDAY November 7th, UC Santa Barbara, Multicultural Center.
This slideshow will focus on how life aboard a sailboat leads us to a heightened sense of sustainability. Every system required for life - energy, water, waste, transport - is fine tuned for simplicity. This isn't necessarily for the sake of eco-consciousness, but rather for maximum efficiency. Whereas a complex society's needs are hard to fathom, the sailboat let's us pierce into the heart of the matter. Sustainability, and getting rid of stuff, becomes a practical issue, not just for safety but also for quality of life. After all, the joy is in going places, not in dealing with stuff. These insights can be applied to make our day-to-day life (on land) simpler, more sustainable, and hence more enjoyable.
NOTE: this slideshow will draw on the themes from the City College presentation (see below) but will be slightly different.
...click on the space below for the next slide...
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Planet Under Pressure
Click here for BBC News' series exploring the most pressing environmental concerns of today.
Friday, October 20, 2006
The Sailboat Life and Sustainability
SLIDESHOW: 7:30PM. Thursday October 19, 2006 - Santa Barbara City College, Earth & Biological Sciences (EBS) Rm 309.
The Sailboat Life and Sustainability: insights for the real world.
I've lived aboard a sailboat for two and a half years, and have learned that the sailboat is a great teacher in the art of sustainability. It is a simplified system, in terms of energy usage, waste management, water issues, etc... so the lessons become more poignant. Because it is an isolated environment, making errors of judgement with the few resources you have at hand isn't just an inconvenience: this can have serious consequences. Hence we pierce into the heart of the matter, and fully realize the importance of vague concepts such as simplicity in our possessions, and wholesomeness of the individual. This is useful because then we can apply these insights to our society in the real world.
...for PHOTO slideshow click here...
...click on the space below for the next slide...
The Sailboat Life and Sustainability: insights for the real world.
I've lived aboard a sailboat for two and a half years, and have learned that the sailboat is a great teacher in the art of sustainability. It is a simplified system, in terms of energy usage, waste management, water issues, etc... so the lessons become more poignant. Because it is an isolated environment, making errors of judgement with the few resources you have at hand isn't just an inconvenience: this can have serious consequences. Hence we pierce into the heart of the matter, and fully realize the importance of vague concepts such as simplicity in our possessions, and wholesomeness of the individual. This is useful because then we can apply these insights to our society in the real world.
...for PHOTO slideshow click here...
...click on the space below for the next slide...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
at Avila Beach
The panorama of Avila Beach, with Port San Luis in the background.
The trusty "Pumpkin Seed II", fiberglass skiff with nice interior decoration, is the tranporation between the pier and the sailboat.
The steel pier, one of three piers in Avila.
The Good Life
Fishing from the hammock at Avila Beach. Not that we caught much except a few starfish. But the sense of profound relaxation is sure to bring jealousy to even the more stubborn workaholics. A perfect picture for the office wall...
Friday, June 23, 2006
Street Murals in Morro Bay
When I came back to Morro Bay to pick up my van I realized what great street murals there are in town. Murals are a fantastic way to make art in the public domain. Everyone gets to enjoy it; they tell a little story of the place and its culture; and they're infinitely more interesting than drywall finish.
These three murals are all on Main Street of Morro Bay, on the Taco de Mexico building, and just south of it.
The Morro Bay estuary under moonlight. It captures all the romance of the place.
The Harbor Entrance with a Coast Guard boat mid rescue. The Morro Bay entrance is in the top 10 most dangerous in the nation due to the swell conditions.
Fishing boats in the harbor. The bay had a thriving fishing fleet until recently when regulations have turned it into a costly industry.
These three murals are all on Main Street of Morro Bay, on the Taco de Mexico building, and just south of it.
The Morro Bay estuary under moonlight. It captures all the romance of the place.
The Harbor Entrance with a Coast Guard boat mid rescue. The Morro Bay entrance is in the top 10 most dangerous in the nation due to the swell conditions.
