Exploring Twin Harbor

A magical spot guarded by a fortress of rock on both sides, and a calm cobblestone beach behind. It is a narrow enough cove that I hardly expect another boat to try and squeeze in. I am alone with my thoughts, only to share with the resident sea lions, which make quite a commotion while hunting: flapping their flippers, uh-uh-uh hooting, while the pelicans dive-bomb to gather the stunned fish left behind.

Both mornings have been foggy, which I managed to greet with a yoga session on board, followed by some productive work: whipping the end of lines, assessing the headsails, etc... These accomplishments have been rewarded with breakfast feasts, like french toast and black tea, or omelette with corn tortillas. The sun always seems to emerge halfway through the breakfast, which so warms me from inside out, that I feel overwhelmed; the gratitude and the abundance is such that I eat slowly and try to take it all in.

working on the bow at twin harbor

The previous day I went ashore and explored the ravine leading from the beach, which is blocked by a stupendous rock. Spelunking-style, one climbs through the crevices of the rock with a feeling that a billion tons are hanging suspended above. The ravine then opens into a creekbed and a narrow valley, but I did not pursue it far. A notebook is left next to the rock, neatly packeged inside a plastic bag with a pen to record people's impressions of the trek.

Today I paddled the dinghy - with the one remaining oar - and explore the west cove which makes this a "twin harbor"; though it is much less protected and full of kelp, the diving is clear, with the usual assortment of garibaldi, opal eye, and rock fish that weave through the kelp bed.

Upon return to the mother ship I had an incredibly productive afternoon, fixing the solar panel (the wire had come loose), the main VHF radio (the connection was faulty), as well as repaired both my board shorts by hand-sewing. This was a first to me, a skill which I have learned from the necessity of fixing sails and whipping line, but is readily applied to mending clothes.

The day is capped off with a shower in the cockpit, complete with shaved beard and conditioned hair, which sets me up for a pleasant evening of reading and writing in the cabin. I finish The 4 Hour Work Week, by Timothy Ferris, the message being "lifestyle design" and lifelong learning, which leaves me elated at both my current state and future prospects. In the context of this excellent day, which brought me nothing but high spirits and strength of resolve, I experienced the following bizarre occurrence.

Ominous Evening at Twin Harbor

I was feeling merry at the end of a positive day, when a most bizarre thing happened. While I listened to Dave Matthews' song "Halloween", which is fairly brutish but good, I heard a sound outside the cabin that made my heart quiver.

Bear in mind that there is constant rattling of the wires in the mast, the slap-slap of halyards, the creaks and groans in the boat; yet this sound was qualitatively different, and I peaked my head out the hatch with a flashlight. I saw nothing, but felt something.

People have asked me, aren't you scared out there on your own, at night? Though ten seconds ago I had been inflated like a happy balloon, suddenly I felt a bit... scared. I collected my thoughts and figured, my intuition is telling me something. On a purely non-rational level, my gut told me there were other "beings" in the area. Of course, now I started imagining all kinds of noises, exaggerating them on the basis that I was here all alone.

Then I remembered doing something - just an hour ago - which was purely by chance. I was digging around some toiletries and found a crystal inside a satchel, an old present from a friend, and decided to place it in the boat somewhere. Granted, I'm not much of crystal-type of guy, but it was a pretty little thing and needed a home.

As it turns out, coincidence or not, it was hung directly above my head where I sit in the cabin - though without any plan or design of my own - about an hour before the "ominous" feeling. A remote possibility, but perhaps my intuition had taken the preventative measure?

Remembering the advice from a friend of mine who has experience in these things, I asked (knowing not who or what) respectfully for permission to stay in this fine cove tonight, and please may I also have a restful sleep. Both were granted, evidently, for I did not stir the entire night.

Description of Solo Anchoring Bow & Stern

People ask me how I anchor bow & stern on my own. It ain't pretty! I run around a lot and make a mess, but this is how it goes:

1. Drop the headsail and secure it under the spinnaker pole.

2. Drop the outboard in the water, connect the gas line, and pull-start it (the electric ignition isn't working)

3. Place a fender next to the boat and pull the dinghy alongside, tie it to the cleats.

4. Drop the mainsail and tie it off to the boom.

The boat LOVES to get beam-on to the swell, which sends her rolling drastically, making all this work incredibly difficult. Then;

5. Prepare stern anchor - untie anchor from stanchions, tie extra long line to the end of the rode, and make sure it won't bind.

