Chapter I: The High Price of Braggadocio

It was the end of the second year of law school and I had just finished taking final exams. Two of my classmates, Fleabag and The Woman were sitting with me at our favorite watering hole along the Ventura Harbor promenade. As the night went on, we became increasingly under the influence of Tanqueray, beer and wine. Like a drunken idiot, no offense to my idiot friends, I bragged that I was contemplating sailing to Hawaii and back during the summer break.

“Yeeeeeep… I guess I’ll be pulling anchor and sailing out to the islands, maybe visit some old friends,” I said matter-of-fact.

“You’re sailing to Hawaii?” asked The Woman.

When we called Harold “The Woman,” it had nothing to do with his sexual orientation, rather it had to do with his constant complaining and always having to have the last word. I know this was not exactly politically correct of us, but it was all just between we gentlemen. Ahem…

Actually, I had only been planning a weekend sail out to Santa Cruz Island the following morning. While attending law school, I lived aboard my 36 foot sailboat to save money. I ran the local marine fuel dock and that allowed me to be able to keep my boat docked there at night for free.  The fuel dock was located next to the Corinthians Yacht Club and their club harbor master allowed me to use their showers in exchange for keeping an eye on things after hours. I didn’t have to do anything other then give them a call if I saw something suspicious. At any rate, I was dialed in and loving it.

Living this way, and with what I made working at the fuel dock, allowed me to pay my tuition as it came due. I was also able to get in about six hours of study during an eight hour work shift selling marine fuels. I had hired an older guy, Pirate Don, to work on the weekends.

Friends would occasionally ask why I hired him, I would tell them that Pirate Don was the alcoholic, screw-up father I never had.

Actually, I was just joking as my dad was a really great guy and I credit him with getting me interested in sailing at a young age.  We always had a boat and that’s what we did as a family when he had time off.

I knew quite a few people in Ventura Harbor who, like myself, lived aboard their vessels. We were affectionately referred to locally as “harbor trash.” However, just by looking at people who lived on the docks, you couldn’t tell if they owned a huge plush yacht or a floating trash can. I was in the middle. Occasionally, I would join friends and other harbor trash in forming a small regatta and sail out to Smuggler’s Cove to drop anchor and party.

Now, I could have easily explained to the boys that I was only going out to the Channel Islands for the weekend but, nope. “Oh yeah, I love Hawaii,” I replied.

“Really?” challenged Fleabag,

We called him Fleabag because of his taste, or lack thereof, in clothes. Here we are in this upscale harbor night club and Fleabag is wearing the same old dirty off white stained shirt, cheap black pants and clod hopper shoes he always wears. It seemed like he wore the same clothes every day but, I actually noticed that the stains had a way of moving around the shirt as the days went by. He had  about seven or eight shirts and several pairs of trousers. I don’t even want to tell you how cheap this guy was on socks. The Woman suggested one time that they must be his golf socks — 18 holes.

“Oh yeah, at this time of year, there’s plenty of wind and I’m pretty confident I can be back in time for next semester,” I explained like I was a world class experienced sailing expert. I have always been a fairly skillful sailor but, I had never sailed trans oceanic before. This was out of my league.

“By yourself?” asked The Woman.

I could have, and should have, stopped right there but, naw. “So, you guys wanna come along?”

That later proved to be among the stupidest things I ever said at a bar. If you’ve ever seen the movie ‘The Producer’, try and remember the look on Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder’s faces when they realized that ‘Springtime for Hitler’ was a success. I couldn’t believe that Fleabag and The Woman seriously wanted to go on a cross-oceanic voyage.

For the rest of the evening, I told one sea-horror story after another, to no avail. Fleabag and The Woman were dead set on joining me on a voyage to Hawaii. I should have just stopped the conversation right then and there and told them “no”… Should have, could have, would have… It didn’t happen.

As one could pretty much anticipate, I woke up the next morning with a really bad hangover. As I lay in the aft berth spinning out, I tried to remember why I was in the aft berth and not in my forward cabin. I thought back about the previous night and started remembering all the booze-bolstered talk about sailing to Hawaii. I lay there with a splitting headache and wondered how much of the previous night’s bold talk of the high seas was actually going to materialize into anything.

