Beginnings...

It's always hard to figure out where a story really begins. Was it the moment we were offered a free boat by the Captain of a Catalina Island ferry service? Or the moment when our offer on a boat was accepted? Could it be opening the bank account in the names of three ridiculously slap-happy women and pouring our life-savings into a ludicrous dream? Or maybe the day we signed the papers? Or is it much further back? Should we trace through our separate histories and find where they begin to overlap?

I think of a moment in San Pedro, albeit not a happy one, when I, the "captain" sat down on the curb of a parking lot and stared into the murky marina water. Lady Hornsby had taken the car to find fuel filters for an engine we knew nothing about. Sharkfoot and I had spent an hour hauling gear to the dock. Misty Moonlight was about to be put in the water after some repairs and a fresh coat of paint and we, untested and nervous, were to bring her Oxnard.

The list of things we hadn't done loomed large. I sat, mildly catatonic with worry, with all my faith riding on a thin shell of fiberglass, and more importantly, a 1975 (?) Volvo Penta MD6A with a diesel tank of unknown capacity. We were headed "uphill," that is, up wind and up current, to our new berth in Channel Islands Harbor and without an engine it could take us several days to go the 70-ish nautical miles. Sharkfoot had a plane to catch, Hornsby had a wedding to be in, and I had a box of tools and hopefully just enough know-how (read "luck) to help us get there.

They say that blue water sailing is 90% boredom and 10% terror. Fortunately for us we are graced with great friendship and spicy humor, remedies for the swings of emotion we all faced. Sharkfoot sat down next to me and offered the kind of logical compassion I needed.

"We don't have to do anything, you know? I mean, we could go out there for a few hours and figure some things out and then decide that it's too much you know, and just come back. We can get a slip right here. And then we'll just figure it out." That's all it took and after a few deep breaths I was back in the game.

This was our on-going fall back. That we could abandon the mission at any time, sell the boat and be done with it. No one wanted to do it, but it was always an option. Sharkfoot loved to remind us that we could scrap the boat for the lead keel for $2000 in a pinch. Somehow this point wasn't quite as comforting.

Hornsby finally returned, and by 12:30 on November 17th, 2009, after over six months of scheming and dreaming, we were motoring out of Long Beach/San Pedro passing some of the largest container ships in the world. And then came our first blessing. Just at the breakwater we reached a pod of dolphins--the first of many on our journey--and I think we all knew in a strange way, that somehow it would all work out.

A mile outside of the Harbor we set our sails, killed the motor and began to beat upwind, sailing our own boat for the first time. I'm embarrassed to admit, in our surveying of the boat, we had never even raised the sails, so we were thankful the previous owner hadn't cut any large donut holes out of the center of them. Sharkfoot spotted whales off the coast towards Catalina and we, all three, called out to them with our new-found freedom and wonder.

Four hours later we had made only 10 miles of headway so after enjoying a beer at sunset we revved up the engine again, doused the sails, and headed NW across the Santa Monica Basin under the growing darkness.

Seasickness is hard to describe--it seems to sneak up on one--and when Sharkfoot came up with freshly made sandwiches I knew it was too late for me. I took one bite, knowing that I would feel better if I had something in my stomach, but the act of swallowing was such a chore a gave up. The sandwich lay un-eaten for the rest of the journey. Half a dramamine and a drug-induced nap later, I was able to stomach a few crackers.

The cabin was thick with diesel fumes (a problem we have since remedied, but more on that later) and so we spent the night, green from the darkness, the swell, and the smell, taking shifts at the helm or sleeping on cushions on the cockpit benches. No-one left that 20-foot-square area for more than 10 minutes that entire night. We all knew it was going to be one of the longest nights of our lives. We were quite right.

When dawn came we could see Port Hueneme and amidst another pod of dolphins and a six-foot swell we headed into our new home. Weary, nauseous, and giddy at our success, we motored into the Harbor, slid into our new berth and had a celebratory meal of Sharkfoot's special Miso Soup with Noodles (look for our recipe book!). Hornsby and Sharkfoot hobbled up the dock on their sea legs to announce our arrival to the marina as I straightened up the cabin. That pita sandwich of mine lay, unscathed and uneaten, on the center of the floor, along with the entire contents of a beloved fruitbasket and numerous other items large and small, tokens of the night's confused seas. It wasn't long before we all collapsed into bed and let Misty rock us to sleep for the first time.