The Friendly Dolphin
by Sarah LeonardGridlock as usual! Friday night commuters and crazies had dogged us all the way from L.A. to San Diego. When we turned off of I-5 for Mission Bay, I let out my breath, uncurled my toes, noticing the beginning of a hazy December sunset. To the west through a fog-smog filter, the horizon waved a banner of orange, pink, and magenta hues; fiery sun met endless ocean. “Look, there’s Ted Turner’s yacht in the harbor,” said Rob, the driver and a crew mate. “Wow,” I replied. The America’s Cup race was in progress and the boat we saw was long, sleek, and rigged for voluminous sails on tall masts. A gentle breeze blew from off shore. Briny air mingled with pungent floral scents--honeysuckle or night blooming jasmine. We were about to depart San Diego Harbor, crewing on a forty-two foot ketch rigged John Gardener yacht, Le Dauphin Amical, bound for Cabo San Lucas then north in the Sea of Cortez to Mulege’. Seeing Turner’s yacht was the nautical equivalent of a glimpse of Clint Eastwood at The Hog’s Breath in Carmel.
Rob and I were longtime friends of the boat owners, invited to help crew on this trip. We had both sailed on Le Dauphin before. This was to be the first long voyage for each of us. I was extremely excited. There would be seven on the boat: three college students (two girls and the boyfriend of one of the girls); Rob, an administrator at a University of California campus; Captain Bill, owner and engineer cum entrepreneur; Tina, a thirty-ish elementary school teacher; and I, a college teacher, and friend of the family. The college students were part-time employees of the captain. Tina was a new acquaintance. All of us were eager to set sail and begin the adventure.
Le Dauphin had been in dry-dock in the fall, hoisted out of the water and supported on huge crossbeams in the boat yard. It resembled a dream sequence from The Wizard of Oz, a boat landlocked in the desert. We crew members scraped the bottom of the boat with care, sanded repeatedly to remove old paint and rough spots, then repainted carefully.
Boats are a costly hobby. There’s a sailor’s joke: “If you want to know how a real sailor feels, light a match, pick up a twenty dollar bill and burn it up. Then do it again.” Each screw, bolt, faucet and pipe on a boat has to be solid brass or copper to withstand corrosion from salt air. Wood must be treated regularly and checked constantly for rot.
Some people never even leave the marina. They just sit around at sunset socializing over cocktails. Our captain--not Queeg, the bipolar wacko played by Humphrey Bogart in The Caine Mutiny, but sometimes like him--was a friend and adventurer. Actually his wife was my friend. She couldn’t come on this trip. I put up with his Queeg-like blustery behavior only for my friend’s sake. Once, while cruising with them, he yelled at me, “I didn’t ask you to worry about how close that other boat is coming, I told you to catch their rope and tie it to our stern.” After finally performing my job properly I went to the bow of our boat and sat there, a figurehead out of The Odyssey, licking my wounds, mouthing, “Horse’s ass.”
My friends, Queeg and wife, had sailed around the world. After leaving L.A., headed towards Mexico, three of their teenagers jumped ship in Baja and the fourth left from Acapulco to fly home and spend the year with grandparents . . . so much for a family sailing together. Mrs. Queeg abandoned ship after the boat pitch poled end over end hit by a rogue wave between Cape Horn and Easter Island. I think being first mate to a captain who yelled a lot helped speed her departure. Mrs. Queeg would not be sailing with the seven of us. Figuring four to five days from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas with good winds, maybe I could cope. Better that way then the reverse, Cabo to San Diego, all into the prevailing wind with lots of tacking. It’s a longer, more strenuous, journey--a real bear.
A sailboat has a distinct smell below deck. Even without the engine running there is a slight diesel smell and musty odor. On deck the air is fresh and blustery. You breathe delightedly, standing at an angle as the boat heels to the side, feeling salt spray and wind in your face and hair. All muscles work to help you balance as you move about the boat. If it’s rough weather, you tie a rope around one leg when going to rig a sail or check a line.
As for me, I constantly had to practice knots. They need to be secure: tied so they don’t tighten on themselves, able to be loosened and untied quickly. My yellow kerchief showing knots and how to tie them was a lifesaver. I’d sit with it and two pieces of rope practicing, fumbling over a bowline or a sheepshead knot.
We left San Diego Harbor at 8:30 P.M., motoring slowly past Turner’s yacht, the Point Loma Lighthouse, and the red and green buoys that mark the harbor entrance. Next stop--Magdalena Bay in Baja California, where gray whales go to calve in winter. Captain Bill gave us our assignments for the night. The six crew members would rotate at the helm in two hour watches. We’d be responsible, in pairs, for taking the helm, adhering to the prescribed compass reading, and alerting the captain if any ships or lights appeared. An unknown light could mean we’re too close to some rocky point or off course.Night watch is eerie--total darkness unless the moon is nearly full. Running lights on the boat are high on the spars of the main mast: red on one side, green on the other. Night sailing is like driving in the dark with no headlights. The large glass covered compass is in front of the wheel and has a small light in it so you can read bearings at night. You stay on course until told to change it. I was mesmerized at the helm at night, especially if sailing. If we were under sail we’d almost soundlessly cut through the water, dark bow making a barely audible swish. How small I felt, overwhelmed by the vastness of the ocean, sky, and invisible horizon. It’s hard to imagine sailors who single handedly sail around the world. They’re tenacious, brave, and perhaps crazy individuals!