Fishing boats in the harbor. The bay had a thriving fishing fleet until recently when regulations have turned it into a costly industry.
Moving houses, moving boats
"The brothers that help each other move keep moving."
In February I went down to Orange County and helped my brother move from Fullerton to Aliso Viejo. He rented an Uhaul, hauled furniture, the fridge, and the foozball table. Er, actually there was no foozball table.
Then in May my brother came to Morro Bay to help move my boat. I don't have as much stuff, or as much space, but the mess can substantial. Not much different than his Uhaul really; except that my home is like a snail carrying everything on its back, and transporting it is like riding a rollercoaster which moves chaotically across the water.
In February I went down to Orange County and helped my brother move from Fullerton to Aliso Viejo. He rented an Uhaul, hauled furniture, the fridge, and the foozball table. Er, actually there was no foozball table.
Then in May my brother came to Morro Bay to help move my boat. I don't have as much stuff, or as much space, but the mess can substantial. Not much different than his Uhaul really; except that my home is like a snail carrying everything on its back, and transporting it is like riding a rollercoaster which moves chaotically across the water.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sailing? or Gambling? enroute to Avila
I was exhausted; ready to sleep in, when Dylan woke us up at 5:30AM. "Sun's coming up, we've got to go!" Gale force winds or not, we were going. My brother is such a champion for motivating the mission. Not bad for a Orange County family man and 9-5er who enjoys spending weekends indoors! Who would've thought! We coil the lines and motor off.
I access my state of mind: whereas during yesterday's shakedown cruise I was anxious, even a bit scared, today I'm exuberant. Feeling goooooooooood. Then, as we're raising the mainsail, still inside the harbor, I hear a thrilled hoot. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeah!!" Keith happens to be driving by in his car, waving at us. I wave back and feel a great surge of confidence. I like coincidences. "That's a good omen!" Dylan probably figures I'm a loony superstitious old salt by now.
The second good omen was just offshore, on the red marker buoy: a sea lion was laying out in the sun. Yesterday the seas were much rougher and no marine animals were frollicking. Today, even the dolphins were playing nearby us, as we cruised past the breakwater and ominous horn of the harbor entrance. Yes! Yes!
The VHF radio had a different opinion however. Coast Guard forecast on channel 22 warned sailors of "Gale force winds: if in port, stay in port. If at sea, immediately seek a safe haven." The time was 6AM and the wind was 5 knots, calm. Seas were bumpy but manageable. We figured that if we got around Point Buchon, halfway to Avila, before the wind picked up too strong, we'd be alright. That was our gamble, aboard the our trusty 1964 sloop.
A mile offshore, the Al Azar lay creeping along; they didn't make much headway in the past three hours. The wind steadily increased, and as we approached Point Buchon I decided to take the conservative approach and reef the sail early. We'd go slower but safer. All books say: "Reef early. That is, shorten sail as soon as the thought crosses your mind. You won't ever regret it."
Flying downwind 2 miles offshore of Diablo Canyon Powerplant, I decided to jibe to get away from the coast some. As I was preparing the jibe a wave knocked the boat around, sending the boom into an uncontrolled swing across to the other side, leading to a great "R-r-r-r-iiiiiip!" 5 feet of the mainsail lay in tatters, and while Dylan held the tiller I brought the mainsail down.
Under the jib alone we sailed at a respectable 4 knots. Around 12pm the wind really started to whip the sea into frenzy. The Port San Luis breakwater was visible, and we took a beam reach into the harbor, heeling the boat over 30 degrees in 25 knot plus gusts. The Raza sailed straight into the Avila Beach anchorage, between the two piers, without us hardly having to steer her, arriving around 1pm.
Although the wind still buffeted the boat, the anchorage was wonderfully smooth and hot. After tying up next to the Al Azar (it seemed calm enough), we re-organized the chaos inside the cabin, and eventually went to shore. Revelling throngs were milling about in the beach enjoying the Memorial Day weekend. Today's Beer Festival left a trail of college girls in bikinis and high heels struting about with hunky-dory dudes swigging on beers. After being in the harshest elements offshore, this hedonistic scene was too much to fathom. We scampered back to relax at home, which was bobbing gently. Home was no longer in Morro Bay. It was at approximately 35 degrees 26 minutes North, 120 degrees 68 minutes West, and happily so.