Sure enough, both Fleabag and The Woman, looking like a couple of nerdy dorks, which they were, showed up at my dock. Both of them had brought several pieces of luggage. They were dressed like they were going slumming in Watts.

I tried my best to explain to these two clowns that space was at an absolute minimum. This was met with an argument from Fleabag about his priorities regarding clean clothes.  The Woman agreed with Fleabag basically because he didn’t want to get him mad and start an argument. Neither of these guys had ever made clean clothes a priority until now. We finally agreed to set the limit at three changes of clothes each. I explained that at sea, you throw your dirty clothes in a net sack, squirt in some soap and throw it overboard attached to a line. After a few minutes, you pull it in and hang them pinned over the rail to dry.

Reluctantly, I also informed my motley crew that we would need a minimum of about five weeks of food provisions. We hit the super market before doing anything else. I informed Fleabag and The Woman that there was not going to be any refrigeration and that cooking on the propane stove was going to be at a minimum. Our provisions consisted mostly of non perishable foods, canned meats and some green vegetables, potatoes, onions, garlic, pasta and canned sauces, jerky, apples, oranges, and saltine crackers. My refrigerator was electric and basically used only when plugged into dockside AC power.  For trips it was used for food storage for the fruits and vegetables.

Fleabag and The Woman brought along several gallons of cheap gin and whiskey. I had asked them to not bring alcohol because we needed to maintain our wits at all times.  Although I was not a heavy drinker, the booze on board actually later became a blessing. When these two clowns would start arguing, I would propose a toast or two or three and eventually they would  pass out and finally shut up.

The Saint Pat II was equipped with a water tank that held about 100 gallons of water. I also informed the boys that water use was going to have to be minimal as it was imperative that we not run out before reaching Hawaii. My water tank was in the bow just forward of where I slept. I had been planning on flushing it out before doing any extended sailing but, that never happened. As a result, there was a slight fiberglass taste to the water.

I had three huge D-8 marine batteries that I kept below in the hold that had a dual purpose of electrical power and giving the vessel more ballast for smoother sailing. I kept them charged with two solar panels that were attached to the cabin top. This was enough to easily provide ample power for the interior cabin lights and mast lights, and to occasionally operate the ship-to-shore radio, the radio direction finder and an older 8-track tape player with an AM/FM radio. Unfortunately for Fleabag and The Woman, who were partial to heavy metal, the few tapes I had were old recordings of country and western stars like Hank Williams, Lefty Frizzell, Marty Robbins and Patsy Cline.

The Saint Pat II was not equipped with an inboard engine and the outboard was small and used only for maneuvering around the harbor.  To save space, I decided to not bring it or the fuel tanks because we really weren’t going to have much opportunity to troll. 

For wind power, I had on board a storm jib, an extra main sail, my working jib, a 120% genoa and a spinnaker. I also brought along some basic tools, duct tape, bailing wire and a variety of fasteners for quick repairs.

Chapter II: The Crew From Hell

We had about 10 weeks before the next semester was to begin and all three of us were ready to do something besides study. I convinced myself that this was going to be an adventure and that this might be my last chance for quite some time.

I knew that, depending on favorable wind conditions, sailing from Ventura Harbor in California to the Ala Wai Harbor in Honolulu would take about three to five weeks each way. There were many lessons learned in this particular adventure. One big lesson was to be sure to pick your crew carefully. In this case, I was pretty much stuck with Fleabag and The Woman and I can only blame myself.

There’s an old adage that ‘familiarity breeds contempt’. This is especially true on a long voyage when you’re spending weeks with people in close quarters twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Several months before, we had formed a study group and we had all been cramming for finals for the past several weeks. In our study group, volume of voice and passion often gave way to logic. In the real world, real lawyers make real money not by logic, but by convincing people. None-the-less, we spent all of our time arguing and debating. Now, we were going to have an opportunity to argue, quarrel and yell at each other around the clock.

