Challenging

It's been said that cruising is made up of highs and lows. The highs are highest of the highs and the lows are the lowest of the lows. I've always been a pretty even keeled sort of fellow, without much of a mood swing either way, so I've taken that statement with a grain of salt. Until now.

We just made a 4 day offshore passage from Newport, Oregon to Bodega Bay, California in which we covered hundreds of miles of open ocean. Just before we left Newport, I got a message from a good friend in Seattle who was checking the weather for us who said, “it looks like it's going to be “challenging” out there for the next day or so. Good luck!” Challenging in parentheses is never a good quote.

We had been checking the weather feverishly, along with 9 other sailboats who were tied to the dock and heading south with Mexico and beyond on their minds. We all saw the same series of weather off of the coast of northern California that had been brutally hanging around for what seemed like weeks. But the gale was dying down and another one was forming right after it which gave us about a 48 hour window to cover all of southern Oregon and northern California in those 48 hours. If we didn't, we were going to be sailing through Hell on the high seas.

If you aren't a sailor, you probably aren't aware of how slow a sailboat goes. We average about 5.5 knots on a passage, which is about equal to a fast jog. So basically, we had to jog from central Oregon to central California and time our departure from Newport to arrive at the gale just as it was dying down, and then make it through a vast distance of open ocean before the next gale sprung back to life. At the pace of a jog, that doesn't leave much room for things to go wrong, your speed to be too fast or too slow, or the weather predictions to be a little off.

If you don't remember the highs and lows statement at the beginning of this rambling, I'm going to remind you that it is an important part of this story. Pay attention to that statement.

On the dock in Newport, we made new friends in the form of a handful of boats heading south to Mexico and beyond (a high...instant friends that we could tell would be friends for life).

Before we could head back to sea, we needed to top off the fuel tank with diesel. The Newport fuel dock has some high pressure pumps that can be dialed up or down depending on if the boat being fueled has little or big tanks. A large fishing boat can take on thousands of gallons of fuel, so they'll turn up the pressure and send diesel into the tanks at a high rate. A sailboat like ours has relatively small tanks and needs a low pressure fuel fill. Unfortunately, the guy at the fueling station forgot to turn down the pressure from the large fishing boat that fueled up before us. So, when I squeezed the trigger on the nozzle, a massive amount of diesel came rushing out of the hose, pressurized our tank, blew out seal on the fuel gauge sending unit which shot diesel all over the inside of our engine room, and soaked the underside of our floor boards. It also shot diesel out of the tank vent which means we had a lovely diesel spill in the ocean next to our boat. And last but not least, it made a geyser out of the diesel filling hole which sprayed diesel up into the air, soaking the deck and me. Definitely a low.

The big problem with spraying diesel all over the inside of the boat is that even though we did our best to clean up all of the diesel, the smell doesn't go away. It's putrid. If you weren't seasick before, the rancid smell of diesel in the boat while it's bucking and pitching and rolling through heavy seas will definitely put you over the edge. It made being inside the boat challenging. And since the deck of the boat was soaked with diesel as well, it made being outside in the cockpit challenging too.

After doing our best to clean up, we finally left Newport and were quickly met by 20-25 knots of breeze and an 8-10 foot steep swell that came at us from 2 directions. The swell and the breeze weren't too terrible though, because we were sailing, and sailing does wonders for stabilizing the boat and counteracts the pitching and rolling motion (we'll call this portion a high just because we were sailing and I love sailing).

About 12 hours out of Newport, the wind dropped and the sailing ended. We've got an engine and a tank full of diesel so that's not a big deal. The big deal was that the 8-10 foot swell was still coming at us from 2 directions. Without the wind in the sails to stabilize the boat, the ride became almost violent. Standing, sitting, cooking, eating, sleeping, pooping, all became somewhat impossible. The best spot on the boat was either harnessed in the cockpit or laying down on the couch and strapped in with the lee cloth. And what made matters worse, was the fact that some heavy fog rolled in which brought visibility down to about 40 feet. It was cold, wet, and miserable. Definitely a low.

