RLS, move over: Treasure Island [1,500 words,~3 pp]

We left Ballena Isle around 6:30 p.m., thinking we might catch sunset over Treasure Island if we timed it right. As we left the harbor, I noticed the water was near the high tide mark. I looked forward to having the outgoing current shorten our trip.

Once on the water, we said what the hell, let's save some of our 3 gallons of gas and put up the jib. There was a nice wind for it. We had to tack a fair way across the bay before we could tack back up on a close reach to Treasure Island. Matey is still learning the ropes, literally, but he has good instincts. However, he still has trouble with the subtle art of the jib: when tacking, the jib needs to decide for itself when it's time to come over. Novices tend to try to muscle it over, as if it were on a leash. That never works.

Matey muscled. The bottom seam caught on something and started to rip. We furled in the jib and turned on the motor, and I set a course straight for TI.

It was like wading through molasses. It took embarrassingly long for me to realize that the current was still flooding, not ebbing. My only excuse is that my pain has been bad lately, and that makes me pretty daffy.

At full dark, and after being far too busy to watch the sunset, Matey drew my attention to a part of the water that looked, to me, exactly like every other part of the water: "See that dark band? Shouldn't we give that a wide berth, Skipper?"

I explained how it was a trick of the light, though I can no longer remember what my explanation involved. It was bullshit, anyway.

Matey saved our collective butt. He realized that a scathing bitch of a floodtide was slamming us Eastward, not to mention slowing us far more than I knew. He saw the low, unmarked and unlit Oakland piers stretching far into the water. Scared the suppurating piss out of me as we passed within yards of dark, inchoate rocky forms looming out of the night.

That does it: I'm getting glasses.

However, it was me who spotted the loaded freighter churning out of the harbor, pilot boat and tender bobbing faithfully around it.

Despite the odds, we made it past Oakland Harbor and safely under the new and old spans of the Bay Bridge. We had just marked the buoy where you turn into Clipper Cove, when the motor sputtered and died.

We were out of gas. 3 gallons should've been enough to cross the Bay three times, but not last night.

No more leaving port with 3 gallons. 5 or no go.

Matey clomped about on deck, uncovering the main and assessing the jib. I maneuvered the tiller to keep us straight in the current, which seemed to be in our favor for a change. We had drifted slightly sideways, but no closer to the massive construction project under the bridge. We hoisted the sails, or at least we meant to: the mainsail got hung up, firstly on a winch attached to the mast, secondly on a stray line, and thirdly on a reef-line that had not been properly released.

Raising the mainsail is not supposed to be that complicated. In case you didn't realize that. I'm looking forward to sorting out the mast furniture.

The main give us a little bit of forward propulsion, and therefore breathing room. Matey went forward and futzed with the jib. I only wanted about half of it out, to spare the tear, but that was more lines than we could cope with in the dark; we pulled out the whole jib, and hoped for the best.

Once we were under way, we took few minutes to relax. I had to stop shaking and clear my head in order to plan an entrance into Clipper Cove under sail, in full dark, to drop an untested anchor in an unknown bottom, while avoiding the other boats anchored there.

Using Matey's eyes and my wind sense, we tried a nearshore approach, but the wind comes whipping through Clipper Cove dead ahead of you; we couldn't make the turn without losing power and were almost immediately in irons, putting the jib at risk again. Strangely, the boat herself gave a thoughtful little shimmy and then gently rotated leftwards, allowing us to catch wind in the sails, leave the harbor safely, sail up the entire length of the island again to think it over, and come back and try a different route.

I let Matey steer (and smoke) while I went forward to make sure the anchor was ready for action. Honestly, I never intended to use it anytime soon; I was going to get lots of daylight practice before trying to set an anchor at night. I checked every hinge and shackle, counted out to 60 feet of rode (that means the chain and rope attached to the anchor) making sure the chain moved freely and the rope was not abraded, cleared away some random crap from the prow, and made sure the anchor could slide clear of its bracket.

This time, I used a wide approach to the harbor, so smaller adjustments were needed to use the prevailing wind. It wasn't perfect, but we were in far enough, the water was deep enough, and we were just far enough away from everything dangerous (submerged pilings, bridge construction, land) that I thought we might as well drop anchor rather than whip around and try it again.

So, one hand on the tiller, keeping the boat from going backwards by sheer force of will, I hollered instructions to Matey on the bow about the theory and practice of dropping and securing an anchor. With customary intrepidity, he complied. It seemed to have caught, and when I checked it, it felt pretty good.

I let out only a short rode. It doesn't give the best grip but did keep us a comfy distance from the submerged pilings we had drifted towards while anchoring. We sat up for a while, making sure the anchor held. Almost simultaneously, we breathed a sigh of relief and hugged tightly until I stopped shaking from delayed shock. Matey is a real trooper.

The boat swung about on her rode like a dancer practicing meticulous arabesques. If the tide hadn't been so extreme, the wind so playful, or if I had ever done this before in my effing life, I'd probably have been a bit more relaxed. As it was, I found it much easier to sit up, keep watch, and write, while Matey -- who did most of the physical work, and is still in the stage of life where sleep is essential unless partying is involved -- got a few hours of shuteye. The wind came up, sometimes 15 knots, making the lines spank unmercifully against the mast. Matey was oblivious, but it made my ears ring.

We did drift a bit, so I lengthened the anchor rode. (That is so counterintuitive, but it worked. After I did that, no more drifting.) I also tied the sail down more snugly, reducing our profile against the wind. I tied the rudder more or less straight, hoping to reduce our drag on the current, but there are some weird currents there.

The longer rode seemed to reassure Voyager; she stopped twirling about as much. The tide started going out a couple hours before sunrise, and I watched nonchalantly as the depth finder counted down, knowing we had plenty of room underneath.

I whipped out my iPhone (nobody's paying me to say that) to hop online and find the harbor master's number. Fortunately for Matey, who normally doesn't rise until the keyboard jockeys have had at least one coffee break, the harbor master wasn't even in the office until 10. I spent the time between full light and 10am persuading my newly installed kerosene stove to make coffee and tea.

Roger, the harbor master, very sweetly dug up some gasoline, a dinghy, and someone to bring it out. Turns out the harbor is the only place that has gasoline on the island: he has to drive to the mainland, fill a couple of containers, drive back to the Marina, keep it stowed safely in a building that really wasn't designed for that, and stay on good terms with the police so they don't get upset about it because it's technically illegal to sell gasoline on the island. I sure didn't mind paying premium rates for that gas!

We docked safely and, as we were tying up and preparing to go to breakfast, Matey asked, "What do I tell the guys who were going to come out with us this afternoon?"

I said, "We're not taking anybody out today." I couldn't feature getting back underway without a solid night’s sleep behind me, time enough to mull and dream and let my brain reboot.

I used to handle crises as if they were normal (perhaps because they were) but part of the neurological wreckage of RSD is the way it sabotages your ability to let crises slide off your back. It is so freaking weird to still feel my stomach knot every time the wind gusts. It was supposed to be a fading memory by now.

It's 9 p.m. and Matey wrote to say he is going back to sleep after a six-hour nap. I'm still too wound up, but there's plenty of chamomile tea to help with that.

This crisis is officially over.