I access my state of mind: whereas during yesterday's shakedown cruise I was anxious, even a bit scared, today I'm exuberant. Feeling goooooooooood. Then, as we're raising the mainsail, still inside the harbor, I hear a thrilled hoot. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeah!!" Keith happens to be driving by in his car, waving at us. I wave back and feel a great surge of confidence. I like coincidences. "That's a good omen!" Dylan probably figures I'm a loony superstitious old salt by now.
The second good omen was just offshore, on the red marker buoy: a sea lion was laying out in the sun. Yesterday the seas were much rougher and no marine animals were frollicking. Today, even the dolphins were playing nearby us, as we cruised past the breakwater and ominous horn of the harbor entrance. Yes! Yes!
The VHF radio had a different opinion however. Coast Guard forecast on channel 22 warned sailors of "Gale force winds: if in port, stay in port. If at sea, immediately seek a safe haven." The time was 6AM and the wind was 5 knots, calm. Seas were bumpy but manageable. We figured that if we got around Point Buchon, halfway to Avila, before the wind picked up too strong, we'd be alright. That was our gamble, aboard the our trusty 1964 sloop.
A mile offshore, the Al Azar lay creeping along; they didn't make much headway in the past three hours. The wind steadily increased, and as we approached Point Buchon I decided to take the conservative approach and reef the sail early. We'd go slower but safer. All books say: "Reef early. That is, shorten sail as soon as the thought crosses your mind. You won't ever regret it."
Flying downwind 2 miles offshore of Diablo Canyon Powerplant, I decided to jibe to get away from the coast some. As I was preparing the jibe a wave knocked the boat around, sending the boom into an uncontrolled swing across to the other side, leading to a great "R-r-r-r-iiiiiip!" 5 feet of the mainsail lay in tatters, and while Dylan held the tiller I brought the mainsail down.
Under the jib alone we sailed at a respectable 4 knots. Around 12pm the wind really started to whip the sea into frenzy. The Port San Luis breakwater was visible, and we took a beam reach into the harbor, heeling the boat over 30 degrees in 25 knot plus gusts. The Raza sailed straight into the Avila Beach anchorage, between the two piers, without us hardly having to steer her, arriving around 1pm.
Although the wind still buffeted the boat, the anchorage was wonderfully smooth and hot. After tying up next to the Al Azar (it seemed calm enough), we re-organized the chaos inside the cabin, and eventually went to shore. Revelling throngs were milling about in the beach enjoying the Memorial Day weekend. Today's Beer Festival left a trail of college girls in bikinis and high heels struting about with hunky-dory dudes swigging on beers. After being in the harshest elements offshore, this hedonistic scene was too much to fathom. We scampered back to relax at home, which was bobbing gently. Home was no longer in Morro Bay. It was at approximately 35 degrees 26 minutes North, 120 degrees 68 minutes West, and happily so.
Al Azar's insane departure
The 29ft Ericson sloop, the "Al Azar", is literally in shambles, it's already 10PM, but Chris determined to leave tonight. His eyes are twitching in sych with his scraggly beard, possibly in anticipation of the task at hand. The bow pulpit is sitting on the dock, along with the piles and piles of his gear. He picks up his friend Sarah from Napa, who has no idea what she is in for. She has never sailed before and also is pregnant.
"Kristian come help me mount this thing - 3 bolts on each stanchion is plenty." Chris lives by the 3/4 rule; the fourth bolt is probably not fully necessary after all. His bow pulpit has had major damage - he ran into a breakwater with it - so it's very wobbly, even after being mounted.
