Change. It is often argued that change in life is a good thing: painful but good. When companies merge, the change brings lay-offs, but ultimately, the merged company has streamlined, gained assets and productivity, hopefully. The crazy thing about living on a boat is that everything is subject to change daily/hourly. Docked in a port or anchored, work is typically being accomplished somewhere on the boat, beds are torn up, tools are pulled out, and the 240 square feet of living space inside is made ever tighter. On a regular day, when someone pulls out a tool, computer or item, even if it’s put away into it’s assigned place, it could be relocated the next time you go to look for it.
When sailing on the open ocean, the weather dictates the changes. The norm might last 2 hours or 25 days depending on the wind, the current, and the direction of the swell. During our sail from Puerta Vallarta to the Galapagos, change was the norm…probably due to the time of year we embarked and/or possibly due to the changes in weather dictated by El Nino. The longest norm we enjoyed lasted about 24 hours. We tacked often from starboard to port where everything balancing well on one tack then balances differently on the other tack. Port light windows are open and closed along with the hatches to ensure the ocean doesn’t come splashing in. Inside it’s sweltering, so sometimes we risk opening up the hatches or port lights, only to close them shortly thereafter because now rain is threatening.
The sea colors are enormously changeable too. On a cloudy day, the sea looks steely grey with flecks of silver with large rippling swells. It looks impenetrable, holding tightly to its secrets. On a sunny day, the sea looks blue: not a light blue, but a deep blue. If the seas are doldrum calm, it is clear, almost like a mirror, and you can see deeply into the water, the rays of light penetrating the leagues. It feels like the mysteries below are close, attainable.
Trent observes close passing cruise ship off Mexican coast. (photo by Eric)
These changes are indicative of life aboard, inside and out. Sometimes hot inside, the crew sits outside to enjoy the breeze. When it rains, the cockpit becomes very wet and inhospitable. Most stay below. If things are not stowed properly in their place, they fall down, whether its books, cups, food, sail wrenches, water bottles or computers.
Leslie observes changes in sea and sky. (photo by Eric)
Mostly, the constant change in sea motion is what confounds and exhausts the mind. Serious studying is very difficult because much of the mind is dedicated to concentrating on staying upright, especially when over 10° healed over. The crew moves side to side, forward and back, constantly. Nothing is still. I find reading and some thought possible, but serious contemplation and learning new concepts, nearly impossible. The ability to accomplish much beyond the most mundane or most necessary (cooking, changing sails, washing dishes, taking showers) is dramatically minimized.
Steel grey sea, close to the equator (photo by Leslie)
Change is the constant in life. Everyday we spend at sea reminds me of this. Headed to the Galapagos, which exhibits this idea to the utmost, the birthplace of the idea of evolution, change from one species into another distinct species, makes for an incredible learning opportunity. To quote writer Jeff Greenwald from his article “A Natural Selection” in AAA’s Jan/Feb 2015 Westways magazine issue: “Nearly 2 centuries after the 24 year old Charles Darwin stepped onto the Galapagos Islands, they’re still a global laboratory for the study of adaptation. In fact, everything about our planet, even its position in space is in constant flux, moving toward an unknown destiny.” We humans are the same. We change, evolve, grow and learn new ideas and ways to live, make a living, survive.
Clear blue waters expose playful dolphin pod. (photo by Bryce)
I don’t know what all of this change around me is teaching exactly: to be open to new possibilities, patience, resilience, to be adaptive to my environment, ‘to be prepared’ like a Girl Scout. I chose this new lifestyle knowing the changes in my life would be great. Now I simply have to adapt to the vastness of change and accept the inconstant as my constant without being disgruntled. Richard Henry Dana wrote in his book Two Years Before the Mast that you can’t get mad at the sea when it causes you to spill your lunch. You have to laugh at what the ocean throws at you, otherwise you’d maintain an angry state of mind. If you laugh, the uncomfortable makes for a much better story in the end.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015, 2:42 p.m. Universal Time Central UTC (Greenwich Meantime)
Ocean sunset between thunderheads. (photo by Eric)
We switched to Galapagos time yesterday morning to acclimate to the time change while sailing. We want to be ready to jump off the boat and start touring right away. After 17 days at sea, we will be eager to stretch our legs.
Leslie on the foredeck between rain days (photo by Eric)
Now five full days at sea, we are all getting into a rhythm of our own. Each one of us has had to come to terms with constant boat movement, tropical humidity and the hot sun beating down with a simple awning over the cockpit to provide shade. The slightest of exertion causes a person to sweat profusely. My face has never sweat so much in my life!
Bryce and Uncle Bill hang in the cockpit.
Sometimes the ocean is so calm that you can see over 25 feet down. Other times, the wind kicks up the seas and the surface is roiling. The swell seems to come from all directions in a confusing mishmash of waves. There is a small local swell created by the direction of the wind and then there is the large rolling swell that comes from far out to sea and looks like rolling hills approaching the boat. Today, we have both, the smaller ones coming from the Northeast and the large swell from the south.
