Departing Monterey was something of a throwback to Faith�s days of yore on Lake Michigan. We�d taken on a pair of inexperienced guests and had to instruct them in the basics:
Rule #1: One hand on the boat at all times!
Rule #2: If you get cold it�s very hard to get warm. Stay warm; dress in layers.
Rule #3: If you have to puke, do it on the leeward side � downwind.
We also outlined where to find the lifejackets, food and water, and gave a general safety and operation overview. But really, the best way to learn is to get out there and do it. And so we cast off! It was a little after 2 pm; we waited until afternoon to leave in order to avoid arriving at San Francisco Bay before sunup.
Our last stop for gas preceded the open water run. The task was made simple given that we�d toured the harbor so completely on our way in�. Presently, we made short work of refueling, and pointed the bow out to the open sea.
Eric stood at the helm, I directed the raising of the sails while the first Mate preformed with practiced ease. It wasn�t as though he needed the input, but we were in teaching mode. Order and precision make the process easier to follow. We caught the wind and took a west northwest course to escape the sheltering confines of Monterey Bay.
Conditions were perfect. The sun shown, the breeze was enough to whisk us lightly across the flat water, and spirits were high. We were off again � for the final time!
Of course, the situation deteriorated the instant we met the wide oceanic expanse. We turned to our north northwest heading, or tried to. The wind shifted ever so slightly to kiss us right on the nose while small, choppy waves cut an acute angle across a swell that grew rapidly to five feet. The result was frequent splashes that rained on the cockpit like miniature, salty squalls. Brave Seaman Dan became immediately and violently ill. He hurled valiantly over the leeward side (�Good work, Dan! You remembered!�). Seawoman Susannah was faring better�at least for the present.
As intrepid as Faith�s crew has always been, we aren�t sadistic. We offered to take the couple back to shore if they didn�t think they could hack the overnight on the water, explaining that once you get sick it usually takes between 12 and 72 hours to feel human again. But Dan felt he was on the mend after regurgitating his breakfast � and he insisted he could stand it, wouldn�t miss this chance to be on the final leg, and besides, he�d never really been seasick before.
Ahh, spoken with all the bravado and naivet� of a persistent novice. Well, I knew he�d suffer the seven hells (and probably wish he were there instead of out on the damned water) before we reached our goal, but there was no dissuading him. Susannah didn�t want to throw in the towel either. I suspected she�d be throwing something in before we were done.
�Alright,� I conceded, �just remember this when it gets bad: The instant you step on solid ground you�ll be fine. Oh, and: If you feel like you�re going to die, you�re not.� They nodded in what they probably thought was understanding. I had to admire the courage of the conscripts. I gave them their sleeping bags so they could ward off the seeping chill in the air.
If you subtracted the guillotine of misery hanging over our friends� heads, everything was proceeding exceptionally well. We were able to sail into the afternoon, observing several pods of dolphins and relishing the rise and fall of the horizon concordant with the roll of the waves. The wind died down toward 9 pm.
I dropped sail and Brian set to with the iron jenny, handing the tiller off to me when his shift came to an end. Certain the boat was doing well (as certain as one can ever be), I looked to the comfort of the sailors. The forward bunk, packed with the gear of two extra people, left just enough room for Dan and Susannah to squeeze in like sardines. Eric and I could switch in and out of his bunk during our respective sleep shifts. I ushered the suffering seafarers below, away from the chill of wind and spray of wave. Cabins always make seasickness worse, but our guests were getting wet on deck. I knew stuffing them below decks would make them feel worse, but if the cold got to them they could be in real trouble. Sure enough, Susannah started feeling nauseous as soon as her head passed through the companionway. I was sympathetic, but the situation called for tough love.
With the passengers safe (if atrociously uncomfortable) there was time to observe and reflect. Could this really be the end? Could San Francisco Bay truly lie just ahead beyond the other side of those hills? Could the fantastical Lark of Faith be ending tomorrow?
And the answer to every question was yes.
Barring a mishap with a cargo ship or an altercation with the massive rocks lining the shore we were close enough that if this ship were a car�well, if it were a car we�d sink like a stone out here � but on the highway the distance would constitute an hour�s drive.
There was simply no denying it. We were almost there.
Eric and I sat out the watch admiring the lighted thread of highway 1 with its sable backdrop of tree and cliff. I strained my eyes to pick out some indication of the strawberry plume of light that should hang over San Francisco but the night was thick with moisture and the first sighting of the city would have to wait
Despite the scenic beauty and the underlying excitement of our concluding adventure, it would be a long night. The seas had built up, often throwing us a seven or eight footer to contend with. The going was slow. We averaged 4 knots in an uphill battle, climbing the undulating swells that swept down on us. To our good fortune, they were far apart and only rarely got a foothold on the foredeck. To avoid taking them right on the bow, however, required constant vigilance that wore on one after an hour. I went below at 2 am (carefully avoiding the small trash box the invalids were using for retro-gastric emergencies), physically tired but with a mixture of emotions swirling through my mind. Happiness, sadness, elation, a soft regret at the end of one voyage, an electric charge at the prospect of the new ones awaiting us all ashore. Ashore