CHAPTER 7
It was a simple overnighter to the Coronado Cays Yacht Club in San Diego. As I was a member, my crew, guests, and I could enjoy one last day of comfort and everyone at the club would make us welcome as we ticked off various departure loose ends.
Two short hours south of Newport Beach, while sailing in balmy, relaxing conditions for a January night, and with remnants of champagne still pouring, we had our first “test under fire.“ My 26-year-old son Chip, who was along only for this short leg because of business obligations, screamed from below:
“Awwww CRAP! Who bought these lousy knives anyway?”
A hungry lad since birth, and using a knife with an extra sharp blade, he had sliced into a gift cheese ball, taking a generous portion of his finger along for the ride. Denise, crutches supporting her, managed to hobble down the companionway, to suture and wrap his painful, bloody finger. I wondered—had God sent a message to have a nurse aboard for all time? None of us craved the cheese ball painted with Chip’s blood, so he alone packed it away in a few hungry mouthfuls, continuing his bitching, which diminished as Nurse Denise added scotch and aspirin as a nautical pain reliever. Chip dozed off leaving cheese consumption his one and only contribution to his short voyage. We would shortly be parting for a long time, perhaps forever, we just didn’t know. This made for quiet reflective times where all of us, Denise, Tony, his girlfriend Kim, Chip and I, tended to be in different places mentally and emotionally.
“I love you, Skip,” whispered Denise.
“You’re reading my mind,” I replied. We were snuggled in the cockpit in the wee hours, holding and comforting each other as people do when they are in love.
“You made me proud today, Skippy.”
“Thank you, Denise. It’s bittersweet. It’s wonderful, the feeling of satisfaction in getting to this point. It’s wistful though, and I feel out of sorts at leaving you, my love.”
“You’ll miss me?” Denise asked, and held my hand slightly tighter. I kissed her. She returned the pleasure. We had our answer.
My other son, Tony, who was to sail with me, was busy telling his brother Chip, older, by one year, about the treasures he would find and the girls he would meet. Chip claimed the girls in Tony’s life worth knowing were all in California and assured him, “Don’t worry, Tony, while you’re away I’ll take care of ‘em for ya.”
Denise and I overheard the quip. We were both somewhat pleased only Tony would sail with his dad. The “boys” (as Denise referred to the duo) have colliding personalities. Chip is the more aggressive, demanding, my-way-or-the-highway kind of person, who can be a handful in close quarters. Tony, on the other hand, is in many ways the opposite to Chip, caring, thoughtful, and can be counted on when the chips are down (so to speak).
As sons, I loved them both. Denise did as well. As a choice for crew, it was Tony—hands down.
Thus, on the morning of January 13th, Tony and I said our final uncomfortable goodbyes to Chip, Denise, and Tony’s girlfriend Kim. We made a quick stop at the last fuel dock in San Diego harbor for Tony to rake the junk food from the shelves.
Clearing Point Loma in a light nor’easter, we were surprised, and somewhat awed, by the size of the huge rollers running with rhythm below and with our southbound hull. In his best rendition of the King’s English, Tony exclaimed, “Jeez, Dad, I never seen no waves like these ones.” Even a navy destroyer was rolling as she slipped silently past. They were big waves indeed, long slow ocean rollers bred of a storm in some distant quadrant and telegraphed ahead to give sailors fair warning.
By noon we saw our first of many whales. These were a real spirit lifter at a time we were huddled in foul weather gear and gloves, to guard against rapidly falling temperature, gathering heavy clouds, and dwindling distance between those “long slow rollers.” We shortened sail.
Tony again, “Jeez, Pops, are we nuts—leaving in January?”
I wondered.
Late in the day we passed into Mexican coastal waters, but could still receive San Diego radio. The weather news was about a rapidly moving storm dubbed “The Yukon Express.” We had heard of it the previous day.
“Cool name for a cold storm, and I have a feeling it wants us,” Tony commented.
“It might. I checked the chart against the last weather broadcast.
It’s packing a lot of wind and could catch us. Are you ready?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Tony said lamely, but picked up tempo, adding, “My music is in my sea dry pocket and the Lord is on my shoulder. What could be better?”