Trent captures sleep between watches. (photo by Leslie)
Eric, who has substantially more experience sailing long passages says that after the third full day for most people nausea disappears and an ocean rhythm sets-in. Since I don’t remember much about my daily living experience when sailing from Hawaii to California for 25½ days when I was 23, it feels much like a new experience for me. Most assuredly, my expectations of comfort and cleanliness are different today compared to 25 years ago. When I was 23, I had just graduated with a BA and was ready to travel, to experience some adventure after all the studying and before working full time. The time commitment I faced was about 3 months. I was planning on finding work in my field of study in Los Angeles. Discomfort was not a big deal. A certain amount of boredom was a welcome friend filled by new companionship, early love, great literature, and forced rest. I didn’t even care that much about hygiene. Since the trip was finite, borrowed money would be paid back later once I got a job. In fact, I was responsible for taking care of myself, no one else.
Eric and Trent take advantage of nicer weather. (photo by Leslie)
Today’s experience is so much different. I am the food provider, responsible for the provisioning, determining the menu, prepping, cooking and generally the clean-up for 5 people three times a day. I am co-owner of the boat, responsible for its liability and the potential of losing it. Neither Eric nor I are earning an income. All expenses including boat repairs are paid out of our savings, so when things go wrong, we have to trouble shoot the problem and fix it or have it repaired or replaced. I take care of the bills/money and tax prep. I am a parent, worried about my sons’ physical and mental health along with being their teacher who moves them forward in their studies. I am also their playmate, playing games, watching movies, and hanging out with them. Being half responsible for their safety, I worry about them on the boat, when they are changing sails, taking watches, helping dad with repairs or when they get sick, their cleanliness. When they get hurt or anyone on the boat gets hurt, I am the nurse. I instigate or take care of laundry, cleaning the inside of the boat and making sure things are put away, picked-up. I also predominantly take care of the trash and waste. Then there is the sailing aspects: changing the sails with Eric when he needs me, which is often; doing my own watch; and taking care of myself. It is all so much more complicated with plans to sail much further than from Hawaii to California as a simple crew member on a boat.
Trent learns mathematics. (photo by Eric)
Perhaps, my concerns will mollify over time as I completely adopt the rhythm of the cruising lifestyle. These last months since departing Ventura on February 10th, we sailed quickly through California and Mexico. Even in the Galapagos, it will be a short visit of less than 20 days, and then we’ll be off again to the Marquesas for an estimated 25 days at sea. Eric assures me that we will be traveling around much more slowly once we’re in French Polynesia. Both he and I are looking forward to that.
Leslie uses bike cart to do late night provisioning in the Galapagos. (photo by Bill Kohut)
Thunderheads surround and engulf Kandu on way to Galapagos
Since arriving in La Cruz, Bandaras Bay, the push for me has been to get Kandu going and to keep her so. Several unexpected problems of significant proportion required my undivided attention and complete effort: physically, mentally, and emotionally. Delays were compounded by the pressures of the upcoming hurricane season, the French Polynesian visa requirement that we arrive in June, and the disappointment of having to cross so many desirous locations off our list. These demands left little time for visiting Mexico or writing. I went to bed exhausted around 8pm and woke around 5am. The pressure was non-stop. We knew that once we left Mexico, any chance of getting parts would be very difficult, time constraining, and costly. It felt like “now or never.”
Eric on evening watch off Mexican coast aboard Kandu
At one point, it looked like the lack of supportive wind would force us to cross Galapagos off our itinerary, a magical place I really didn’t want to miss. Realizing that the wind would not be dangerous, but variable, light, and rain-riddened, we made the decision to suck it up, spend the fuel, and go for it.
Red marks on RADAR heavy rain and Kandu in the midst.
The sail to the Galapagos was uncomfortable and discouraging. Sailing in confused seas (again), motor sailing often, having to dodge thunderstorms and squalls day and night, all as we passed under the latitude of the sun and its intense tropical heat (sea temp 89oF), against the southeast trades and current, placed in jeopardy the whole idea of sailing around the world. Rain forced us to close all hatches and portlights, cutting off ventilation. Were it not for the portable 12-volt fans throughout the boat, we would have drowned in our own sweat. I often sleep in the cockpit so Bryce and Trent have easy access to me should they have any question. The last 4 days were the worst, as we tacked back and forth against ever-changing winds, through wet thunderheads, rocking in all directions, while discovering that our alternator charging system (the engine powers the alternator that makes electricity to charge the ship’s batteries) had failed for some unknown reason.
Land Ho! After 17 days, rain clouds shroud Isla Isabela at sunrise just below the equator.