Chris starts piling gear onto his starboard deck. "As long as the port side is clear I can run the decks." Surfboards, aluminum rods, pieces of wood, all kinds of mixmatch get wedged between his deck and netting. The thought of what tomorrow's forecast gale force wind might do to his gear makes me cringe.
"The tide's already ebbing, I've gotta move!" It's 1AM and he's counting on the ebbing tide to slingshot him out of the harbor. His inboard diesel engine is sitting tamely on his cabin floor, since breaking down on arrival to Morro Bay. All he has for propulsion is a borrowed 5 horsepower Nissan outboard which regularly sputters.
Worse, the Al Azar has a large hole in the keel. A month before, his anchor line wrapped around his keel and sawed right through it; the Harbor Patrol put a quick fix to seal the leak. "Don't leave the harbor without hauling the boat out of the water and fiberglassing that hole!" they had advised. But the Morro Bay Boatyard owner was not very cooperative; and Chris' patience wore thin so he decided to leave on Memorial Day weekend, with the Tabula Raza behind to keep an eye on things.
Keep your fingers crossed!
By the time he was ready to leave at 2AM, and I cast his lines off, I was so stressed out I didn't think I'd be able to leave the next day - particularly because the forecast called for 35-40 knot gale winds. Chris is officially the king of unprepared-ness, reckless-ness, and put himself on the edge-ness. We more humble, slightly better prepared folk, bow down in reverence.
"Kristian come help me mount this thing - 3 bolts on each stanchion is plenty." Chris lives by the 3/4 rule; the fourth bolt is probably not fully necessary after all. His bow pulpit has had major damage - he ran into a breakwater with it - so it's very wobbly, even after being mounted.
Chris starts piling gear onto his starboard deck. "As long as the port side is clear I can run the decks." Surfboards, aluminum rods, pieces of wood, all kinds of mixmatch get wedged between his deck and netting. The thought of what tomorrow's forecast gale force wind might do to his gear makes me cringe.
"The tide's already ebbing, I've gotta move!" It's 1AM and he's counting on the ebbing tide to slingshot him out of the harbor. His inboard diesel engine is sitting tamely on his cabin floor, since breaking down on arrival to Morro Bay. All he has for propulsion is a borrowed 5 horsepower Nissan outboard which regularly sputters.
Worse, the Al Azar has a large hole in the keel. A month before, his anchor line wrapped around his keel and sawed right through it; the Harbor Patrol put a quick fix to seal the leak. "Don't leave the harbor without hauling the boat out of the water and fiberglassing that hole!" they had advised. But the Morro Bay Boatyard owner was not very cooperative; and Chris' patience wore thin so he decided to leave on Memorial Day weekend, with the Tabula Raza behind to keep an eye on things.
Keep your fingers crossed!
By the time he was ready to leave at 2AM, and I cast his lines off, I was so stressed out I didn't think I'd be able to leave the next day - particularly because the forecast called for 35-40 knot gale winds. Chris is officially the king of unprepared-ness, reckless-ness, and put himself on the edge-ness. We more humble, slightly better prepared folk, bow down in reverence.
Nonsense on the Floating Dock
Mike from the "Imagine", sailing from San Francisco down to Costa Rica, looking happy after the passage from Moss Landing.
Chris from the "Al Azar" holding the beer gut proud; or is he pregnant?
The three boats shared this little real estate for a few weeks.
Kristian from the "Tabula Raza" in full diving regallia and binoculars in hand.
"Imagine That!"
Overkill on anchor chain
Since I'm a novice sailor, and usually fairly reckless with my equipment, I try to take a few conservative measures, just to even the score. So I upgraded my anchor rode to make sure if I anchored in some crazy surfspot I could feel confident about holding strong. Previously the Raza had 60 feet of chain with 200 feet of nylon line - which is already a respectable amount, especially with a 35 pound Bruce on the end. Now I've got a massive 210 feet of chain (5/16in)with the 200 feet of nylon line for backup.
The paint was painted white every 15 feet, with red paint on the links to indicate how much chain I've already put out. I use this system every time I anchor, because otherwise it's hard to tell how much chain is left. It's very practical.
