We’d just motored past the end of the breakwaters when visibility plummeted and a impenetrable shroud of fog swept in to stay. The fog that had looked like it was breaking up from our vantage point in the slip a mere 10 minutes ago, was starting to look like it had other plans in store. I was on the bow watching as a few crab boats returned in through the breakwaters while Laurie took her spot on the helm. The cat seemed to have lost its sea legs and was cowering under the cockpit cushions.
With the mainsail up to steady the boat, and the engine humming away the ocean swells lifted the hull up and lowered us gently down. There was a fleeting sense of vertigo as I glanced aft just in time to see the red triangle and green square marking either side of the harbor entrance vanish as if someone was erasing them before my eyes. Some seals barked from out there
—well, somewhere
—and I remembered that fog is one of my least favorite conditions to sail in, second only to lightening, and out into the mist we went.
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"The transition from full-time cruiser to weekend warrior day sailor has been an unlikely one." |
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The transition from full-time cruiser to weekend warrior day sailor has been an unlikely one. I think the common misconception is that when people decide to go cruising, they’re never coming back. Following month after month of seemingly endless anchorages and exotic landfalls, we were now back among the time-pressed, trying to squeeze a mini-getaway into the space of a weekend, a far cry from full-time cruising on our two-year trip from Charleston, SC, to Ventura, CA.
This was the weekend, and despite what the robotic voice on the
VHF said during the weather forecast
—which was visibility down to less than a quarter mile in spots
—we had hoped that the emerging blue sky we had sighted inland would make its way out to sea as the land heated up. But now, it was hard to see even a few feet off the front of the boat, never mind a quarter mile. Compounding things was that up ahead we’d be crossing a major shipping lane in the Santa Barbara Channel
—more than 4,000 large vessel travel the coast of California each year, most of them through it
—on our 14-mile trip to the Santa Cruz Island, part of the Channel Island National Park.
From my lookout spot up on the bow, a pair of sailboats briefly and surprisingly appeared off to port and then disappeared shortly after. We continued to plow on through the fog, when the
VHF crackled to life allowing us to follow the conversation between the two boats. One boat had
radar, worth its weight in gold in these conditions, and the other didn’t but would be following the lead boat on the way to Santa Cruz. Another 15 minutes later, both boats even more surprisingly appeared off to starboard. Then they disappeared for good.
I kept glancing up for any tell tale signs of the fog breaking up, but there was none; it was as consistent and white as a blank sheet of paper and seemed to be getting thicker, if that was even possible. We were now sounding our fog signal, one prolonged blast every two minutes, but in the back of my mind I knew too that sound in fog travels in mysterious ways
—sometimes it can seem to come from directions other than where it originates, and other times it won’t travel as far as it would in clear conditions. Then too there is the noise from other boats’ engines to think of. A large fishing boat typically has a captain insulated in a pilot house, and the thrum of its engines could very well block our horn signal out.
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"Although large ships have radar, the fact that their radar is mounted a 100 feet high or more, can also make it likely that you may not be seen." |
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We had two
radar reflectors up, both attached to the upper shrouds and which had given off good returns on our past cruise from the East Coast. Periodically on our trip we called passing cargo ships, for the record sometimes they answered, many times they didn’t
—to inquire if they had seen us and how far away they had picked us up on their radar. When they did answer, the distance that they had picked us up varied between 10 to 15 miles, so we knew that if a boat in the area had its radar on, that they should theoretically see us. The number of shipwrecks in the Channel Islands before 1942 was 22, while the number after was eight, as radar technology used in World War II made its way to maritime concerns, allowing them improved ability to detect other ships and navigational hazards.
Although large ships have radar, and often more than one, the fact that their radar is mounted a 100 feet high or more, can also make it likely that you may not be seen. If you are less than three miles ahead of a big ship, you run the chance of becoming invisible to her radar as the beam travels right over you and your radar signature is too small to be noticed. A passive ideology in sailing—relying on other boats to watch out for you, for instance—is far from ideal and radar for our boat, especially now that fog is a regular feature in our sailing grounds, is high on the wish list.