Arriving in Puerto Villamil at the southern tip of Isla Isabela, the largest of the Galapagos islands, 17 days after leaving Mexico, we focus on meeting the complex entry requirements. Were it not for the help of our agent, JC DeSoto, we’d not have done so well. Entry permitted, and although many more standard issues beckon, I apply intense focus on resolving the alternator problem. It takes 8 days, more than half of our intended stay. In between the other boat maintenance requirement and preparing for the next, and longest crossing, I visit Galapagos with the family, taking several half-day excursions, land and sea.
Time constraints of the Galapagos and of French Polynesia require we leave now. Instead of sailing to Gambier, a less comfortable sail, we’ve opted for sailing directly to the Marquesas, a more favorable direction with regard to wind and sea. I can’t very much afford another uncomfortable crossing if I want to keep morale up for a 25-day crossing. In Gambier, we’d have to leave after a week or two. In the Marquesas, we can stay a month or longer, providing the rest and stability we all crave. Off to the Marquesas we go.
Marina Iguana yoga position
The intensity of effort to prepare Kandu for the Galapagos and beyond, combined with the power issue that developed along the way, prevented me from blogging. Although I have many stories to share, I’m going to have to wait until we settle into the Marquesas before I can publish. Appreciating that such breaks from regular posting are the death of a blog-site, I hope you’ll bear with us and reap the reward once we are able to share once again on a more regular basis. In the meantime, for those on Facebook and/or Twitter, we have been posting regularly to these sites via our satellite texting device, Delorme inReach SE, which provides not only the text, but a link back to our current position. The same device provides the tracking and map location of Kandu, a link to which is provided on this site’s front page. So if you’re needing your RigneyKandu fix, look for us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/rigneyskandu or me up on Facebook (Eric Rigney) or on Twitter@RigneysKandu until we can get back to delivering more in-depth writing.
Leslie as we come into Cedros Island after two nights at sea.
I woke up slowly this morning having gone through a night of watches. Sleeping on a moving boat and being responsible for that boat is not relaxing. Even at anchor with a steady wind blowing, I have not been sleeping soundly. My ears, nose and motion sensors are all actively accessing the situation – constantly. The night before, early on, there was a crashing “BOOOOM.” Our telescoping spinnaker pole broke. The extension or telescoping section could not support the tension of the outstretched genoa and crashed back in. Fortunately, it was during Eric’s own watch, so he dealt with it.
9:10 pm. It is still Easter Sunday, but the day has darkened outside. I’m on the first watch from 8:00 p.m. until 10, then I will repeat a watch early in the morning from 4:00-6:00 a.m. The moon is just rising. It is an eerie yellow full moon. The wind is coming from dead downwind. Once again, it is not coming from a great direction for Kandu. We’re trying to conserve fuel, so no motoring right now. We are also trying to see what it’s like to use less energy.
Much of my on-land and sea days are involved in keeping the family fed and watered…and then cleaning-up. This morning, because it was Easter, and due to the calm sea situation, I felt inspired to make pancakes served with applesauce. The boys requested chocolate chip pancakes. We did not have an Easter egg hunt as they had hoped, so chocolate pancakes it was! Instead of an Easter church service, I decided to acknowledge the day with a morning full of Easter music: Handel’s Messiah and later Sylvia McNair singing Exsultate Jubilate. It was glorious music to hear while floating along in the middle of the ocean.
Bryce and Trent on watch.
We are a little speck moving on a massive waterway with no land in sight. Most of the time I do not allow myself to think about the possibilities of what could go wrong. But I catch myself at different times of the day, everyday, taking account of our rather precarious situation. We are so alone, out in foreign waters, watching the radar, paying close attention to the sea patterns, the wind, the provisions, the amount of water and propane being consumed, the direction (navigation), and keeping tabs on the general mental health of the crew.
After cleaning up breakfast, we all had some quiet time. I listened closely to Handel while playing a bit of Sudoku; the guys worked on the rigging. Dad taught Bryce how to seize the ends of the lines and ropes, offering him a dollar per end seized. I asked how to do it also and helped with six or seven ends. There are always ends of rope that need attention.
I brought out knives to sharpen in anticipation of catching a fish! Bryce put out the trolling lines, in hopes of snagging some unsuspecting tuna, to no avail. Since it was Easter, I wanted to make sure to prepare delicious meals, well balanced and as fresh as possible. For lunch, I prepared a cucumber, tomato, red onion and feta type cheese salad served with crackers and smoked tuna that we had bought at the Ensenada fish market. It was light and tasty.
Looking through my “Boat Galley Cookbook,” I tried to figure out what kind of fun desert I could make. Bryce decided to bake cookies. He was excited to eat a fresh tasting dessert. Eric doesn’t eat added sugar foods anymore, so I often refrain from baking sweets out of respect for his choice. But with two boys around, they do want to enjoy fresh sweets from time to time. Easter seemed the perfect time to make it happen.
Aside from baking cookies, during much of the afternoon, the boys and I played games starting with checkers, then one of our favorite card games: Rummy. We really enjoy ourselves with that game. We were even able to play outside because the wind and swell were not powerful.
