Jack London’s Water
Sometimes, the world reaches out and grabs you. The water, the wind, the sounds, the sun making you squint, they all combine to refresh your mood and everything feels just right. Sailing is one of those times when a photo is not enough to express the feelings of its experience. And, by the way, it's also a leisurely way to spend time with my father.
This morning's trip started in our current birth at the Vallejo Marina. Low tide brought 3 feet on the depth sounder through the marina, about as shallow as this Pacific Seacraft 25 can remain out of the mud. The marina opens up into the Napa River which flows south along the eastern side of Mare Island, the buildings, cranes, and dry docks that I have watched all my life.
Jack London, the patron saint of Bay Area sailing, knew these waters well. London sailed his small boats all over the bay, and many of his short stories in Tales of the Fish Patrol described his time in San Pablo Bay, the Carquinez Strait, and around Vallejo. He was a member of the Vallejo Yacht Club, a fact any member is happy to share. London's sailing stories of adventure may have been slightly exaggerated, but they were enough to inspire anyone with the slightest inkling to live a sailor's life.
We sailed south in a fresh 10-12 knot breeze. The tide must have just started to flood and we only made 2.5 knots over ground. The ospreys soared all around us. It does not seem fair to describe their voice as a chirp. Such a bird would not chirp like a chicken chick or a baby alligator. No, such a bird should roar or screech, even a squawk would be sufficient. Definitely not the sweet chirp that is heard from these raptors. It would be more fitting to see them breathing fire.
Nearing the mouth of Carquinez Strait, a large tree on the island was full of large white birds making their own distinct calls. An egret rookery, Dad explained. A lone pelican glided in to land in the shallows.
We kept a close eye on the time. The kids needed to be picked up from school in the afternoon. We beat upwind, tacked to get out of the way of the San Francisco Ferry, and by the time we reached the Carquinez Strait, the flood was likely to carry us up river to Benicia, making it too difficult to get back to the marina in time. We tacked and ran downwind. 8 knots! What a difference. The apparent wind was calm and the sun was warm.
Around the turn, I sheeted in for a beam reach back to the marina. This time, Mare Island was to port, and leeward was the waterfront where I learned to ride a bicycle and my dog swam at the boat ramp.
Once back at the marina, we tidied up and went down to the Mare Island Brewing Company for lunch. Reuben, fries, and an IPA. We toasted to future sailing plans, reminisced about the old days, complained, and dreamed. This city has evolved, and most would agree, for the worse. That's life. But stories of the best times in this city, from the tales of Jack London, to my own memories of riding in the back of Dad's Datsun pickup to go swimming at the Mare Island pool, still sustain my enjoyment while I am here. The world may have changed, but the water, the wind, the sounds, and the sun making you squint remain the same.
