SPIRIT ON THE SAIL
Chapter Four
The mainsail reefed and hoisted, the fuel valve switched off, the diesel sputters into silence, and I listen as the waves cheerfully splashes against the bow. The wind whistle a shout of triumph through the rigging, "The battle is over."
Now under sail, Chubasco and I are no longer combatants against the elements, but partners in a graceful dance with nature. In compliance with some universal etiquette, the bigger partner leads the smaller, so Chubasco and I yield to the will of our colossal host…not just willingly but joyfully.
.
Before I relax in contemplation I must attend to a another duty. The foresail (a Jib) awaits deployment. It is rapped around the “forestay” at the bow on its self-furling device. Access to the line to unfurl it rests within stretching distance of the helm. In seconds, the appropriate amount of jib whooshes open and I pull it into trim.
Before I relax in contemplation I must attend to a another duty. The foresail (a Jib) awaits deployment. It is rapped around the “forestay” at the bow on its self-furling device. Access to the line to unfurl it rests within stretching distance of the helm. In seconds, the appropriate amount of jib whooshes open and I pull it into trim.
At last things are enough in shipshape that I can seriously consider our course. It appears that even with all the repeated wandering in the wind we are still about where when we started the sail setting Fiasco...about a mile off of the Mission Bay channel.
The kelp beds are not bad here. However, sailing directly South toward our destination would bury us deep in the densest part of those beds. So we turn Southwesterly at 215°m. (“m” stands for a “magnetic” compass reading which is different than shown on the chart) Another mile and a half on that course will allow us to clear the kelp beds. Only then do we dare head in a more southerly direction.
California’s kelp beds along San Diego’s coast extend almost two miles off shore and can really fowl keels and rudders. I shudder, remembering the time I found myself completely stopped by a sold wall of kelp in those beds.
The kelp beds are not bad here. However, sailing directly South toward our destination would bury us deep in the densest part of those beds. So we turn Southwesterly at 215°m. (“m” stands for a “magnetic” compass reading which is different than shown on the chart) Another mile and a half on that course will allow us to clear the kelp beds. Only then do we dare head in a more southerly direction.
California’s kelp beds along San Diego’s coast extend almost two miles off shore and can really fowl keels and rudders. I shudder, remembering the time I found myself completely stopped by a sold wall of kelp in those beds.
The Kelp-Trap
It happened on my first solo bay-to-bay boat transfer. I was moving a twenty-five foot Catalina at the time, and instead of running south as today, I was sailing north from Coronado Island to Mission Bay. The forecast was excellent, but inaccurate.
A couple of hours out of Glorietta Bay, in the San Diego Bay channel the most beautiful puffy clouds came roiling over the crest of the Point Loma Peninsula. By the time I reached buoy number five, a mile into the Pacific, the air fell dead calm. The lovely cloud quickly crawled across the water smothering visibility in every direction. I fired up the noisy engine, and pressed the bow into the billowy sheet of fog.
Rather than retrace the sixteen miles I had already traveled, with its irregular shoreline, countless obstacles, and concealed shipping, I choice instead to complete my assignment and motor out on the open ocean. “Why not?” I had already plotted my course, a process ominously called,
“Dead Reckoning”.
With a chart, a compass, a watch, and ample fuel, I proceeded cautiously through the curtained passageway for another mile, where I found the next buoy. From there, I set a course to the final buoy, still another mile further out. This last buoy, the “S. D.” mid-channel buoy, emits a sound signal…a whistle. However, the fog strangled its audible guidance to within just feet of its source. Fortunately, the barking sea lions lounging on its platform, did pierce the muffled barrier. I honed in on their yelping, nearly a quarter of a mile away. Yet there were no more audible or visual points of reference from there until the Mission Bay channel buoys.
.
I still recall being assaulted by plenty of sights and sounds though. The varied densities of fog invited all sorts of visual illusions and after an hour, my ears, numbed by the steady rattle of the motor, detected numerous phantom ringing sounds and non-existent horn blasts.
.
And then…IT happened. A shadowy creature suddenly appeared out of the mist. With no discernible horizon or references to determine relative size it was impossible to tell how large or far away the approaching Loch Ness Monster type creature really was, but he was closing fast on my position.
