The Santa Barbara Channel is an ancient sailing ground. In addition to its use by the natives (the Chumash being the most historically recent) for fishing and access to the islands of San Miguel, Santa Rosa and Santa Cruz (it�s amazing the way the natives knew in advance to name them in Spanish) it has been a sheltered cruising ground for other cultures since Rodriguez Cabrillo stumbled upon it in 1542. Could old Rod have foreseen the day when people would sail these waters for pleasure? Perhaps not, but it was gold he sought, though that commodity would not be discovered anywhere nearby for centuries, thus opening the door on the day when coastal property rates would skyrocket, causing this Gold Coast to be worth more per square inch than all of Kansas�and that could be considered a bargain. 463 years later we plied this alien shore in search of our own dreams. On this brisk Tuesday evening we sailed a course dead west, on a heading to round the allegedly ferocious Point Conception.
Like the early explorers, Faith�s crew was a ragged band of stinking scallywags with little clear idea of what they were heading into. (We�d set out from Oxnard that morning and it�s amazing how fast you can get disheveled and smelly on the water!) We knew the legends of Point Conception: Terror of Sailors, Maker of Widows, Scourge of Coastal California. Despised by ancient mariners for its unpredictable gales, Point Conception offers a new threat to seamen of the modern age: Vandenburg Air Force Base. Year round, America�s masters of the sky use the area west of Points Conception and Arguello (Conception�s northern little brother) as an impact site for testing its latest missiles�or for all I know, to use up the out of date ones. So it wouldn�t be mere wind and wave to threaten our fragile security; the danger would include the full might of the US Air Force. Justifiably, many cruisers to the north or south of the dreaded pinnacle never risk the crossing.
But, of course, we would.
Eric and I sat the watches late into the eve, tacking (as always) westward. The compass was almost superfluous for the time being since we were bounded on either side by the golden lights of shore � mainland to the north, continuous island chain to the south, deep black of open water off the bow. Our plan was to make hard for the open water then change course to north northwest for the rounding of the Point, hopefully squeaking by in the early morning hours when we might expect conditions to be at their least ornery. For the time being we made our way at ease on a slight but steady current of air that carried the clean scent of open ocean, daydreaming (as it were) of smooth sailing.
So, of course, we sailed right into the major shipping lane just where it cuts hard west out to sea. I was at the tiller, and in my defense it wasn�t as if I didn�t see the line of freighters stretched out for miles as if on a freeway for giants. It was just that the lane cut through the exact spot where our most advantageous change of tack would take place. We sailed into the wake of one passing ship, and I woke Eric from his vigilant deck watch.
�Time to come about,� I advised once he�d cleared the sleet and salt from his droopy eyelids.
�We just came about,� he protested, getting his bearings.
�That was an hour ago, now we�re in the shipping lane,� I illustrated by indicating the container ship lumbering away from us, then her sister in the convoy now bearing directly for our beam.
The conversation ended there as the Second Mate unwound the starboard jib sheet and I threw the tiller to starboard. He reeled in the port sheet as the bow swung gracefully, flapping sails catching the wind to reverse our heel. It was an efficient tack, and we looked professional about our work. This was good, given our audience; a spotlight from the approaching Panamax thoughtfully lit the decks for us. We waved as we exited the lane, then grabbed coaming as the passing ship�s wake tossed us like a flake of cork in a drunk�s champagne.
�What was that?� came the voice from below.
�Passing freighter. We�re near the shipping lane,� I informed it.
�Heading away from it, I hope?�
�Naturally.�
Soon it was time for me to relinquish control and take some rest. By now we stood five miles southwest of Point Conception, conditions clear and relatively calm. Brian joined Eric on deck to resume his nap. �Call me when we clear the Point,� I asked. �Aye-aye, skipper,� they responded. I love that.
The cabin was cozy from the heat of the water I�d warmed for the crew�s coffee as I slipped into my bunk.
�Passing Point Conception!� came the call.
�We can�t be, I just got down here!� I complained.�
�That was an hour ago,� Brian�s admonition reeked of d�j� vu.
I poked my head out of the cabin just enough to see over the cabintop. In the dim, gray light that heralded an imminent sunrise behind a thick layer of cloud lay a spit of land barren and rocky. Its westernmost end lay two miles to starboard, low on the water. Behind it, above it, a dark hill swept toward the iron sky - defying, warning, and chastising sailor, sky and sea alike. A flashing white navigation light flared on its peak: once, again thirty seconds later, again thirty seconds after that.
�Huzzah,� I called weakly.
�Huzzah,� Brian and Eric answered.
With no sign of rough weather, ship-breaking rocks, or bombs falling, I left the welcome sight for a welcome bed. Eat your heart out Richard Dana.
Eric shook me awake a moment later, �It�s time, Captain.�
Humph. I sat the deck with Brian, shivering into a comfortable position. As the dawn progressed the air warmed. Brian uncoiled at his tiller perch.
�That was a cold one,� he commented.
�Was?� I queried.
�This is nothing. Last night was the coldest yet. I�ve been thinking � we don�t have to go all the way to Monterey in one jump.� Our course plot had taken us the 250 miles from Oxnard to Monterey, skipping any number of potential in-between stops. I grasped what he was saying immediately:
�Where?� I asked.
�Well, Morro Bay is just around the corner from Point Arguello�I think we can make it before dark. If we use the engine when the wind dies.� (Note the �when� not �if.�)
�Morro Bay,� the name was suddenly like an oasis in the desert, a myth snuck into reality.
�The way I figure,� Brian continued, �we�re already ahead of schedule, we won�t loose anything by stopping there, and we won�t have to sail tonight. Just one more overnight to Monterey � after a little break? I can�t think of why not.�
Neither could I.
The day was uneventful. If, that is, you don�t count the record number of whale sightings, seven! Most occurred while I was below � it got to be so that I couldn�t get past the point of falling asleep before: �Thar she blows!� would echo from on deck. Finally I told the mates not to wake me up unless one of the mammoth mammals was attacking. Thankfully, that didn�t happen.We watched the coast crawl by as we struck northwest. Eric fixed sandwiches for lunch (spam and squeeze-cheeze, one of our favorite staples). A haze rolled onto the water in the afternoon as I rolled back into my bunk. An hour later the call came, �Port Ho!�
It�s really only been an hour, right? I asked myself. Right. And just as Brian had predicted, we were entering the harbor mouth at dusk.
Three cheers for the Navigator!!!