The Hill of Difficulty has been paved on Pitcairn Island and maybe by the time we arrive there will also be a dock.
Yesterday I sailed out of the Berkeley Marina with the intention of sailing to the Ferry Building for lunch. Unfortunately the Olympic Circle was like glass @ 11 am. While I waited for the wind to fill in, and in anticipation of our Sail Down to Pitcairn Island, I decided to practice anchoring. It’s a messy business, anchoring, but somebody’s gotta do it, and since I was the only one there …
Dura Mater doesn’t have a windless or an anchor roller, but there are nice big cleats at either side of her bow. So I pondered the easiest way to do this anchoring task on a perfectly quiet day on the water while I peeled an orange and ate it. It was a good orange, too: sweet and juicy and then I thought maybe I’d make myself a cup of tea. It was such a nice day. Blue sky, cat’s paws on the water. Finally I focused on anchoring. Now, where was that anchor? I opened up the port side lazarette. It was down there somewhere. Under the Delta umbrella and the Truckee River raft and the fenders with Dura Mater posted on them, in case my vessel sinks in the San Francisco Bay and they need to identify the boat. Everything was under the Red Gerry Can for DIESEL. Every time I fill up at a gas station some fella yells over to me, “Hey, Lady! Do you know that is DIESEL?” I always nod and smile. “Thank you. Yes,” I say.
Here it is: that nice aluminum anchor that John Foster gave me. Thank you, John. I’m thinking of you. Boy, this anchor is heavy. Maybe the thing to do is bring the chain and anchor line back to the cockpit and drop it overboard from back here. Up I go with an SSS canvas bag. I pull up the 30’ of chain from Dura Mater’s chain locker, and feed it into the canvas bag. When I lift it up and start to carry it back to the stern I almost fall overboard. 30’ of chain is too heavy for me to carry. What a wimp! Ah! Muhammad Anchor must go to mountain! So back I go, and bring it up to the bow where the chain awaits us.
Meanwhile, I’ve forgotten to roll up the jib, and the tiny windlets have propelled us nearer the dreaded Berkeley reef. When I took keelboat lessons at Cal Sailing Club that is the first thing the instructor told students: “Don’t. Hit. That.” So I know better than to keep going that way. I adjust course with my snazzy remote doohickey, and Pelagic turns us windward, away from DANGER.
I notice that the wind has changed from NE to SW in ten minutes. It must be wintertime on the San Francisco Bay. I remember to go back and roll up my jib. That would probably not be good, to leave the jib up as I anchor. I glance at my fishfinder gauge: we are in nine feet of water. Then I go back up to the bow. Deep thinking is required now. I attach the anchor to the chain, feed out the chain and some line, attach the line to the cleat, then lower the anchor and the chain slowly down the side of the boat. The boat, of course, keeps sailing. Oops. Good thing it’s a light air day. Just as I drop the mainsail, the anchor catches hard off Dura Mater’s port side and her anchor sets. After a bit of drifting backward, we are at anchor, all alone on the Olympic Circle.
I make myself another cup of tea and bite off some dark chocolate. Checking my handheld garmin I see that we hadn’t moved. Excellent. A successful anchoring story, albeit in extremely benign conditions. How successfully would I be able to anchor in high wind, under stressful conditions? I have no idea. Certainly I would be moving more quickly. Maybe I should think about relocating those fenders, the Gerry cans, the raft and the umbrella in case I need that anchor sometime.
The wind begins to pick up, and I remember my intention to sail to the Ferry Building for a late lunch. So up I go to the bow to pull up the anchor and chain. Note to self: Next time don’t forget to wear gloves. I remember now how many beach towels Green Buffalo keeps aboard for anchor recovery. Next time don’t forget to bring the beach towels. And seriously? Forget about the Ferry Building today! The skipper is filthy. Let’s just hope that the people of Pitcairn don’t mind muddy women.