After we set sail from Ventura Harbor, I tossed a plastic milk jug overboard as a rescue and recovery drill. I wanted to show my sailing mates just how difficult it is to rescue someone who has fallen overboard. It took the better part of an hour to retrieve the jug and I pointed out that in an hour, a victim could easily succumb to hypothermia. For the next several hours, a heated argument ensued about how long it takes to die from hypothermia.

I later tried to explain the points of sail to the boys but I don’t think it sank in. Most people understand that you can’t sail directly into the wind and that you can’t always have favorable wind directions. It is for this reason that a sailboat has to tack into the wind and so there’s different ways you have to set your sails.  

It’s really not all that difficult. When the wind is coming from the starboard side, the boat is on starboard tack. If the wind is coming from the port side, the boat is on port tack.

Basically, to determine how you should set your sails, you need to determine your point of sail. Your point of sail describes your direction in relation to the wind. Picture the wind is coming straight at your bow from a 12 O’ clock position. That’s commonly referred to as ‘being in chains’. You’re not going anywhere. 

When you’re traveling at a perpendicular angle to the wind, it’s called reaching. Different boats have different performance characteristics. For the Saint Pat II, reaching was the fastest and most efficient way to head. This is what we wanted to spend most of our time doing to make the best time. After all, we had to be back in time for the next semester. We all had a vested interest in making good time.

A ‘close’ reach is when you’re heading at an angle toward the wind and a ‘broad’ reach is  when you’re heading at an angle away from the wind; A ‘beam’ reach is when the wind  is coming directly at a right angle to the boat from either the port or starboard side.

When the wind is directly behind you, this is when you breakout the spinnaker and run with the wind.

While on the subject of filling the sails, that’s really a common misconception. The wind doesn’t actually blow the sails, it creates a vacuum and pulls the sail. When you use the spinnaker sail, you’re basically pulling the vessel along through a vacuum caused by the sail.

After about six hours underway, Fleabag and The Woman decided it was cocktail hour and broke out the gin and extra dry vermouth. All of a sudden I become Mr. lowlife because I didn’t have martini glasses or pimento stuffed olives on board. Instead, drinks were served at room temperature in my anodized aluminum cups.

I explained that we needed to sleep in shifts to keep an eye out for ships. This is especially true just off the California coast where huge international cargo ships are headed to and from the Port of Los Angeles or Port of Oakland.  The general maritime rule is that tonnage always has right-of-way so it was upon us to stay out of their way. It can take several miles for a large cargo ship to come to a stop and turning is equally as difficult.

I took the first watch from midnight to 2 AM. On my watch I spotted three different ships but we were never in any danger of collision. Although our navigation was basically via dead reckoning, I did contact the third ship on the ship-to-shore radio to get their latitude and longitude.

The Saint Pat II was not equipped with the latest in navigational equipment. Basically all I had was a gimbaled compass in the cockpit, a basic sextant, some older maps and a 1960s radio direction finder. I also used my ship-to-shore radio to hail a passing vessel and get their position. By calculating the distance and the angle, I could fairly accurately correct my own dead-reckoning. Even with the latest Loran satellite navigational system or GPS, you still pretty much have to instinctively judge the wind and conditions and guess at what point to tack. I knew heading back that I couldn’t miss at least finding the west coast of North America. But, without properly plotting your course, it is entirely possible to miss finding the Hawaiian Islands.

At 2 AM I awoke The Woman for his watch. He was barely cognizant and didn’t want to get up. When he did finally come up on deck, he was whining that we were in the ocean and that nothing was going to hit us. 

The next morning I went up on deck at 6 AM. The Woman was sound asleep and sprawled across the cockpit seats. The Saint Pat II was now in irons facing directly into the northerly wind. I woke The Woman up and asked him why he had unhooked the wind vain.

The wind vane is a self-steering device that keeps the sails into the wind. Setting a wind vain alone does not keep a sailing vessel on course. It is up to the pilot to either stay on course or if your fighting to get wind, reset the course for the best wind and chart the compass reading, estimated speed and time.

