We were cruising California. Only 565 miles remaining between us and our final destination. The end of the journey was in sight.
We were finished with Port Captains, had passed through our last Customs inspections, had crossed the last border. There were now more ports available to us than we could shake a spar at. If worst came to worst the US Coast Guard was a radio call away.
We�d set sail coming out of San Diego Harbor, rounded Dana Point, and made our north heading when the wind died. Down sail, fire the engine, ride up-coast. The crew and I discussed our best option for next port.
�It says here that the LA marina charges $9 a foot!� I commented, paging through a Southern California cruising guide.
�Whoa! Are you sure that�s not a misprint?� Brian asked skeptically. �I mean, I know it�s not likely to be cheap, but that�s�.what?...$225 bucks a night for us?�
�Well,� Eric put in, �it is LA.�
�Hmmm, I�m looking�and we could go up to Ventura or Oxnard.� These were further north, and smaller harbors.
�Why not give them a call?� Brian suggested. We could now use the cell phone almost any time and expect it to work. This was exactly what I did, ringing up Channel Islands Marina in Oxnard, 160 up. They would be glad to have us, they told me, and sixty cents a foot. Much better.
�Oxnard it is!� we agreed.
That night as we approached the inside channel around the southern Channel Islands Brian called my attention to an interesting phenomenon taking place above Los Angeles. Planes were descending to the runways at LAX, their lights making a symmetrical V-shape strung well up into the ceiling of blue-gray clouds. My brother welcomed me back to civilization.
�Welcome back to �civilization,�� he said.
I could make out his features in the light reflected from the steely cloud cover, millions upon millions of individual bulbs covering the hills, spanning the valleys in an incandescent haze. The molasses-hued waves caught the light on their peaks like mercury on black velvet and threw it shimmering against the hull. As if in counterpoint the heights of Catalina Island rose off the port beam, stark silhouettes devoid of the flicker of humanity�s electric candles save for a few sparks near the water. Just at that moment we were the only boat on this divided ocean, balanced precariously between a cultured coast cultivating a lush harvest of steel and concrete and an untamed island standing sentinel to the raw majesty of nature uninterrupted.
But this was an illusion. Catalina Island rises darkly from the sea only because the forbearance of humankind to allow it to remain so. It�s fa�ade of pristine wilderness belongs to a world of dreams, and that is where I took it when my tiller shift ended.
In the morning I relieved Brian on watch, who relieved Eric on tiller. We ate a simple breakfast of fruit bars and coffee, and decided to drop sails again as the rising sun dampened the soft wind that had blown since midnight.
Shaking off the chill of predawn, we made the Channel Islands Harbor breakwater, Oxnard Marina, that morning. We carefully negotiated the channel, looking for signs of square, brick building to match the rectangle on the guidebook�s map where the harbor master reportedly kept watch over the doings in the marina.
It wasn�t hard to find, a quarter mile inside the protected harbor. We made a show of bringing Faith expertly up to the dock: slow as she goes, bow pointing directly at the pier. At the last second swinging tiller to port, glistening hull going into a turn that brought the stern around in sea-skid Steve McQueen would have been proud of. Brian hopped from the bow and I relinquished the helm to step nonchalantly from the starboard sternquarter with the sternline. Mooring lines were cleated before the momentum of the vessel was spent.
As always in a new port we took a few moments to survey the scene. Twin pump out stations lined the dock, a few harbor security boats occupied the interior slips, their lines sagging. The harbor was quiet except for the occasional splash of a diving seal and the mournful call of the gulls.
I snatched the black briefcase, making sure none of the documents crammed in to overflow capacity spilled out. It was only as I reached the door that I realized I was wearing my fuzzy red slippers. Great, I thought, they�ll think I�m crazy before I even open the door. At least I can prove we went through the Canal� Crazy or no, that event was cause for respect, I figured.
As it happened, the door I�d chosen was for police only. The officers inside waved me around to the front entrance. They were smirking as I entered.
Harbor Police: �Can I help you?� This offer delivered with the kind of compassion and soft words usually reserved for the confused and potentially dangerous.
Sean: �I hope so. I called yesterday. She said no reservations, so I wanted to know if you had a slip open?�
Harbor Police: �Uh, that�s your boat?� Pointing out the back window. �I think we can fit you in�.where you from?�
I discovered I was going to have a hard time with this question. It would require some explanation�
Sean: �Last port was San Diego.� I dug out the registration, �but she�s registered out of Florida. We started in Chicago.�
The officer took the document, looked out the window at the boat and Brian, lounging in the cockpit.
Harbor Police: �Florida? Did you say Chicago?......� Realization sunk in like the Titanic hitting the seafloor. �IN THAT?!?�
Sean: �Yeah.� I produced our Panama Canal card displaying the permanent number Faith would use for any future transit. Then I proceeded to explain the nature of the journey; where we�d been, what we�d seen.
Harbor Police: �I�m gonna check the website right now � what�s the name again?�
After a few seconds he realized it would be a drawn out affair. �What�s the worst storm you guys went through?� he asked.
Ahha! I spent a good ten minutes regaling him with the story about Tropical Storm Eugene and our entrance into Manzanillo. Nonchalantly, of course.
Harbor Police: �What were the brothels in Panama like? My cousin said they were awesome.�
I winked. That tends to tell people that whatever they assume is true. Who knows? Maybe in this case it was�though I doubt it.