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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Channel Islands, enroute to Rio

Beadle, protected from the elements.

Monday morning, a week before my trip to Brazil. Captain Ed invites me on an overnight boat ride to the Channel Islands. Stoked! I am very tempted, and must make a split-second decision.

"But I have a million loose ends to tie before I go to Brazil" retorts my adult, responsible mind. "What about the adventure! What of your true nature!" cries out my romantic side. Of course I accept the offer.

Wise move - we had a blast. Surfing, meandering around the island, studying Zen koans during down time, eating continuously like my life depended on it (sunshine makes me hungry).

Captain Ed, at Santa Cruz Island

But upon return from the joyful vacation, reality hit. "I'll have to hustle big time to get all my chores done." I felt a nudge of irresponsibility, especially since this is a common theme in my life. Prioritizing experience (fun) over chores(obligations). So I spin my wheels non-stop for three days, checking off items on my list, going to work, my eye on the 6:45am train I'm hoping to catch Sunday morning.

Saturday night, I lock up the Raza, my faithful sailboat (and current home) - dry dock the dinghy, which I row out daily to the mooring - pack my bags - then I realize my huge mistake. Crap, I forgot my passport! By this time it's 11pm, I'm at my girlfriend's house and that very important document is aboard the Raza. There's no way I'll make the 6:45am train, which is in 7 hours. I blew it.

All because I went to the Channel Islands and left things for the last minute! I blame the law of causality. After all, one thing leads to another. The trip to the Islands was a Plus, forgetting my passport was a Minus, so... I am now paying my dues. In my mind, at least.

Rowing the dinghy to the sailboat,
daily commute.

All good, there's a 10am bus that I can take. Sunday morning, I say farewell to my lady - how lovely she is - and I attend to the calm sunny morning in Morro Bay. I strip down to my boardshorts and grab my surfboard. Enduring the 55 degree water, and the stares of various fishermen, I believe is better than launching my dinghy and rowing, a mega effort at this stage. So I trudge across soggy mudflats, and jump in the water.

I paddle to the Raza's resting place, before the powerful current sweeps me away. Seeing the Raza again so soon brings a bittersweet-ness to my lips. "My dear friend, I'm not back just yet! I don't mean to tease you - I just forgot my passport." I say goodbye once again, and with my valuable passport in a waterproof bag (errr, not quite waterproof it turns out), I paddle back to shore, adrenalin flowing from the combination of freezing water and burning tricep muscles. A wonderful feeling of aliveness. I consider it is a good omen for the trip - feeling salty and refreshed, there is no better way to start a journey! Thanks to Captain Ed...

Off I go. Grabbing the bus to Santa Barbara, and the train on to Los Angeles, I am no longer in charge; I have no cares left in my mind. After all, I'm going to Brazil! Better yet - I'm going to my cousin's wedding... in four days time.

BRAZIL HO!

Rio 2005

p>LAYOVER IN MIAMI

There's just enough time during the layover to watch the Miami Heat
lose the basketball semifinals, while all the local Miami folk cringe
at their team's demise. We take off just minutes after.

Once airborne, the pilot announces, "The radar isn't working, I'm
afraid we'll have to return, as I don't feel comfortable flying 8
hours without it." Neither do I. But it's midnight already,
everyone's dead tired - the Kiwi guy next to me flew from New Zealand
in an overnight marathon. The good-looking black lady in front is
stressed she'll miss her 9AM appointment in Rio. Cutting it a tad
close, there? A sure recipe for stress.

We depart 1AM, the black lady will surely miss her appointment; she
is mad! I wonder if my mom will call the airline, or if she'll
arrive early and wait.

CUSTOMS, THE FIRST HURDLE

"Bem-vindos ao Rio de Janeiro". Thrilled, because I'm here! But
there's still the issue of Customs; WHAT exactly are you bringing
into our cow-n-trie? is a fair question, but a potential hassle for
sneaky would-be smugglers.

Approaching the customs line, with my lavender/pink duffle bag full
of American goodies, I recall last year's failed smuggling attempt.
Then, I carried amidst my clothes:
-two VHF radios
-one CD player
-four automobile speakers
-one computer camera
-and a host of expensive perfumes and books.

The red light came on at the end of the custom's line, and I got
busted. My mom patiently waited outside for three hours, while I
unpacked every last sock and underwear to the inspector's
satisfaction. After US$200 in taxes, and other losses, I decided
that being a smuggler isn't my calling.

This year things were different. I only brought a huge stack of
books and a heavy towrope (both necessities for my parents' remote
lifestyle). When I pressed the button at the end of the custom's
line, the light was green. Hurray! The life of crime does not pay.

MEAT, THE SECOND PLEASURE

The Churrascaria Oasis is my first dining experience upon arrival:
meat in all its Brazilian glory. An army of waiters wielding swords
with 25 variations of lamb, beef, poulty, and pork, sliced
sumptuously onto your plate, serve you mercilessly. They only stop
once you beg forgiveness for the vegetarian years that you pursued, O
sacrilege, in California.

Fearless, I plunge forth

Unexpectedly, the American School of Rio de Janeiro, the school of my
early years, was hosting a party at the Churrascaria. When we
arrived at the door, and the waitress asked, "Are you with the
American School?" I was shocked! How did she know I'd gone to school
there 10 years ago? Then we discovered the coincidence. Between
bites of tender-loin and chicken hearts I looked over to the long
table of teachers, wondering if I knew any of them; and sure enough
my 7th grade math teacher came over and gave me a big hug,
exclaiming: "KRISTIAN BEADLE!" There is a link between meat-eating
and nostalgia, after all.

ESTRADA VELHA DA TIJUCA, 149.

After the hurdles and pleasures, the above address is the real reason
I love Rio. My grandparents' house, a 1920 two-storey building,
which isn't called a mansion only because of the genuine humility and
simplicity found herein. Of the occupants, surely, but also of the
carved furniture; the plants in every corner; my aunt Isolda's
paintings; the swinging French windows; everything is classic,
tasteful, and well-kept. I've been privy to many family gatherings
in that house, which turn the restful space into a bubbling bath of
laughter, and love of people we haven't seen in years and almost
forgotten, but loved nevertheless for being family.

My grandmother, 90, my sister, 30.