Avante Races to San Francisco

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Sunday, August 31st – We are back on Avante with 3 days to prepare for our next adventure: sailing south to San Diego, a distance of 1500 miles. We are filled with bittersweet emotions, for we have thoroughly enjoyed our two years cruising the pristine waters and beautiful coast and islands of the Pacific Northwest. Fellow world cruisers we have met have told us that one of the hardest things to do is leave one much-loved locale to sail on to the next. If one does want to sail the world, as we hope to do, one must keep on moving – so move we will, south to San Diego and then further south this winter to Mexico.

We have two crew scheduled to join us on the passage from Victoria to San Francisco. When we came north along the Pacific Coast two years ago, we mostly motored into the wind, not far off the coast. Going south, we hope to head well off the coast, catch the winds and sail south. The trip should entail about 6 days at sea with watch standers on round the clock. Since The First Mate regards this as her first real ocean passage, she prefers to serve as Chief Cook and not as Watch Stander. Therefore, we want two additional hands on Avante for this long passage, so that we have three watch standers available. The day before we leave Telluride one of our crew calls to tell us he has just been subpoenaed to testify in a corporate trial and will have to cancel his plans to join us. Of course, we have a Plan B for just such a contingency. Now, with only one extra crew, we will sail closer to the coast, heading into harbor once or twice on the trip south to allow everyone a full night’s sleep. We are disappointed, but that’s how things go.

Monday, September 1st – We are invited to dinner at the home of Pat and Ean Maxwell, our friends from s/v Liz of Hanko, whom we met in Kwatsi Bay last June. The Maxwell’s home is on land formerly owned by M. Wylie Blanchet, the author of “The Curve of Time”, the book The First Mate read during this summer’s cruising and referred to many times in previous blog entries. For The First Mate, it was a memorable experience to end her Pacific Northwest stay with the opportunity to walk the land where the Blanchet family had lived. The Maxwell’s home is on a point looking out on the bay toward Sydney. I stood there admiring the view thinking of that woman and her bundle of children heading off in their small boat to explore these waters. That was over 70 years ago! What an adventurer and independent spirit she was!

Not only do we have a wonderful dinner and evening with Pat and Ean, but it is here that our crew shortage problem is solved. Two other sailing couples were also invited so we could meet them and talk the talk (ie: sailing & sailboats). One of the couples was Harmony and John Wills. Their sailboat is a 42-foot Sweden, Ocean Harmony, which they live on and sail in the Caribbean six months each year. They had commissioned her in Sweden and sailed her in Europe where they lived at the time. Upon returning to Canada, John sailed his boat across the Atlantic to the Caribbean, so he has excellent sailing passage experience. He is interested in our sail to San Francisco, for it is a trip he has been wanting to do, and it turns out that his schedule is free. Harmony is about to leave for a 3-week visit to family in England.

Tuesday, September 2nd – John and Harmony come down to Avante to make sure we and the boat are as ship-shape as we and the Maxwells claim. The two men question each other and confirm as much as possible that they are both knowledgeable and responsible. John signs on and agrees to return Thursday morning ready to go. We have our additional crew. We are ocean-bound!

That evening we three head to a local pub with Irene and Barry McPhee off s/v Lanikai. We had met them while sailing around Vancouver Island, hiked with them, enjoyed cocktails on their boat and dinner on ours. Just as much as we have enjoyed sailing up here, we have enjoyed meeting other sailors. The camaraderie among fellow sailors is fun and delightful.

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Saturday, September 6th, – Day 1 of Passage: We wake to heavy fog. The Captain checks the weather and reports light wind expected for the first day then building to 20 – 25 knots from NW for the next few days. Not in any particular hurry to get going in the foggy conditions, The First Mate prepares a he-man breakfast of eggs and bacon. At 0940, we weigh anchor and, with the radar and chart plotter to guide us, slowly motor out of the harbor. We head west out the last bit of the strait toward Cape Flattery. Winds are light, visibility remains between 200 to 800 yards. What a dismal start to our great trip!

Strain as we might to see through the fog, none of us can pick up the lighthouse on Cape Flattery. The fog is just too thick. Not even an outline is visible of the lighthouse or of the very rocky shore. We are disappointed not to be able to catch a final glimpse of land as we leave the Strait of Juan de Fuca to head into the Pacific Ocean.

