Archive for the ‘California’ Category

Anchors Astay

Clark July 18th, 2009

The saga began when I took friends out for the day on Condesa for a sort of bachelor party for John Caron. We anchored behind Angel Island, right off the ruins of the old quarantine station, and had a barbeque.

When it was time to go I went to pull up the anchor and it was fouled. I pulled in all directions with Condesa and tried every trick in the book. After forty-five minutes we had an additional hundred and fifty feet of chain hopelessly fouled and it was getting dark. I dumped all 300-feet of chain and marked it with a buoy.

Apparently I’m the last one to know. Every cruising guide on San Francisco Bay says never to anchor in this spot because it is a notorious anchor-eater. I called the Angel Island rangers and they were quite cool about leaving ground tackle and buoys in their state park on a temporary basis.

We returned two days later, again with a bit of a party for a barbeque, and anchored Condesa nearby. We launched the dinghy and my brother Jim and I set out to recover the anchor. I donned snorkeling gear and my very warm wetsuit for the 48-degree water, while Jim did the heavy lifting from the dinghy.

To be read with a Jacques Cousteau accent:

Following the chain down into the depths, the last of the light disappeared at twelve feet. Below this was only darkness. The murkiness of San Francisco Bay makes the visibility just a few inches. My dive light was useless, and I could only see its light underwater if I pressed it against my mask. Upon reaching the bottom, at a depth of 25-feet, I was in a cold, dark, formless world, where my eyes were useless, but my other senses would become more acute.

I made about twenty dives over two hours, hyperventilating and holding my breath each time. After the first or second dive I came up and said, “It’s wrapped around a mushroom-shaped rock!” Then a few dives later I said, “I think it’s a sunken boat. I can feel the bowsprit, and I think I fell in the hold.” Then after a few more times fumbling around on the bottom the truth was known: “Pilings! Piles of broken pilings!” Indeed, there must have been a large pier extending from the old quarantine station. Now the pier is in ruins, and the mish-mash of broken pilings makes an anchor trap for the unwary. With each dive I got better at orienting myself, but feeling one’s way in total darkness, 25-feet underwater, in a big pile of pilings, is a little disorienting and unnerving. The flashlight was useless in the best of times, but I tried pressing it to my mask to see if it was working and it was half full of dark, muddy water, as was my mask. The chain seemed to be wrapped around one particular piling, and after many dives and over an hour of trying, there didn’t seem to be any hope…and it was getting late.

We got back to Condesa and everyone was happily barbequing away and drinking beers. I felt like I’d been to another planet. My ears were clogged, my eyes were more sensitive to light, and I was generally chilled and disoriented. People kept asking me questions, but I still had my hood on and couldn’t hear a thing. I’d been a blind and deaf man for the last two hours, and recovering my senses was a slow process. Andrew had been manning the barbeque and chumming the water with raw bloody meat the whole time, which is always nice to find out after you’ve been diving.

So there stayed my anchor and chain, floating with it’s little orange buoy. It was about $2000 worth of gear, and not to be left behind lightly. Hiring salvage divers would be expensive, and fraught with complications, like how would we get 800 pounds of recovered gear from their boat into mine?

Act 3: Another week later, we returned again. This time my friend Roger (above with his wife Laura on their boat) was a star in renting scuba gear for me and meeting us at the dock in Tiburon. Once again Jim did the heavy lifting from the dinghy and I went in with the scuba gear, which completed the whole spaceman going into the unknown motif. Roger also got me a brand new dive light, which was totally useless in zero visibility. Once again we made a day of it, and left eight or ten friends partying on Condesa nearby.

The scuba gear allowed me a lot more time on the bottom for assessment and contemplation. The chain was indeed looped around a horizontal piling, and after feeling this piling up and down, it seemed an impossible situation since neither end of the piling was off the seabed. I braced my fins against-whatever is down there-and tried to move the piling. It wouldn’t budge. I thought about it some more, and figured that the piling moving was the only possibility, so once again I grunted to move it. It did move, albeit very slowly because it was stuck in the muck on the bottom of San Francisco Bay. Finally, there I was in total darkness and zero visibility, standing in the muck, holding a 500 pound, 18-inch diameter, barnacle-encrusted piling on my shoulder…which I could easily drop and hopelessly pin myself to the bottom. I got the chain unwrapped and gave the signal to Jim to pull up chain, which was two sharp yanks, or was it many repeated yanks? The yanking got confusing for both of us, and more chain kept falling on my head.

