Waking up yesterday in the aft belly of Kandu, the boat is calm. Wondering what to wear this fine day, I check Ventura weather on my iPhone. The icon indicates wind, but the marina water is placid. I’ve learned that when it comes to wind, I can trust the iPhone. (I’m in the processes of installing the hardware and software necessary to receive NOAA weather forecasts. I’m just not there yet, so for now, iPhone is fine.) I look up the NOAA forecast for Ventura: winds 15-25, gusts to 30, increasing in the evening with possible gusts to 40. I check Kandu’s dock lines and cinch them up for the blow. Leslie and I are leaving to LA to fetch our 8’ Sabot sailboat, lent to a friend. As we walk away from the dock, ripples of wind erase away the mirror of what was the marina’s placid surface.
The wind performs as scripted. We get the boat safely back, atop our Toyota minivan, over Los Angeles County’s Sepulveda Pass on the 405 freeway and over Ventura County’s Conejo Pass on the 101, the gusts attempting to rip her off the minivan’s roof rack. We decide to leave the Sabot on the minivan’s roof, parked in the marina’s parking lot. Tomorrow it will be calmer and easier to maneuver.
Kandu is snug in her slip, as expected. While dinner is prepared, the boat rocks side to side. The wind howls through her rigging. I turn on the wind speed indicator. It’s blowing up to 25 mph. The cabin is warm. The boys are in shorts and T-shirts watching a video on our portable Sony Blu-Ray player, their filthy bare feet just above my sleeping pillow. New rule: Wash bare feet before entering cabin. After dinner, the boys finish their movie and go to their berths in the fo’c’s’l (short for ‘forecastle’). As Leslie and I climb into our shared aft berth, the wind builds. We are both very happy to be safely docked in our own slip, double tied; appreciating this won’t always be the case. We both know we will experience these types of winds while sailing and while at anchor, and thus thankful for not having to have to deal with it for the moment. For now, the big bad wolf can huff and puff all he wants. We’re safe, warm little piggies, being rocked gently to sleep in Kandu’s belly.
Friday demonstrates the range and depth of what we live, of how we drive ourselves to prepare for our voyage, while attempting to extract as much from our current culture and deal with the adverse.
Friday Morning Begins
In the morning, having not bathed in a couple days after working on the boat under warmer than usual weather, blasted three days by dry Santa Ana winds of the east, I wished to shower, but there was no time. Instead of driving Bryce to 7:30 choir practice, Leslie and Bryce wanted me to bicycle to the high school musical hall where they rehearse, a six-mile round trip. On the return ride to the marina, I swung by Trent’s elementary school to meet up with Leslie so we could bicycle back together. But she recalled she was to bring treats to the choir, so she took off back to the boat without me. When I arrived, she was rushing off. I pulled the aft cabin apart and prepared for the days work.
Work took its rhythm. My uncle and I prepared and feed work to Nick, a young man who’s been working on Kandu with my uncle for a couple years. I explain what I want done, my uncle figures out how we should do it, and then he and I go about getting the materials into Nick’s hands so that he’s constantly working. It’s seems efficient. A lot gets done. Before lunch, burritos I picked up from a local Mexican restaurant, the hot water heater I ordered a week before arrived. After lunch, we worked out the details of its installation, quite a puzzle. Satisfied with the plan, we moved as far along as possible before a lack of adaptive parts halted further progress.
UB and Nick measure optionsHow to make it all fit . . .Why is this always so complicated?
