I follow the moon, as the course is set, for the journey south into the unknown

January 18, 2008

Monterey to Santa Barbara

I feel my mortality. There are signs that indicate this body of mine is timed to reach an end—in time. The half moon shines bright. It is my focal point. I feel queasy in this night of calm.

We leave Monterey Bay at 1:00 PM on a bright “sunshiny” winter’s day. Out past Pinos Pt., Monterey past Pebble Beach, Carmel we motor. There is no wind. Two Gray whales spout, then sound. Their tails make a graceful curve to cut the ocean blue and disappear. Two more spout in the distance. They are not as rambunctious as the Humpbacks in Alaska.

The winter sun calls for a number 45 sunscreen on my face and zinc oxide on my lips. Who says Global Warming is not happening? What will the extreme summer call for? Long, cool swims and shade, and breezes.

We motor with a wind speed of 7 knots or less. Down the Big Sur coast with green hills folding—lush, steep, down to the blue sea. I think of the fishing boat at Monterey Harbor called Sur Randy and smile. I think back on the morning sardine catch: offloading on the peer, into a long container truck. Seagulls screeching. Sea Lions barking—deaf to the call for early morning quiet.

“I hate that long stretch down Big Sur. There is NOWHERE to pull into.” The voice of a wizened sailor in Alameda echoes, curious about our journey. We follow the coast south. This stretch is a drop in the bucket compared to what awaits. The world?

“What is the purpose of this travel? Where are we going and why”? I ask Russ.

“We’re doing this because I could not stand another Seattle winter.” Russ says with certainty.

Yes that is the reason I half heartedly agree.

I’m finishing a book from my friend Susan Madrid of West Seattle called The Good Rain—Across Time and Terrain in The Pacific Northwest,by Timothy Egan. He is the Pacific Northwest correspondent for the New York Times. He brings to light the continental heave, the enchanted valley, the natives indian tribes, the volcanoes, the rain forest, the wood wars, salmon, the harvest, the Columbia River. The book celebrates the natural bounty and points to too much that is lost. But so much remains to drink in.


If I had never been to the Pacific Northwest, this book would make me want to go there to see the enormity of beauty: the ring of fire, and snow mountains, and rushing rivers, green waters with jewel islands—gateway to the extravagantly beautiful inland passage north.

The Northwest, inhabited no longer only by the First Nation tribes of old, the checkered shirt lumbermen, and fishermen, but by sophisticates in wine production, computing software, aeronautics. Those who have become one with the rain and gray and green. Who have brought change both good and bad. I’m glad I experienced 25 years of the beauty and am reticent to leave it behind.

“The sad thing, Russ says, is that we are leaving our children behind.”

He takes a bite of tuna sandwich and gives me a long, lonesome look.

We leave things behind to more forward I think to myself. To find the edge, the sheer drops, the high waves, the calms of safe anchorages. To find meaning and fulfillment. To say we touched the planet with our souls.

The white lighthouse on Pt. Sur awaits the night for its light to flash

The Big Sur coast does seem unending. Russ takes Zulu in a little closer to shore. So green it is. So sheer. So uniform. We pass Pt. Sur too late in the day to see the rest of the coast in daylight. The white lighthouse stands silent waiting for the night to come, for its light to flash, to give warning to seafarers. Russ goes below to take a sleep. I give Zulu three clicks to Starboard for my comfort zone.

The sun sets and spreads a ribbon of apricot light

The last nuance of light on the land

I watch the sun set into the azure seas from blue skies. It’s a form of worship. Slowly it sets and spreads a ribbon of apricot light for miles on the western horizon. It’s shaft of light on the water ever shortening. A subtle finale is giving rose colour to a few light clouds and the last beautiful nuance of light to land.

Now comes the night. I look back and see Pt. Sur’s light flashing and look forward to the southeast to see Piedros Blanco’s light flashing. Sporadic lights along the shore glitter. The water is velvet. Venus is so bright and casts a narrow, but long sheen on the water. The zooplankton is alight in Zulu’s wake. The stars are brilliant. They, too, are reflected in the still seas. A lone ship in the distance will pass to our starboard.

Time goes by on my watch. I check the charts, re-estimate when we will pass Pt. Conception—the Cape Horn of California. Check the engine temperature. Get lost in thoughts of the ties that bind in the North Country.

I gasp. The bright wedge of orange moon is breaking through the eastern horizon. I had forgotten about its grand entrance to come. A Pavarottiof lights in the skies. Light of my night. I watch its path. It rises half-way up the mast on Zulu’s nose. I stand up on the cockpit seats and hold onto the bar above the dodger. I feel the wind on my face. I’m alone on this watch, but now feel my place. With feint reassurance, I succumb. I follow the moon as the course is set, for the journey south into the unknown. I now know why.

Pavarotti’s “Cujus Animom” plays on…

Morning breaks. Russ takes the watch at 2:00 AM. He lets me sleep into the morning bright. Out on deck the air is fresh and the sea and sky blue. We are still motoring. I see Pt. Arguello, now part of Vandenberg Airforce Base. Some days spiraling contrails can be seen in the western skies created by rockets launched. Heads down mateys! Flat on the deck!

The oil rigs rise from the sea apparition-like. Tar floats on the sea, seeping from the ocean beds. Smell the oil. See it.

An Oil rig emmerges appartion-like

The coastline bends eastward. Big ships must locate the Santa Barbara Channel between Points Arguello and Conception, and San Miguel Island. In the days of long ago making this turn to port was a maneuver mariners described as sailing a ship through the eye of a needle. This section of coast is known as the Graveyard of the Pacific with 50 known shipwrecks.

Point Conception, the sleeping dragon rests in quiet waters

No shipwrecks today. We stay clear of the bight between Arguello and Pt. Conception. The currents are strong in there. Today there are no winds and swell gathered from far western horizons with nowhere to go, but to pound the point without mercy.

Dolphins performing Olympian dive acts

The gray whales send water fountains into the air. Two of them, four of them, six of them, eight of them! A sweet lone sea otter floats on its back. Seals turn their curious heads and watch us sail by. Then over 200 dolphins surround our bow in a semicircle of high-powered energy. The circle breaks as Zulu moves forward through them and they flank our sides with Olympian dive acts. We watch in silence with smiles on our faces.

Pt. Conception’s lighthouse in full view

Conception lies ahead. The sleeping dragon’s neck rests on the water. As we gain the point the lighthouse comes to view: light in the night for seafarers. We are both awake with joy.

We cannot make the 48 nautical miles to Santa Barbara before nightfall. So around the point we go, past the kelp beds into Cojo roadstead to anchor. We could well imagine this to be California hundreds of years ago. Empty of all but the green hills in the sun, set against blue sky and sea.

Santa Barbara will mark our arrival with swaying palm trees on a yellow beach. The southern waters and warm breezes are at our fingertips.