I got a chance to read a bit while Eric worked with the boys on trouble shooting the sump pump for the aft shower. Then it was time for dinner preparations: boiled potatoes, grilled Mexican bacon wrapped hotdogs, and romaine salad with shredded carrots, red onions, celery, topped with our favorite dressing: ‘Annie’s Shitake Sesame.’ All these fresh foods today were quite luxurious since our fresh salad supplies will only remain through tomorrow. We are down to one fresh egg, 3 boiled eggs, 2 oranges and some limes. The rest of the passage will be canned fruit and frozen vegetables along with pastas, beans and rice. Tomorrow we’ll eat bean soup from yesterday’s large pot that I made in advance while in Bahia Maria.
Baja sand souvenir
Yesterday, I got a bit overwhelmed with the idea of cooking and providing for 5 people 3 times per day for many days on end when we travel to the Galapagos and then onward to the Tuamotus. I have got to create some future menus in advance for our long passages so the task doesn’t overcome me.
9:50 p.m. My first watch of the night is almost over. It’s been a long day with no nap. Winds are holding generally from one direction. This is important to note before handing off the watch to Trent. If the winds were to have changed, then I would have had to wake Eric to reset the sails; I still defer to him at the moment. As it is, the wind is blowing at about 10-11 knots, but we’re only going about 3.8 to 4 knots because the sails are not capturing efficiently.
A little prayer before I turn over the watch to Trent: “Thank you Lord for our easy sailing south, our solid boat, fair winds and seas. I am grateful for our safe travels. Thank you on this most important day that we remember Jesus’s sacrifice for us. We are blessed…in Jesus’s name I pray, Amen.”
Ensenada Church while strolling on errands.
Leslie Dennis Rigney
Post script: today we plan to sail 15 days to the Galapagos from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Uncle Bill is going us.
It’s odd how traveling accompanied by uncertainty and new discoveries aids a person to remember the passing days more clearly. Details blur less.
Kandu and sunrise at Ventura Yacht Club
Sailing south from Ventura this past month since our departure the morning of February 10th has heightened my remembrances of daily details. For example, burned into my brain are the particulars of our first 10-hour sail down the coast of California and docking at Del Rey Yacht Club. The trip south was rather unmemorable to mark the beginning of such an extensively planned trip. We attempted to sail but there was little wind so we engaged the motor the entire time. The colors of the morning were soft, the air fresh. The temperature warmed once the sun rose fully overhead. Our hard dodger kept the direct sun at bay until just past noon. The swells were stable generally angling behind us pushing us south. In the calm, Eric and I caught up on messaging our loved ones and texting photos of our debarkation from that morning. The boys slept to keep nausea at bay and later watched a movie down below. We ate crackers and Clementines. We set-up the new fishing line and trolled to no avail. We all wore our life jackets the entire time. I scratched a little at Sudoku. Those details I remember and much more…over a month later.
Arriving at Del Rey Yacht Club, a facility we already were familiar with having been members a couple years before we moved to Ventura, was a bit weird. The size of boats surrounding us were enormous (i.e.: lavish) and we learned over the next couple days these were very well kept by cleaners, but hardly visited. The members and staff were polite and kind. The facilities were deluxe including brand new bathrooms with lovely showers, swimming pool, table tennis, basketball, laundry and space for us to park our car as it traveled south to the border with us.
Kandu in all her cruising glory within Del Rey Yacht Club’s “Battleship Row”
What we remember most, however, was being asked to move twice after we arrived. Docked initially in prime view, perhaps our boat was an eyesore to the members sitting in the bar – albeit very well maintained and polished, Kandu’s deck is laden with five surfboards, two boogie boards, an extra propane tank, buckets, 3 diesel and 3 water jugs, 5 gasoline cans, water hose, etc…plus beach towels, wetsuits, and rags, drying on the life lines. Yet much more importantly, I fondly remember the quick visits we shared with our Los Angeles friends. Over four days, we packed in a punch. One of the times we moved, Jim and Joanne Schubarth, friends from church, delighted in a quick ride on Kandu and witnessed the crew handle the boat. I felt a funny sense of pride at having been able to ease their minds on our boating abilities. We celebrated my birthday over drinks and dinner with the Franks. The joy I felt at spending time with them again was deep. We enjoyed a BBQ with Cub Scout cronies hosted by the Calimlims. So many dear neighborhood friends showed-up to wish us well; I was overwhelmed. We relished visits from Bryce and Trent’s friends from swim team and school. The boys were touched by the families’ efforts to come hang out at the boat. Our financial advisor Spencer came to wish us off with big smiles, our property manager JP and his family brought us SPAM (good thinking!), and a girlfriend with her young family came to enjoy the California Yacht Club pool and a beautiful day in Marina del Rey: what incredible memories of experiences and feelings! All this I remember and in great detail because we were in unfamiliar circumstances – in traveling mode where the variation of our days makes for recalling distinct moments.