I went to the surface to report the good news and sort out the yanking. Jim pulled in another hundred feet of chain and we got to the original snag. I went down again and could actually see a little before stirring up the silt. The anchor itself, my 45-pound CQR, was wedged under yet another piling and quickly freed. Jim pulled it to the surface and we were now in a very overloaded little 8-foot dinghy with 800 pounds of anchor and chain, scuba gear, and two grown men.

We returned to Condesa like conquering heroes. Once again I felt a veil of distance between me and the earthlings barbequing on Condesa. I was only down for half an hour this time, but it might as well have been a lifetime.

The next day I went to return the scuba gear and the guy at the dive shop had a good laugh and let me know, once again, that I wasn’t the first to lose an anchor at this particular spot. In fact, he said the spot would yield some pretty good hunting for a little amateur salvage operation.

Halfway to the Farallons

Clark May 27th, 2009

It’s been almost a year since Condesa sailed outside the Golden Gate. About a month ago we made a short trip to Point Bonita, which is just outside, but we were swarmed by flies and beat a hasty retreat, so that doesn’t really count.

This week we planned to properly get out on the high seas, with harnesses and jacklines, and make a lap around the South Farallon, which lies 28 miles west of San Francisco. It is known for being steep-sided and inhospitable, smelling of guano, and being home to lots of great white sharks.

Earlier in the week we got up at 5AM and it was already blowing 25 knots, so we gave it a miss. Yesterday, however, the forecast was for winds in the low 20’s all day. My girlfriend Alison, my little brother Jim, and I set sail on the ebbing tide…which promptly crashed into the North Pacific swell with great violence, making all aboard queasy.

We raised sail, then minutes later triple-reefed in the freshening wind. We pounded seaward, passing a few container ships on their way into port. At about ten miles offshore we were engulfed in a fog bank, making us peg our eyes nervously to the radar, knowing that more big ships were lurking in the fog. With the spray and vomit flying, we called the fight, tacked, and shooshed back into San Francisco Bay to lick our wounds and take a nap anchored behind Angel Island.

Daysailing is so nice in that one can just walk away from such weather and be in a hot bath by nightfall. On a longer voyage we’d just have to make do, meaning be cold, wet, worried, and sleepless. I’m out of practice for such adventures, and I didn’t know that could happen to me. Last year I was charging through conditions like that for weeks on end without a complaint, while yesterday I was drained after just a few hours. Finally, San Francisco sailing is not to be taken lightly. It howls pretty hard inside the Bay sometimes, but outside can be a real trial, even on the good days.

Speaking Schedule

Clark April 8th, 2009

I’m scheduled to give three talks at the Strictly Sail boat show at Jack London Square in Oakland next week. You can click here for complete information.

My gigs are Wednesday, April 15th at 6:00PM in Tent C; Friday, April 17th at 3:15 in Tent A; and Sunday, April 19th at 11:45 in Tent E.

I’ll be doing a slide show and regaling the crowd with fascinating anecdotes and invaluable information.

Hope to see you there…

Latitude 38 Article

Clark January 6th, 2009

If you pick up the sailing magazine Latitude 38, January edition, you can read…well, you can’t miss it. Articles don’t seem to be available online, but Latitude 38 is free at most chandleries, marinas, fuel docks, yacht clubs, launching ramps, etc. in California.

Wine By Sail

Clark December 14th, 2008

After gallivanting around the world on Condesa for ten years drinking wine, it’s time to buckle down, get serious, and start working…at sailing around on Condesa drinking wine. If you followed my posts from a few months back, Condesa made some delightful trips up the Petaluma and Napa Rivers, into the heart of wine country and the idea of Wine By Sail was born. I could tell you all about it, but it’s probably better to leave it to the pros…wait, I’m a pro. You can check out our (very basic) website at www.winebysail.com and you can read our favorable press in leading wine industry magazine Wines and Vines.

People love wine and people love sailboats, so I think I’m onto something. Stay tuned!

On the writing front, I’ve got a six-page article on Colombia in this month’s issue of Yachting World. They allow limited access to the digital edition online. My article starts on page 94.

My Feel Bad/Good Story

Clark October 21st, 2008

I just got back from a trip to Mexico to attend the Morelia Film Festival, which is organized by some friends of mine. It’s now in its sixth year and has a fully-developed red carpet/movie star/paparazzi/lavish party culture.