Not too long ago, Chris fouled the anchor line on the "Al Azar" and the nylon line actually sawed through his keel, opening a gaping hole and nearly sinking him. I heard you can't go wrong with an all-chain rode. It's just really really heavy, especially when I had no bow roller. Chris gave me a roller though, and after a few modifications (ie sawing off bits of the toe rail) I managed to install it properly. Now all I need is a manual windlass, if I want to spare my back, which has already been getting quite sore.
The paint was painted white every 15 feet, with red paint on the links to indicate how much chain I've already put out. I use this system every time I anchor, because otherwise it's hard to tell how much chain is left. It's very practical.
Not too long ago, Chris fouled the anchor line on the "Al Azar" and the nylon line actually sawed through his keel, opening a gaping hole and nearly sinking him. I heard you can't go wrong with an all-chain rode. It's just really really heavy, especially when I had no bow roller. Chris gave me a roller though, and after a few modifications (ie sawing off bits of the toe rail) I managed to install it properly. Now all I need is a manual windlass, if I want to spare my back, which has already been getting quite sore.
the Renabel and the Rock
A hallelujah-praise-the-lord type shot of a beautiful fishing boat in Morro Bay. The "Renabel" is for sale at around $50,000.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Shakedown Cruise - we're ready for carnage.
In a test of our perseverance, the weekend of the departure was marred by very strong winds and choppy seas. Arguably a perfect time to toss the boat around and see what breaks. My brother Dylan arrived on the Thursday of Memorial Day weekend; we sat at the Hofbrau of Morro Bay discussing our options with fellow sailors Chris and Keith, as the wind buffeted the glass.
"North to San Simeon? Maybe we'll make it to China Cove, which is just halfway."
"But what's the anchorage like there? We can leave at around 4 AM and see what it's like offshore."
"Or we'll just go for a day sail..."
Forecast called for 40knot plus winds from the northwest, with hectic seas of 10 feet at 9 seconds. Anytime the wave height (10 feet) is larger than the swell period (9 seconds) then it'll be very rough and choppy. The small craft advisory turned into a full gale warning. The 40 year old boat was groaning at the prospect of such a beating, but we cast off at 4:30 AM - heart in throat.
In the spirit of the shakedown cruise, which has the objective of "shaking down" whatever loose nuts and bolts (and larger hardware) need to get replaced before the big trip, a few things got knocked off the boat: including the sail track on the boom and this morning's breakfast. "I thought this only happened in the cartoons!" Dylan was astonished at the extent of his seasickness. "It can only get better from now on" he said with a twisted smile. He may be a family guy, but he's a trooper.
We scampered back into Morro Bay and rested, repaired, and slept for the day while the gale whipped the very spark in the air. The plan was to leave early the next morning and head south to Avila Beach. Real early, before the wind got strong.
9PM. As we dined at Pizza Port, contemplating this might be our last meal should be gale consume us, Chris announces he's also leaving - and on top of things, his friend Sarah from Napa Valley is coming too - and she's pregnant! "She should be arriving any minute now." What?! The pizza is delicious.
Back at the Tabula Raza, in the pitch black, the lads haul me up the mast, to recover the topping lift (an important line which came off the block). I'm 30 feet up in the air, headlamp illuminating the mast in front of me, nothing else exists. I breath and look around; the view of the city lights is fiery, along with the calm and hazy air, I feel like I'm inside the dragon's belly.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Double exposure: Travis and Miles
I met Travis when he was searching for a place to take a shower. He had just rolled into town from Colorado and was living in his van. Deborah from the health foods store told him, "this guy Kristian would know, he lives on a sailboat. Wait - there he is!" I gave him all the trade secrets: go to the Coast Guard Station, showers are a quarter every 2 minutes, nice hot water. He was stoked and promised to repay the favor.