6. Prepare bow anchor - release from secured spot, and possibly pull chain on deck to facilitate.

Ok, now we're ready to anchor, so I back up as close to the beach as I dare, and drop the stern anchor over board with one hand, while the other hand puts the boat in forward and steers. Despite precautions, often the line gets tangled or caught and today is no exception. Finally it's extended all the way to the end, more than 250 feet away.

I begin to drop the bow anchor, but I don't want it all piling in one spot, so...

I make the bow chain fast,

run back to the cockpit,

give the engine some reverse,

pull on the stern line,

put the engine in neutral again,

and run back to the bow to let more chain out.

This is repeated multiple times, tripping over lines and such, always intent on the rocks around and the stern line on the propeller. Furthermore, a few extra doses of reverse gear are needed to ensure the bow anchor is set properly, or else it needs to be re-set.

Finally once we're back all the way and both bow and stern line are fairly tight, I coil up the mass of wet line which is everywhere, and adjust other things like the topping lift (so the boom clears my head) and whatever else isn't in its correct position.

I wear a gloves whenever anchoring, and use beeswax hand salve in the evening, to keep my hands from becoming callused beyond recognition.

Going to Twin Harbors

As if the gale had blown away the residual funk from my psyche, and left me uncluttered and fresh, I went about the day like a new person. For breakfast, I prepared the first genuine good meal of the trip: eggs on toast with cherry tomatoes and avocado. I then got everything "shipshape" and headed into the Channel, tacking upwind.

I was bound for Twin Harbors, which was to be my first visit to the anchorage, located to the west of Pelican Bay. The Channel was foggy and cold, but the wind was consistent out of the west, and the seas relatively light. With the tiller lashed, the boat maintains a bearing of 330 degrees on one tack, then 210 degrees on another. I don't venture too far into the Channel to avoid the shipping lanes, which pass quite close to this end of the island.

I sit in the leeward side of the cockpit, sheltered from the wind, reading my book, glancing every so often at the compass bearing. I get up to tack the boat then return to my comfortable position. Despite the fog and cold this may be one of the most pleasant days of the trip - when a boat is sailing herself to your destination, life could hardly seem more ideal.

Especially when compared to the descriptions in Two Years Before The Mast of a passage around Cape Horn during winter, with frozen decks, snow

storms, and massive seas, the situation here at 34 degrees North 120 degrees West feels very cozy.

The incessant work of the merchant men does inspire me to work myself, and I venture on deck with a screwdriver, heeling over 15 degrees, and remove the belaying pins which have been getting my jib sheets stuck. Quite satisfying to be productive while "on the go".

Five hours later, approach Twin Harbors - two tiny coves with tall cliffs surrounding them. I choose the one to the east, which looks much more sheltered. This is the calmest anchorage so far, we're within 45 feet of the rocks and securely berthed. Having skipped lunch, I prepare an early dinner which is delicious: polenta over sauteed veggies with masala sauce.

Riding out the Gale at Yellowbanks

Several boats were already situated when I arrived. Yellowbanks is, after all, a good anchorage to ride out a gale from the north west. Conditions were hot and glassy, with a slight easterly wind coming from the opposite direction than expected, which was quite deceiving.

On VHF channel 16, I hear, "calling any boat in the Yellowbanks anchorage". I respond, "this is the Black Pearl, do you have a copy?" My primary VHF radio has had some faulty connections so I'm using the handheld unit. "Hi Black Pearl, this is sailing vessel Guayana, change to channel 68" and I respond "changing to channel 6-8".

On channel 68, Guayana expresses their concern "with the easterly wind, which is making me a bit nervous". The infamous Santa Ana winds blow out of the east so doubtless this fellow was concerned about that possibility - but this wasn't the case today. I respond saying this is a "back eddy caused by the heat in the island" and the north-west wind should come in strong before sunset.

They seem satisfied with answer and finish with "over and out". I then make the most of the heat and take a shower in the cockpit - fill up a gallon of fresh water from my tank, and soap myself up, shampoo and conditioner, with speedos on. Just as I'm drying off the first few puffs came down the hills, then it blew like mad.

The only time I've seen comparable winds were at San Miguel Island, anchored at Cuyler Harbor. The island gently slopes up on the windward side, forcing the airmass into higher altitude, which is hurling down unimpeded for hundreds of miles along the California coastline.