Morelia’s Cathedral:

It’s always a guaranteed good time, but two weeks before the festival someone pitched a couple of hand grenades into the town square during the Independence Day celebrations. Ten people were killed and a hundred wounded. They say it was a message from one of the drug cartels to Felipe Caldron’s government.

Because of the attacks, most of the foreigners backed out of the festival, but we decided to stick with our plans. A good time was had by all, but the tragedy weighed heavily on everyone’s minds and there were many dedications and speeches honoring the victims.

The sea of votive candles at the massacre site:

To add to the dark side, we flew in and out of Tijuana. In the few days before we flew out, thirty-seven people were murdered in TJ, many of them handcuffed and beheaded. During the week we were in Morelia there were another seven found murdered in TJ, but bodies in various states of wholeness seem to be turning up every day.

As to the dangers in TJ, I figure that if you don’t happen to be a member of a drug cartel (I’m not) you’re not in too much danger. In Morelia they thought they’d caught the guys who were responsible for the grenades, and security was cranked way up. Obviously we made it back to California without incident.

I was wondering around during the last few hours before my flight out of Morelia, looking for a knick-knack to buy. As I walked down a back street there was a knot of people on the sidewalk ahead of me. I saw a girl in a Girl Scout uniform hug another girl, then I noticed there were eight or ten Girl Scouts and their Scout leader, a man in his fifties, all in uniform. When I reached them a cute blond Girl Scout came up to me and said, ‘Abrazo gratis!’…free hug. I hesitated for a second, perhaps my American hesitation about touching strange young girls, then hugged her, or rather, let her hug me. She really put some effort into it, then gave me a big smile.

I walked past the knot and watched this spontaneous outpouring of goodwill. Cute little Girl Scouts kept announcing ‘abrozo gratis,’ and were hugging old ladies, old men, kids, vendors…anyone who walked by. I watched one girl go up and hug a surly-looking cop and the guy pretty much melted. A few people broke into to tears after their hugs and looked visibly better and relieved. I certainly felt better about life in general, and considered walking around the block for a second go-around.

I kind of already knew the answer, but I asked one of the Girl Scouts (when she had a short break from hugging strangers) why they were giving free hugs: ‘With all the murders and violence, we asked ourselves at our meeting what we could do to help. We decided we could give free hugs. Everyone feels better after a hug.’

The Trolley Incident

Clark September 28th, 2008

I was riding the F Trolley down Market Street last night, quietly reading my book with half a dozen other riders, when the trolley filled with European vacationers. They were all in their fifties, nicely dressed, and some were wearing fleece jackets that said ‘Albatross Tours.’ They were loud and boisterous because of their sheer numbers – they’d made it standing room only – but they were generally mannerly and well-behaved. I started playing the language game and was quite pleased with myself that I had it narrowed down to Danish or Norwegian before I heard one of them say ‘Dansk’ or something like that, and I knew they were all Danish.

I heard what I can only describe as a very loud crackling behind me, there was a commotion, and I looked back to see that someone had fired a couple of gunshots into the two back windows of the trolley. Nobody had been hit, but once the word spread up the aisle it was pandemonium. The poor Dane sitting in the middle of the back seat was lucky not to be hit, but got broken glass all over his neck, and down his jacket and shirt. For the next minute most of the attention was on him, with people dusting his neck with handkerchiefs and helping him shake out his clothes. A few of the Danes stepped forward to take digital photos of the bullet holes, and I learned very quickly that the word for gunshot in Danish is very similar to our own.

It was so crowded and the trolley had moved so far that it was little use to try to get to the driver and get her to stop. Whoever did it was long gone. Looking at the holes, I’m not at all sure that the bullets even made it through the glass. It would have been thick tempered glass, and I’m guessing it was just a .22 caliber bullet, just powerful enough to crater the glass and send glass flying inside, but not enough to penetrate the glass or worse, wound one of us.

About this time many of them looked to me as the only local (I can now call myself a local since I’ve lived in San Francisco for the requisite ninety days) and I realized I had been staring at the bullet holes for over a minute with a look of complete horror on my face.

It isn’t often in life that you get set up this well. I smiled and said, “Welcome to America!” Big laugh and I was everyone’s best friend.

Blog Neglect

Clark September 16th, 2008

It’s been a long time because I’ve been so busy…adjusting to shore-based life?