All day long, we head south and west, angling out to sea, hoping, as we get away from the coast, to leave the the fog and encounter those northerly winds. The sound of the motor is depressing when we are so eager to raise sail and shut the thing off. Though the winds remain calm, the ocean begins to swell and roll, mostly hitting the boat sideways. Moving about is a challenge. In the evening, The Captain alters course to head us more into the waves allowing a slightly easier ride for The First Mate to prepare dinner. However, in the confused seas, it is still a challenge to keep body as well as pots and pans upright.

Shortly before 2000, winds pick up from the north enough that the jib is raised allowing us to motor-sail. But we are still in fog and using radar. Dismayed that the poor conditions have lasted all day, we wonder when we will get out of this fog and feeble wind.

Feeling rested and with conditions benign, The First Mate offers to stand the 2100 to 2400 watch. The Captain and John are in bed when she relieves Al of his watch. She has her foul weather gear on, her water-activated, inflatable lifejacket and her harness which secures her to the boat like an umbilical cord. The fog is thick. There is nothing to see, and thankfully, nothing is out there to be seen as the sweep of the radar shows. Gradually, the line of the horizon becomes more defined. Casting her gaze around, she looks straight up to ease the strain of peering straight ahead into the gloom. There are stars up there. Stars! The fog is lifting. Time noted: 2200 hours.

The Captain has given The First Mate orders to wake him if anything disturbs her. Everything remains as it should until a hazy orangey thing shaped like a sail appears on the far horizon. Quickly, she ducks below to check the radar, but nothing is out there. It must be further out than the radar scan is set. What is it? Is it getting bigger, closer? She cannot determine. Unable to stand the uncertainty, she wakes The Captain who jumps up like we are under attack. He runs on deck to see this thing that’s bearing down on us. What is it? —- “I don’t think we have to worry about it. It’s the moon,” says The Captain, unable to contain his amusement. The moon? “Oh, yeah, the moon,” whispers the thoroughly embarrassed First Mate. (Well, things do look different at night, especially on a foggy night.) She had never seen an orange moon looking like a sail rise out of the ocean. The Captain grumbles and ambles off to resume his sleep while The First Mate resumes her watch of the radar, the lifting fog, the brightening stars and the now fully visible and recognizable moon. By midnight when she is relieved by The Captain, the fog is fully lifted. It is a beautiful night and winds have freshened up to about 15 knots. We are about 60nm miles from Cape Flattery, heading southwest ever out to sea.

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With the wind building as evening approaches, at 1730, the second reef is put in. Though the winds are not yet high enough to warrant the second reef, it is put in as a precaution and in readiness. No one wants to be scrambling around in the dark on a bouncing, rolling deck doing what could have been done in the daylight. By 2100 hours, winds have built up to 25 knots, and we are flying along at 9+ knots. The First Mate again has offered to stand the 2100 to 2400 watch, but she has some doubts about her ability to respond to a sailing crisis. The Captain assures her that she will do just fine. Everyone is within calling distance. Okay, she can do this, and she does. The winds, though high, are steady and sure, and the seas, though rolling, are rolling in a fairly dependable fashion. To her amazement, she enjoys being out there in the dark all by herself. The stars are bright overhead, and, as she studies them, she notes that there are no blinking lights of planes cruising across the skies. It is not often one looks up into the night sky and does not at some point see a plane. We are out on the ocean and not along anyone’s flight path. She looks around at sea level. There is not another light. There is not another boat. Other than the three souls sleeping soundly below decks, she is all alone except for the forceful wind and the bashing ocean. It is beautiful and powerful, and she finds she is really enjoying her time alone out there with the elements. The boat feels like it is on a constant downhill roller coaster ride. There’s no doubt in her mind that we are going south. South is down, right?

