�The search for our slip, as we penetrated the ramparts of the Monterey Municipal Marina, was just beginning.
Most marinas are set up along some logical plan. For instance, to find a particular slip, all you have to do is locate the symbol for the dock (usually a letter, such as �C�), then follow the numbers on the slips (for instance �34 � 35 � 36!�). It�s just like finding an address while driving a car. However, as we who have ever driven around looking for an address in a strange, new subdivision are well aware, the organization of letters and numbers does not always conform to logic.
Such, we felt, was the case here. Brian steered us along the entrance channel as I noted the dock letters posted like road signs on the support pylons: E. There�s D. Hold on, what�s this? B? Now A??
We�d reached the extreme end of the channel, right up against the shore. I consulted the all-knowing guidebook, but it wasn�t detailed enough to show individual dock designations�nor were chart or GPS. Surely this pier existed�.?
We spun, retracing our path. Tried to reason it out. All to no avail. C just wasn�t there. We even (ladies, you won�t believe this) asked directions. Unfortunately the only people we found were also from out of town, and moored at the entrance.
Maybe they put C over by the Coast Guard pier.
The Navigator brought us back out through the walls, across the mooring ball area, to the north side. Nope.
Were we trapped in the Twilight Zone?? In exasperation I radioed the marina again.
�Hi, uh, I just radioed in a little while ago? Yeah, we can�t find the C dock.�
I rolled my eyes, thinking, Wonderful � this is just the impression you want to make on your hosts. They�ll probably think we�re as intelligent as crustaceans�although, I bet the crustaceans know right where C dock is.
�We read you, uh, �Captain�,� I winced. �Where are you now?�
I told him.
�Well, you have to come inside the Municipal Marina breakwater.�
I told him we�d already been there.
Very carefully, as if explaining to a small child that big boys need to learn to use the potty, the Harbor Master illustrated that we were to take a LEFT after we passed D, then go to the END, then take a RIGHT and we�d see the letter �C� on the dock. Perfectly simple.
Sure enough, a secret channel between docks D and B led to the extreme south end of the marina, where to our vast relief, a large �C� was emblazoned on the pylon. Moments later we were making smooth work of sliding into slip 36. The sun actually broke through the haze as we made our vessel fast. Whew!
Having secured Faith, my brother and I ambled up to the marina office to get the signing-in over with. The morning was suddenly blooming into one of those picturesque California days: sun dappled, flowering trees; happy looking lovers walking hand in hand along the water; early weekenders dragging supplies down to the docks.
Even the Harbor Master was pleasant, chuckling in congenial amusement when we introduced ourselves. �Don�t worry,� he consoled, �you�re not the first.� It was uncertain whether he might have concluded that sentiment with:
�- idiots to get lost in this little marina.�
Or:
�- competent sailors who had trouble with the weird way those docks are set up.�
But he was smiling, and that was enough.
Back at the boat we leisurely cleared the decks of sails and rigging. Brian went below to catch a nap. Before he took to his bunk we started the boat rocking and woke the Second Mate for his shift. Eric wrenched himself out of bed, blinking groggily in the bright sunshine streaming into the cabin. When he poked his head through the companionway to gage what sort of day he�d be subjected to on deck it took him a moment to register that we were in port. It might have taken longer if Brian and I had been able to restrain ourselves from hysterical giggling.
�You bastards,� quothe Ship�s Cook.
Following the hilarity the mates grabbed some sack time. I was feeling energized by the beauty of the day � the weather, to be sure, but also our safe arrival in our second to last port. The monumentalness of the brink of success! I couldn�t have slept if I�d been up for days.
After some coffee I called Dan and Susannah. As planned, they�d taken a hotel room a few miles away in Carmel. Without apologizing for waking them up I gave them directions to the boat. Since they�d need a couple of hours to get in gear it seemed a perfect opportunity to go exploring.
Monterey is a quaint town. A bit on the high-end, touristy side but clean in a non-antiseptic way and hard to get lost in. Fresh baked bread smells waft down the avenues, little used record shops and chic thrift stores boarder Chinese and Mexican restaurants, internet cafes sprinkled amongst them. People smiled. Probably tourists. My buddies arrived at the boat a few minutes after I returned.
The remainder of Friday and Saturday passed in a sort of slow succession of voyage �lasts.� The last shopping trip to restock a few key items. The last quick, inquisitive foray into a port we�d soon leave behind. The last refilling of the water tank. The last crew meeting over the charts. The last nights with all of us sitting up together on board retelling our individual parts in any number of sea going dramas.
There was no longer any hurry or frantic anxiety. The boat was in good shape. We were rested. Our departure Sunday morning was assured. We had 90 miles left to cover.
90 miles.
Late Saturday afternoon I dropped off the gate key at the marina office (another last), anticipating that they�d be closed Sunday (in which case we�d give up a $60 deposit for them!). The papers were all in order, we were clear. The night was clear as well, which allowed me to sleep on deck. I love doing this, and it provided Susannah and Dan use of the forward bunk.
Sunday morning came with its mists, the soft sound of creatures waking to quietly go about the first routines of their day. A mystical time, a foreboding time. Magical, for certain sailors embarking on the final leg of an epic.