A friend of mine told me a story about her friend, an experienced river rafter, taking another friend out on a particularly rough river.  At one point in the trip, the seasoned boater asked the friend, “Are you having fun?”  His response was, “No, but I’m making memories.”  

That statement is universally applicable.  It is the hard times that stick with us most, that teach us lessons, that are the bases of our best stories, and, as cliché as it is, make the good times better.  We don’t remember the details of the perfect, smooth days, but we remember with excruciating detail the difficult days.  The climbing community often talks about the three levels of fun. Type 1 fun is an activity that is fun while doing it: bike-riding the boardwalk, a non-strenuous hike with consistently beautiful views, margaritas.  Type 2 fun is an activity that is not enjoyable while doing it, but the accomplishment of it is enjoyable: an ultramarathon, alpine climbing.  Type 3 fun is an activity that is neither fun while doing it nor in its accomplishment.  It is the activity that is described with the phrase “I’ll never do that again.”  Still, many of us undertake activities that skirt the line of Type 2 and Type 3 perhaps because, over time, the Type 3 activities become the memories we treasure the most—the ones we regale others with around the campfire or at the pub.

Sailing can span all three types of fun, and our last passage pushed through the threshold of type 3.  

We casually set out from Morro Bay, California, in the early afternoon.  The sun was shining and the wind was blowing at 10-to-15 knots, giving us an easy push in the right direction.  We enjoyed the peace of the engine’s silence and a steady 7 knots towards our next destination, Santa Barbara.  We passed through hundreds of dolphins jumping and splashing, from our boat to what seemed like the horizon.  The wind started to drop in the evening, so we powered up the engine.  As we approached Point Conception, ominously described in our chart book as “the Cape Horn of the Pacific,” the engine suddenly revved.  We instinctively slammed it into neutral and assessed.  Seeing nothing obvious, we tried putting it back in gear and pushing on the throttle.  It revved extremely, and we saw that the propeller was not turning.  Before leaving Morro Bay, Rob had told me to make sure he changes the transmission fluid when we get to San Diego.  He started blaming himself for not doing so earlier.  The only thing that made sense was a transmission failure.  

Luckily at that moment, the wind picked up (with the waves) and we slammed through the water with mother nature’s throttle.  As we rounded Point Conception, that throttle went to zero and we were left bouncing around the swell with no engine and no wind power.  With 50 miles left to Santa Barbara, all we could do was hand-steer the boat in an effort to keep it pointed toward our destination.  Our speedometer flashing between .56 and .00 knots.  We put out a “sécurité” call on the distress channel of the VHF, notifying the Coast Guard and other boats that we were dead in the water, meaning we could not maneuver out of another boat’s way.  

The bobbing, .00-to-.56 speed persisted all night as we took turns at the helm.  Boats do not have steerage without speed, because it is the flow of the water over the rudder that forces them to turn.  With no speed to speak of, we had to harness the swell and current forces in a feeble attempt to direct the boat to the compass direction that put us on the most direct course.  The helm position was a concentration test: staring at the compass direction number on a digital screen and gripping the wheel to make minute adjustments, while engaging all core muscles to counter each drastic rock of the boat in the swell.

At sunrise, we started calculating how long it would take to get to Santa Barbara.  Both delirious because the continual slamming over the swell shook us awake each time we closed our eyes while off-duty, we guessed 40 hours or more.  We had plenty of food, and the current seemed to be pushing us in the right direction.  But the forecast showed no wind for several days.  The whispers of wind we felt continually shifted, so that anytime we tried to put up our sails, they just flapped back and forth.  Our true threat was extreme exhaustion.  Facing 40 plus hours without sleep, taking turns to desperately hand-steer the boat toward our destination, seemed inconceivable.  

Another huge pod of dolphins swam by.  We called out to them, still able to joke, “Hi, guys! Can you give us a push?”  With that, Rob decided to reevaluate the engine in the morning light.  After several minutes he popped up, and exclaimed, “We are going to drive this boat!”  It was not the transmission after all, but the piece holding the drive shaft to the transmission.  A special “key” required to hold the two together had somehow sheared off, but Rob was confident he could make a new one that would temporarily work.  His first attempt was very temporary, lasting only five minutes before a squeaking noise exploded into extreme revving of the engine. But Rob was not dissuaded.  

On his third attempt, we decided to drive the boat slow, where the squeaking noise did not develop.  We were left traveling at 2 knots under engine power.  It was still not enough to overcome the swell playing with us like a cat plays with a toy, and it required that we maintain extreme attention at the helm to stay on course.  But we were traveling more than twice as fast as before.  We continued like this through the day and into our second night, fearing the return of the squeaking noise, taking shifts, testing our ability to focus, and failing to sleep.  I sang songs to myself, but all of the lyrics were the same: “Stay together, stay together, hold tight, get us to anchor tonight.”  

