So it was that Friday March 29th at Cuyler Harbor on San Miguel was quite lovely. Ah, this was exactly the perfect little anchorage for us to enjoy during the days. But then there is the night time. As the evening drew down upon us we looked at each other and said–let’s get out of here before it starts blowing again. We’d rather be doing watches while sailing than sitting at anchor with the winds howling, clouds flying by, and the boat being buffeted around by it all.

Resolving that we’d be happier sailing, we set off for Santa Barbara in the dusk while we still had light to see the kelp beds and rocks that guard the Cuyler Harbor entrance. We were excited to use our big light air deep footed jib sail for the first time! David had pulled it out of the sailbag and we’d flown it at anchor in the afternoon to assure all was well and good. We had just a ghosting of wind that night and the ocean’s surface was smooth and calm. We saw lovely green phosphorescence in the wake of the boat and the tiny bow wave. As a jib sheet dipped into the water, it came up looking like it was dusted with light green glitter. A little bit later the porpoises could be heard breathing their little puffs of water and air nearby and we were treated to seeing little trails of glitter in the water around them as they joined us on our journey for a bit. It was a long night just ghosting along but enjoyable.

We arrived at Santa Barbara anchorage after sunrise the morning of March 31 so our timing was impeccable. It is quite a deep water anchorage so we motored along thinking about where just the right spot might be. We saw a fellow waving at us from an old 60’s era power boat covered in junk. We thought he’s been here a while, so lets ask him where folks have laid their anchors here. We idled nearby his floating island and he pointed here and yonder telling us which boats to stay away from because they’ll surely be dragging in the next big blow. He told us he’d been in that spot for five years–and had put out an extra anchor each year. He had five anchors pointing off in various directions from a swivel on the bow. The last one was 600 ft of line to the North from his boat. He had no less than 300 feet out on any of his other anchors. He pointed at a spot halfway between his boat and a buoy marking the Southwest border of the anchorage and said “there’s where I’d anchor if I were you.” and so we did. Our sounding was over 70 feet at high tide and we had 350 ft of chain out. On Sunday and Monday was stayed there enjoying light winds and no real waves.

Santa Barbara Anchorage

On Monday night, David and I spent a sort of miserable rolling night at anchor as waves had come up with no wind to point us into them. Ship’s cat Beryl, on the other hand, joyously ran around the boat all night long batting her toys here and there as they rolled back and forth across the sole. We learned on this trip down the coast that a rolling anchorage or rolling seaway while sailing is Beryl’s playground delight.

I was excited to sail near Anacapa Island during daylight hours and this was the primary reason we didn’t leave Santa Barbara Monday night after our phone calls were conducted during the business day. We sailed out in the early morning with dew still on the combings. After a couple hours though the winds died and while we had all sails up–main, fore, staysail, and huge deep footed jib–we were just able to point towards Anacapa but the currents were taking us ever so slightly backwards towards Santa Barbara. We joked for hours about getting “rear ended” by one of the oil platforms we were nearby. Finally when I’d given up all hope of getting close to Anacapa during daylight, the winds increased and we were flying along in 20-25 kts of wind with every stitch of sail set. This made some sense as the NOAA and Sailflow forecasts were for more than 30 kts later in the night around Anacapa and Santa Cruz Islands and to the South. We pulled down the main and light air jib as we screamed along nicely with the foresail and staysail on a very broad reach. The seaway was getting to be a bit much but we hoped it would settle as we passed the islands and it did for a while.

Smoother Seas

As the sun set, the winds began to wane and a few hours later we found ourselves with no detectable wind but a heavy sea from the West. As we clocked through a slow motion circle wondering where that 30kts of wind might be, about midnight David was feeling pretty plucky and self confident and said something along the lines of “I’ll set the light air jib, I don’t need your help.” and bounced out of the cosy charthouse onto the foredeck to take action. Ever as speedy my David is, I’m the opposite–the slow one. By the time my lifevest and harness were on and I was at the leeward sheet, I could see something was amiss–and indeed my “superman” had forgotten our days of wrapping the genoa ’round the forestay of Stargazer. Without a mate to pull tight a sheet, the winds had shifted and the loose sail had wrapped itself around the jibstay faster than David could say “oops.” That sail is very large–it extends back about 1/2 of the boat length (fairlead for the sheets is all the way to the stern taft rail and then forward to the winches) and it was one of those crazy puffs of wind and rolls of the boat it instantly wrapped around the jibstay, downhaul and all into a knot that defied reality. I felt bad for David, out on the bowsprit trying to untie the mess.