Then suddenly the topography of the island falls into a cliff face leading into Cuyler Harbor, which accelerates the wind tremendously, like a roller coaster coming down a hill. Although the wind blows right off the land, which would normally just ripple the surface of the smooth bay, the wind had such strength that one foot waves were being produced in a fetch of 300 feet.

Similar conditions were happening at Yellowbanks, which sent the Black Pearl jackknifing back and forth, pitching in the mini-seas, the dinghy tied up 40 feet behind. I was heating up some Indian lentils on the pan, quite enjoying the fury of the wind outside, when I noticed my dinghy was upside down, capsized! though it was still tied to the sailboat.

Incidentally, when I had crossed the Santa Barbara Channel a week before, rough conditions as they were, there was hardly any water in the dinghy; I was surprised how well it rode out the waves, while I had gotten pumelled.

The dinghy actually has two hulls, which makes it remarkably stable, much like a trimaran. However, like any multi-hull, one of its great weakness is the fact that once it flips over, there ain't no coming back.

Somehow the gale had picked up the dinghy and flipped it over. Now, it was a relatively simple matter for me to pull on the line, using the winch as necessary, and then once it was abreast the sailboat, flip it right-side up. But this little exercise had come at an interesting time - in the lee of my obsessions about getting a 30+ foot trimaran as my next sailboat. Food for thought.

Throughout the incident, I lost the kayak paddle that was inside the dinghy and whatever else wasn't attached - a sponge and a towel. That added the tally of "shook-down" valuable items to #5, just after the discovery the previous day that the BBQ metal hose was missing - probably washed overboard in that mischievous rogue wave in the Channel.

I might have also burned down the boat, because the Indian lentils were still cooking in the stovetop that whole time... but nay, knock on wood.

Now alongside the sailboat (which hasn't drug anchor, thankfully), I put on the foul weather gear and try to bail out the water-logged dinghy. Feels like we're in a critical storm, with spray flying and wind gusts above 40 knots, though the skies are clear with stars twinkling happily.

Much the same as the description in Two Years Before The Mast, by Richard Dana, which I'm currently reading, talking about the gale off Point Conception which blew for days under perfectly clear skies.

After a few more hours of the mast shaking, the rigging quivering, and everything rattling about, the gale ends as suddenly as it started.

Two Years Before The Mast

"The fourteenth of August was the day fixed upon for the sailing of the brig Pilgrim, on her voyage from Boston, round Cape Horn, to the western coast of North America."

This is the story of Richard Dana's two years aboard a merchant ship starting in1834. Dana comes upon the coast of California where the brig is collecting cattle hides for trade back in the "United States" - this was when California was actually a Mexican province.

The descriptions of the small pueblos on the beach, and San Diego "not more than half as large as Monterey", and "nothing for miles which could be called a tree", is wonderful to imagine; as was the number of "Sandwich Islanders", as he called Hawaiians, in the trade with California, and their deep camaraderie and pleasant attitudes.

Dana describes more than one passage past Point Conception as demanding and exhilarating, and I can compare to my own travels along that coastline; and though he makes little reference of the Channel Islands, where I'm currently traveling, there is an indirectnoteworthy, yet indirect connection:

Smuggler's Cove, in the east end of Santa Cruz Island, right next to Yellowbanks - where I stood shelter from a gale - is famous for merchant ships doing contraband with goods, so as to avoid the tariffs imposed by the officials in Monterey. Here ships unloaded their illegal goods into ships that had been "cleared" by customs.

His being a Harvard student, which is as far from being a sailor as is possible, Dana has great insight into the affairs of sailorly-life aboard a merchant ship: the morale of the crew, the grueling work on deck and on shore, and the behavior of the captain.

In contrast to the situation of the modern sailor, the life of the merchant sailor was "a dog's life"; though we are attracted to the sea for the same reasons, the modern vessel affords an individual the freedom that in the past was simply impossible - even to a captain in a merchant ship, in his "supremacy" and all.

Not to say modern sailors don't get their share of discomfort, for that's just part of life at sea; personally, I just have renewed appreciation for the level of complete freedom that we get to enjoy.

Olas, Trimaran Dreamin', Gale Warning

[Note: this post was recently modified as someone wasn't happy about the naming of this spot - hopefully it has been edited sufficiently. My intention isn't to spill the beans and have people flock to destinations; but rather to show that an adventurous lifestyle is possible, regardless of where you are.]