His menacing long neck protruding from a bulbous half submerged body boar all the characteristic of the extinct Plesiosaurus of the Jurassic Period. He was obviously eyeing me as he came ever closer. Tightening my grip on the lifeline, I steadied myself for the inevitable collision. As it swam nearer and nearer it seemed to grow steadily smaller and smaller until the small waterfowl, called a Cormorant about the size of a duck, averted his vicious attack. At the last minute that feathered fiend veered off to my starboard, and disappeared in the fog. Actually, odd apparitions like that were a welcomed distractions from the monotonous roar of the engine and wide-eyed staring into nothing.
Neither the 25 footer nor I had a GPS, but I did have the old school navigation tools, a chart and compass. Without them, it would have been impossible to reach our destination.
However, I still needed to know our speed to discern the distance traveled. Dead Reckoning depends on knowing the speed, time, and distance. My compass and chart provided the direction, but I still needed to know speed and time in order to make appropriate course changes.
My watch gave me the time and a boat’s knot-meter (a nautical speedometer) would supply the speed. With those two, a simple calculation determines the distance traveled. However, neither the boat nor I had a knot-meter.
.
Unable to see beyond the bow there was still a way to judge the speed...look over the side and watch the water pass. On that twenty-five foot vessel I watched an object float from stem to stern in 18.5 seconds (give or take some), which indicated the boat speed was roughly 3 knots.
My less than precise calculation led to an analysis, “Heck, I walk about that fast.” So figuring walking speed at about 3 miles per hour or roughly 3 knots, that became my boat speed factor.
Watch in hand, I counted down the time to each course alteration, of which I had one left. If I guessed the speed correctly, I had already cleared the kelp with my last turn. In four more minutes I figured my last course correction would take me straight to the Mission Bay channel, but…Whhaaamm!
We stop with a smoooshing jolt! “I guess we weren’t traveling at walking speed, after all.” Arms of kelp, like the tentacles of a huge squid grasped the boat, all the way to the transom. From what the fog permitted me to see, the kelp mat actually looked thick enough to walk on. Ignoring the paddle stowed below, I leaned back, snapped the engine into reverse, hoping the tangle of vegetation would not foul the propeller. I gave it everything it had. “We moved!” Inch by inch, the vessel backed out. I was thanking God, as the kelp released its grip on the keel and ruder, and we slid free. That unwelcomed embrace lasted only moments but barred, forever, any desire for future intimacy in her bed.
.
The Real Game
The memory of that unwelcomed kelp hug is why today I am more than happy to stay two miles off shore. Five miles off shore would make me even happier, but that would add an extra hour and a half to this morning’s shuttle. Based on the small craft advisory announced for this afternoon, I want to shorten this passage, as much as possible.
.
Surprisingly, the fleeting squall past an hour ago leaving a clear view of the coastline, under a canopy of thick but rainless clouds, overhead. Visibility down here at sea level is well over thirty miles. “I won’t need navigation tools today,” which is good, because the GPC on Chubasco is built into the electrical panel, down inside the cabin. Given clear sight under these low clouds the way ahead is as familiar as a playground is to a neighborhood child.
Realizing things are finally in order, the grin of a satisfied sailor widens under my gray closely cut beard, “Oh, I love this!” It is like playing a game with God. He tosses a breeze, we reach up to catch it, and fly across the unpredictable park, which He has designed for our pleasure. Sometimes, we do well, sometimes not so much, but life is richer for having joined Him in the game.
So then, the question is, "How is the One I am playing this game with provable?" Out here, there are hints of His unseen reality everywhere. It only stands to reason that surely He has provided proof. As unrealistic as it sounds, I am confident He will show me that proof before I put Chubasco to bed, today.
A couple of hours out of Glorietta Bay, in the San Diego Bay channel the most beautiful puffy clouds came roiling over the crest of the Point Loma Peninsula. By the time I reached buoy number five, a mile into the Pacific, the air fell dead calm. The lovely cloud quickly crawled across the water smothering visibility in every direction. I fired up the noisy engine, and pressed the bow into the billowy sheet of fog.
Rather than retrace the sixteen miles I had already traveled, with its irregular shoreline, countless obstacles, and concealed shipping, I choice instead to complete my assignment and motor out on the open ocean. “Why not?” I had already plotted my course, a process ominously called,
“Dead Reckoning”.
With a chart, a compass, a watch, and ample fuel, I proceeded cautiously through the curtained passageway for another mile, where I found the next buoy. From there, I set a course to the final buoy, still another mile further out. This last buoy, the “S. D.” mid-channel buoy, emits a sound signal…a whistle. However, the fog strangled its audible guidance to within just feet of its source. Fortunately, the barking sea lions lounging on its platform, did pierce the muffled barrier. I honed in on their yelping, nearly a quarter of a mile away. Yet there were no more audible or visual points of reference from there until the Mission Bay channel buoys.
