Crescent City: Any Port in a Storm

We got a text yesterday from some friends aboard a sailboat; still up in Puget Sound. “How’s it going out there? Where are y’all? “.  These folks are new to cruising and all I want them to know is this:  Stay in your home waters for another season. It’s too late in the year to make the big ‘left turn’. You won’t like what you have out there on the ocean right now. I want them to have a good time and not get in over their heads on their first adventure. Because if you want to know the truth, the passage from Newport to Crescent City had me being thankful that we are not new to this; that we know all things must pass, that we know the difference between discomfort and danger.

I remember thinking to myself: If I were a new cruiser, I might just take a plane home at the next opportunity. If I were new to this, I might not be able to appreciate the highs of cruising replace the lows of cruising just as surely as the weather highs can sometimes be strong enough to fend off the weather lows. Cruising is a “bipolar” experience. If a person has the impression that it’s all leaping dolphins off your bow and broad reaching under a sunny sky, they are bound to be real disappointed.  For real. Especially in the North Pacific. Especially when summer is over. Since we’re not new, though, I figured we’d just stay the course. This, too, shall pass.

Cheerful fishing boats here in the Crescent City harbor marina. It’s mostly a place for commercial boats with a few recreational boats thrown in.

We had been in Newport for three days waiting out weather and seas that sounded too ‘interesting’ for us. The weather showed that the passage south should be fairly easy with some good sailing thrown in. Huzzah! There would be some very mild winds from the south, nothing worrisome; forecasted at 3-5 knots. There was a big storm brewing with gale force winds from the south,  but we had an opportunity to get further down the coast before that storm reached our part of the world, so we took it. Our plan was to stop at either Crescent City or Eureka, with a bailout destination of Coos Bay if things were not to our liking.

This is the system we were getting into port ahead of. Nasty. No, thanks. Our position is close to the little house in the photo. The winds and rain arrived right on schedule.

Once underway, and under sail, I did a little research on Eureka and decided it was not for me. Most of the ports on this part of the coast involve crossing a river bar, and while that’s not a big deal most of the time, it’s hard to predict with certainty whether crossing will be safe until you are close enough to get a current bar report from the Coast Guard for when you need to cross. Crescent City has no river bar so you can enter anytime. That sounded good to me and took one stressor off the table. They also have a wide open harbor where you can anchor if you want to. Nice. We decided Crescent City was the destination for this leg of the trip.

Turns out that was a good choice. Not because of the lack of river bar, but because when we were about 30 miles out from Crescent City, our gentle 3-5 knot winds from the south suddenly became 12 knots from the south. Remember: south is the direction we are attempting to go.  I kept looking at all the weather models, thinking “I’m missing something here” but nope. This was not predicted anywhere we could find, so maybe we missed something but I’d surely like to know what!  One model showed 7-8 knots from the south but no one was showing 12 knots of sustained wind speed from the south with the accompanying big swells developing. At the end of the day, the weather you have is the weather you deal with regardless what the models predict.

Twelve knots of wind doesn’t sound like much, and it isn’t. It’s about 14 miles per hour,  barely enough to get Galapagos moving unless we put up the spinnaker. But when it’s directly on the nose, with big swells also on the nose,  and you are honestly just needing to get into a port to avoid something worse, it feels worse than it is.  At that point, it kind of sucks and it really slows the boat down. (I don’t like to speak unkindly about Galapagos, considering we love her just the way she is, but she does, ahem, not do well to windward.) Large swells  from the northwest (which is the usual thing on this coast) and now also large swells coming from the south, plus 12 knots on your nose = fun times. There would have been no way we would have made Eureka that day. It was going to be hard enough to make Crescent City.  (As an aside: we had plenty of time here. We were traveling on Friday, and the storm was ‘scheduled’ to arrive on Sunday afternoon, today. But I like to leave a lot of flexibility in these things. It reduces my anxiety quite a lot to have an extra day, just in case we need it for any reason.)

Mike and I just kept looking at one another and shrugging. I mean, what can you do? You  have to deal with the situation and we’ve been in a lot worse conditions than that. Uncomfortable, to be sure, but not dangerous. We could have turned out to sea and raised the sails, tacking back and forth. Maybe that’s what we should have done. But just when I said, “It could be worse. It could be raining.”, fog descended on us. Let’s close the curtain on that little episode because it lasted way too long and as the sun began to set, I came to accept the fact that we would not be arriving during daylight. We had been scheduled to arrive by 5:00 PM, in plenty of daylight. Now, with our adjusted speeds, we would arrive after 8:00PM. We would arrive at night. In fog. This is, as we say, no bueno. We hates it, yes we does.

The old lighthouse outside Crescent City, like something from the cracks of Mordor as seen through fog. Note the waves crashing on the shore. Very dramatic, to be sure. The sun is setting on my dreams of getting into the harbor by day.