Kandu at California Yacht Club before departing to Long Beach
In my mind, each port in which we have docked this past month: Alamitos Bay in the Long Beach Harbor, Dana Point, Oceanside, and San Diego all remain very distinct in my mind due to the friends, the acquaintances, the places, the surf sites, the repairs we had to make and the paperwork we needed to address.
Alamitos Bay Yacht Club sunrise with KanduDana Point Yacht Club as the sun sets‘8 Crazy Nights’ at the Oceanside Yacht ClubThundershowers at San Diego’s Southwestern Yacht ClubKandu at historic San Diego Yacht Club, est. 1888Newly renovated Silver Gate YC’s Jacuzzi view of KanduKandu awakens before the Chula Vista Yacht Club, originally est. 1883.Navy YC at Fiddler’s Cove, a family friendly yacht club.
As uncomfortable and frustrating as it can be moving from one slip or marina to the next, the feelings are overshadowed by the many fascinating and helpful people we’ve met along the way. Good and bad, more than when comfortable on land, I recall clearly, in vivid detail, each of these days.
It’s funny how a single experience can taint one’s overall impression of a place. Having my phone pick-pocketed at Chula Vista’s Costco on Monday cast a negative shadow over this American border town. The officers of the Chula Vista Yacht Club have been one of the most welcoming of any club, with Commodore Ron and Dockmaster Jim coming down to greet us as we arrived at their spacious guest dock. They even arranged a fourth day for us. Chula Vista Marina is at the most southern end of San Diego Bay, just seven miles from the US-Mexico border. Coming in to the marina at low tide in the late afternoon was tenuous. Kandu’s depth sounder or transponder read 6.5’. She draws 6’. I couldn’t recall whether I set the sounder to display feet from surface or feet before grounding Kandu’s keel, a setting I’ll have to check this morning (no, duh). Chula Vista Yacht Club started in 1883, five years before the San Diego YC. But being at the harbors bottom and at the mouth of several washes, after a few flood rains, the basin silted up, and the club dissolved until 1988, around the time the harbor was dredged and the marina built. This is the first marina we’ve visited where a security guard patrols the docks. Still, we feel safe here, aboard our quiet home afloat, . . . that is, until the next day.
With their one-year visa, French Polynesia requires two passport photos per person upon arrival in French Polynesia. Our yacht agent at Tahiti Crew will be representing us, so we wanted to send her the photos to bring to the Papeete immigration office on our behalf. Costco is close to the Chula Vista Marina, so we drive over there to get our pictures taken.
It is quick. The photo clerk says it will be 30 minutes before they were ready: 3:50 p.m. We separate, Leslie and Trent go to the food court to get a ‘Chicken Bake’ for Trent, and I leave with Bryce so he can taste the various samples throughout the store. After half a dozen samples, we leave the warehouse interior to join Leslie and Trent outside, in line at the food court. I decide to get a ‘Latte Freeze.’ I don’t drink a lot of coffee, so when I do, I catch a significant energy high. After picking up our “food, glorious food,” I stay with Trent so he can eat seated. Leslie and Bryce walk over to neighboring Walmart to check out the $5 DVD movies bin. Since arriving to take our photos, I calculate that I’ve been at Costco for a total of about 30-35 minutes before Trent and I leave Costco and walk across the parking lot to join Leslie and Bryce and look for movies.
After ten minutes of sorting through movies, I realize that my phone is missing from my right, back pocket, which I recall having zipped shut. Bryce and Trent swear they don’t have it. A terrible feeling comes over me. Having recently reset the phone, the screen isn’t locked, providing complete access to my email and contact list. I fight off a sickening feeling, preferring instead to “review the situation.” First, I rush to our car to make sure I’m not having a “senior moment” (I now qualify for senior coffee at McDonald’s . . . ). Affirming it isn’t in the car, I rush back to Leslie and from her phone, call mine. Maybe someone found it and dropped it off with the store? Maybe someone was waiting for me to call it so they could return it to me? From Leslie’s phone I dial my phone. It rings. Someone picks up, but remains silent. I plea, “You have my phone. This is my phone. I need my phone . . . .” And they hang up. Now I know it is a theft.
So I call T-Mobile and shut down the iPhone’s calling service and lock its serial number so it can’t be enrolled in another plan. Talking with the T-Mobile technician about securing or erasing the media on the phone, he asks if I engaged the “Find My Phone” feature and whether I knew my Apple ID and password. That’s when I get an incoming call. Guessing it might be the person with my phone, I ask the tech to hold while I take the call.
“Did you call about your phone?” says a young man’s voice with a slight Spanish accent.
“Yes, do you have it?”
“No, but I’m with a man who doesn’t speak English who found it at Costco. He wants to return it to you.”