In the meantime, Leslie helped escort Trent’s 5th grade class to the beach for a little fun before class ended at 2:20 p.m. Bryce gets out early on Friday’s which I forgot. I was hoping to bicycle back with him. But he knew Trent’s class would be at the beach and text me that he’d bicycle there to meet them there. Leslie, Bryce, and Trent bicycled back to the marina. Shortly after three, Leslie took off with Bryce and Trent. Bryce had another choir rehearsal and Trent had soccer practice. Both practices would end after 6. Work on the boat ended for Nick and my uncle around 3:30. I then worked to put the boat together before Leslie briefly returned before heading out again. She boarded Kandu before I could finish. She asked me to pick Bryce up so she could get the minivan SMOG checked before she would pick up Trent. She also asked me to start the rice for dinner, after I returned from picking Bryce up. Dinner was going to be squeezed between Trent’s AYSO soccer practice and Bryce and Trent’s YMCA basketball game, which started at 8. I finished putting the boat away, made a run to the storage unit to clear out the boat a bit more, picked up Bryce, and put the rice on just before Leslie arrived with Trent. While Leslie cooked dinner, I took a long hot shower and splashed on some cologne. I felt clean and crisp like a freshly laundered sheet pulled from a warm dryer. We ate a wonderful fish dinner, smothered in green olives, steamed broccoli spears, all on a bed of brown rice. I had seconds. Under the urging of Bryce and Trent, we threw the dishes in the sink and took off for for the basketball game. The boys team didn’t win, but they had fun playing. These days, they enjoy playing basketball a lot, even practice. When we got home, it was time for bed, although the boys weren’t tired. By 10, it was lights out.
Bryce as point guard
Trent gets open
Around 11 p.m, I started to feel some pain in my lower back. I hoped it was from moving the empty 10 gallon water heater in and out so many times, trying to find the best arrangement. By 11:30, I realized it was probably a kidney stone. I climbed out of bed, powered down a slice of wheat bread and some water to insulate my stomach before swallowing 800mg of Ibuprofen. At 12:30, with the pain increasing, I hunted for and found my Percocet, a stash set aside just for such an occasion. I took the one pill as prescribed and counted the minutes. By 1:15, the pain was intensifying, so I popped another Percocet, 5 hours earlier than prescribed, trying to get in front of the pain. At 1:45, I woke Leslie and told her we need to go to the local emergency room–now. This being my ninth stone, she knew what this meant and how crucial each minute was. I dressed for the hospital, my Adidas running suit and slippers, and then vomited in the sink after hastily pulling the dirty dishes out from it. Leslie got me to the hospital quickly. She drives fast even when she’s not taking me to the ER. She checked me in after the young pregnant lady in front of me wished me well as she stepped away from the ER window and around me where I laid curled in a ball on the floor behind Leslie’s chair. Oddly I felt a kindred spirit, albeit my labor wouldn’t produce a child. I climbing up on a gurney within 10 minutes (remember minutes count!). The nurse introduced herself and asked for my data while measuring my vitals. As she set me up with an IV in my right forearm, I order from her like a regular at a bar: “I’d like an injection of Toradol backed by a full bag of saline, . . . as soon as possible . . . please.” She asked the doctor and the doctor approved. With in minutes, the first of what would be three injections (the other two were a narcotic), vanquished my pain in a flushing wave of comfort.
“. . . and the cat-scan shows another stone descending on the left side too!!!”
By 7 a.m., Leslie and I were home again. The boys hadn’t even noticed we had been gone. At the basketball game the night before, a friend had text an offer to grab the boys for a play date for the whole day with her son, starting early in the morning at 8 a.m. Leslie text an offer to bring them to her and off went Leslie and the boys as I slipped soundly into a narcotic slumber.
Just another dense day in paradise. At least it’s not boring . . . .
Today, May 1st, at the moment registration opened, at noon, we registered our entry with the Baja Ha-ha’s 2014 Cruisers Rally (http://www.baja-haha.com), celebrating its twenty-first anniversary. This event kicks off the start of the popular Mexico cruising season, getting boats to leave ensemble at the tail end of the North Pacific hurricane season–which technically ends mid-November. Boats from all over the North American west coast will meet in San Diego to commune with other cruisers with one common goal: head southward to adventure in foreign ports.
