It was Sunday morning and we rose slowly. Coffee was made, the rich smell competing with the pungence of Ensenada Harbor. Our sails were at the ready, Brian having bent on the jenny the afternoon before. The dock was clear, the bill was paid, the papers were signed and stamped. What we waited for now was simply enough time to pass so that we would arrive in San Diego Harbor just after daybreak the following morning. If we left too early, we were afraid, we�d come in late at night. This would make things difficult � first because none of us had ever come into the Southern Californian harbor from the sea and second because US Customs likes to operate on a regular daytime schedule or they charge you extra.
About 11:30 we shook off the lines, guided Faith from her slip, and waved a fond �Adios� to Mexican soil. Next stop: the good old US of A.
It was unique to have a passenger aboard. The Reverend Eric had sailed with me before, perhaps ten years ago on Lake Michigan. I can hear his voice then � ages ago � as we broached the freshwater sea, �You know what you should do�.take the boat out on the Ocean and sail it to�.� At the time it could have been any destination that seems far away and alluring. Only in the furthest flights of fancy could we have imagined the present situation.
Seals congregating on the channel buoys barked a disembarkation chorus to us as we passed the breakwater. Brian took the helm. Once the sails had been raised the four of us told stories of our adventures, both recent and old. It felt good to be on the water � liberating, free. I checked the contraption of lines and pulleys operating the rudder to make sure our liberation and freedom wouldn�t be interrupted. The rig was doing fine.
The wind kept up until dusk. Ordinarily we would have had to consider the logistics of using the engine � how much fuel could we spare, how many miles would we need to make up under sail � but this sixty-five mile hop wouldn�t tax even half of our supply. We continued our stories in louder tones of voice.
Surface conditions were relatively calm. We had no inundation of water over the bow (although we made sure to catch a few good splashers for The Rev�s benefit) and the wind returned for a couple of hours during my tiller shift between 10:00 and 2:00. The air cooled considerably as the night grew around us, making a stint in the cabin worthwhile even though I wasn�t particularly tired. Brian and Eric guided us along a landscape speckled with lights. From Ensenada to San Diego the landforms were laid out in the absurd brilliance of connecting cities, a megalopolis unbroken by borders and politics. Ensenada blended with Tijuana, Tijuana with San Diego. Every hill was highlighted, the roads like phosphorescing snakes as traffic wound around the landscape. Maybe only those at sea had the perspective from which to view the inherent insanity of all of those millions of people packed in against one another shoulder to shoulder. Around us the plane was empty for miles.
Happily, only one thing broke on the way. I was below when I heard a snap followed by a shimmy in the mast. Oh lord, I thought, not the mast! A coil of wire came spilling down to the cabintop from above. Our heads snapped up to watch it�s decent. By the time the trailing end had landed we knew the damage wasn�t serious. The main halyard had sheared at the clip that attaches to the head of the sail. Brian had the main back up, hoisted using the spinnaker halyard, two minutes later. If that was to be the only emergency we were ready to count our lucky stars� And it turned out that it was.
I hadn�t been below long when I heard the mates discussing the best approach for the entrance to San Diego harbor. Through the starboard porthole I could see the skyscrapers of the downtown area. A quick check of the charts and guide book directions helped us identify the marker lights of the outer shipping channel. They flashed white off the seaward end of Dana Point, the protective peninsula forming the great bay that has made San Diego a safe shipping haven for centuries. We had versed ourselves in the lore and history of this port through the writings of seafarers both ancient and neophyte. It was humbling to sail into such a familiar, and yet unknown place that had occupied the imaginations of generations of seamen; if the rocks could bear witness they could tell of Spanish galleons and submarines, frigates and freighters, ships of State and ships of war, explorers, traders, scientists, pirates, natives, all passing right here, all on a defining journey of some kind. Now we would add our own small contribution to the vast river of mariners who had passed before and were yet to come. If, that is, we could avoid the giant kelp fields now dead on our bow.
The kelp was another reason we�d planned to get to the entrance during daylight. Dana Point is notorious for stalling football field sized patches of the stuff being pulled by on the nearshore currents. Well, planning, as we knew, wasn�t everything. After the interminable trek from Turtle Bay to Ensenada we might have been a bit anxious to make our jumps efficient. In this case we�d been a bit too efficient, shaving probably four hours off the estimated arrival time of 8:00 am. So it goes, as the French would say if they spoke English. We could certainly say we�d seen worse.
We missed the first two truly large aggregations of kelp. Eric steered deftly to skit whatever small outlying patches threatened to catch on the lines trailing down to the rudder. Inevitably we picked up the odd streamer here and there but Brian or I would pull it free with the boat hook. We watched a cargo ship pass near our starboard beam as we entered the channel proper.
The channel of San Diego Harbor is miles long. Red and green buoys line either side, their corresponding lights flashing from their tops. They are spaced nearly a mile apart at first, but passing one pair the next would come into view. We were under power now, taking our time and referencing the chart and GPS against what we could see. As we slipped past the buoys one of us would call out the number stenciled on its side to confirm our position on paper and computer. It was exhilarating to find that our guides were matching our visual contacts. There was a sense of d�j� vu � this was exactly like navigating the rivers we�d coursed an age ago, it seemed.
As we entered the bay the channel narrowed quickly. The buoys became much harder to recognize; lines of them marched toward every marina, navy yard, and dockage until we felt lucky not to end up in a random cul-de-sac. I broke out the big floodlight.
We were looking for the Customs dock located at a bend in the channel � a flagpole and harbormaster�s building would signal the spot. Unfortunately for us San Diego is the major Navy port for the western US: flagpoles and buildings abound. Nor were congregations of pleasure boats any help; they were everywhere.
So we missed our turn the first time past, thought we�d located our spot, checked it out, discovered it was wrong, and turned back. Now that the search had been narrowed (we knew the dock was between us and the ocean) it took only about twenty minutes of hard shore scanning to find the dock. I took the tiller for the official landing on US soil (or floating pier, such as it was). Faith was secured in United States territory a little after 5:00 am, Monday the 15th of August.