I’m hopeful that is was a dumb error and that I had actually left the phone somewhere and this good Samaritan was going to return it to me. “Great. I’m near Costco. I can meet you right now.”
“He’s not at Costco. He’s at the last trolley stop before Mexico.”
The sick feeling comes back. “How can I get it?”
“How fast can you get here? He’s on his way back to Mexico and wants to go now. Can you be here in 5 minutes?”
“I’m not from here, I’m at Costco, you tell me how long it will take and give me directions. I’ll leave now.”
“Is there a reward for the phone?”
“Yes. Okay. How much is the reward? What’s he want?”
“$20-$30.”
“Done. I’ll pay it. Where do I go?”
“Meet us at the trolley station next to Sunset Elementary. He’s wearing a red zip-up sweatshirt with a light-blue T-Shirt. What’s your car look like?”
“A red Prius. I’m leaving now.”
“See you.”
I tell the T-Mobile tech what I’m doing and to stand-by. He says he’ll call me back every 10-15 minutes to check up on me.
Man, I’ve got to pee, but do I have time? I shouldn’t have had that coffee. I’m buzzed. I take the time, then find Leslie and tell her what’s going on as she’s still shopping. I take Bryce and Trent because I think Latino’s like kids and are less likely to have any funny business in front of them.
Every stoplight is taking forever. Trolley trains are dropping arms in front of me. I’m nervous that this may be the very train the guy wants to take home. T-Mobile calls back. “Not now, Aaron, you knocked out my map!” I miss my turn and another trolley comes and drops the arms in front of me. I’m panicked. I’m taking too long. I shouldn’t have pee’d. The arms come up, I turn right, and tear down the street to the elementary school less than a quarter mile away. I pull up to the school and get out. A police officer, lights flashing, comes out of his truck behind me. “Identification and registration, right now!!! I’m pulling you over for speeding down Berry.” “I’m sorry. You’re probably right.” I get the documents he wants and tell him that this is a very bad day. “Some guy stole my phone at Costco and is going to sell it back to me somewhere around here, and now I’m getting a ticket.”
“We’ll get your phone back. And you won’t have to pay for it. Call your kids back.” I had Bryce and Trent looking for the guy, in case he was at the school. I’m concerned that he saw the police and took off with my phone. I am so frustrated.
“Here’s your citation. You can hire a $99 lawyer who can probably make it go away. Now let’s go get your phone.”
$250 Chula Vista souvenir
I park my car in a safer spot while the police officer writes up another ticket to a car parked near the school. Walking the three short blocks to the trolley station, I see a dark complexion Latino man in a red sweatshirt zipped down to show his light blue T-shirt. He’s leaning against the cement wall that leads to the trolley platform. A young man with curly dark brown hair leans adjacent to him, presumably the guy who spoke with me. They’re smiling as if one said something funny to the other. As I approach, Bryce and Trent catch up behind me. The two men are quiet. The young guy asks, “Come to get your phone?”
“Yes.”
The man in the red sweatshirt pulls out from his right pocket my phone. “Is this your phone?” asks the young guy.
“Yes.” And the red sweat-shirt guy hands it to me to check.
Whoop-whoop pops the siren, “You’re under arrest!” The traffic officer walks swiftly our way with has his hand over his handgun. “Show me some identification right now. Do you know it’s a felony to sell a . . . .”
I can’t hear him. My eyes are too focused. I see the left hand of the red sweat-shirted man pulling out a very stuffed leather wallet. His hand is gimp around the thumb. He couldn’t have pick-pocketed me, but he looks like a really bad guy. He moves very slowly and deliberately. I’m guessing he has people working for him, bringing them their catch, like the ‘Bill Sikes’ character from “Oliver.” I seem to recognize the young guy from Costco, looking at clothes, looking at me as I passed by him earlier that day. The young man is pleading his case, but I can’t hear him. I’m focused on what I see. The officer looks sternly at me and tells me to leave; reminding me that he has my information. “Get out of here, . . . go.” So we do . . . quickly, back to the car, with my phone and my ticket. The boys say they saw that the red sweat-shirted man had several phones in his pocket.
In the car, as I am driving away, my phone rings. It’s Aaron, the tech from T-Mobile. I update him. He says that this doesn’t happen everyday, and reactivates my phone. He said iPhones are hard to steal because providers can shut them down and track them anywhere in the world where there’s Internet. He thinks the thief realized I was actively pursuing my phone and thought it better to make money on the reward. Had I locked my phone’s screen, he wouldn’t have been able to locate the number from which I had called him. As we drive back to Costco where Leslie is waiting for us, Bryce puts the screen lock on my phone.