It’s telling that the thick fog often found in this part of the world has claimed more than its fair share of shipwrecks. In December 1853 the Gold Rush steamer
Winfred Scott, en route from San Francisco for Panama sailed through the foggy Santa Barbara Channel at top speed. Her captain
—who had himself surveyed the Channel Islands for the US government and who knew the waters well
—is reported to have said ‘that fog does not slow a steamship,’ and boldly plotted a course through the inside of the Santa Barbara Channel, rather than go around the Channel Islands. Around 11:00 p.m. the ship ploughed into the north side of Anacapa’s middle island, throwing hundreds of sleeping passengers from their bunks. The captain tried reversing off and promptly tore the rudder off the ship, though not before un-impaling the bow and allowing water to wash aboard through the gaping holes in it. Fortunately all hands made it to shore in lifeboats and after a few days of camping and shooting seals, were rescued. Her paddle wheel and deck can be seen in 25 feet of water.
Then too, was the case of the 274-foot Yankee Blade to consider, again a paddle wheel steamer which had been engaged in a race with another paddle wheeler out of San Francisco, down the coast of California. A letter written after the wreck by a passenger on board the doomed vessel noted it was not a happy time:
"... met Captain Randal, who invited me to go to the salon and drink with him. He remarked that we were making fine headway...while we were talking, our ship went upon the rocks, without one moment’s warning to the crowd of human beings upon her deck, who rushed out of the cabins to the open deck in the wildest alarm, with reason to; for there we were fixed-fairly impaled upon sharp rocks, in the midst of foaming breakers; and the fog so thick that we could not see the high rocky shore a mile distant. In fact, so dense was the fog, that we could see nothing beyond the deck but mist and water. It was a time for alarm, and a scene of terrible confusion."
The captain tried to reverse engines and back off the reef, but water was rushing in through a one foot wide and 30-foot long gash in the hull meant the end. No one was killed in the initial grounding, but as many as 30 were lost when lifeboats swamped in heavy surf.
And perhaps the greatest peace-time naval disaster of all time occurred just up the coast from where we were now. On September 8, 1923, seven US Navy destroyers followed each other into a mass grounding at Honda Point, CA. Cruising at 20 knots, the ships were traveling in procession from San Francisco to San Diego. At 9:00 p.m., the lead ship using dead reckoning and then state-of-the-art Radio Directional Finder equipment (which later proved correct, but was not trusted yet by the navigators aboard), the
USS Delphy turned east into what it thought was the Santa Barbara Channel, a decision that put it on course for tragedy. The ships soon entered a thick fog bank, each following the wake of the ship ahead. Five minutes after making a turn to the east, the
Delphy ran aground at full speed, with six more destroyers shortly following after. Twenty-three men were lost and the seven nearly new destroyers
—half a division
—were sold for salvage while within weeks heavy Pacific swells began to claim what was left.
And as we got closer to the shipping lane, Laurie and I took a long look at each other and voiced what we had both been thinking as we motored through the mist: the best thing to do was to turn around and try another day. I’ll admit, it doesn’t make for too much of a good read. We want to read of heroic feats, close calls, and near misses. We want to test ourselves, our preparations, our boats against the elements—it’s exhilarating stuff that lets us know we’re alive. But somewhere too is that line in the sand that says ‘Don’t cross this if you don’t have to,’ and the real challenge becomes the one that recognizes the limits and when the risks begin to exceed the rewards. And realizing we were pressed for time in inclement weather with little chance of clearing and approaching a busy shipping lane, the elements of mishap began piling up, we plotted our position, swung the boat around 180 degrees, and headed back toward the sea buoy, felt the swells pick up as we approached shallower water, spied the faint outline of the day markers, heard the barking seals, and headed back up the channel to our slip.
The thing about sailing is that every time is a new time. No previous points are awarded for past successes—even if you have a transatlantic crossing under your belt, weathered the fiercest storm at sea or cruised around the world, or are just out in a Sunfish for the afternoon—the wind, tides, currents, waves, and weather demand reverence and respect and sometimes the best thing is to head back in and try again later.