A few weeks later he came to the Tabula Raza; after one look at my kitchen counter he said was a crazy gleam, "what we need to do is to tile your counter! I've got some amazing spanish tile that is extra." We spent 7 hours on a pristine Sunday afternoon cutting tiles by hand, using no power tools, working each one into a wave-like pattern on my humble galley. I took a photo of him at work (top).
That same night we picked up my old time friend Miles Jay from the train station. We hiked the Black Hill under a very full moon; then headed to the boat for some rest. The next morning, after jumping in the water, I tried to take a photo for posterity. However, the old 35mm Nikon, with a manual wind-up, decided it was barely going to take the shot. I had to force it with a slight thump. The result was a double exposure of my two good friends looking remarkably alike.
being evicted ain't so bad, after all
I spent two years living in the Back Bay. My anchorage was in front of the bird sanctuary, where blue heron, great white egrets, and cormorants come to nest. An appropriate spot since I came to Morro Bay to hibernate after college; I needed to escape the hustle-bustle and find out who I was. The "Tabula Raza" was anchored in a beautiful spot, with unrestricted views of the Rock, butted up next to the mudflats visible on low tide.
All good things must end. The Back Bay area got shut down; the deadline to move the our boats was March 31, 2006 - the day after my 25th birthday. The fact that my home of two years was being revoked was a big inconvenience, but in all truth I saw it as a blessing in disguise. The deadline forced me to get my act together, fix up the boat, so I could sail away.
I moved the boat to the temporary achorage at the front of the bay, not far from the Harbor Patrol office. This was the legitimate place to anchor for up to 3 months, at about $5/day. This was a huge jump from paying nothing in the back bay, but I managed :)
I looked at the Rock from my new vantage point and realized how close I was to the harbor entrance. Boats came in and out of the harbor: cruising vessels, commercial fishing boats, bigger ships. Instead of being isolated in the bird sanctuary, surrounded by crusty old fishermen and trashy liveaboards, I was meeting fellow sailors, learning about the community of cruisers. That helped me really motivate to leave.
If I was in the nest before, cozy in a warm comfort zone of free rent and easy living, now the mother goose was pushing me out to the edge, as she said, "you can fly now." I was a bit scared of course, but also excited, and set the 26th of May as my departure date.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Windy Cove Anchorage
The view from the muddy beach where guys in tall boots, wielding long suction tubes, hunt for small crustaceans during low tide. I used to keep my skiff on this beach; occasionally I'd walk by them and we'd nod at each other. Different worlds, same beach.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
How I came to live on a Sailboat
When I bought my Columbia 29, in March 2004, I knew zilch about sailing. The boat was in Long Beach, and my soon-to-be home port was Morro Bay, 200 miles away, and the infamous Point Conception was between us. This presented a logistical problem! I'd spent 10 days aboard a tall ship many years ago; and I've been kitesurfing quite a bit; but as for the theory, practice, and terminology of small sailboats, I knew nothing. But I was determined to live aboard a sailboat.
Why? First of all, I wanted to boycott the concept of rent - I despise giving landlords my money - but also, I'm an ocean fanatic, and Morro Bay's ideallic glassy estuary is like a cold water paradise. Smooth like a mirror, nestled between mudflats and sand dunes, under the watchful eye of Morro Rock rising 300 feet high, the bay moves with the ebb and flood of the 6 foot tides, morphing constantly and transfixing my dreamy mind.
I felt a calling, a beckoning from the sailer within, who longed for the infinite horizons and the romance of a black storm. Few times I'd been aboard a sailboat; but I'd always felt a certain familiarity, a warm recognition like I'd once been a sailer, or had always dreamed of being one, and sometimes I'd get tears of emotion in my eyes. I knew that sailing was part of my future.
I began my search for a sailboat. On Ebay, of all places, I found an incredible deal. Just $2000 for a 29ft Columbia Defender. According to the owner, it was fully operational with engine, rigging, sails, and a bombproof 1964 fiberglass hull. No other deal I found came even close. The only problem was that it was in Long Beach. I told the owner I'd love to buy his boat, but I didn't actually know how to sail.