For lack of wind, we motored a lot those first three days but did get in some sailing. I read when not at the helm or doing chores like mopping, galley cleaning, cooking. I’d brought two books, The Art of Self Esteem and The Disowned Self, both by Nathaniel Branden, a psychologist and former protégé of Ayn Rand. I curled up in my quarter berth on the starboard side of the boat. It was like slipping into a mummy bag to read, think, sometimes nap. I hoped to make sense of my disjointed life: divorced; son in college; two jobs; two men proposing marriage; two degrees, yet no full-time teaching job available; and my house literally sliding down a cliff. The hum of the diesel engine and the roll of the boat soothed me.
One day, I was sitting inside the cabin when I heard loud squeaking noises. “Dolphins!” was the shout from the deck. I climbed up to see a group of dolphins swimming along with us. They crossed back and forth under the bow, squeaking. There was no engine sound. The dolphins dove under us, surfaced on the other side, leaping and splashing in playful abandon. They accompanied us for miles, a good omen for a ship whose name means “The Friendly Dolphin.”
Magdalena Bay was a treat. To drop anchor, let out chain, reverse engine and pause overnight for seven to eight hours was like a national holiday. The Captain popped a bottle of wine, then another, and another. We all squeezed onto the two berths in the small fore peak area, chattering excitedly. We toasted our arrival to the blaring accompaniment of Tchaikovsky’s “l812 Overture.” Canons went off in the symphony as we cheered the arrival of the troops in Moscow and our own arrival in the bay. We not only cheered, we hollered and kicked our heels on wooden lockers under the berths. (Next day we found splintered wood in the fore peak from our big feet and raucous evening.)Next stop--Cabo San Lucas. The familiar arch and hole in the rocks at Cabo came into view, and I felt like Columbus reaching the new world. We were there, the picture perfect destination. As we dropped sails, started the engine to motor in and anchor, we saw many large fishing boats. “Captain,” I said. “You promised to find me a marlin fisherman in Cabo. Get busy.”
Our spirits higher than kites, the crew scurried to anchor the boat, tidy up, and “Land ho, away we go.” We could hardly wait to get in the fiberglass dinghy and row ashore. Bill had been putting the moves on Tina for days. As we squeezed into the dinghy, Captain Bill and Tina chose to remain with the boat. We rolled our eyes and rapidly rowed to the dock.
Cabo had a few small shops and cafes, curios and food. Smell of corn tortillas frying made my mouth water. The brilliant colors of fabrics and garments intrigued me. We five were like kids let out of school. We’d only been on the water six days but walking on solid ground was an experience. Seeing new faces, hearing new sounds, walking through the dusty streets and having a change pumped our adrenaline way up. Since I speak Spanish, bargaining with vendors for a trinket was fun.
In a canopied café we stopped for a Coke and respite from the sun, striking up a conversation with three American men at the next table. Loud and boisterous, it was hard to ignore us as we described our trip and adventures.
Our gregarious behavior got us all an invitation to join them in an evening volleyball game. Off we walked, a consolidated group. “All we’ve bathed in for a week has been salt water. We’d really like a fresh water shower,” said one of the girls. Presto, the gallant new acquaintances invited us to use their showers after volleyball. “Hooray,” I thought. “I can rinse off the salty grit and finally feel clean.”
Volleyball was energetic, if not Olympic caliber. We dove, jumped, served, spiked, and got generally grotty, anticipating the showers. Finally, game over, we trekked to our friends’ rooms. The crew showered in turns, leaving a mountain of damp towels. Scrubbed fresh as newborn babes, we said good-bye, and, wet-headed, wandered down the hill to our dinghy. Back at Le Dauphin, we fixed dinner, planned next day’s sailing, then proceeded north into the Sea of Cortez en route Isla Espiritu Santo, La Paz, and Mulege’.
Sailing in the Sea of Cortez was calmer than on the Pacific Ocean, but mostly we motored as the wind was so slight. I listened to Emmy Lou Harris’ “Blue Kentucky Girl” at the helm, and pondered the books I’d read. I’d finished both of Branden’s books.
We sailed through red tides at night, the fluorescent dolphins cutting across dark water, diving under the boat. We traded canned goods with Mexican fisherman, throwing cans to their boat as they threw us a huge fresh bonito, which I later scaled, filleted, and cooked. One day I spontaneously jumped overboard into the moving dinghy as it floated away, because my knot came loose. The dinghy was headed to mainland Mexico.
We arrived in Mulege’where I left Le Dauphin and the crew, to fly home. The pilot of my plane was fishing in Cabo, so the plane couldn’t leave until he returned--date unknown. Great! Now it was New Year’s Eve and my reservation had been for one night only. My hotel was full, and so needed the room I was evicted. I wandered around town seeking a room at various hotels, and finally took a long walk down a dusty pot-holed “highway.”
The Hotel Mulege’, where the Mulege’ River enters the Sea of Cortez, was a last possibility. I walked along, duffel in one hand, daypack on my shoulders. A car full of young Mexicans raced towards me, swerved at me, forcing me to jump over a drainage ditch into a field. “Ye Gods,” a “chicken” contest? Finally I found a room at the Hotel Mulege’, spending New Year’s Eve sitting by a beehive fireplace in my room, cozy with tea and dinner. Refuge at last.
Two days later the concierge told me the pilot was back, and, hooray, my plane would leave! I snagged a taxi, raced to the air strip and hung out just to be sure. I was relieved when we took off, heading for Ontario, California. Under my breath, I called the pilots all the nasty Spanish swear words at my disposal!
Back home, confidence bolstered by my experiences, I tackled the business of my life. Mostly I sizzled and crackled like ozone-filled air after a lightning strike, with lust for adventure beyond the quotidian. Today, with this adventure to draw upon, I ride a bright merry-go-round, gleefully reaching for the big, brass ring!