The Woman explained, “Oh, it must have come unhooked a couple of minutes ago when  I dossed off

“Why didn’t you wake Fleabag to take over at 4 AM?” I asked.

“Oh, I was going too but, I… a… I figured I’d let him sleep,” he stammered.

I pretended I believed him and decided not to make a big deal about it. Instead I just went to work getting the sails back into the wind and resetting the wind vane.

A couple of hours later Fleabag came up topside and leaned over the rail and started heaving. The Woman, who was watching Fleabag puke, almost immediately began to hold his stomach, soon joining him in heaving.

“Hey, go find your own spot to puke,” yells Fleabag. “You’re going to get your puke on me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” The Woman responds. “I’ll puke wherever and whenever I damned well feel like it. And I feel like puking here for awhile.” 

The next few days were filled with arguments, constant complaining and drunken belligerence.  At the end of the first week, Fleabag and The Woman were no longer on speaking terms. Fleabag had tried to do his laundry and ended up loosing the laundry bag because he didn’t first check to see if the end of the line was tied to anything.

By the end of the first week, I was beginning to feel the effects of the arguing and lack of sleep from long night watches. I had given up on trying to get these guys to participate in the navigation and I didn’t trust them to take night watch shifts.

The second week was much of the same. Fleabag didn’t fasten my deep sea fishing pole and at some point it went overboard. The Woman and Fleabag, although still not on direct speaking terms, managed to get totally polluted together every night and end up singing along with my Hank Williams tapes.  I’d preferred to hear dogs howl.

Chapter III: A Hui Hou (till we meet again)

Somewhere about the middle of our third week out, we were met with torrential rains. At one point the rain was coming down so hard that I could barely see anything past the bow. The winds were blowing at gale force and I had to reef the main sail, take down the genoa and hoist the storm jib.

Reefing involves pulling down the bottom portion of the main sail to reduce your exposure to strong winds. There are  horizontal rows of small short lines attached to the main sail called cringles. The cringles are used to tie off the lower portion of the sail to the boom.

The storm jib is a very small sail that, like reefing, reduces the area of exposure and is used when the winds are too strong. Failing to reef can cause significant damage to the sails, possibly snap the mast  Too much wind on the jib can render a vessel difficult to steer for even the most seasoned sailor. Being I was babysitting, I decided not to even tempt fate and so I went ahead and reefed and hoisted the storm jib.

The Woman was now starting to panic, “We’re going to die, we’re going to die. I never should have listened to you guys. What am I doing here?”

As I had mentioned, I had an old radio direction finder (RDF) on board. I wanted to keep him busy so he wouldn’t panic. I told The Woman he needed to start monitoring the RDF for a radio signal.

“Oh my God,” is it that bad?” he cried. “Are we really going to sink? Are we going to call the Coast Guard?”

The RDF had about five knobs on the front and so I told The Woman he needed to constantly work the knobs to find a signal.

My old Konel RDF was a low wattage antique but it would detect a signal when you got within about 25 nautical miles of the beacon. I didn’t mention to The Woman that we wouldn’t be in range for a couple more days. Basically, I just wanted to keep him busy so he wouldn’t be a problem.

The fleabag I didn’t have to worry about too much. He stayed drunk much of the time and would just stay below in the forward cabin, in my freaking berth, with his clod hoppers on scuffing the bulkheads.

By the end of the third week, The Woman was finally picking up a signal on the RDF.  This was in accord with my navigational charting. I had been consistently hailing passing ships on the ship-to-shore radio and getting their latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates and using them to correct my own dead reckoning. We were also starting to see seagulls which is a sign of land.

The next morning, we could see Kauai and Oahu off in the distance. By that evening we were in Ala Wai Harbor. Both Fleabag and The Woman had decided they were going to wire home for money from their parents to catch a flight back to the mainland.

This saved me from having to dump them in Honolulu and sneak off in the middle of the night. Trust me, I was willing to do that. In a freaking heartbeat.