DAY 7

Early morning I heave anchor with a functioning windlass, which brings me great delight, and motor to get some waves. Even though this is the Tuesday after Labor Day, there are 10 boats there and about 15 people in the water. Head high sets were rolling through with nice rights and lefts, though with a bump in the water.

Last year I came out here twice in the Tabula Raza and anchored for several days straight off the spot, without bothering to go at night to a calm anchorage. The downside was the comfort level: during the day it's rolly, at night it's quite rough. But it's ideal for surf, as I had waves to myself for an hour every morning, and was also the last one out of the water in the evening; not to mention completely avoiding the hassles of re-anchoring and motoring about (and spending gas $$).


TRIMARAN DREAMIN'
During this trip my comfort threshold was much lower - the rolliness was frying my nerves, and the constant re-anchoring with difficult gear was wearing on my spirit. Every trip, especially solo, presents a new challenge and this was definitely the issue for me: as a surfer, wanting to be at a spot as much as possible, yet suffering because it's inherently a rough place to keep a boat.

My mind was spinning on the idea of getting a trimaran - how much more stable it would be, etc... and as it turns out older tris in the 30-34ft range can be had for as little as $5000. Why should I spend another minute of my time on this boat if my future lies in a trimaran? Such was the logic that was keeping me from being present and content with what I had, and which I was determined in some way to overcome.

GALE WARNING
The surf session was fun enough, and being the 4th and smaller day of waves, I felt satisfied to move on to the next phase in the trip. Plus I had hit a wall in my psyche and needed a change of environment, so I made my way around the island.

As soon as San Pedro Point was passed, the wind was howling and the whitecaps were big and mean. After several days in the protected lee of the island it was obvious I wasn't in the least prepared for this, equipment being unsecured and flying around the cabin. I turned on the VHF and listened to the marine weather radio, which announced a gale warning that evening - "winds consistently above 30 knots are expected". I promptly turned around and headed back to Yellowbanks, where I was going to feel some of the heaviest (yet brief) winds I had felt in years.

Yoga, a broken Windlass, and Diving

DAY 6

FINDING MY YOGA
Six days into the trip and I'm starting to feel like I'm truly on vacation. Decompressing from the hectiness of daily life takes time - the first few days spent "on vacation" are caught in furiously accomplish things, as if still under the pressures of a schedule. The rush-rush mentality carries on until you truly slow down.

The beach at Albert's

This is best done by staying a whole day (at least) in one place. On this fine Monday I stayed all day at Albert's, which required some discipline, for the south swell was on the rise. But this is what a commitment to relaxation requires. Besides, I figured the Labor Day weekend crowd was going to be mayhem.

I paddled the dinghy to shore - using a kayak paddle, since one of the aluminum oars broke the day before I left. The beach is narrow and full of cobblestones, with a thin track of sand at the top spanning 30 feet. Being on terra firma is a delight. I do an hour of yoga, and explore the fresh water spring coming down the hill.

BROKEN WINDLASS
The boat anchored next to the Pearl is a 36ft Islander with father and son on a 2 week trip. They are most enthusiastic about un-jamming my windlass, which has been a source of agony. The day before I had anchored in deep water and the fingers in my left hand got caught between chain links and windlass spokes which sent me hollering in pain. So I was excited to fix the problem.

The funky windlass - lever on the left, stick on the right.

The neighbors brought over their toolbag and un-jammed it, as well as showed me how to use it properly. Nevertheless, the set up of the windlass is poor and it keeps sucking in the chain such that gets it stuck constantly, unless I use a stick to prevent that from happening (for 10 minutes I used my fingers then realized that was a bad idea).


DIVING AND A-FISHIN'
In the afternoon we went fishing, by going on an assault armed with 2 hawaiian slings and a fishing pole in the nearby rocks. The swell made visibility poor, but in 20 feet of water we were able to spear a rock fish and a sheepshead. With the lure on the end of the rod I caught a small sea bass.

Aboard their sailboat, which is considerably roomier than mine, we prepared oven-baked fish along with pan-fried potatoes and carrots, garnished with avocado. By the time I left, the stars were twinkling bright, before the moonrise; so I pull out my star book and gaze at cassiopeia, scorpio, and of course the big and little dipper, the North Star just above the steep hills surrounding our quiet cove.