I sat at the sheet winch for about 40 minute–watching the cruise ship that had been with us in the early morning in Santa Barbara and now lay only 2 miles westward of us with bright lights shining. I fidgeted and played with the helm in a combination of boredom and worry and tired of the waves beating at us with no real wind to counter the roll, I turned the wheel hard over and managed to get us hove to with Mahdee oscillating more comfortably between 270 and 330 degrees. With only the hint of wind, I was amazed to manage that one. At about 1:30 am I was beginning to wonder how I could talk David into letting me help him. Just then, David came back to the cockpit looking a bit dejected and saying “I may need your help on the foredeck in a bit.” Finally.

David went back forward to try and do something and a few minutes later called for me to help on the foredeck. When the boat is rolling even a little bit, I resort to a swift crawl along the deck since I’m almost certain to end up on my knees shortly anyway. It’s less embarrassing to just start out here in the first place–like I intended to be on the deck all along. As I clipped and unclipped onto different jacklines going forward, I thanked my lucky stars that David is quick and handy to get out to the bowsprit and deal with the jib rather than me having to brave that spot. Up, down, and all around the 11 ft bowsprit swings ever so much more than any other part of the boat in a seaway. When I arrived on the foredeck and looked forward at the big sail trying to do the cobra-hug on the jibstay, I wondered how that twisted ball of nylon was ever going to end up secured if we couldn’t untangle it. An hour later, the sail was in a bundle still around the jibstay, but down on end of the bowsprit. As I gazed at David’s last bit of handwork I realized the bundle was three times David’s size and was thankful the sail gaskets tied it to the sprit and netting until daylight.

We went back to the charthouse, still in our little hove-to setup and thought about setting a jib flying above the bundle on the bowsprit but looking at the lack of wind said, “nah” and then thought about raising the heavy Dacron main and imagining the slatting the of heavy sail said “nah.” The foresail was doing OK and the small staysail hardly helped with much of anything. The engine was our answer. At idle we would use hardly any fuel and we’d be making enough way in the airless night to counter the waves now coming directly from the West beam on to our path.

Afterwards, David settled in for a quick nap resting against a beanbag on the charthouse sole. He would soon be warm due to the engine heat rising through the sole. I stood the watch in the warm charthouse rather than out in the dewy cockpit, Beryl my stalwart companion was ready to stay close and be petted. When in the charthouse during a night watch, I usually shine a light out all around every 15 minutes to check the sails or I’ll pop my head out the companionway to look up at them. This time, before my first 15 minutes were up, there was a funny thunk, thunk, thunk…and I was a thinking “that’s not a good sound” coming from just below Beryl and I. I thought perhaps a bucket was hitting against something. I searched below and then the noise seemed to be coming from the deck above the main saloon. I shined a flashlight out the forward charthouse window and was horrified to see: the bronze horse traveller that the foresail block attaches to was no longer attached to the deck at all but instead was wildly swinging about in the light winds banging a sharp end like a pick axe on the canvas deck and the other end hitting the canoe lashed to the deck! It was attached to the boat by the block on it and the now loosened foresail sheet. Argh. I wakened David who was literally underfoot on the charthouse sole. We both scrambled out the companionway to take down the gaff foresail. In the dark it is always hard to keep the twin halyards and the gaff vang from having a tangle as we bring down the sail but we managed to get in down and secured in record time.

So, there we sat at 3am with our tiny staysail up, no read desire to set a jib until daylight when we could try and untangle the big one so any jib we set could be hanked onto the jibstay rather that set aflying, no way to use the foresail without rerigging something major to connect the sheet to the deck where the traveler had been and while we could put up our huge mainsail, we’d be going in circles because its center of effort is so far aft and so much more powerful than our little staysail.

Exhausted, we agreed to motor onwards and think about things in the light of morning. We were headed SSW to pass West of Catalina and the seas were coming from the WNW so we were rolling a bit. David said “Cat Harbor” and went below to sleep in the main saloon. I really didn’t want to go into Cat Harbor so decided the East side of Catalina Island would be just as good as a harbor in terms of calming the waves to enable us to work on things so I set a course to the East of Catalina whereas before we’d been headed towards a path midway between Catalina and San Clemente Islands. I figured what David doesn’t know won’t hurt him and let him sleep as long as possible. My eyes were going a bit crossed by the time he woke up later in the morning. We were still far from Catalina and motoring along at idle and a sedate 4 knots. Both David and I thought the winds would return at some point while we were still North of Catalina but we’d likely have little wind from Catalina to San Diego. We’d fare better once we put the light air sail up again but neither of us wanted to do so in the still-rolly big waves, we’d prefer to motor on into Catalina’s wave shadow first.