Fleabag’s parting words were, “Don’t forget to reef.”

I thanked him for that and he and The Woman were finally out of my hair.

Chapter IV: Honolulu

After we got a guest slip and secured the Saint Pat II, we caught a cab into downtown Waikiki Beach and I introduced the boys to Honolulu night life. We didn’t get back to the boat until about 6 AM. We were still on California Pacific time which is six ours earlier than California Pacific time.

The next morning we met a couple that were also docked in a guest slip. They were  out of  Marina Del Rey and here for just a few days before continuing south to the Figi Islands. After they learned that I had lived on Oahu for several years, I became their tour guide for about three days. This was great. In trade, they had rented a car and were paying for the meals.

Meanwhile, Fleabag and The Woman caught flights back to Los Angeles. “Good riddance,” I remember thinking.

For the next couple of days, my new friends, David and Caroline, and I were going from one venue to another exploring Oahu. I took pride in being able to show them places that were pretty much off the beaten path. They appreciated this as they weren’t interested in the tourist sites or riding around in a huge tourist bus.

I first took them to Toilet Bowl. Toilet bowl was a place on the rocky coast between Diamond Head and Sandy Beach. Toilet Bowl was a natural hole in the rocks with a small tunnel going out to the ocean. When the waves would slam into the rocks and go through the tunnel, the water in the hole would rise and fall, similar to the flushing of a toilet, hence the name. The sides of the hole were smooth and covered with moss. At times, the waves would hit so hard that everyone in the toilet bowl would be flushed out onto the rocks.

From there, we went to Diamond Head. I showed them a trail we could hike that leads to the edge of the crater’s rim. Much of the unpaved trail winds around over large rock and leads to  a tunnel and up some steps leading to another narrow spiral staircase. At the top of the stairs there had once been a artillery and observation platform. The observation platform offered one of the most beautiful views of Honolulu and the Pacific.

We also went to the North Shore. The North Shore is a world away from the hustle and bustle of Honolulu and offers more of the scenic Hawaii people envision. We stopped off at Matsumoto’s Grocery Store in Haleiwa to sample their world famous shaved ice.

We went a little further and I showed the a house above an area we called ‘Pray for Sex Beach’. The house was rumored to have once been owned by Elvis Presley. The place had a huge statue of a moose in the front of the house. Whether it actually belonged to Elvis or not, I don’t know. When we were teenagers, we believed it was his home and it made for many a lie.

On another occasion we went to a place known as jackass Ginger. Jackass Ginger was a local swimming hole that offered small falls with rope swings for diving in. There was also an area where you could go ti ti sliding down steep trails. Ti ti sliding involves sliding on a huge glossy tropical leaf down a muddy trail and then jumping in Jackass Ginger pond to clean off.

Each day we returned to the Ala Wai Harbor exhausted. Looking back, I don’t think I could have packed more activity into three days. I had intended on looking up some old friends while I was there but the occasion never arose.

During my four days on Oahu I had also managed to find time to clean out the Saint Pat II and get her replenished with provisions and fresh water. I left Ali Wai Harbor alone at about 4AM the next morning and by evening I could no longer see the Hawaiian Islands.  ‘Alone at last’ I thought to myself. I was really looking forward to some peace and quiet.

Chapter V: Alone With Just My Thoughts

Another lesson learned was to do thorough navigational research before you jump into that deep well. I learned the hard way that, because of the northeasterly winds, it is much easier to sail to Hawaii from California than to sail back. It turned out that those same northeasterly winds could be totally different on the return voyage. To avoids calm windless seas, which I’m told can be as far north as 40 degrees latitude during the summer, I decided to just sail due north until I could reach steady winds coming from a westerly direction.

Initially, I was hoping to basically just reverse my course back. However, this turned out to be more of a pipe dream than reality. Going back proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated when I soon found it too difficult to sail east against the trade winds and  I was forced to sail at a close reach heading almost directly north.  Normally my sailboat would balance easily on a close reach sailing with a wind vain set to keep the sails into the wind, but not now. No matter what adjustments I tried to make to the wind vain and sail settings she would not stay in the wind for extended periods and I ended up having to hand steer her much of the way. Once I got above 38 degrees North, I was able to finally turn east with moderate winds.