Had we been anywhere other than a part of the world where we can rely on good charts, we would have had to wait for daylight by going out from shore, away from all the rocky reefs that surround this port entrance, and maybe even heaving to and riding out the weather

. As it was, we have wonderful radar and the United States has good charts of its waters. We decided we would get into the harbor, staying well off of the rocky reefs,  and then if we could not see well inside the harbor, we would just drop anchor and wait for daylight. Personally, when I am that tired, I would rather drop anchor than spend a night tacking back and forth at sea if I can safely choose the former. We had a reservation at the marina guest dock, but it’s bad enough having to go into an unknown harbor at night. It’s another thing altogether to go into a marina at night when that is not required for safety and there is a wide open anchorage available.

As we approached the harbor, Mike stood on the bow on the lookout for other boats (in addition to our radar) or crab pots in the water,  and we used our headsets to talk to each other. I kept the chart on our chart plotter scrolled in tight so I could see every detail of where the boat was positioned and he made sure to alert me as soon as he could see the flashing lights of the channel markers. I could hear the low whistle of the red buoy to my starboard side, even though I could not see the flashing light of the first one. I got a visual on the second red buoy as we approached, keeping that well to starboard, and we eased into the harbor right in the middle of the channel, a big fishing boat with huge bright lights close on our tail. Immediately deciding we would anchor, we found 15 feet of water and dropped the hook.  Anchor down. Safe. God, I love our anchoring system.

Michael contemplates the entrance to the harbor. It’s so big in the daylight. It’s so small in the dark fog. We got a day to just walk around and get our bearings before the bad weather came in. It’s so pretty in the daylight.

There is no sleep like the dead sleep one gets after a one night passage, especially one that ends up being fairly stressful, even if not dangerous. One nighters are absolutely brutal for us. Basically we get zero rest, even when off watch. We keep four hour watches. By the second night, we will get sleep because we will be so tired that it will just happen. But one night is not enough to get into a rhythm on this. The harbor water was quiet and we slept deeply.

The next morning we got the boat tied up to the guest dock. Let me just say this: the part of the dock we are on, because we are a big boat and when I requested the reservation, I said I wanted to be at the end of the dock if possible, is home to a gang of seagulls and therefore covered in bird droppings, and has zero running water. The harbor power washes the other part of the dock, so people on that part don’t have to walk through bird crap to get on and off their boat. It looks to me like they have turned this part of the dock over to the seabirds. Apparently it has been this way for many months with no end in sight. Did the marina offer up this information when I called for a reservation? They did not. In fact I asked if the dock had water and electricity and was told it did. Hmmm.

One of the overly friendly seabirds who poop here regularly. His friends flew off when they saw me come at them with my phone camera.

 

Bird crap and all, though, we are safe and tied up. And here we will be for a week, maybe longer. Today was a day for storm prep.  There were lines to snug to the dock, windage to remove from up top, cushions to stow away from water blowing into the cockpit, halyards to secure away from the mast so they don’t keep us up at night with incessant clanging. I’m listening to the rain beating on the cabin top and watching the wind indicator clocking 20 knots here in the marina, truly grateful that we are not on the open water for now, bird crap and all.

S/V Galapagos, standing by on channel 16.

 

Random Thoughts With My Morning Coffee

Ah, good morning, Pacific Northwest flat water. What is this thing about an anchorage so quiet that the boat feels like dry land? What’s the point in that? May as well be in a house. You’d think I’d sleep better, but I don’t. It’s too still and I don’t know where I am. It’s confusing.

Unexpected yet delightful Canadian welcoming committee.

I realize that we have been in cell service for about 8 days now and I’m already hooked. That’s a bad sign. I know this because we took refuge from some rainy winds coming to Port Townsend by toodling over to the bay between Indian Island and Marrowstone Island. It’s protected here all right. We prefer anchoring away from the huge cluster of boats in Mystery Bay so we are over by the DO NOT LAND BOATS HERE signs that the Navy puts up along the shoreline of Indian Island. There is no cell service here for some bizarre reason. I was dead irritated by that. I wanted to spend the evening scrolling through Craigslist looking at camping vans, along with, apparently, every other human who lives in the United States. They are very popular right now. Maybe we should wait until winter.

Hey, here’s a bit of information about our last passage. Reading between the lines of our posts you may be wondering why we suddenly turned the engine on (Blast! I hated to do that.) and why we landed in Canada for a couple of days (See photo of welcoming committee above.). That would be because we lost our backstay on Day 21 of our beautiful passage from Hawaii, 500 miles from Cape Flattery. Yes, we sure did. The word ‘lost’ here means kaput. Toast. A goner. Yikes!

Yikes stripes. It broke in half. While this looks like metal fatigue, in fact it is not. The metal you are seeing is the end piece that is inserted into the insulator. There is another like it on the bottom half. The composite material was probably UV damaged, at least that is our operating hypothesis. 

