Thursday
Calm waters in San Francisco Bay aboard S/V Dash, a Pacific Seacraft 25
When Dad offered, “I’ll pick up the kids from school today,” I didn’t hesitate. I had a quick diner breakfast, crawled through traffic to Berkeley, and by the time I left the marina, my Seiko diver said it was 10:33. I motored out of the marina and halfway down the mile-long pier that extended from Berkeley into the bay. With the sails up, I fell off the wind and aimed toward Angel Island.
There was barely a puff of wind. My speed, measured with the GPS, was between zero and one knot. I was sure the majority of that was from the tide carrying me out. The water was glass smooth, smoother than I'd ever seen it, and the only other boats out there were the ferries.
I bobbed around like that for a few hours. I sprayed on sunblock and walked around the deck. There was no other place I wanted to be at that moment.
The westerly breeze picked up to maybe five knots and Dash inched forward on a port tack, close hauled. The water had not yet reacted to the increased wind and it was still as flat as could be, with the only waves coming from the wakes of the ferries. I sat on the starboard side of the cockpit, facing the San Francisco skyline with a view of the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges, and a peek over my right shoulder gave a wide-open view of Mount Tamalpais. Fog waited patiently over the coastal edge of the city, a layer of meringue on a slice of granite blue pie. San Francisco Bay is popular for sailboat racing, but those racers must not know about the slow-speed-flat-water-clear-sky-warm-sun sailing.
The wind continued to build and I maintained my course toward the northeast side of Angel Island. I intended to sail around the island, counterclockwise, heading west through Raccoon Strait. But in the lee of the island, I lost most of the wind, and I could not push through the flooding tide. So in anticipation of the fresh late afternoon breeze, I put a single reef in the main and set up for a broad reach back to Berkeley.
I texted my brother who just happened to be on his research vessel nearby. He was already headed up river, passing Red Rock, after being in the South Bay all day, and we apparently had passed each other without knowing.
The reef proved to be smart, and as soon as I passed Point Blunt, the wind gusted to maybe eighteen knots. The broad reach, however, was not smart, and the two-foot waves on the starboard quarter made a very heavy weather helm and it was hard to surf. I tried to head up for a beam reach, which wasn't much better, and a tug pushing a barge eastbound convinced me to stay off the wind.
One of the only other boats out there with me
It was like two different worlds! Just two hours prior, I had been floating like a cork in the doldrums. Now, under a reduced sail, I strained on the tiller to keep the waves behind me. The fog swallowed the tops of the Golden Gate Bridge and Sutro Tower. The GPS approached six knots. I could do this every day.
I arrived at the breakwater outside the Berkeley Marina and turned around to drop the sails. The bow lurched and plunged in the waves as I tested my balance, well aware I was alone. I didn't have the jacklines installed, and I wasn't clipped onto anything. At that moment, I wished for a rolling furler, instead of the salty hanked-on jib I usually bragged about.
Once the jib was down and the main rested on the boom, I spun around and motored into the calmness of the marina. The air was still warm and I wore a t-shirt. I passed the pretty boats in the yacht club, passed the floating homes, and coasted into my upwind slip without a single touch on the dock.
I hosed off the saltwater and tidied the sails. The setting golden sunlight reflected off the clean white deck. I texted Dad that I was headed home and he replied the kids were good and there was a leftover burrito in the fridge.