Finally, we saw the lighted buoys marking Santa Barbara Harbor.  The anchorage was just past that, and we turned in.  Yelling at each other about boats and buoys in the dark, we found a spot and anchored.  But we felt too close to the boat next to us.  We decided to raise anchor and try one more time.  As Rob put the boat into gear for the second attempt, the engine revved loudly and he yelled, “just drop it here.”  But without use of the engine, we could not properly set the anchor.  Fearing the worst in a passage that seemed to be ruled by Murphy, we offloaded our dinghy.  Rob stood in the dinghy as I lowered its outboard motor from Mapache’s deck.  The swell caused the motor to swing wildly from the line that was holding it.  Rob grabbed on, and in the trough of a wave, I quickly lowered the motor.  Rob attached it before it could be swallowed up in the crest of the next wave.

By midnight, Rob was towing Mapache against her anchor to set it as well as we could.  And by 12:15 we were both asleep for the first time in almost two days.  That passage was not fun, and its accomplishment was not fun, but … we made memories.

You may be wondering how we get off the anchor or how we repair the engine.  That deserves its own log, which will post next.

The start of our adventure was really marked by us cutting our dock lines at the marina, where we had lived for three years.  We literally cut the dock lines (with a machete), because one of many sailor superstitions directs that failure to do so will cause you to return with the  journey unfinished.  And, as one new sailing friend said so well, “I would not say I’m superstitious, but I’m definitely stitious.”  

We left our neighbors, our jobs, and the comforts of routine, and took Mapache for her complete makeover in the Port of Ilwaco Boatyard.  We hauled her out of the water and got to work sanding, grinding, epoxying, painting, polishing, caulking, drilling, tapping, splicing, soldering, sewing, cussing, and high-fiving.  There were lots of early mornings with late nights.  Our daily wardrobe was coveralls and facemasks.  But there were occasional breaks, when we made friends with fellow paint-and-sweat-covered workers.  

We shared music through the barn wall and occasional beers with Mauro, Silviano, and Arsenio.  We shared tools and stories with Craiger, Ken, and Todd.  Doug always seemed to know when we needed a distraction, rolling up in his minivan with a head full of enviable experiences.  We dreamed big about circumnavigation with Randi.  We learned about the fisherman life from Nick and Rob. And we came to respect the career of the solo person making a living off of their own skills, strength, and luck in Poseidon’s domain.   

Three months flew by, and at 2 a.m. on the morning of Mapache’s splash date, we realized the task of fitting all of our belongings into Mapahce’s belly was impossible.  To be fair, we had intended to sell most of our belongings at a semi-annual marine swap meet in Seattle, but COVID-19 prevented that.  Seeing that we needed to find a home for so much, we put off the splash date.  We took the extra time between Craigslist and creating free piles to finish a few more boat projects.  Finally, we were ready to get the boat back in the water.  Then, Rob’s father unexpectedly passed away.  

We splashed the next day with friends taking video and cheering us on.  But a through-hull fitting started leaking as soon as we touched water, and the device broke when we attempted to tighten it.  Back on the hard at the boatyard that evening, we lamented with the boatyard crew over a few beers.  Our morale was low but our instinct to fight on persisted.  So, with a quick through-hull replacement, we unceremoniously splashed a few days later.  We said final goodbyes to some good friends, sad that the pandemic prevented us seeing them all.  And then we waited, with great suspense, in Astoria, for the right time to cross the Columbia River Bar.  

I have read the numerous memorial plaques and visited the Columbia River Maritime Museum multiple times.  I was very much aware of  the bar’s nickname, “Graveyard of the Pacific,” and its valid basis.  We tirelessly scrutinized the weather reports, we questioned seasoned bar-crossing alumni, and we picked our date with the graveyard.  

A few days before, a new boat named Heavy Metal tied up next to us for the night.  We were immediately drawn to the name.  It was a private fishing boat owned by two people who had a zest for life, motorcycles, boats, and travel.  We, of course, got along fabulously.  We explained that our first major destination is Mexico, and we all shared stories of Mexican trips pasada.  Later, we waved goodbye to our kindred spirits without knowing their names or having any way to contact them.