“Try your English.”
Night fell fast and heavy. The last network evening news was history when we passed seven nautical miles (nm) west of “Roca’s Soledad,” a nasty collection of rocks, hidden except in extreme tides, and a known collector of “near miss navigation” trophies. We were headed for Isla San Martin in increasingly heavy seas and a rocking ride that had me concerned.
By midnight we had breaks in the sky, a glimpse at a stunning moon, and a chorus of chattering porpoises leaping and clowning within inches of our bow.
“Awesome, freezing but awesome,” said Tony.
Both of us were wide-awake. We wondered if we had outrun the Yukon Express. Tony snapped pictures of the moon darting in and out of ominous clouds, and I nervously noticed a few distant waves now had a crest and small break to them. We were not free.
By 1300 January 15th we had our hook (anchor) down at Isla San Martin. It was an uncomfortable first anchorage to the lee (away from wind) side of the island but with minimal shelter from increasingly angry waves. Following a short nap, a ‘cuppa Joe,’ and a can of Campbell’s allegedly ‘best,’ we caught a scratchy weather alert from San Diego: “Coming waves and cold will set records.”
“That sucks,” Tony said as a wave rolled Endymion, knocking his spoon from his mouth.
“I agree Tony—sounds ominous—let’s move.”
With weather deteriorating by the minute we upped anchor to strike out for the more promising shelter of Islas San Benito, 133 nautical miles south. Though experienced, we hadn’t given enough consideration to something we well knew—sailing yachts couldn’t outrun a storm.
Shortly after midnight our radios took a dump—shut down. At 0200, the “Yukon Express” found our little spot on the Pacific and hit with winds gusting to forty knots. Raging seas shot fingers of icy spray throughout the January night’s 13.5 hours of blackness. At 0300 Tony wrote in the log: “One cold mother tonight.”
When morning broke we could see mountains of water crashing on rocks ahead, we believed marked a channel between the two islands of San Benito’s. It looked terrifying, and treacherously narrow. We’d made good time. The sea waves chasing us from astern were fifteen feet with angry breaking crests, and dark against the dawn sky. As they caught up and swept below, they would send us screaming down into the trough, where we would stall, and the wave would race ahead, towering once again to obscure the horizon. It was scary—yet fascinating. Tony reminded me of the Pacific sailor’s adage, “Going south . . . sail it. Going north . . . mail it.”
Tony and I, in our yellow slickers, looked at each other. We were closing rapidly on the narrow, wave-battered passage.
“Whadda ya think, Dad?” Tony asked, his eyes wide and face flushed from the pounding wind and stinging salt spray. “Looks crappy and narrow gettin through there. I didn‘t come here to get my body pounded on yonder guano-crusted rocks.”
We opted for the longer route around and anchored safely by mid-morning in a reasonably protected bay, again exhausted, yet intrigued by the small fishing village nestled in protection of the otherwise barren and forgotten rock. A nip of whiskey for our souls, and again we slept—first I wanted to thank God. I sat at the desk space in my aft cabin, pen in hand to write to Denise, and quietly offered:
“Dearest Lord” (I always think of God as my friend), “Thanks for keeping us safe in this ball buster Yukon stuff. I owe you, and promise to be back atcha finding good in people and making a better world, one of peace—and by the way God, we could use warmer weather, maybe a little sun? And thanks to French yacht builders. They did well. We didn’t take a single breaking wave over the cockpit—but you were watching, so I guess you know that. Thanks again, God. Skip—out.”
Actually, the only waves that reached deck were smaller quartering seas that posed no threat other than a soaking. Endymion didn’t have the sleek lines and gracious overhangs of bygone generations, but her design had two appreciated advantages—more interior bulk and added safety with her higher freeboard (measurement from water to deck). Endymion tended to rise on the seas and not take green water from behind. The separation of keel and spade rudder provided great downwind tracking even in dicey weather.
Anchored and settled in, we were approached by a skiff full of waving Mexican teens with a trade deal we couldn’t refuse. Eight live lobsters soon scampered around the cockpit in return for a six-pack of Budweiser. Ahhh—Mexico was grand.