I never would have expected it, but John turned out to be a bit crazy- the good kind of crazy - which was to my advantage. During our conversation, he suddenly said, "You know what? I could use a little adventure. I'll sail her to Santa Barbara with you, teach you how to sail, and you can take it from there."
"Uh, you think I can sail her from Santa Barbara to Morro Bay on my own?" I was skeptical.
"Sure!"
I wasn't convinced about that, but I was definitely pumped up on the boat. If the owner volunteered to sail 100 miles with me, it couldn't be that bad! Three weeks before that, I was walking along the beach, and met a girl called Sarah who had just finished her diploma at San Fransisco's Marine Institute; we had connected instantly and exhanged phone numbers. I hadn't talked to her since, but I called her out-of-the-blue, and asked her if she'd like to go on an adventure. Sarah's incredibly smart and handy, but she shares a characteristic of mine: an under-developed sense of self-preservation. All in the name of fun, of course.
"I know a lot about navigation and big stinky diesel engines, but I don't know much about sailing." She hesitated for a minute. Then, seeing that my own lack of knowledge wasn't keeping me from doing it, she stepped up to the plate. "You said this guy John would teach us? Alright let's do it."
There was no way I could back out now. Two strangers were volunteering their time for a risky venture: sailing in winter with a sketchy boat and an inexperienced crew. If they thought it was possible, how could I back down? It was the beginning of an epic effort to bring a sailboat into my life.
the Raza
Why? First of all, I wanted to boycott the concept of rent - I despise giving landlords my money - but also, I'm an ocean fanatic, and Morro Bay's ideallic glassy estuary is like a cold water paradise. Smooth like a mirror, nestled between mudflats and sand dunes, under the watchful eye of Morro Rock rising 300 feet high, the bay moves with the ebb and flood of the 6 foot tides, morphing constantly and transfixing my dreamy mind.
I felt a calling, a beckoning from the sailer within, who longed for the infinite horizons and the romance of a black storm. Few times I'd been aboard a sailboat; but I'd always felt a certain familiarity, a warm recognition like I'd once been a sailer, or had always dreamed of being one, and sometimes I'd get tears of emotion in my eyes. I knew that sailing was part of my future.
I began my search for a sailboat. On Ebay, of all places, I found an incredible deal. Just $2000 for a 29ft Columbia Defender. According to the owner, it was fully operational with engine, rigging, sails, and a bombproof 1964 fiberglass hull. No other deal I found came even close. The only problem was that it was in Long Beach. I told the owner I'd love to buy his boat, but I didn't actually know how to sail.
I never would have expected it, but John turned out to be a bit crazy- the good kind of crazy - which was to my advantage. During our conversation, he suddenly said, "You know what? I could use a little adventure. I'll sail her to Santa Barbara with you, teach you how to sail, and you can take it from there."
"Uh, you think I can sail her from Santa Barbara to Morro Bay on my own?" I was skeptical.
"Sure!"
I wasn't convinced about that, but I was definitely pumped up on the boat. If the owner volunteered to sail 100 miles with me, it couldn't be that bad! Three weeks before that, I was walking along the beach, and met a girl called Sarah who had just finished her diploma at San Fransisco's Marine Institute; we had connected instantly and exhanged phone numbers. I hadn't talked to her since, but I called her out-of-the-blue, and asked her if she'd like to go on an adventure. Sarah's incredibly smart and handy, but she shares a characteristic of mine: an under-developed sense of self-preservation. All in the name of fun, of course.
"I know a lot about navigation and big stinky diesel engines, but I don't know much about sailing." She hesitated for a minute. Then, seeing that my own lack of knowledge wasn't keeping me from doing it, she stepped up to the plate. "You said this guy John would teach us? Alright let's do it."
There was no way I could back out now. Two strangers were volunteering their time for a risky venture: sailing in winter with a sketchy boat and an inexperienced crew. If they thought it was possible, how could I back down? It was the beginning of an epic effort to bring a sailboat into my life.
the Raza
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