For many cruisers, sailing in a rally counters the benefit of self-sufficiency and remote access. How much of the native culture can a crew enjoy if they arrive with 400 other countrymen? And why would a skipper wish to adhere to someone else’s schedule? Before the crew even have a chance to truly explore the region, the rally is off and running. For these reasons, many cruisers abhor herd sailing, and would rather go it alone, quaint and free. So why would we want to join 125+ other cruising boats; more invasion than cultural exchange? Well, for us, we need to hurry down further south, no dawdling, and this event is quick and offers a “hard date,” a day of departure for which we must be prepared in order to participate. And while amazing and filled with wonder, a deeper dive into Mexico will have to wait until our return to North America. If we wish to cruise her more fully, which we may do, that’s easier than circumnavigating. Right now, we’re focused in Costa Rica, Ecuador, Peru, Galapagos, and Easter Island. Weather windows require we descend rapidly so we can be in French Polynesia and parts further before tucking out of the southern hemisphere’s hurricane season which starts in October.
For some of the boats, sailing down with the Baja Haha rally offers support for their first overnight sailing. For others, it’s a friendly way of getting to their traditional cruising grounds, a big reunion with many friends. For us, it’s several things: 1) It sets October 27 as the hard date for our first foreign port departure. Without a hard date, a skipper may delay departure until all is “perfect” with the boat, which seldom occurs. 2) It provides an opportunity to meet and travel with other cruising families, “kid boats,” with whom we may buddy boat well beyond Cabo. 3) It provides assistance in navigating Mexican paperwork requirements; customs, immigration, insurance, and fishing licenses. (Greater enforcement of existing Mexican import laws last year caused the temporary confiscation of several dozen foreign flagged boats, mostly American. Some were chained to docks for up to five months while the necessary paperwork was obtained and processed.) And 4) the Baja Haha Rally offers a festive, friendly, and organized way for the crew to kick off our voyage.
Along its way southward, the rally make port in two bays, Tortuga and Santa Maria, before arriving in Cabo San Lucas. The first is a sleepy fishing town with a fuel dock. The second is a fishing camp that only comes to “life” when the rally comes in, hosting a large party with food and music trucked in from far away. Were we to sail directly to Cabo, it would take about 6 days. With their activities, including Halloween trick-or-treat for kids dinghying from one boat to the next (boats are asked to bring candy for the event), the rally takes about 10 days, plus award ceremony and beach party days in Cabo.
What’s the benefit in registering as soon as registration opens? Registering early increases a boat’s chance of getting an expensive marina slip upon arrival in Cabo, offering hot showers and restaurants just steps away. There will be a limited number of slips available upon arrival. The rally organizers in collaboration with the marina officials reserve what’s available for rally participants and offers them to the boats in the order within they registered. Kandu will likely be among the first two dozen boats signed up, providing us good chance of securing a slip.
Although we haven’t officially added crew, we’re likely to add one or two to lighten the watch schedule, providing more sleep for all, and adding to the adventure. They would then fly out from Cabo with one or two more flying in to take their place, helping us get to Costa Rica and beyond. All this has not been sorted out or decided.
Last week, over Passover, for the first time and forever, two hummingbirds left the nest so painstakingly and exactingly constructed for their care, comfort, and development. It took several weeks for momma bird to build and decorate the nest before laying her eggs. Soon after, her babies broke their shells and grew as she faithfully fed them. At some point, the two chicks barely fit in the nest, and there was no longer room for momma. Thus, the goal toward which they had all endeavored arrived. It was time to go, and go they did to see the world as so many birds do in the spring. The nest is now empty and in our possession aboard our boat. As did the hummingbirds, we too left a comfortable nest, beautifully decorated. Until recently, our two young boys had known only one house as their home, growing there since days after birth. Yet for as long as they could remember, they’d been aware that someday we’d leave our home, board a boat, and sail around the world. Three months ago, we moved aboard Kandu. In a few months, instead of spreading our wings, we’ll unfurl our sails. In the meantime, we’ll practice sailing and navigating. And in October, we’ll begin our adventure south, toward the southern hemisphere’s spring and the great big world, similar to our hummingbird neighbors.