I feel uneasy, having been so close to corrupt forces. I think of all the heartache, sadness, and frustration these men cause and hope my odd series of misfortune takes them off the street for at least a little bit. Walking to our boat, I feel the need to lock her and all of our stuff up, the first time since owning her. Driving through Chula Vista, I’m not comfortable anymore. I’m on edge. The manager of the Costco said that in the two years that he’s been there, he’d never heard of such an incident, so he’s not prepared to change anything just yet. I’m most grateful for getting my phone back, not having to change all my passwords again or worry about everyone getting stupid emails from my email accounts. With the song “Pick a Pocket or Two” playing in my head, I think how sad it is that one incident can have such an effect on one’s perception of a whole city. But I’m optimistic by nature and know soon I will again feel that, all in all, “It’s a Fine Life.”
Things were looking up, passing under the Coronado Bridge on our way to Chula Vista Marina
Leslie’s throwing things, Bryce packed his book backpack in consideration of running away, and walking out of the restaurant’s restroom, I realized I had just done my business in the ladies’ room. Only 11-year-old Trent seems emotionally stable during our final week in the USA—our last chance to get things right aboard Kandu before costs and timeframes dramatically increase.
To arrive in San Diego ahead of a forecasted 3-5 day incoming thundershower system, we head out before 5 a.m. Weather and sea state conditions were not ideal. The transit between Oceanside and San Diego had us in confused seas, nose to the wind. It shook Kandu up like a washing machine.
Along the way, fuel didn’t easily siphon from two of her three full diesel tanks, probably blockage within the tanks. Having not moved Kandu while we worked on her for over two years, the diesel likely developed an algae problem. We have to pump all the diesel out (180 gals), scrub the three tanks clean, and re-filter the fuel as we hand pour it back into the cleaned tanks. We might be able to do this in two or three days, or hire someone to do it. These three days were not on my to-do list. The professionals in San Diego want $1500 for the job. I’m eager to hear the cost estimate from Baja Naval in Ensenada, but they think they might be too busy to take us on at their yard at this time.
I still haven’t completely set up the windvane and tested it yet. This is the expensive mechanical device on the back of Kandu that employs the wind and water to self-steer the boat allowing us to not have to steer the helm ourselves—a valuable, arguably necessary tool. And the wind generator doesn’t seem to be properly configured to charge our batteries, so a San Diego-based retired marine electrician friend of my in-laws is scheduled to see us today. Getting the computer and radio to work better together to support Winlink and Sailmail at the same time (software that provides weather information and email communication) is also on the list, as well as getting all our paperwork ready for Mexico (fishing license, liability insurance, crew and equipment lists in Spanish, etc.). I’ve given myself seven days to get these and other tasks done, which will allow us enough time to visit a little of Mexico before we head off to the Galapagos and Easter Island and then arrive in French Polynesia in June (as the visa requires). It didn’t dawn on me that there weren’t any urinals.
Some party favors don’t do favors for our ocean friends. Leaving Alamitos Bay for Dana Point early Tuesday morning, miles off the coast, we noticed several helium deprived polyester balloons resting atop the metallic grey surface. From a distance, their forms resemble hazardous lobster pot buoys. It’s only when getting within 100 yards that we begin to make out the heart-shaped Valentines or the faded Disneyesque birthday wishes painted across the debris’ surface. Bryce, an intrepid thrill-seeker and do-gooder, mounted our dark blue soft-top longboard with bright yellow tow-rope in hand, like a cowboy with a bridle, and swung out to round up the soon-to-be turtle food, a fatal mistake for turtles and any other jellyfish eating marine creature.
Bryce, jellyfish imposter round-up
There’s not much Kandu can do to stave off the multitude of plastic jellyfish imposters, but on this early overcast morning, Bryce rescued two: an infinitesimally small, but no less noble, effort, in the battle to minimize our harmful impact on this blue marble gem of a spaceship we call Earth, our only home. Good job, Bryce!
Don’t make Bryce sad. Keep a tight rein on those potentially lethal balloons.
When we arrived at the Del Rey Yacht Club, we pulled into their guest slip as prescribed, Slip D-289. We quickly settled into what was to be our base for three days, setting up power, draping our cockpit and setting up the cushions, configuring dock lines to keep us still, straightening up our deck, etc. An hour later, the club apologetically informed us that we would have to move a few slips over so that they could accommodate a larger guest boat: better now in the late light of day when we’re all awake than in the dark of night before bed. Trent was especially peeved, even after I explained that we’re guests and that we’re fortunate to have had them so quickly find a solution for us.