.
I still recall being assaulted by plenty of sights and sounds though. The varied densities of fog invited all sorts of visual illusions and after an hour, my ears, numbed by the steady rattle of the motor, detected numerous phantom ringing sounds and non-existent horn blasts.
.
And then…IT happened. A shadowy creature suddenly appeared out of the mist. With no discernible horizon or references to determine relative size it was impossible to tell how large or far away the approaching Loch Ness Monster type creature really was, but he was closing fast on my position.
His menacing long neck protruding from a bulbous half submerged body boar all the characteristic of the extinct Plesiosaurus of the Jurassic Period. He was obviously eyeing me as he came ever closer. Tightening my grip on the lifeline, I steadied myself for the inevitable collision. As it swam nearer and nearer it seemed to grow steadily smaller and smaller until the small waterfowl, called a Cormorant about the size of a duck, averted his vicious attack. At the last minute that feathered fiend veered off to my starboard, and disappeared in the fog. Actually, odd apparitions like that were a welcomed distractions from the monotonous roar of the engine and wide-eyed staring into nothing.
Neither the 25 footer nor I had a GPS, but I did have the old school navigation tools, a chart and compass. Without them, it would have been impossible to reach our destination.
However, I still needed to know our speed to discern the distance traveled. Dead Reckoning depends on knowing the speed, time, and distance. My compass and chart provided the direction, but I still needed to know speed and time in order to make appropriate course changes.
My watch gave me the time and a boat’s knot-meter (a nautical speedometer) would supply the speed. With those two, a simple calculation determines the distance traveled. However, neither the boat nor I had a knot-meter.
.
Unable to see beyond the bow there was still a way to judge the speed...look over the side and watch the water pass. On that twenty-five foot vessel I watched an object float from stem to stern in 18.5 seconds (give or take some), which indicated the boat speed was roughly 3 knots.
My less than precise calculation led to an analysis, “Heck, I walk about that fast.” So figuring walking speed at about 3 miles per hour or roughly 3 knots, that became my boat speed factor.
Watch in hand, I counted down the time to each course alteration, of which I had one left. If I guessed the speed correctly, I had already cleared the kelp with my last turn. In four more minutes I figured my last course correction would take me straight to the Mission Bay channel, but…Whhaaamm!
We stop with a smoooshing jolt! “I guess we weren’t traveling at walking speed, after all.” Arms of kelp, like the tentacles of a huge squid grasped the boat, all the way to the transom. From what the fog permitted me to see, the kelp mat actually looked thick enough to walk on. Ignoring the paddle stowed below, I leaned back, snapped the engine into reverse, hoping the tangle of vegetation would not foul the propeller. I gave it everything it had. “We moved!” Inch by inch, the vessel backed out. I was thanking God, as the kelp released its grip on the keel and ruder, and we slid free. That unwelcomed embrace lasted only moments but barred, forever, any desire for future intimacy in her bed.
.
The Real Game
The memory of that unwelcomed kelp hug is why today I am more than happy to stay two miles off shore. Five miles off shore would make me even happier, but that would add an extra hour and a half to this morning’s shuttle. Based on the small craft advisory announced for this afternoon, I want to shorten this passage, as much as possible.
.
Surprisingly, the fleeting squall past an hour ago leaving a clear view of the coastline, under a canopy of thick but rainless clouds, overhead. Visibility down here at sea level is well over thirty miles. “I won’t need navigation tools today,” which is good, because the GPC on Chubasco is built into the electrical panel, down inside the cabin. Given clear sight under these low clouds the way ahead is as familiar as a playground is to a neighborhood child.
Realizing things are finally in order, the grin of a satisfied sailor widens under my gray closely cut beard, “Oh, I love this!” It is like playing a game with God. He tosses a breeze, we reach up to catch it, and fly across the unpredictable park, which He has designed for our pleasure. Sometimes, we do well, sometimes not so much, but life is richer for having joined Him in the game.
So then, the question is, "How is the One I am playing this game with provable?" Out here, there are hints of His unseen reality everywhere. It only stands to reason that surely He has provided proof. As unrealistic as it sounds, I am confident He will show me that proof before I put Chubasco to bed, today.
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