In the mean time San Francisco has world class sailing, and slowly but surely I’m exploring every nook and cranny of the Bay. One caveat though: It’s a windy place, or at least it’s usually very windy in ‘The Slot,’ where Condesa is moored, so it’s pretty much right into the firing line from the moment I leave the dock. The main has been double-reefed all summer long.

While I’ve been at the general task of getting my shore-based life back together and figuring out what to do with my life, I’ve still been flogging magazine articles (see the September SAIL for an article on Peru) and doing some boat repair work both on Condesa and on other boats…I’m just so good at it.

Begin Commercial-Your boat may not be circumnavigating, but I’ll treat it as if it were. Electrical, plumbing, mechanical, diesel repair, painting and varnishing, rigging and rope work. Attention to detail. No job too small. Bay Area only, unless you want to fly me someplace beautiful. Inquire within.-End Commercial

Condesa has made countless sorties directly across the bay to Angel Island and Tiburon, where the legendary Sam’s has public dock space right in front of the most expensive bar on the Bay. Let’s hope the coast guard doesn’t start enforcing the drunk boating laws.

She’s made two other more significant voyages into the heart of wine country, one up the Napa River to Napa, another up the Petaluma River to Petaluma. In Petaluma, unfortunately, our voyage ended at the D Street bridge, which is closed for repairs until November. On the Napa River, the voyage almost ended unfortunately when the Mare Island Drawbridge nearly closed on Condesa, which would have necessitated many repairs, which would have run long past November…

I was solo sailing up the narrow Mare Island Strait, riding a two-knot current. I sailed close enough to the bridge to write down the bridge keeper’s phone number, tacked against the current, and then a friend called on my mobile phone. While I was talking to him I heard ‘ding ding ding’ and the bridge started to open. I assumed the bridge keeper saw me waiting and opened the bridge for me. I said a quick goodbye to my friend, rolled the genoa all the way out, jibed, and resumed riding that two-knot current at a good clip right toward the gap in the bridge-I didn’t want to keep all those cars waiting too long. As I neared the bridge a power boat came through the other way and ‘ding ding ding’ the bridge began to close. I made the crash tack of all crash tacks, rolled up that genoa, got the engine started and floored it. Condesa was about thirty feet from the bridge and finally started creeping upstream just as the bridge got to about the height where it would have taken Condesa’s mast off at the spreaders. Or maybe it would have come down on TOP of Condesa’s mast, and God knows what that would have done.

When I called the bridge keeper he was obviously flustered, and I don’t think I needed to remind him that it was important to look BOTH WAYS before closing the bridge.

After that I ghosted up the Napa River, wing and wing, as topless maidens leaned over the banks to feed me pinot grapes and top my goblet with the vineyard’s finest. It is a little known fact that there is deep water up to within four blocks of the eateries and tasting rooms in downtown Napa. There I met up with Condesa record-holding crewmember and container ship accident veteran Ian Blake, his girlfriend Lauren, and her friend Carrie, who were all up there to run the Sonoma Half Marathon. I did not run the Sonoma Half Marathon. We all sailed back to San Francisco together a few days later, and this time gave the bridge keeper plenty of notice.

The jubilant and blistered half-marathoners:

The voyage up the Petaluma River was a bit shorter, the water a bit deeper (the Napa had some dicey spots), and the Petaluma was maybe a bit more scenic. This time it was with my mom and my Aunt Carole from Phoenix, who were mutinous and unruly:

Mom with Carole behind the wheel:

This weekend it’s up into the Delta, a galaxy of cruising that we’ll only be able to scratch on a long weekend.

Some typical Central California riverfront scenery:

So on shore-based life, everything is going swimmingly except for that pesky job/income/what to do with my life thing. I have no desire to sail around the world again any time soon, and all the things I’ve been missing out on all these years are pretty nice: community, companionship, volleyball every Wednesday, and a nice Thursday tradition too.

I carry a device in my pocket that can call anywhere in the world, show me maps of the world and where I am on it, take pictures and videos, send and receive emails, tell me tides and currents, and surf the web. I knew all these technologies existed independently, but to have them all in a device the size of a pack of cigarettes was a bit of a shock. The first time a friend showed me such a device I demanded he return to his planet with his magic box. How long have I been away, a hundred years?

