Two Harbors, Catalina Island

The afternoon heat ricochets off of the red, iron rich soil.  Trapped by the brim of my hat, it creates rivulets of sweat that meander down my face, my arms, my entire body.  On this ridge, the scrub oak trees offer shade sparingly and it is only when we find some that we stop to catch our breath and I remove my backpack, letting my shirt fall off of my shoulders to revel in the slightest breeze.  We are on the steep incline of Silver Peak trail.  As we reach for our water bottles we admire the territorial views at 1500 feet; the fog entrapping the peaks to the south, the anchorages below.

 

When we think that we’re at the top, we dig deep and find renewed energy.  We have a spring in our step as we turn a hairpin corner just to find the steep road continues up.  We spot a signpost directing us to Water Tank road.  We take the turn to the north.  Glad to be walking in a different direction, it feels like we’re getting somewhere.  Shortly, we arrive at Goat Trail/Lions Head junction.  The wide road becomes a skinny trail bordered with pear cacti.  Used by deer, it clings to the side of the island winding its way down to the main, unpacked dirt road.  We walk the perimeter from Cherry Cove to Two Harbors watching the exodus of weekend boats returning to the mainland just 20 miles from this Gilligan’s island retreat.  The road deposits us on the beach in front of the bar 3-1/2 hours after we departed.  We are hot, tired, salt encrusted and oh so very happy to have made the climb; after all, a refreshing Margarita and a swim in the warm, crystal clear water await us.   

Channel Islands Harbor - The Night Visitor

The splash is deep and dark...the sound of black.  A heavy weight ker-plunk, like a lead buoy going straight to the bottom. Our 30,000 pound boat rocks; it was that close.  Seconds later, there’s a loud tenor barking, the sound of a dysfunctional rubber bicycle horn so close that the cats dive under the comforter, their survival instincts on high alert. 

Many protected species live along the California coast.  This means that they can be seen en masse.  Tonight’s visitor is a California Sea Lion.  Males reach 850 pounds, females grow to 220 pounds. They are very social creatures known for their intelligence, playfulness, and noisy barking. There are seven of them piled on the dock and on each other and one is lounging on the swim platform of a powerboat.  They bark in loud conversation when they think no one is around.  Upon first sight of a human nearby, they slide or flop into the water, swimming, frolicking, chasing each other with summersaults as if they had not a care in the world.   

Santa Barbara

We entered Santa Barbara Harbor just after the sun rose.  Finally, we were sailing in shirt sleeves…ahh.  We were greeted by a massive congregation of brown pelicans that had overtaken the sandy spit as well as the dredging equipment.  The harbor patrol was trying to gain some control by spraying a fire hose.  This 2800-slip marina is shared by commercial fishing boats and pleasure boats.  Sailboats race in the afternoon winds.  

Palm trees lined the beach, sunlight bounced off of the water, beach goers were setting up for the day, fishing boats headed out.  This is a beautiful, busy city with convenient public transportation.  We browsed bookstores, wandered through the well-funded art museum, had trouble choosing the restaurant of the day, bought treats from artisan bakeries, and explored the energetic downtown shopping area.  The very best amenity was the outdoor, 50-meter swimming pool adjacent to the marina and filled with 80-degree water.  Nice.

Ahh...SoCal

Technically, we entered Southern California in the midnight darkness of September 12 when we rounded Pt. Conception and our southerly heading changed to easterly. 

Our cruising guides state that such a pronounced geographic turning point produces accelerated winds and rough seas with turbulence extending a considerable distance offshore.  The Point is referred to as the “Cape Horn of the Pacific.”  We prepared our boat and our minds for the worst, stowing everything including our trepidation.  This would be the last cape that we had to round on our way south. 

The light at Pt. Conception can be seen for 20 miles.  I had it in sight the entire distance.  On this clear night with light winds we motor sailed with the jib which carried us up and over three-foot sea swells.  The town lights along the Sierra Madre marked the channel on our port while the brightly lit oil rigs marked the far starboard boundary.  We watched ship traffic come and go on the radar as well as on the chart plotter.  We were not alone out there this night.  Every once in a while, fog enveloped a rig and its lights cast an eerie glow.  The fog never advanced toward the shore.  The air became markedly drier.  We shed our foul weather gear.  We opened the companionway for air down below. 

Bishop Peak, San Luis Obispo

To reach the summit of Bishop Peak requires a combination of hiking and rock climbing.  This volcanic plug is 1,546 feet above sea level and the tallest in a chain of similar peaks stretching to Morro Bay.  Chris suggested a little morning exercise.  It sounded like fun.   