Comfy Cozy NeighborsNo Room For MommaMomma Bird’s Empty Nest
When asked or given, Venturians don’t include the area code with their phone numbers. Whether home, mobile, or business; people in Ventura assume “805” is a person’s area code. Some trucks don’t include it across their painted sides (unless they work in Los Angeles County too). When asking for your number, store clerks start over if you offer an area code first. In greater Los Angeles, an area code is expected as part of any phone number. Angelinos are a little curious if it’s not 310, 818, or 323; and nostalgic when it’s 213. If they hear an area code that’s not familiar, and the circumstance isn’t obvious, like talking to someone from Santa Barbara (805), Orange County (714), San Francisco Bay Area (415, 510), or New York (212), they might ask about the area code. Perhaps the caller “immigrated” to Los Angeles from somewhere else in the US or Canada. It could be an interesting story. Of course between ever-multiplying area codes cropping up, various telephone plan schemes, and various other common possibilities, there may not be an interesting story. In any case, if a caller doesn’t offer the area code when providing their number; in LA, it’s considered . . . well—“provincial.” Angelinos think, “Isn’t it quaint that people live in a world where there’s only one area code, one common identifier.” In Ventura, it seems the only place it’s declared is on one of their locally brewed beers. If a person’s area code isn’t 805 and a Venturian hears an LA-based area code declared, he or she may feel a little sorry for the person, for the stressful urban life with which any Angelino must contend. Moving from Los Angeles to Ventura, with my LA transplant mobile number, I’m learning to begin with the phrase, “Area code 310 . . .” before offering the rest of my phone number. As we sail Kandu away from Ventura and into other countries, we won’t often have a phone number to offer. Whether Venturian, Angelino, or simply American; one might think, how quaint or how cut off it is to not have a phone number or to have one from another country. When that happens, when giving our number, we’ll be sure to include the country code along with however many digits their phone numbers have. Contrarily, we won’t expect our American friends, Venturians and Angelinos alike, to automatically include their country code as part of their phone number, because we already know it, or perhaps because, . . . well, dare I say—provincial?
Today, after a full day of working on Kandu with Uncle Bill and Jojo (pulling the water heater and install a multitude of electrical items), while I cleaned up down below and Trent & Leslie were at soccer practice; Bryce decided to do what he’s been asked many times not to do–play on the handrails. “It’s not like it’s gonna break, Daaad,” was often his reply, choosing to believe my instructions were intended to prevent fun rather than breakage or injury. He was surprised and I was frustrated when his jump-up/pull-up abruplty pulled down the 80″ solid teak bar fastened above the galley.
I bit my tongue. Fortunately no one was injured, nothing else was damaged, and we can likely repair it, making it even sturdier. I texted a photo to Uncle Bill. His response, “Better now than later.”
I told Bryce that we scold certain rambunctious behaviors because of their high injury or breakage potential, reminding him that jumping down the companion way was as equally foolish a practice. Will he learn better to follow orders and appreciate the intention behind his parents’ directives? Easier at twelve than 16, I suppose. I certainly hope so.
