Getting underway from Morro Bay proved no special challenge. We followed the channel markers out to safe water, raised sail, and struck out almost due northwest to round Point Sur on our passage to Monterey. I keep reiterating �northwest� because I, like many others who haven�t spent much time on the California Coast often conceive of it as running north-south. In fact, from Point Conception all the way to Point Mendocino (well north of San Francisco) the coastline trends steadily northwest, with the exceptions of a few large bays (Morro and Monterey being prime examples). Point Sur marked the spot on this leg where we�d turn north northwest, make for Cypress Point, then describe an arc around Point Pi?os at the south end of Monterey Bay.
The wind was fair � shockingly, it was also coming across our port beam, allowing a broad reach while we steered our course. Ahh, how pleasant! Passing a pair of sailboats inbound for Morro Bay we waved, excited to greet our fellows out on the deep blue. The response was varied. The first crew waved back, the second ignored us. This one-out-of- two statistic may closely reflect the attitudes we�ve come across all along these shores. About half of the boaters we pass respond to our presence gladly, the other half pretend we don�t exist (except perhaps to adjust their course to further remove themselves from our proximity.) I found this exceedingly strange, but Brian explained that it�s an all too common attitude pervading a great number of West Coasters. �A lot of times,� he added, �people just want to live in their own world�you know, �there�s no one here but me.��
�That seems strange,� I pondered, �coming to live in this sunny, beautiful place and wanting to pretend you�re the only one in it��
�Well,� Brian continued, �for a lot of people that�s paradise.�
Be that as it may, paradise for Faith�s crew was getting to the next port in the shortest amount of time. Under sail if possible. But after a blessed hour and a half of good breezes, the wind died away and the sea flattened out, with the exception of the low swells rolling in from the west.
There was no debate at all. With just enough fuel to make this 150 mile jump under power if we had too, we weren�t about to spend a lot of time making sacrifices to Aeolus. Such as bobbing and possibly loosing ground if the currents in the area were working downhill. There was always the chance we�d get lucky in the afternoon or evening. Often the change in temperature over the course of a day will influence the currents of air to stir as daylight begins to wane.
We did get a little of that � very little, but enough for us to stage some experimental forays with the sails. With night drawing on, however, we all silently acquiesced to the fact that most of this leg would be done under power. We�d adapted our style of running with the engine so that we�d reduced the number of splashes. All it took was subverting the urge to slash full bore into the sea, (which is harder than it sounds.) By running at two-thirds capacity the boat would tend to ride the waves more often than smack dead into them. Every now and then we�d still get a good gout of stinging spray, which probably helped keep the helmsman�s interest engaged.
Another point of great interest was the great number of whales that joined us. Brian and Eric counted 6, one breaching � leaping so far out of the water that entire body and tail were clear of the surface. This awesome spectacle, an apparent gravity-defying miracle, lent the smallest portion of dread: some of these humpbacks were twice the length of Faith, and one misguided acrobatic flip could crush us out of existence. It was better not to ponder that sort of thing�
After the first 12 hours we were encouraged to note that the GPS showed us at just under 80 miles from our destination � we�d already covered almost half the distance. If we could keep this up we�d make port by about 9 in the morning.
We settled into our routine: the deck watch huddling into raingear and extra layers to conserve their warmth, the man below curled up in his sleeping bag. At the 2 am shift change I went below to heat water for warm beverages while Eric took the tiller. Brian came topside, checked our progress and got the updates on position, conditions, and landmarks. We were roughly 45 miles out of Monterey, three and a half miles off shore, and making better than five knots. Conditions were calm and we would certainly not reach the marina before dawn.
The crew made it through their dawn patrol without incident. They tolerated the creeping cold in the damp air and stayed the course, monitoring the shore lights, picking out the flashing markers. When I retuned to the cockpit at six and asked for an update the report was encouraging: Eric had managed almost 25 miles � we were within striking distance for Brian�s shift! This pleased Brian immensely�.I had claimed almost every port entry on the Pacific side of the journey. (It wasn�t planned, I swear!)
The light of Point Sur was still clearly visible in the spreading dawn, jut forward of the starboard beam. We passed the point toward the end of the six o�clock hour and turned north northwest with the shoreline. Cypress Point now lay 12 miles ahead, though it was still buried in fog. It was calm excitement for the two of us, like a race in slow motion. Brian did his best to steer an optimum course to cut away the miles in the shortest possible time. I frequently checked the GPS, advising on speed, direction and landmarks. There was also our guidebook to consult � our regular pre-entry activity. We discussed the approach, which looked pretty straight forward.
Up until we reached the harbor, that�s precisely what it was. Brian piloted expertly around the evergreen-forested Cypress Point, describing the arc that brought us around 180 degrees past dull-tan cliffs of Point Pi?os. Here we had to stand a mile offshore to avoid a set of low-lying rocks extending wicked fingers out to see. These would disappear intermittently in the sea swell, seeming to beckon us like Cyllia or Charybdis. Somehow, we managed to ignore their charms. Now we were skipping down a line of channel marker buoys, depicting the safe near-shore approach to the harbor. One could pick out the massive aquarium north of the harbor, its bulk abutting the water (I think they like to tease the fish). Then the masts and breakwater of Monterey Harbor came into sight. It was just after 9 am. I called the marina on the radio, got a quick answer and a slip assignment: C-36.
Our entrance into the harbor mouth was smooth�and then we got confused. We were separated from the forest of masts where the berths were by a high seawall � we could see the boats only from the spreaders up. A suspiciously narrow opening in the wall offered a glimpse of the docks within, tempting us to risk it�
But if we�d learned anything on this trip it was caution whenever near shore�especially when entering new harbors� We opted to explore the open section of the ship-shelter first. Brian wove us between boats on mooring balls; he toured the Coast Guard dock on the north side of the harbor while I scanned the graphic in the guide book for alternate entrances to the marina proper. Nope, there was only one entrance marked, and it was the narrow one. The book suggested we sound a horn when making our entrance.
Good advice.
With a mighty blast on our extremely obnoxious, death-bray-of-moose-sounding horn, we passed the concrete defile and found ourselves within the safe confines of Monterey Municipal Marina. But the search was by no means over�.