We left on our chosen date, and as we neared the main event, we saw Heavy Metal fishing along the shore.  Rob, half joking, radioed “Heavy Metal, this is sailing vessel Mapache, do you copy?”  A recognizable voice responded, and we literally cheered.  One, we had verified our radio worked and, two, we had a final chance to stay in touch with Heavy Metal’s crew.  They saw us and said, “Looks like a good day to go to Mexico.”  A few minutes later, Heavy Metal was alongside, escorting us to the bar’s edge.  We waved to them as they turned back upriver, and, for our first time, we headed into the big blue.  The formidable bar was as flat as glass and the sun was shining. It was indeed a good day to go to Mexico.

We currently sit off of the San Francisco Bay, thankful to have now passed the next most storied part of our route to Mexico—Cape Mendocino.  That cape is the western-most point of the California coast, taking the brunt of the Pacific Ocean’s force and whipping up tall waves and high winds.  We also rounded that without event and reached the famous manmade landmark of the Golden Gate Bridge.  We passed through the “gate” and tied up in Point San Pablo Yacht Club’s guest slip for almost two weeks (thank you to the gracious club members), so that we could get back in a car and make it to Rob’s father’s memorial, allowing him to rest in his own grave of sorts (he asked Rob to spread his ashes).  

We are now getting ready to head back to sea.  I intend to continue catching you up on the events that were lost to my seasick brain until now. 

We were interviewed by Public Radio Correspondent Tom Banse, and he published two stories about us: one written and one radio. The radio story will air on National Public Radio’s Morning Edition or All Things Considered or both on Monday or Tuesday in Washington, Oregon, and northern California. Check out both pieces here.

We are thrilled and humbled by this! Thank you so much to NPR and to Mr. Banse. And thanks to the Humboldt Yacht Club for letting us use their club space to do the interview.

Rob always describes sailing with other sailboats as a tortoise race.  And much of sailing, especially our type of sailing—in a heavy ocean-going boat—is slow.  Our hull speed (the optimal fast speed for the boat) is 7 knots, which is a little over 8 miles per hour to you landlubbers.  We don’t move fast, and when fighting current and waves with minimal wind, we move even slower.  The cruising life (sailing as a means of travel) requires acceptance of the fact that nothing happens fast.  

It is a life away from the hustle of the 9-to-5, where really anytime can be 5-o’clock.  It is supposed to be leisurely.  But coming from a life of impossibly-stacked deadlines and to-do lists longer than the day, living leisurely seems stressful.  It is not the environment for which I am programmed.  How am I supposed to get anything done waiting for my email to load for longer than a few seconds? I have already thought of 10 other things I need to do while waiting for the first thing on my list to happen.  To accomplish a menial chore like emptying the trash, I have to move seven other things to get to the compartment where the trash bags are kept.  I want to make lunch, and it is another game of moving things around to cook and clean.  I want to upload this post, but the signal is weak here because it is just so ridiculously peaceful.  How am I supposed to live with this peace? 

An oft-quoted definition of cruising is: endless hours of boredom punctuated by a few moments of terror. 

That rings true for our cruising adventure so far.  A perfect example of that was our last passage, which was from Crescent City, California, to Eureka.  We had waited almost a week in Crescent City for favorable weather (to us that means waves under five feet and wind less than 20 knots—more seasoned sailors would go out well before the seas quieted to that).  It paid off in that the eight-hour passage was boring—slow-rolling swells and not much wind.  It was entering Eureka where the moment of terror occurred.  We know to never enter a new harbor at night.  We also know to never enter a bar (where a river meets the ocean) during an ebb (the predominant river current is leaving the river, leading to low tide).  But we did exactly those two things.

We had radar and reliable GPS, and the captain believed that, because the ebb was almost over, we would be fine (he approved this story).  As we got closer to the bar, the waves started to build but, at that point, it was too late to turn back.  To do so would put us in more imminent danger of being rolled by a big wave.  We were surfing in on 10-foot waves.  I looked back at Rob at one point and saw a wave rising behind him in the darkness.  

The captain redeemed himself and handled the boat well.  We made it through the bar in 15 minutes, and our terror was over.  Returning to the slow life, we entered the marina and aimed for our assigned slip, taking it very slow…to the point that we were not moving.  We had  hit the bottom and were stuck.  But that was no additional terror, it was more of the slow life.  We knew the marina had a reputation for irregular dredging, the bottom was sand, and it was low tide (we just entered the bar at the end of the ebb).  So, we had a good laugh and sat still, with no other choice, for 45 minutes.  Then, the tide gently lifted us and we took a spot on the outside pier with plenty of room underneath.  

I hope our log will be a space where we can all reprogram some to live slower, enjoying the world and people around us but knowing that a moment of excitement will pop up soon enough.