At 2300, The First Mate decides she wants a cup of milk to while away the last hour. She unclips herself and heads below. She pulls out a cup, half fills it with milk, and as she is about to take a sip, a wave hits and the boat rolls. Thinking she has the dining room table behind her, she lets her body tilt backwards to brace against the table, but the table is not there! Instead, she free falls onto the floor with a very loud thump. Fearful that the sound of the fall was enough to wake the dead, she waits for the crew to run out to her aid. No one does. They sleep on unaware. So much for everyone being within “calling distance”. Stunned, she stupidly sits there anticipating pain. There is none. Body seems to be intact. Carefully, she un-wedges herself from the slot between the dining room table and the wall where she has fallen. Irritated she wipes up what she can see in the dim light, but in the morning, she is aghast to see just how far and wide that milk flew. Just one scant half cup of milk exploded into a million milk droplets that are now dry and stuck like cement. There is no easy way to wipe up dried on milk. Anyone who has ever let a toddler with a baby bottle of milk wander around the house knows this. Weeks later, she continued to find milky white droplets to be scrubbed away.

By the time John relieves her at 2400, winds have built up to 25 – 30 knots. Waves have also built up, and the ride on deck is uncomfortable even though Avante is moving through the water easily and as smoothly and surely as a boat can do in such conditions. The First Mate, however, is relieved to be relieved and gratefully heads to her bunk.

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Monday, September 8th – Day 3 – The Captain’s Log: “0600: A rough night. Lots of rolling. Wind 28 – 32 knots from NW. Now 160nm off Cape Blanco, OR.” It is another overcast and cold day. What happened to the beautiful day we had yesterday? By 0830, we bring in the jib and run on with just a double-reefed mainsail. We are sailing downwind and had trouble keeping the jib full. It tended to pop due to the rolling. That feeling of a downhill roller coaster ride continues, except occasionally, we slide down into the bottom of a wave where the boat rolls uncomfortably as it moves forward and upward through a wave of descending water. This huge wave of miserably cold water washes over the bow inundating anyone on deck and in its way. To our amazement (and amusement), it seems like it is Al who gets smacked every time with this dousing of crystal cold water. He’s a regular water magnet! The only time The Captain gets hit is when he goes up on deck to talk to Al during Al’s watch. Ka-bang, Ka-whoosh, not a minute after he joins Al on deck. We all wisely stay clear of Al when he’s on deck. Fortunately, we are all in our water-proof storm gear or foulies. They do keep one mostly dry, but not always completely, and there is nothing to be done when a wave hits one in the face and the water rolls down the neck line. Oh, it is so cold!

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The Captain notes in his log that the crew is a “little groggy” but “getting used to watches and the impact of a rolling ride on sleep.” That was The Captain’s impression. The First Mate notes in her blog that everyone is “very” groggy. There seems to be a general feeling of being “under the weather.” No one has much of an appetite. John mentions that this is a good time for nothing more than Granola Bars, which The First Mate remembers she has on board. Out come the Granola Bars and then some cut-up fruit. That is it for the day. Everyone is on their own and seems content. It is too cold and miserable to be on deck unless one is on watch. If not on duty, everyone stays mostly in his bunk. The prone position is the only safe position unless one is wedged into the Nav Station. If not tethered on deck or prone in bed, the alternative is bumping off corners, walls and doors. None of that is fun.

The First Mate knows that she made dinner that night, but she does not remember what it was. She does know she fed the crew, but it was nothing that she had planned. Cooking, as she knew it, became impossible. The stove is gimbaled which allows it to sway back and forth and stay mostly level as the boat rolls. That is a good thing for cooking on the stovetop burners. A pot can be wedged in place with special holders. Cooking in the oven does not work well, for contents slide and slosh around making a horrible burned mess, and when one opens the oven door, if one is not careful, whatever is in there has a catastrophic tendency to come catapulting out.

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Needless to say, there is no standing watch for her on this third night out to sea. The conditions are just a little too much for her. She is not scared, though she certainly does not like the sinking feeling that hits her in the pit of her stomach when the boat hits the bottom of a wave trough and rolls before rising gallantly into the next wave. Scared really is not the right word to describe her response, though she probably looked scared. It is more the panicked scramble to hang on now or be tossed about to land painfully either on the corner of something or on the floor. The black and blues rising up on her body attest to the fact that her feeble scrambles do not always work, and she is sure the rest of the crew, if they would admit it, could show a few, too.