I was grateful that I no longer had anyone questioning my authority and sailing skills. I had time to tinker with the wind vane and found that someone had shifted the weight below the fin causing it to be off balance. I didn’t know if it was sabotage or not but, I took relief in the fact that I was no longer babysitting a couple of drunken morons.

At the end of the second week, the mainsail halyard got stuck in the track it slides up through and I ended up sailing much of the rest of the trip with the main sail reefed. Fortunately it got stuck toward the top of the mast. This did slow me down some and I probably lost at least a couple of days in time.

Throughout the trip I tried to catch fish by trolling a line off my starbord-side wench with an old lure that my dad had purchased when I was still a teenager. I had been using it for a bulkhead decoration but I wanted to eat something fresh. I was able to occasionally pull in a some mahi mahi and sea bass. I had a propane BBQ attached to the aft pulpit and it made for several gourmet meals.

I eventually lost the lure after hooking a huge shark. I decided to just let him have the lure rather than pull him on deck and stick my hand in his mouth.

One sunny afternoon, while lazing on deck reading a Honolulu newspaper, I heard a woman on a vessel off in the horizon asking for a radio check. I took every opportunity to communicate with other vessels. The vessel hailing me was the Queen Mary IV. I recognized the name.

“Whiskey Tango Golf 3974, this is the sailing vessel Saint Pat II off your starboard bow about two miles, you’re coming in loud and clear, five by five. Over.”

“Saint Pat II, this is the vessel Queen Mary IV, thank you for that, how you doing today? Over.”

“Doing pretty good. Is that you Mary? Over.”

“This is Mary, who’s this? Over.”

“Remember coming into Ventura Harbor late last year during a storm? I was the guy at the fuel dock that helped secure you to the dock. Over.”

“Oh yeah, Is it Stan? Over.”

“Close, it’s Shane. Over.”

“That was one helluva storm. Thanks again. Hey, would you like some fresh provisions. We have some fruit, ice cream, cold beer maybe? Over.”

“Oooo, ice cream! Over.” My eyes lit up with that. I craved anything cold.

Within a few short minutes, the Queen Mary IV was pulling up along side me. I had been invited aboard the Queen Mary IV last year after getting her secured to the fuel dock. She was a beauty. At the time she had came in, there were no available guest docks large enough to accommodate her. She was a sleek wedge shaped 90+ foot world-class power yacht.

As she pulled up to my port side, Captain Mary appeared at the aft end. She was a woman in her fifties with long blonde hair and a pleasant smile.  With her were two younger women, possibly her daughters. They were certainly a sight for sore eyes and soon after became a part of my wildest fantasies.

Juxtaposed to the Queen Mary IV, the Saint Pat II was tiny in comparison. She had rigged a bucket on a rope and lowered down a variety of goodies. We only chatted very briefly. She said that I must be crazy to be out here in a 36 foot sailboat alone. I confirmed her diagnoses and thanked her for the luxury provisions and in just a couple of minutes, she was powering up her twin turbines.

Over a loud speaker, Mary called out, “Don’t forget to reef.” I waved and thanked her for that. The whole incident took place in less than about 20 minutes.

Mary was the skipper, and I assume the owner of the Queen Mary IV. I’d love to run into her again and hear her story. I checked out my booty. She had provided me with the better part of a huge cooked rib roast, a couple of melons and some grapes, a gallon of ice cream and several bottles of good German beer. Bon apatite.

Because I had no refrigeration, I decided it was best to eat all of the ice cream imediately; right? By the time I was done, I felt completely bloated. Later that night, I ended up heaving it all overboard. I just hoped the fish enjoyed it as much as I did.

On the third week of my return trip, I was once again met with high winds and torrential rains. This was just plain bad timing for a storm to come in. I was coming closer to the California shore and into busy shipping lanes. This meant that I had to stay at the helm throughout the entire storm. I once again reefed the main sail. This time I didn’t take it down to just a small triangle like I did with Fleabag and The Woman.

