Indian Summer on the Bay

We (myself and crew consisting of the Ninja and Chris V.) had a lovely, relaxing sail yesterday afternoon, starting out with winds about 5-10 knots and ending up with about 20-25 knots.  Standard afternoon on the bay.

We headed up towards the Richmond San Rafael Bridge.  I turned the boat around when the Ninja suggested we pick up some prisoners at San Quentin.  Uh, NO!!!

Chris V. had brought some Captain Morgan rum with him, which led to some poses, but I think this one should actually be called Captain Kidd(er). 

We saw an extremely lost boat: the Narragansett.

This was an interesting crew mix on board.  What did we talk about?  Sex.  More sex.  Who has done what with whom.  The Ninja is working on a song for my boat, entitled Indian Summer on the Bay.  And Chris filled us in on sailing terms implemented by the SFGN (when tacking “Leona Helms – a – lee!”, if the jib is too loose “Lorna Lufting”).  We also came up with a new term for an ill-mannered boat (or rather, skipper) who doesn’t obey the rules of the road and cuts way too close across your bow while you’re on a starboard tack and he’s on a port tack, forcing you to turn to avoid his pretentious boat and oblivious crew.  Boats such as these are now called NaNa’s in dubious honor of that icky boat.  We also saw a boat with the unfortunate name of Gute Fahrte.  Now, as near as I can tell, this means Good Wandering or Good Journey in German.  In Germany, this might be a perfectly respectable name.  However, I’m sure the boats owners (owning and sailing said boat in California) were going for the pun.  Bad boat owners!  Your boat is probably mortified.  Boats need a little dignity. 

This leads into a theory I developed yesterday.  Chris V. has been having quite a few problems with his boat, the Sirena/Nova Gina.  For instance, when docking recently, his gear shaft snapped off, leaving his boat stuck in reverse in a tight area, leading to collision with other boats.  Then, the tow boat managed to run the Sirena/Nova Gina into another boat while trying to get it back into its berth.  There’s just problem after problem.

Here’s my theory: the boat is confused and upset about the name issue.  She wants one name and to stick to it.  I think if he would have the name Sirena removed from all spots onboard, Nova Gina applied and the appropriate ceremonies conducted, all the bad boat luck would dissipate.

See, boats want to know who they are and they want to be reassured that they’re loved.  Continuously.

Oh, and this is a really beautiful wooden boat we saw.  Clearly, it is loved.

Reminder: start working on your pirate costumes for the day we storm Angel Island.  It may be delayed a bit until Chris’s boat is back in commission, but its never too early to start a costume.

Two Too Many

Which of course, refers to Three Henschels in a Boat.

My parents visited the West Coast last week.  One highlight of the trip they’re still talking about was driving 400 miles on a dirt road through a forest fire.  When they got to San Francisco, I took charge.  We went to the California Palace of the Legion of Honor, the Conservatory of Flowers, dim sum, up to Sonoma and Napa for wine tasting, Jack London State Park, and of course, sailing.

They enjoyed themselves immensely.  My mother was extremely frightened at the idea of going under the Golden Gate Bridge as she’s heard terrifying stories of how dangerous the currents are there.  So, I took them to Raccoon Straits instead, which I believe is much more dangerous, and told her it was more dangerous while we were in the middle of it.  OK, so I’m a little passive-aggressive, but she started it. 

Dad had a great time, and we only had 2 “discussions” about proper sailing technique. We had a difference of sailing opinion:  I believe in using the mainsheet to control the boom because the mainsheets job is to control the angle of the mainsail (attached to the boom), while Dad believes in sticking his arm up and letting the boom hit it.  Despite being an engineer, he doesn’t always quite get that stronger winds = more force = more chances of breaking your arm if you try to use it to halt the boom while jibing or tacking.  He’s used to Rhode Island winds, which you generate yourself with a handheld fan. 

The weather prediction for that day (August 14th) were gusts up to 35 knots, which can make for some dicey sailing, so I decided to sail on reefed main alone.  I love my new mainsail with the reefing points.  So much better than the old ghetto sail.

However, the 30 knot winds never materialized and we were having difficulty tacking upwind to get back to dock, so I got to show off my mad sailing skills by singlehandedly attaching, hoisting and trimming the jib in under 5 minutes.  Without, I might add, falling off the boat.