We continue into the night with just the double-reefed mainsail. During the night, wind gusts rise up to 35 knots! Is not that gale force? The First Mate does not even try or want to think of The Captain’s formula of the force on a sail being a factor of the wind velocity squared. 35 squared is not a pretty number. Fortunately, this wind is coming from behind us. According to The Captain’s log we spend “another uncomfortable night with high wind and constant rolling.”

Tuesday, September 9th – Day 4 – At 0600, we are passing abeam of Cape Mendocino about 100nm offshore. On the trip north in 2006, we spent a whole day slowly crawling north along this very same coast. Winds were on our nose and current was against us. We made a piddling 4-5 knots of speed over the ground. Cape Mendocino was never going to let go of us. Today, we race by and, even though we are not near enough to see the Cape, we are not concerned about it except that we are expecting the winds to drop slightly as we get south of the Cape.

At 0900, The Captain records another 200nm day. 210nm to be exact! With two 200+ nautical mile days in a row, we are all jubilant. Could we make it three? We are racing along and talking of arriving in San Francisco a day earlier than expected. However, to temper all that, the weather continues overcast and ever colder. Isn’t the weather supposed to get warmer as one goes south? Happily, all aboard seem to be feeling much better and have adjusted well to both the routine and the motion of the boat. The First Mate sets up her computer in the salon wedging herself amongst cushions and works on her blog. She comes up with something for dinner in her one pot and is determined to work on one-pot menus this winter back in Telluride. Casseroles are the answer. Yuck, she realizes that she has not made a casserole since the kids were little! Rice and beans and stuff with Campbell’s Mushroom soup – yuck. There’s got to be more creative mixes than that out there.

Wind direction backs a little, as the California coast bends more to the southeast below Cape Mendocino, and we are able to raise the jib and keep it flying. Around 1600, winds are down enough to shake out Reef 2, but by 1830, the reef is put back in, as we expect the winds to increase as night falls. Increase they do to 30 – 35 knots! On watch that night, John records a boat speed of 12.2 knots. We are flying to San Francisco. All we need to do is hang on!

At some point that night when Al was on watch, the boat really hits bottom and rolls. Out of the black night, a huge wave slams into the boat and rolls across the deck. In the pitch dark, Al gets hit unawares, smack in the face. The Captain and First Mate in our bunk hear him sputtering and grumbling, and we cannot help laughing at the cold ocean’s consistent affinity for him. Then, we hear water running and dripping down the companionway onto the floor. That’s not good. Fearful that someone could slip, The First Mate gets up and fetches a towel to wipe up the water. There is poor Al sitting on the top steps valiantly standing his watch dripping water from every seam. She gives him the towel and fetches another for the floor.

Wednesday, September 10th – Day 5 – By the early hours of the morning, winds have decreased to 23 – 28 knots. By daylight, they are down enough to shake out both reefs, and by 0800, they are below 10 knots. We had hoped for another 200+ mile day under sail, but that is not to be. The engine is cranked on, and we motor-sail. By 1000, winds are so diminished that we take the sail down and continue on under just motor. Though the day is once again overcast and grey, we are not going to let it affect our moods. We are going to arrive in San Francisco today, one full day ahead of schedule. Golden Gate Bridge, here we come!

At 1055, The Captain’s Log: “Land sighted behind Point Reyes”. We still have a long way to go, but sighting land means the end is within reach.

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We are almost to the bridge, and before our full attention is needed to transit the currents under the bridge, we take time to do a photo shoot of the moment. There are 2 harbors which The First Mate has on her bucket list of harbors to sail into as we sail around the world. The first one we are doing now. Sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco is beyond thrilling. Pinch her! Is she really here? The second is sailing into Sydney Harbor with the iconic Sydney Opera House rising before us, and that is going to have to wait a few years. We plan on doing it, and she knows she will be as thrilled and excited as she is now.

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From our berth, the Bay Bridge can be seen, but it is at night that it is most impressive.

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The trip log records a total of 1069nm from Canoe Cove to San Francisco. From Neah Bay when The First Mate started numbering the days, it was 859nm to San Francisco. Most noteworthy is that 615 of those miles were done completely under sail in 69 hours at an average speed of 8.9 knots. What a great first ocean passage for The First Mate, and wow, what a ride we had!