After a few hours, I decided to take down the storm jib because there was entirely too much wind. Southerly gale forces were whipping me around like I was nothing. I was going up and down waves like I was on a roller coaster. Up and down, up and down… By morning I was totally exhausted.

Chapter V: Land fall

After a couple of days of comparatively calmer seas, I was finally positioned just above Santa Rosa Island. This was like being in my back yard. Santa Rosa Island is one of California’s Channel Islands and is situated just above Santa Cruz Island.

I first saw land in the early afternoon. Later I came within a mile of Santa Rosa’s shore and followed the coast down.  I had decided that I wanted to moor at Santa Cruz Island for the night. I knew that since it was Saturday night, there would be plenty of people partying in Smuggler’s cove.

I was right. When I reached Smuggler’s I could see that there were about a dozen or so sailboats tied together in a star shape with all of the bows pointing out. This was done so that all of the cockpits of the various vessels made a circle. People would go yacht hopping all through the night sharing food, drink and whatever.

I tied in between some friends and joined the party. It seemed strange at first because I hadn’t seen anyone since I had encountered the Queen Mary IV a few days before. Now, all of a sudden I’m among people and everyone’s in a festive mood.

I was the talk of the party and people kept asking me if I was crazy. I explained that there was a change in my original plan and that I wasn’t about to leave my sailboat in Ala Wai Harbor.

I had a good time and stayed awake as long as I could. This was my first opportunity in weeks to get an uninterrupted nights sleep.

The next morning, I felt revived and went for an early morning swim. I was bobing in the water between my and my buddy’s boat when I hear a  young lady on the vessel to my port side comment, “Uh oh, that egg was rotten.”

This was followed by buddy saying, “Oh well. Too late now.”

I didn’t think too much of it at the time and had completely forgotten about it by the time we were sharing breakfast.

After breakfast, I had my buddy yank on the clew of my main sail while I continually pulled up and down on the halyard. This finally freed up the halyard and I was again able to pull the sail all the way up. What luck I thought, I’m no longer reefed.

A couple of hours later, I was pulling up my anchor when I started to feel the effects of that rotten egg. I got the anchor up and secured it. I set my sails and hooked up the wind vane. After setting an easterly course, I went below to use the head.

I was sitting on the head feeling absolutely miserable when all of a sudden I felt the vessel heal radically to one side. I hurriedly went topside trying to pull my pants back on and as soon as I stepped into the cockpit… kaboom. My mast had snapped and the boom hit me vertically across the face and chest.

I later figured out that while I was traversing the south side of Santa Cruz island, the winds were only about 15 to 20 knots. I was on the head and was too close to the shore as I went past the easterly most tip of the island.  When came around the corner I was suddenly exposed to gale force winds while under full sail. With the winds blowing at an angle to Santa Cruz Island, they hit the steep shore and continue down the coast like a cannon blast. This is why there were only gale forces at the sharp corner where the south coast shore abruptly turns northerly.

My mast and all the rigging were in the water. Instinctively, I dove in the water and pulled the mast up along side of the vessel and secured it to the starboard side.  Many a boat has been sunk after being dis-masted and the mast slam into the fiberglass hull.

Looking back at all the money I had previously spent sitting in harbor bars, listening to one sailing story after another, hearing about a vessel being dis-masted and going down after the broken mast puts a hole in the hull… I now consider all that money a very good investment.

I then pulled the sails in and removed them, stowing them below. I did everything I could think of to preserve my rigging. Rigging is made of stainless steel and very expensive to replace. Because my antenna was located at the top of the mast, I could not make a distress call on the ship-to-shore radio.

I was now starting to feel sick to my stomach. I’ve never been sea sick in my life so I knew that I had probably developed a concussion from being hit in the face and forehead with the boom. I was also afraid that I had possibly broken my nose as well but it turned out to be OK.  I was cold and wet and covered with blood. The wet clothes made the blood look ten times worse.  I latter threw up several times and managed to get it all over my bloody clothes.