Living aboard Kandu, our Tayana Vancouver 42, in Ventura creates an unexpected feeling of pointless discomfort, akin to living in an RV on one’s driveway while purposefully avoiding the house. We sense how we could so easily be more comfortable living inside a house. In some ways it feels like we are unnecessarily taxing ourselves, navigating the confines of boat living. The challenge comes from straddling two different lifestyles. We have not moved aboard to live a landlubber’s life on the water, as many of our neighboring live-aboards have done. If we had, we would be making different choices, like clothing, galley, and on-deck storage solutions. We are, instead, preparing for long-distance, mostly tropical, cruising and making decisions based on that future paradigm. In some ways, we’re becoming more like the proverbial fish out of water . . . and sucking air is not enjoyable. It’s not evolution; it’s de-evolution. The extra burden comes from having to support a land life, which is so much easier from a house; while at the same time incorporating far-away, self-supportable, small-spaced, warm weather, humid solutions. Schooling and extracurricular activities and all the inter-family networking still occur with homebound counterparts we meet from Bryce’s and Trent’s schoolyard friendships. We’ve done it before, when we lived in a house, and we did it well. But things are obviously different now. In the morning, we will design a large no-see’m net to fit over our cockpit. I’ll order the materials over the Internet, and Leslie will sew it using our bulky and powerful sailmaker’s sewing machine. I make lists as to what all needs to be done before I feel we can safely and comfortably leave America and sail to fifty other countries across multiple oceans and seaways. In the afternoon, we drive to soccer practice, attend a science fair or a choir performance, or drive to LA for a Cub Scout event. Sleep-overs on the boat, while it’s torn apart and we have to use facilities that are 1/4 block away, are difficult to consider and thus, for now, avoided. We do much of what we did from a 1500 sq. ft. house, only now from within a 250 sq. ft. sailboat in repair/upgrading. For this, it’s cramped living. Leslie estimates everything requires 40% more effort to get anything done, especially daily chores like cooking, dishes, laundry, typing emails, taking a shower, etc. Trent states, “You know what I’m looking forward to when we get back? Moving into a house.”
Of course we recognize that this is a transitional period, perhaps the most difficult part of the whole process (so the experts told us last week at the Strictly Sailing Pacific show, another landlubber activity). We get how important it is to get the living space right, to adapt it for our needs and preferences, to work out the kinks . . . but we sometimes feels like we’re Noah, getting ready for the big flood—we’re the only ones in the village preparing a boat for a five-year “flood.” As a result, sometimes you feel you’re a little crazy, and have to talk yourself into the dream again, remind yourself of all the great reasons for taking on such an unconventional and all-encompassing journey. I’m glad we have the time we do to get ready. We need it. We’re getting a lot of great work accomplished. And there’s no place I’d rather be than in Ventura, doing all this “transitioning” . . . but it’s still a pain in the aft.
It’s the night before Easter. Time to go to bed so the Easter bunny can hide baskets and eggs for Bryce and Trent. One thing we’ve learned about a cruising boat–there are nooks and crannies aplenty within which to hide things!
Hanging out at the Strictly Sailing Pacific boat show in Oakland, CA last week, I had the pleasure of meeting Marty and Sven of Sailology. Their WinchRite product turns every winch on Kandu into an electric winch, enabling everyone on board to crank in the furling gear, hoist up a crew member to the top of the mast, or lift our dinghy safely on board deck. Both Marty and Sven are very resourceful, a this video proves:
When we moved from Westchester to Ventura, CA; Bryce and Trent left the only neighborhood they’ve ever known. Like most parents, Leslie and I were concerned how moving would affect our sons. Unexpectedly, it was a positive change. Trent immediately made excellent friends and loved his new school. Bryce captured the lead in several stage productions and enjoyed Wood Shop. Both earned the equivalent of “straight ‘A’s’.” Although they no longer attend piano lessons, swim team practice, or Cub/Boy Scouts; they are active, bicycling to and from school and surfing regularly off Mondo Beach. We’re so pleased for their healthy transition and proud of their good work. Here’s a scene from Oliver that Bryce and Leslie performed together at Ventura’s Festival of Talent last month:
Four years ago, Brian Boring and Jeff Bown put together this sizzle reel to help them pitch a reality show they wanted to produce about our trip. This was before we even purchased a boat. So we borrowed yacht club members Tom and Pat Ramey’s new boat. My aunt put together a crowed of friends and relatives to play along as our bon voyage party. Brian and Jeff did a good job. Nothing ultimately came of it, but it was fun pretending and a great experience for all involved. Hope you enjoy
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