I began distributing lines and blocks about the deck, remembering where some went, picking spots that seemed plausible when I couldn't remember exactly. Janet arrived, then Erica. There were trips to the bathroom, last chance at flush toilets and running fresh water for hours to come.
The boat was turned around, ready to slip out and down the dock. We left about 9 a.m., in a minimal breeze. Fortunately, we hitched a ride with another boat heading for the St. Francis for the race, and coasted along behind, inhaling diesel fumes. Their reward was chocolate chip cookies and Budweiser.
The ebb had started at 5:30. There was a breeze at the starting line, and we easily made the start, even though it was postponed briefly. The ebb helped us all out the Gate on long tacks. Swells build as the ocean nears, and we tacked out westward, looking for more wind. The Potato Patch gave us interesting shapes of water piling up around and under us. There were just a few boats out that way. Looking back, we could see the sails of the fleet clustered close to the skirts of Mt. Tam. A trimaran, out our way, lumbered over the waves. One other sloop, ahead of us, varied her lead as we sometimes approached, then lost ground. We found wind. Erica worked the main, Janet and Fred the jib sheets. Janet was consulted for tactical opinions. I was delegated to skirt the genoa after each tack, then scramble up the steep deck to the windward rail, wrapping myself around the mast as I went. At one tack, I found the working sheet had come loose from the sail, and managed to get it back together.
Lunch was unappealing, and I kept yawning as I leaned on the windward shrouds, searching for a comfortable position for my ballasting weight. I grew chilly from the ocean water that washed over the bow and broke its force against me. Clambering below for more warm clothes felt like too much work. After pounding along and finding that the pressure of the wind and the steepness of the chop was causing us to lose some of the ground we made, we changed down from the number 1 light genoa to the number 3. I managed to get the sail into the prefeeder and up, but when it came to climbing down the deck to clip on the sheets I found my un-lunched energy had ebbed to non-existence, and begged for someone with a stronger stomach to come up and complete the task. Retreating to the relative shelter of the companionway, I held on and tossed up what little lunch I had managed to consume. Our fearless captain handed me a stick of gum, which seemed to keep the green at bay, but my jaw muscles were sore for two days afterward.
Tacking back toward shore, we found a smoother motion. Alamere Falls provided a landmark north of Bolinas, punctuating the golden bluffs. Pt. Reyes was visible in the haze, gradually materializing as we pounded northward and westward. After a slight lull, the wind built further, and we changed down once more to a small jib and reefed the main. We compared our GPS readings to the chart and our view of the point, picking out our destination, the old coast guard pier at the west end of Drake's Bay, hidden behind a point of land. Where were all the other boats? Already there? Hidden from view? At last we tacked in and crossed the invisible line between the committee boat and the pier, and then looked for shelter.
There was one area that was spared the sweep of the wind, and we put out a little "lunch hook" Danforth with 30 feet of chain and set about righting the chaos below and getting more lunch into ourselves before tackling the run back home. We managed to get the wet jibs below into sail bags again, and jury rigged a cover for the forward hatch, which somehow had lost its lid, increasing the amount of water below. One by one we stripped off enough foul weather gear to use the bucket below, and put on any dry clothes we had left.
As we munched on sandwiches and carrots, we noticed the depth finder's reading had changed from 10 feet to 7 feet, and the waves lapping on the sandy beach seemed closer than before. Time to move to deeper water, under jib alone at first, pulling in the little anchor as we dodged the dozen or so boats that had anchored. When I reached my bag I found one jacket dripping wet, but the other still promised warmth, and I added it to the layers under my foulies.
Time was slipping away, and with it the daylight. We raised the main and headed back toward San Francisco. It was a reach and a run back. We again put up the number 1 light genoa and rushed along. The wind-driven waves ran with us, peaking up and curling over just off our beam, adding to the surfing feeling. Once I saw 12 on the knot meter, but often the air under the boat threw it into uncontrollable beeping, asking for it's button to be pushed. Richard suggested the spinnaker, but his crew was unsupportive. Fred went below and lay in the port pipe berth, trying to get warm under the quilt, feeling water dripping through the deck onto his horizontal damp form.
The sun set about 8:30 and we rushed on through twilight into darkness and stars. Richard steered us, keeping downwind, holding us from broaching and turning as the waves pushed and pulled. We looked for lights, signs of location, ships in the dark. Closing in on the city, we felt the waves grow, saw them taller obscuring lights, saw the depth sounder reading off Four Fathom Bank, and turned out looking for the shipping channel. A freighter from the Bay showed its lights as it passed south of us, heading out to sea. Where was Point Bonita's light?
Found the shipping lane, turned and headed for the Golden Gate Bridge. By the time we were even with Pt. Bonita, 11:15 PM, the tide was running at max ebb, 3.2 knots. We watched our speed: 2.3, 3.7, 4.6, 5.1, 3.0. A string of lights like beads along ocean beach behind Seal Rocks measured our progress: slow, but definitely forward. Another sailboat showed faintly against the north shore. We found little breeze there, and headed back out across the tide to find wind along the south shore. A tug and barge appeared from the Bay and steamed out past us.
Close in, we watched Mile Rock move behind us at last, and the houses on shore inched along past us. On a tack in to shore, suddenly I could see rocks against the backdrop of beach, and we turned out again, finally finding the bridge within reach. The current was slackening, and we sailed in under the span at last, maybe 2 AM. As we sailed into the bay, the breeze dropped along with the current, and at last we resorted to the outboard. Bring it up from below, fix the bracket, fix the motor, and miraculously it starts. The marina Safeway lights shine ashore. The motor runs out of gas. Time to refill.
The third-of-a-moon rose harvest-moon-gold above Yerba Buena. Steadily we motor along the cityfront, the cityside, under the Bay Bridge, colored stripes on the water from the lights on the span and the navigation lights: gold, green, red. At last we are back in South Beach Marina; cut the engine to an idle, douse the main, coast into the slip with a gentle thump as we find the dock. Step ashore and pull the lines close on the cleats. Home at last. Strip the boat of lines, blocks, fold the wet sails, move the remaining food, wet clothes, coffee thermos to the dock and then to our cars. Thanks for coming, we couldn't have done it without you. Good night. Home, to bed, 4:30 AM.
Last updated October 9, 1996