A little later, now covered with dried blood and puke, I must have been quite the sight to the crew of a fishing vessel that came to my rescue. As they got closer, I recognized the skipper.

“Yo, Cap’n Jack,” I called out as he tossed me a line.

“Geez, what the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“I came around the point and got hit by gale force winds,” I replied. “Snapped my mast and I can’t use my radio.”

“You want me to call vessel assist?” he asked.

“Naw, I’d prefer it if you put in a call for the Coast Guard Axillary,” I told him.

“OK, I’ll call em. Hey, you should’ve reefed.”

“Thanks for that,” I replied.

The Coast Guard Axillary are volunteers who can assist with minor emergencies. I wasn’t sinking but my minor emergency was that I really couldn’t afford vessel assist. It would have cost a small fortune to have them come and tow me in. Vessel assist was a last option.

The Coast Guard Axillary arrived in an older nicely maintained 80 plus-foot custom made Stevens yacht. There were two older couples on board. Each of the women had a cocktail glass in hand and were dressed in smart looking yachting outfits. The two men looked like a couple of rich executive types. Both were sporting their yacht club emblems on their navy blue blazers.

They threw me a line and one of them asked what my hull speed was. I told him that it was about 8 to 9 knots. I felt secure that they knew what they were doing. If a vessel is towed beyond the hull speed, it can easily sink. I already had enough problems.

They towed me from about a mile off of Santa Cruz Island all the way to the mouth of Ventura Harbor. They told me that the Axillary Coast Guard had an agreement with local vessel assist companies that they wouldn’t tow vessels beyond the break waters into the harbor. They asked me if I wanted to have them call vessel assist to which I declined. I thanked them as profusely as one can while tossing a line. As we parted ways, one of the wives calls out, “You should’ve reefed.”

Sometimes I think about all of the good people I’ve met in my association with the sea and I can’t help believing that boat people may be one of the last sovereigns of decency and camaraderie. I’m not saying that boat are any better than others per se, it’s just that they have a code they believe in — the code of the sea. They are always willing to help and take pride in doing so. These people, who didn’t even know me, helped me with no expectation of reward and I have done the same many times myself. I wouldn’t want to live any other way.

After they cut me loose, I was bobing in the waves at the harbor entrance. This is when I really regretted not having my outboard engine. I had an oil boat coming up behind me so I grabbed my tiller and started pushing it from side to side to scull the boat in. This was a slow process and to make things worse, it was a Sunday afternoon and the harbor promenade was packed with tourist.

Covered with dried blood and puke, no mast, my rigging spewed all over the deck, I slowly paraded my way back to my slip in front of tens of thousands of tourists. A sail boarder swooped up to my starboard side.

“Hey man, you should’ve reefed,” an older woman in a wet suit called out.

“Thanks for that,” I replied as she sailed off.

As I finally pulled up to the fuel dock, a number of tourist stopped to watch me come in. One of the tourist caught a line and helped pull me in.

After I thanked him, his wife called out, “You should’ve reefed.

“Thanks for that,” I replied as I secured the stern line..

After I was secured and hooked up to shore power, the first thing I did was to head up to the Postmistriss to check my mail box. In addition to worrying about my personal survival, I’d been waiting all this time to learn if I had passed my finals or not. Thankfully, I got the news I was hoping for. I then immediately went and used a pay phone to call my mother. I told her about my exciting voyage and that I had passed my second year of law school.

My mother replied, “You should’ve reefed.”

Like a good son, I merely replied.“Thanks for that, Mom”

Bibliography

Rousmaniere, John, The Annapolis Book of Seamanship, Simon & Shuster, 1999
Chapman Book of Piloting (various contributors), Hearst Corporation, 1999
Herreshoff, Halsey (consulting editor), The Sailor’s Handbook, Little Brown and Company, 1983
Seidman, David, The Complete Sailor, International Marine, 1995
Jobson, Gary, Sailing Fundamentals, Simon & Shuster, 1987