San Francisco Bay
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On November 6, 1999, more than twenty-five mini-cruisers descended on the Oakland Estuary for two days of small-boat nirvana. Skippers and crews from as far as four hundred miles had come to camp, cruise and race.
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By Joshua Colvin
Barely a hundred yards from our goal of passing under the Golden Gate Bridge and we were turning back. The cold spray carried by 20-knot winds had sapped our body heat and enthusiasm.
"We're heading back, guys," I yelled into the handheld radio, saltwater dripping from my sunglasses.
Our sailing buddies, Bob Campbell with his Montgomery 17, Alina, and Nick Fusco skippering Myoho, his Catalina 16, were just ahead and closing rapidly on the vast black shadow of the Gate. "OK. We'll catch up with you," Bob answered. I watched him lash Alina's tiller and duck below to don foul-weather gear. A hundred feet ahead of him, Nick whooped in exhilaration as Myoho plunged through another wave and into the semidarkness beneath the bridge.
We chicken-jibed and began to bear off, but even under reefed main and smaller jib our 19-foot twin-keeler was overpowered. She'd start to run downwind then round up hard-very nearly broaching. The wind was intensifying. I tried again, but another blast spun us windward. We found ourselves in an odd predicament-we weren't being driven downwind, we were being forced upwind-back toward the Gate.
"Hey, I thought you were turning around," Bob's voice crackled over the radio. I pulled my wool cap lower, squeezed the tiller and thought hard about my options. If I couldn't figure a way to turn us around, our next landfall was the Farallon Islands-the western apex of the Red Triangle-breeding ground of Carcharodon Carcharias.
THE TRIP
Our trip had begun two days earlier at the Grand Street launch ramp in Alameda. After rigging the boats, we sailed over to Chevy's restaurant for our last "civilized" meal. After dinner we motored back to our Marina Village slips for our first night aboard. As former Cruiser Challenge participants know, the Marina Village accommodations are quite possibly more luxurious than those at home. Heated bathrooms, hot showers-even an ice machine-which Nick put to good use, stocking his cooler for the following day.
After seeing Bob Campbell's homemade tiller tamer, Nick and I spent time that first evening rigging our own from bungie cord. It was as easy as screwing a small jam cleat into the underside of our tillers and tying the bungie cord between the stern cleats. After adjusting the length of the cord to set the tension-we had working tiller tamers. Bob's was slightly more complex, using bungie and rope, but even with our basic set up our boats would sail themselves for great distances without any attention-responding automatically to the slightest wind shifts.
The next morning we sailed west from the Oakland Inner Harbor. It was clear from the start that our old bilge-keeler wasn't going to stay with Bob or Nick in their speedy minicruisers. Bob was already at Treasure Island when we hit the bay and Nick was purposely slowing to stay close.
Anika and I were reminded of the clear distinction between Oakland Harbor sailing and San Francisco Bay sailing. As we approached, the bay seemed another world; whitecaps curled and fizzed, charcoal clouds hung low in the sky-typical San Francisco summer conditions.
"Aren't you going to reef?" I heard Nick say over the radio. Everything was moving so fast-we didn't have time answer. Anika took the tiller and I scrambled forward to switch headsails just as we bounded out into the bay. As I sat with my legs dangling through the pulpit, swell hammered the bow, burying me to my thighs in cold seawater. I decided then that no sensible argument could be made against the use of roller furling on a small cruiser.
Once we'd reduced sail, things settled down. When we cruised into the lee of Treasure Island, I wished we'd left more sail up. But each time we changed headsails we further delayed Bob and Nick who simply pulled a furling line to match the wind speed.
Just before we crashed into each other, Nick and I were yelling jokes, taking pictures and generally sharing the moment. One of us cut it too close, somebody backwinded-I don't recall exactly-but as a result of our collision, Myoho's bow light forever rests somewhere on the bay floor.
Skirting Treasure Island, we slid under the Oakland Bay Bridge and pointed our bows at historic Angel Island. Four hours later we tied up at Ayala Cove, surrounded by turquoise water and the piquant scent of eucalyptus. Except for the chatter of three boys fishing from the pier, the harbor was quiet and nearly vacant-save one bold raccoon strolling by in the midday sun.
ANGEL ISLAND
With the boats secured, we embarked on a scenic five-mile trek around the perimeter trail. Besides enjoying postcard views of the entire Bay Area, we learned more about Angel Island's history as a Civil War encampment, immigration station and a World War II POW camp.
Island regulations require that all boats leave the docks by sunset, so we motored out to moorings just off shore and rafted our boats together. Bob inflated his Sevylor one-man raft and I paddled it around to snap some pictures. Bob is a sailor's sailor, so he was clearly distressed when I boarded the "tender" and began paddling her stern first.
"I think you've got it going the wrong direction, Josh." He said. Landlubbers would call it a "pool toy," but to Bob it is a dinghy and should be handled as such. I changed positions and continued pulling the tiny plastic oars. I couldn't argue, it did seem to perform better this way. We're always learning something when we sail with knowledgeable guys like Bob and Nick.
Everyone enjoyed camp-stove chili as the sun dropped behind the rolling Marin County hills. Nick serenaded us with the guitar he'd somehow found room to pack, and we turned in early in anticipation of our assault on the bridge the following day.
THE GOLDEN GATE
The huge span now towered 225 feet directly overhead. Before us lay miles of open ocean. In an attempt to regain control, I decided to try a further reduction in mainsail area. Unfortunately, that would require another perilous crawl to the mast. From one handhold to the next, I made my way forward. I rode sidesaddle on the bucking cabin top, easing the main halyard while furiously rolling in sail.
When at last I made it back into the cockpit, we crossed our fingers and made yet another attempt to run. This time it worked. Gradually she came around, nosed through the wind, and turned her back on the Pacific. The Golden Gate had released us from its grip.
While Bob, Anika and I had donned foulies, Nick-the self-proclaimed "swarthy Mediterranean type,"-challenged the elements in cotton shorts and a T-shirt. After punching through a number of five-foot-high ferry wakes, his soaked olive skin was taking on a decidedly blue tone.
We battled an ebb tide past Sausalito and into gusty Richardson Bay. Our reserved twenty-dollar "slips" at the Clipper Yacht Harbor that evening turned out to be nothing more than tie-offs at the noisy guest dock. But after our rugged sail the hot shower was priceless.
The four of us went out for tuna steak sandwiches at the marina restaurant. Anika hadn't complained about the rough sailing conditions, but when she uncharacteristically ordered a beer-I knew she'd had enough for one day. Nick got the last bowl of hot soup and his color returned. After a stop at the local West Marine, we walked back to the boats and crashed out.
The final day of our cruise dawned cool and dreary. We spent the morning bundled up sipping hot tea and listening to the weather radio. Winds were light, so the return leg promised to be much less eventful. However, new dangers soon appeared in the form of two stadium-sized freighters. It's funny how quickly 20,000 tons of steel moving at 10 knots settles any disputes about right-of-way. Our tiny armada scattered, giving wide berth to the behemoths and their sizable wakes.
We drifted around Alcatraz and down the San Francisco waterfront, while high-speed ferryboats full of waving tourists roared by in all directions. Before long we spotted the huge cranes (said to be the inspiration for the "Imperial Walkers" of the Star Wars series) standing sentry at the Oakland Inner Harbor entrance.
A short run up the harbor returned us to the launch ramp. Our four-day, 30-mile voyage was complete. We had enjoyed good weather, great company, and just the right amount of adventure.
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