We sailed around Alcatraz as well and saw a dolphin, as well as a ton of very confused sea lions.  I think their thought process goes something like this “We leave the Bay to you guys on Saturday and Sunday, but the deal was that you’re supposed to stay off it Monday through Friday.  Why are you invading our timeslot?”

Hiring Professionals

I’m finally starting to admit that I don’t actually know how to do everything.  You heard it first here.  I am not omniscient. 

I know, I find it shocking too.

So, last year, I decided against renting dive gear to clean the hull by myself and hired a dive service to do it.  It took a stern talk with myself to convince me to do that.  Now that I’ve moved to a new marina, I’ve hired a different (even more professional) dive service to do it.  The new guy seems to be doing a good job (and is cheaper) so I asked for his recommendation of a rigger.  And called.  Yup, another repair I wisely decided not to attempt, I went and hired a professional.  So all you little people I’ve been scoping out, asking pertinent questions of such as “Are you afraid of heights?  Do you trust me with your life?”, you are now safe.  I no longer am planning to send you up the mast.

I feel so grown up.

Hats

My hat vs. Captain Jack Sparrow’s hat.  Do you know whose is whose?

Swimmingly

There has been a massive heat wave attacking the West coast for the last week or so.  Along with some intrepid adventurers, I hatched a plan: to swim, or die trying.

We left dock at about 12:30 on Sunday, when the temperature was about 125 degrees Celsius, or something like that.  I’m pretty sure of the 12:30.

I was thrilled to have Official Indian Summer Cabin Boy Gabe back on board, and he is still small enough to stand up straight below deck, an important feature in a cabin boy.   He immediately began cleaning the cabin (glad to see his skills have not slipped) and helped me start the motor and monitor things such as gas.  Miles bounded about the boat putting up sails and pulling up fenders and Janet made herself generally useful and agreeable.

The boat now has its own rubber duckie, which has been named ….its another boat secret, like what the head is actually called.  You can only be told on the boat.  We tied a line to the duckie and tossed him over once we were under sail, and found out that he prefers the sidestroke.  Either that or he was drunk.  It kind of looked like he was waterskiing on his side.  

We circled Angel Island with some serious wind, did an okay (not great) controlled jib that sent Janet flying down below.  I guess I should be louder with my “Prepare to jib”s.

Arriving at a cove on the leeward side of Angel Island, the wind died and we motored in and threw the anchor over.  The (evil and soon to be replaced) swim ladder was attached and then I finally got to dive off my boat.  Janet and I pretended we were off the coast of Italy, the boys refused to play. 

We fell and dove and jumped off the boat in as many ways as we could think of.  Embarrassingly, I had a lot of trouble getting back in the boat – the swim ladder sucks.   I kept on winding up under the boat rather than over the edge.  But after a hugely refreshing swim, I sunned on the deck with Janet and drank wine while Gabe used the duckie to reel Miles in.  Liam the selkie showed up and hung out for a while and then as it got late and the anchor dragged for the umpteenth time, we headed back to port.

That was when the real excitement began.

All true captains have a hat.  Captain Jack Sparrow has his, I have mine.  Captain Jack’s has been lost at sea and swallowed by a Kraaken, while mine has been lost down the mighty Zambezi, the Fish River, Casco Bay (multiple times) and a mudslide in the White Mountains.  As we tacked gently West along Angel Island, a gust hit and my beautiful McGill hat went flying away.

“MAN OVERBOARD drill.”  I roared.  Miles poked his head up from below, where he was snacking, and looked confused to see me, Janet and Gabe all still accounted for.  But the crew gamely sprung into action.  “Miles – get that thingy that’s on the thing to your left, no the long thingy, I’ve lost my hat!”  and he got the boat hook out.  “Gabe, Janet, prepare to tack, helm to lee!”  and we did.  Repeatedly.  We kept getting very close to my hat, but it was very small and wet and wouldn’t grab at the boat hook.  Note to passengers: if you ever fall off a boat, grab for the boathook – it saves time.  Another boat saw what was going on and tried to play.  They missed as well.  On the fifth try, Janet scooped up my hat and the day was saved.  I was so happy to get it back, I shoved it on my head soaking wet, but my crew insisted it go below so it wouldn’t blow off again.

It was great to get some MOB practice in, and San Francisco Bay has not claimed another victim.  This is the second time that Janet has made an essential save – if she does it again, she gets a commemorative plaque.