To close, here is a picture of some cute little ducklings:

Condesa Sails Under the Golden Gate

Clark June 17th, 2008

For the first time in ten years Condesa has entered a port with no plans of leaving. She’s in her new berth in San Francisco, which looks up at Coit Tower, and straight across the Bay to Alcatraz.

One of my most frequently asked questions is, “Which was your favorite country?” Lately my answer has been, “California.” I’ve said before that I always thought of Californians as angry people stuck in traffic. Maybe I was the angry person stuck in traffic. I was also expecting unspecified run-ins with the authorities. I guess my only experiences with Homeland Security and the like in recent years have been in airports, where they are less than kind. I figured that after being away for so long I’d be coming back to some hassles, but nothing could be further from the truth.

I already mentioned how nice, easy, and cheap it was to put into San Diego, but this same treatment continued on up the coast, and the California coast competes with anywhere for natural beauty.

In Newport Beach, my home port, of course I got good treatment. With a free dock in front of the Beek house and wholesale fuel at the family fuel dock, what more could I ask for? But even if I didn’t have connections, Newport is a friendly port with free anchoring and free moorings.

Condesa set sail from Newport with Panama and Peru veteran Tony Burger. We made an overnight sail to Santa Barbara to visit my brother Jim (aka Rufus) and a host of friends. We’d planned to anchor out, but it was rough as guts when we got there. We radioed the Harbor Patrol, who were sweet as pie and had us tie up to their dock while they pulled all the stops to accommodate us. We ended up in a great berth for $23 per day.

Tony left and Beloved Cousin Rocky took the train down from Santa Cruz:

Rocky and I motored out of Santa Barbara and out to the Channel Islands for a little cruising. We visited the Painted Cave, on Santa Cruz Island, which was very deep and dark, and had some very angry sea lions hidden in the back. We traded standing off on Condesa while the other went into the cave in the dinghy, as it’s too deep to anchor. After the Painted Cave we cruised around Santa Rosa and San Miguel Islands, both of which have very scenic and snug bays. We never saw another recreational boat in the Channel Islands (it was a Monday), just a few fishing boats.

Condesa from inside the Painted Cave:

Then it was around dreaded Point Conception, the second windiest place to Point Reyes on the California coast, but we had an easy time of it. We charged through the night to the protected anchorage at San Simeon, where we looked up at Hearst Castle. Morro Bay and San Luis Obispo are two other snug harbors, but we passed them in the night. The next morning the sky was brown and the sun a blood red orb. It’s California’s wildfire season again, and we could see the Big Sur and Bonnie Doon fires burning from well offshore:

From San Simeon it’s a long haul along the cliffs to Carmel, Monterrey, or Santa Cruz. We chose Santa Cruz, as it’s where Rocky lives. We could see the headlights on the cars winding along Highway 1 all night long. Once again the Harbor Patrol in Santa Cruz was eager to please and we got a snug berth in the harbor, this time for $27 per night, where we saw this guy, a California Sea Otter, snoozing in the marina:

Case in point: One can cruise the California coast at a leisurely pace in total comfort. Where there aren’t beautiful natural anchorages there are bustling ports with reasonably-priced berths for transient yachts. All of these ports jack the price up if you stay more than a few days, which makes good sense to me. With the exception of the stretch between Monterrey and San Simeon, it’s all daysails. The next time I go cruising it might be a month’s sail from San Francisco down to Newport and back, combining haut cuisine in California’s ports with remote beauty on her offshore islands.

From Santa Cruz to San Francisco was an historic voyage with cousins Rocky, Joe, and Joe’s daughter Abigail. Rocky is half responsible for this whole cruising odyssey mess, and Joe is responsible for the other half. I went cruising the first time with them on Starwake when they were returning from a trans-Pacific voyage to New Zealand and back. In the ‘About Me’ entry on this website I talk about being green with seasickness while watching a hammock full of vegetables rot and drip in the tropical heat above my bunk, while figuring out how to get myself out of this horrible, horrible error in judgment. Going with them was the horrible error in judgment, and look what it ended up doing to me. How fitting that it would all begin and end on a sailboat with Rocky and Joe, but I guess I’m looking for landmarks and significance in every little thing at this uncertain juncture in my life.