Our new spot was within “Battleship Row,” the unofficial term the club members use to describe the dock finger that houses their members’ shiny fleet of large motor yachts: Kandu was dwarfed. Battleship Row enjoys a prominent position directly in front of the clubhouse’s bar and lounge, a frequented part of the club. Of course, with our “Loud Family” Ventura West Marina reputation (read our earlier post, “The Loud Family?”), I carried a stigma that when combined with our cargo-laden decks packed with jugs of fuel and water, exposed dinghy, surfboards, kayaks, and paddles, . . . plus it didn’t help to have our laundry of beach towels, wetsuits, and bathing suits drying on the forward lifelines for all its membership to enjoy. The only things missing were empty beer cans and grandma rockin’ in a chair on the foredeck. So it was no surprise when later the next day the commodore and again, the dock master, explained that we would have to move one more time, but that we could stay there as long as a week (at the customary reciprocal rate of $1/boat foot length per night, after the third night, which is better than what the city charges for its municipal guest dock, $1.50/ft.) I asked the dock master if he could show me where we were to dock so that we could pre-set Kandu’s dock lines. He said, “It’s a walk,” looked at my shoes, “but sure, let’s go.” As we walked to the furthest corner of the club parking lot, and then down a ramp and a walkway that took us even further away from the clubhouse, we turned down the full length of E Dock, as far from shore as possible to its end-tie, Slip E-901. It was immediately apparent that we would be as far away from the clubhouse as any boat could be, while still remaining on club property. This would be the third time we would be docking at the club, equaling the number of days we would be staying at the club. This is where I think I’m over-sensitive.
Kandu in all her cruising glory within “Battleship Row”
From the very first, the club welcomed us without issue, providing us complete access to their wonderful facilities, including high-speed Wi-Fi and recreational equipment for the boys, basketball, Ping-Pong and tetherball, . . . and laundry. They provided us with a parking pass for our car that Uncle Bill drove down for us. As stated, the boats they said were coming, came. And the view from our end tie was spectacular, with the Marina Towers and Ritz-Carleton facing us across the way. The Del Rey Yacht Club staff were courteous and accommodating. So I don’t think cutting us off their WiFi was intentional.
“Now that the trip has started you must be ecstatic?” a phrase heard a lot once we arrived in Marina Del Rey. That’s not the feeling I have. Relief is the greatest feeling, followed by pressure to remember what needs to be done between now and leaving the U.S. for Mexico. But not far from the surface creeps anticipation of wonderful adventures to come.
During these past few years of preparation, I couldn’t allow myself the ‘distraction’ of imagining the future fun. It would have pulled limited time away from preparation, for knowing me, I would have started researching the possibilities and basking in glorious anticipation of experiences to come. With too much to do to prepare the boat and learn about social media and video production, I couldn’t afford any diversion—vegetables before dessert. It’s only in the past couple of days that I have begun to allow myself the pleasure of envisioning some future experiences: seeing calving grey whales close up, catching pelagic fish during passages, snorkeling in the bountiful aquarium that is the Galapagos, hiking the ridge of an equatorial volcanic crater, collecting water samples and Secchi disc reports, watching and recording the boys surfing, touching the Moai of Easter Island, enveloping the people we meet and immersing in their culture, meeting the descendants of the HMS Bounty Mutineers, seeing long-time Marquesan friends, and placing the boys in a French school. For two years I’ve been in a chrysalis of preparation, shielded from exposure to future joy and excitement. That makes for a grumpy dad, but it was what I felt I needed to do in order to stay on task, getting the boat ready for lengthy open-ocean voyaging and extensive stays at some of the planet’s most remote islands. Self-sufficiency and safety were at the top of the list. With just a few loose ends to tie, I allow joy to get a little closer, but not quite enter my psyche: still much to do during this period of transition from boat preparation to international travel. But Tuesday night, Leslie’s birthday, for the first time in 18 months, having safely and comfortably motor-sailed 8 hours from Ventura, lounging in Kandu’s cockpit with a glass of nigori sake while securely moored at the guest dock of a yacht club that is not located in Ventura, I felt I could afford to feel some sensation of the satisfaction that begged to be experienced. Significant relief, the absence of stress, was truly the only sensation that I felt I could reasonably allow. Not complete relief, but great relief, about 75% less. We had made the first tangible step toward the benefit side of what, until now, had been the exceedingly high financial and emotional weight of our journey’s scale. Leslie and Bryce had big smiles. Trent was immensely pleased he had not gotten the least bit seasick. Seeing their happy faces was my greatest reward.
Change. It is often argued that change in life is a good thing: painful but good. When companies merge, the change brings lay-offs, but ultimately, the merged company has streamlined, gained assets and productivity, hopefully. The crazy thing about living on a boat is that everything is subject to change daily/hourly. Docked in a port or anchored, work is typically being accomplished somewhere on the boat, beds are torn up, tools are pulled out, and the 240 square feet of living space inside is made ever tighter. On a regular day, when someone pulls out a tool, computer or item, even if it’s put away into it’s assigned place, it could be relocated the next time you go to look for it.
The sea colors are enormously changeable too. On a cloudy day, the sea looks steely grey with flecks of silver with large rippling swells. It looks impenetrable, holding tightly to its secrets. On a sunny day, the sea looks blue: not a light blue, but a deep blue. If the seas are doldrum calm, it is clear, almost like a mirror, and you can see deeply into the water, the rays of light penetrating the leagues. It feels like the mysteries below are close, attainable.
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