Passing through the dappled sunlight in the cool woodlands of the trail head, we ascended into the full, bright, hot sun on a broad, dusty, well-trodden path.  As the incline of the path steepened, the trees disappeared.  The hairpin turns grew tighter. The path narrowed to a goat trail.  Rocks grew into boulders. The temperature increased.  Our pace slowed.  Our rest stops increased.  College kids out for their morning run passed us as did numerous panting dogs and their guardians.  We hiked for an hour before reaching a strategically placed bench.  It’s a good place to catch your breath and count your blessings, next to a plaque memorializing a hiker who fell. “Nana, do you want to go to the top?” Morgan asked enthusiastically.  “I thought I was at the top”, I replied as I considered pouring my bottled water over my head.  “No, Nana, it’s up there”, he said pointing up a sheer rock wall that a climber was rappelling. 

Now, the rock climbing part of the trip is an entirely different experience.  It could have been two different days, two different places, an entirely different universe.  We took time and studied our options before stretching for a hand hold and firmly placing a foot hoping to prevent an unexpected tumble down the mountainside and a memorial plaque.  Sometimes we used a miniscule edge carved out of the smooth, weathered rock for footing, sometimes a crevasse, sometimes a helping hand and one foot to push off.  This was the practical application of yoga; stretching, bending, climbing. Not once did we look straight down. 

Upon arriving at the very tip top one’s instinct is to stand upright, arms lifted high in celebration. Common sense, however, quickly sets in and one begins to crawl or scoot or waddle around turning ever so carefully on the short, narrow, flat summit as the hawks circle at eye level.   The territorial view is breathtaking.

 

Clipper Cove, Treasure Island

The wind is practically constant in this anchorage.  It starts building in the late morning.  Sometimes, it blows a steady 15 knots all day and all night. Occasionally, it gusts to 20 knots.  The whirling wind generator, sounding like a fan left on high, produces a reliable 5 amps, keeping the batteries topped off after the sun dips behind the island and the solar panels register 0.0. 

There have been just four or five boats anchored each night since we arrived. Tonight, there are 20 and there is still plenty of room in this cove that holds 50.  It’s the middle of a long holiday weekend.  We have watched many boats make this a picnic stopover while others arrive for the night after a brisk afternoon sail in the bay.  The entrance is shallow and requires one to hug the wharf.  We’ve seen some boats start to cross the bank and then stop and turn around. 

We have enjoyed the convenience of this anchorage.  The Navy moved off of Treasure Island and the City of San Francisco now owns and manages the property.  At what used to be the guard booth, there is now a small store jam-packed with every conceivable convenience food, a mini 7-Eleven with just as much stuff.  The kids working in it are proud to live on the island, to have the opportunity to live in a place with sky and wind and space and fantastic views of the city, to live in a place where access was denied for so long to anyone except military personnel.  The BOQ where we stayed for a month when we moved here in 1986 is now an apartment building. The EM Club is now a pizza joint.  A winery has moved into one of the warehouses.  The former HQ is now a leasing office and apartments.  Restricted places are now public places - recycled, reused, repurposed. 

We took the bus every day into San Francisco, leaving in the morning fog and returning in the warm evening.  It arrives every 20 minutes at the old guard booth and drops off at the Transbay terminal, smack dab in downtown.  We walked to Market Street and caught the bus to our destination of the day.  We studied the art, walked the city’s history, admired the architecture, breathed the incense in the oldest Chinese temple, picnicked in the park, spent hours in bookstores, shared the sidewalks with people of all nations. 

We retraced our footsteps of long ago and are grateful for the years that we lived in this dynamic city, for having been infused with the spirit of this inimitable place.      

Ayala Cove, Angel Island

“Dad, am I going to get paid for cleaning the dingy?” I heard the boy ask on the boat moored behind us.

I was thinking of cleaning our dingy.  After hiking up to the summit of Mt. Livermore, the well-trodden path guiding us through fragrant eucalyptus and pine trees, we decided to stop at the beach.  Ken raised the engine of the dingy just as the fiberglass bottom scraped against the shells rolling along the water’s edge.  We both jumped out, sinking into the sand, and pulled the boat up past the tide line.  He carried the sun shower to a faucet in the park while I walked along the beach splashing in the refreshing Bay water.  We tracked some sand into the dingy when we jumped back in and I thought that I would clean it out before it ended up in Gitane’s cockpit. 

The reward for the boy was money.  For me, the reward was simply having the privilege of walking in this sandy place.