For the non-sailors in the reader group, the backstay is one of the pieces of wire that holds up the mast. The mast is the big pokey stick that holds the big sail that makes the boat go. In short, when one of the pieces of wire breaks, your mast can fall down. The backstay is the piece of wire that supports the mast from the back of the boat, keeping it from falling forward. To lose a backstay is very, very NO BUENO.

I’m writing that story up for possible publication (because, why not?) so I cannot tell the story the way I want to right now. If the story is accepted for publishing, you will read it there. If it isn’t, then I’ll publish it on the blog.  Anyway, the important things are thus: we did great, we kept our rig intact, it failed at the SSB insulator up at the top of the mast, no one was hurt, no other boat damage was had, it happened in the morning when the sun was up, and we are a pretty terrific team when the chips are down.

After we had everything secured and under control, I was feeling pretty low.  Then a huge pod of mixed Pacific White Sided and Northern Right Whale dolphins came to the boat and stayed for well over half an hour, leaping and tail slapping, and it made me feel loads better. There were hundreds of them. This was the only dolphin visitation we had for the whole passage. Coincidence? I will never believe it. Once I get my computer to play video again (Thanks, Apple.) I will post videos for you. Until then, imagine hundreds of dolphins leaping and slapping by the boat. Oh, and also the sun came out. Consider my spirits uplifted.

Northern Right Whale Dolphin. So adorable and different!

We now have a new backstay, which Mike installed two days ago. Thank you to Port Townsend Rigging for fitting us in as an ‘emergency rigging need’ and getting it built for us in less than 2 days. They rock. A complete new rig was already on the list for after these passages. We just started earlier than expected.

And why didn’t we talk about it as soon as it happened? That would be because we didn’t want people like our kids and mothers to be worried about us when there was no reason to be and there was nothing they could do. Also that would have been an additional distraction for us and we needed to focus on getting the boat home safely.  We were safe, we were fine, just bitterly disappointed and sad. I have to mention, however, that right after it happened our kids’ spidey senses must have been tingling because we received sat phone text messages from BOTH of them within an hour of each other asking how things were going out there on the sea. I can only say that, travelers that they are, they surely understand the lies of ommission people tell when they don’t want to worry others needlessly.

Pretty Velella on a calm day at sea.

Hey, remember S/V Flying Gull? The gorgeous Sparkman and Stevens sailboat we almost bought years ago due to completely overlooking how much money we would need to update her? Recall she fell on hard times and was involved in a police shooting in the waters of Bainbridge Island. Then she was sold to someone who wanted to bring her back to her glory. Well she is sitting in the Port Townsend boat yard and might be up for sale again soon. She needs a lot of work but if a person has deep pockets and a love of classic boats, well, need I say more? We still think she is one of the loveliest boats we have ever seen. Plus she has a porcelain urinal. That would provide a lot of amusement. Seeing her up on the hard in Port Townsend made our hearts sore.

Flying Gull. Still a beauty.

In other news, these are the thoughts that run through the mind over coffee.

– You really can never have too much extra line on a boat.

– Ditto on shackles and other random sailing hardware.

– What is the useful life of a shackle, anyway?

– There are WAY too many boats up here. It’s suffocating.

– The thing they say about being out on the ocean getting under your
skin is absolutely true. Let’s go.

– Having any kind of rig failure at sea crushes your soul just a little bit and leaves a hard
kernal of guilt that needs to be resolved.

– Tuna blood dries hard and slick and is difficult to remove from the
side of the boat.

– It’s impossible that the San Juan Islands are as close as the chart
says they are. WTF?

– Our website needs a redesign and I have no idea where to even
start with that.

– Will we ever use our paddle boards in these waters? I see other
people on theirs. Maybe they don’t fall in like I do.

– Cruising friends on the ground when you are on passage are
invaluable.

– Shout out to the Coast Guard for existing and being on top of
their original mission.

– Our boat looks shabby and rode hard after 5000+ miles.

– Why can’t someone create a product that completely protects
marine stainless steel from rust? Forever.

– Ditto on teak. I am so over doing wood finishing.

– Tell me, grey seal, how does it feel to be so wise? To see with eyes
that only see what’s real. Tell me, grey seal.*

– Every day I read the news and it’s always the same. Why bother?

– We cannot wait for new salon cushions. The need is real.

– Putting up the sail for the first time after repairs is a fine feeling.

Greetings, friend! Where are your companions?

Sitting here watching for Tufted Puffins at Protection Island. I love anchoring a nice roadstead anchorage. Maybe we will roll around a little bit and I’ll sleep better. Tomorrow we go up to the San Juans. It’s less than 20 miles away. Still beside myself with disbelief over that. It used to feel like going to another world altogether.

*Thanks for the ear worm, Elton John.

S/V Galapagos, standing by on channel 16. Currently at Protection Island. Watching Puffins.