Other than a few brief moments on our trip south, the fog never really lifted. It was so thick that it seemed like it was raining all of the time. Just about everything was dripping wet and if it wasn't dripping, it was damp. Crawling into bed after a long shift on watch is extremely exciting. But that excitement quickly wains when you crawl into a bed that feels damp. Of course you aren't going to turn down your sleep time, but it's just not quite as rewarding when your bed feels like someone peed in it just before you get to lay down. Everything was damp. Everything.

After about 48 hours of riding a bucking bronco through heavy seas and thick fog, riding in a boat that reeked of diesel, with almost no sleep, Brenda and I both had the same thought on our minds. Almost as if on cue, we both said, “Are you sure this is how we want to spend our lives? Being miserable at sea? I know we signed up for this but this is pretty crappy.” We talked about how easy it was when we were gallivanting around the country in our RV, hiking, climbing, and exploring National Parks and natural wonders. That was fun too, wasn't it?

Shortly after that conversation, Brenda went down below to try to sleep in her bed that felt like someone peed in it (that someone would have to be me, since I'm the only one else on the boat. And let's face it, I am much more disgusting than Brenda, so if it was going to happen, it would most likely be my fault). The boat was still pitching and rolling and the fog was still thick. It was still miserable. But miraculously, things changed in an instant.

All of the sudden, the fog lifted. The nearly full moon poked out and was as big and as bright as I've ever seen it. The waves started to calm down and the sea state became manageable. And then the magic happened.

There is a strange phenomenon called phosphorescence or bio-luminescence of the sea. I won't get into the science of it all, but basically, it's magic. Under certain conditions, the boat gliding through the water at night creates streaks and waves that look almost like glowing neon ribbons. When the fog lifted and the moon came out, with it came the most intense phosphorescence streaks that I have ever seen. It was beautiful.

What was more incredible was the pod of dolphins that started swimming next to the boat, weaving and darting from side to side next to the bow, all while trailing streaks of glowing neon phosphorescence. I am not overly philosophical, but the lack of sleep and the magic of the light show from the dolphins made me feel like the dolphins came out just to tell me that this is exactly where we were supposed to be. Things will get better. Hang in there.

The light show went on for almost a half an hour and then as quickly as it started, it ended. The fog came back, the moon disappeared, my new friends the dolphins left, and I was back to staring at the radar screen as Brenda slept down below. But the short interaction with the universe lifted my spirits. I was back to enjoying my time at sea. I couldn't have imagined being anywhere else.

I could really go on and on about all of the highs and lows we had during our time at sea. The fog, the cold, the waves, the constant motion, and the smell of diesel were relentless. But the magic that came, dispersed at just the right time, made the pain and misery almost disappear. The challenges made the highs seem so much more high.

What was really the icing on the cake came on our last day at sea. We had been heading for San Francisco but decided to stop in Bodega Bay to visit some friends. We were about 25 miles offshore when we made the decision to turn left and head for the bay, and as we made the left turn to point the boat towards shore, we started seeing whales off in the distance. We spent the next 4 hours sailing through the largest concentration of humpback whales that we've ever seen. We saw massive whales jumping high into the air, breaching with giant splashes as they came crashing back into the sea. We had whales pop up next to the boat as if they were curious and wanted to see what we were up to, almost as they were just stopping by to say hi.  I counted 38 different whales before I just stopped counting.  There could have been close to a hundred.  It was really like we were in the middle of a National Geographic magazine and it was again, exactly where we were supposed to be. All of the misery to get there was nearly forgotten.

But the best part of all, was the fact that we had good friends standing on shore when we pulled into Bodega Bay. I can't really describe how excited we were to see friendly faces waving and flashing lights from the shoreline as we made our way to land after a “challenging” time at sea.

Our good friends and welcoming committee (from left to right, Mr. Sweets, Mrs. Sweets, Mr. Muscles, Sweet Pea, Brenda the Captain, Sweet as Pie, and me the Cabin Boy in front).

A well deserved treat for our time at sea.  A Bacon-Caramel-Cinnamon-Monkey roll.  It was incredible!

A rare moment of clarity at sea.

We call this a Brenda Burrito.  Rolled up and cozy and doing her best to sleep while the boat is tossing and turning.