Joe and Abigail:

We had rare south winds most of the day and sailed past the Pigeon Point lighthouse and Point Pilar, home of the famous big wave surf spot Mavericks. (It wasn’t going off.) As we neared San Francisco the wind veered to the west and strengthened, and a flood tide screamed under the Golden Gate at three knots. My friends Elias and Jim were going to take pictures of Condesa going under the Golden Gate, but couldn’t get there in time. “Can’t you stall a bit?” I looked at the GPS, marking our speed at nearly ten knots, with the current accounting for three of it. “Um, no.”

We sailed right up to Condesa’s new marina, with various Beeks scrambling around to drop sails, and made our entrance…into the wrong place. But the wrong place was much more photogenic than the right place, so it’s good that Elias and Jim were there to photograph it. Once we’d entered the right place, we tied her up, had a celebratory shot of tequila, and Rocky, Joe, and Abigail set out for Santa Cruz by land. Condesa hasn’t moved a muscle since.

Home Port

Clark May 28th, 2008

I’ve been stalling for a week. What the hell do I write when the trip is over?

My dad joined me in Cabo and we set sail early the next morning. By the next day it was cold and we were back to boots, hats, and gloves. People think Baja is all balmy desert, but that California current and its associated upwellings make it a cold place, even in summer. Once we were well into central Baja the landscape and climate were just like-dare I say it-Patagonia. My dad only had ten days, so our anchorages were short and sweet, just long enough to cook a hot meal or grab a few hours of sleep. We had some true westerlies and were able to sail about a fourth of the way. We made one nice long tack of about seventy miles from Cedros Island to the mainland. Usually this trip is all a motor-a-thon.

About halfway through the trip I got a 24-hour flu with a 102 degree fever, which is always fun on a cold, rocking boat. My dad surmised that since he’d had his free senior citizen’s flu shot, and I hadn’t, I got sick and he didn’t. Damned septuagenarians and their superior immune systems.

We pulled into Ensenada and my dad took a taxi to the border. I spent another night and filled up on fuel again. I’m no dummy: It’s half as much in Mexico-half as much!-as in the US these days. I filled every jug and bottle I had and topped the tanks.

I set sail at 4AM on May 14 and pulled into San Diego early that afternoon. The second I entered the harbor a coast guard boat turned on its sirens and-yeah!-boarded the power boat next to me. I was counting my good fortune when there was a second coast guard boat that boarded me moments later. Usually I hate the fascists, but the guys were so darned polite and friendly I couldn’t help but like them. Condesa passed all tests with flying colors and everything was ship shape by coast guard standards.

I tied up at the quarantine dock with the help of my new friends and there was nobody around. I called the number on the end of the dock, but it was out of service. I left some messages and sat tight. After a while my cell phone rang and the customs guy gushed apologies: “Sit tight, boss, we’re on our way!”

I was bracing for rude and threatening treatment from my countrymen at Homeland Security in the post 9/11 world, but they were sweet as pie too. The agent was training another guy, but they never went any further than the cockpit. After a few minutes the papers were filled out and he said I was all done.

“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re not going to search the boat?”
“Nope. You’re all done. Welcome home.”
“I’ve been out of the country for nine years. I could have been subverted by terrorists and be carrying all kinds of dangerous contraband on this boat. No swabs? No dogs?”
“Nope. Welcome home.”

And then, at a bit of a loss as to where to keep the boat for the night, I found a public marina run by the City of San Diego right next to the customs dock that costs $10 per night! I’d heard rumors around the world that San Diego had become a less than friendly port for visiting sailors. Nothing could be further from the truth and I’d be proud for any of my foreign sailing friends to have the same experience I did.

I had a little party aboard with some of my San Diego friends, then Matt, the builder of this website, joined me the next morning for the final push to Newport. He made the maiden voyage with me back in 1997, just a few weeks after I bought Condesa (when her name was still Destiny).

We tied up at the Beek dock on Balboa Island that afternoon, nine years and four months after leaving. Thank God I’m off that hell ship.

Last Monday I started my commute up the 405 to my new job in Los Angeles in my white 2002 Nissan Sentra. Just kidding. I don’t have a job and I’m going to slow roll that one for a while. Better to settle in a bit and leech off my family before doing anything rash. It’s summer after all.

My plan is to sail up to San Francisco in about ten days and try life up there. So I’m still cruising! It’s not over! I’ll cruise to Santa Barbara, and the Channel Islands, and make a glorious landfall under the Golden Gate! The trip’s not over until I say it’s over, and it’s not over! I’ve been avoiding the real world for nine and a half years and I’m not about to give up now.