Crew Log 239 – Hard Day’s Night

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May 24, 2010 – At Sea, 36º 17’N, 121º 55’W
By Herb McCormick

Regular readers of these crew logs know that I enjoy invoking popular culture and/or golden oldies in this space from time to time, and last night, in one of the bleaker moments of a truly dreary evening, the old Beatles tune “Hard Day’s Night” drifted into mind – it seemed like an apt description of the present situation and the previous 24-hours. After all, it had been a hard night, a hard day and then another hard night. But a more relevant metaphor might’ve been – and I realize I’ve mentioned this before, but when the shoe fits… – the title of a regular segment on the David Letterman show called “Stupid Human Tricks.” If Dave could’ve uploaded a signal, he would’ve seen four downtrodden humans in the midst of something extremely stupid.

How ridiculous was it, pounding headfirst into seas cresting and breaking over Ocean Watch’s bow, while getting punched in the kisser by brisk winds well over 30-knots? On a scale of ten, it felt like twelve. We saw one other boat all night, and their crew had the good sense to be heading south, away from the brunt of the blow. “What are those idiots doing out here on a night like this?” I asked my watch mate Dave Logan, before realizing the question was rhetorical.

Logan shook his head. “Some people…” he replied, as his words, or maybe his very thoughts, were carried away on the wind.

There was a reason, of sorts, for the catastrophe; we were late for an appointment, namely a series of scheduled appearances dockside and at presentations. Because of this, much of the crew who’d been signed on for the Santa Barbara-Monterey leg – including oceanographer Michael Reynolds, shore manager Bryan Reeves and teacher Zeta Strickland – had already been dispatched north via rental car to wend their way up the Pacific Coast Highway to stand in for the boat and the rest of us.

For the core crew of four, that meant the first time we sailed as just a quartet on the entire expedition Around the Americas. We sure picked a divine trip to get to know one another a little better.

It began in Santa Barbara in the wee hours of Sunday morning; twelve hours later, we might as well have been in a Cuisinart. Speaking of the Beatles, the so-called Fab Four, of the four of us on Ocean Watch, I was certainly feeling the least fabulous. After writing yesterday’s edition of the crew log – typing in gales is a hazard in this occupation – I started to experience those tell-tale, queasy signals: sweaty brow, dry mouth, emerging headache. It was all trending in the wrong direction. The last time I used seasickness medication was a good 25-years ago, but this was no time to extend the streak. Lots of guests over the course of our travels have had good luck with the remedy called Stugeron, so I caught Logan’s eye and elaborately described what I had in mind.

“Pills,” I said.

In a jiffy, he came back with a pair. “One now, another in eight hours,” he said. “Eat something with it.” I choked down a wedge of bread slathered with peanut butter. “Good boy,” he concluded.

Thankfully, they did the trick.

And actually, I wasn’t the only one feeling iffy. Continuing our record-breaking ways, last night was also the first time on the entire escapade that nobody stepped forth to make at least the rudiments of a hot meal. Logan did manage to pull a rotisserie chicken out of the fridge and set it on the counter. Now, captain Schrader loves whole chickens more than fleas love dogs, and such a temptation is generally laid to waste in no time flat; the mound of bones left in the aftermath resemble something out of CSI. But not last night. Everyone picked at the thing over the course of the long evening, but there was still plenty for sandwiches left over.

To add insult to injury, the massive high-pressure system stalled to the west, coupled with the stationary low parked over the western states – the source of those compressed and funneled northerly winds raking coastal California – was sending frigid air our way (we understand the 47º in San Francisco was a record low). So, yes, it may have been miserable, but at least it was freezing.

At sunset, a wispy string of high cloud signaled the start of the windiest stretch of the day, with sustained winds over 30-knots gusting as high as forty. I’m struggling to come up with a good adjective for the wave trains, but let’s try “stupendous.” Dusk brought little visual relief; I’d been longing for nightfall so I wouldn’t have to look at the mess anymore but there was a big, bright three-quarter-moon overhead, illuminating the seaway like a floodlight. It resembled Opening Night in Hell.

Through all of this, amazingly, we had cell-phone coverage. And David T, downloading weather from his iPhone, kept promising that if we could just hold on a little longer, things would calm down and smooth out.

Sometime after midnight, finally, wonderfully, that’s what happened.

Logan and I came on watch at 0600 this morning (6 a.m. local) and there was a decided change to the weather. The breeze had indeed moderated and fallen into the 10-knot range, and while the leftover waves were sloppy, the whitecaps had disappeared and everything was in the midst of flattening out. The beaming blue sky of the last several days was now laced with clouds (“Those are your friends,” said Logan). And over there to starboard? Why, that was California.

I’ve driven up and down Route 1 a bunch of times and this is my second time taking it in from sea, but it never fails to amaze me, in crazed, frenetic, freeway-happy California how stark and open and beautiful stands the coastline from Santa Barbara to Monterey Bay. On top of that, a pair of Laysan albatrosses – the only type seen in the far North Pacific – swooped and hovered atop the water, and before long, we were visited by scores of leaping brown porpoises and then watched a series of stately orcas nonchalantly swimming by.

Soon enough, now making 7-8 easy knots instead of 3-5 plodding ones, we were abeam of the noble lighthouse marking Point Sur, one of the prettiest places in one of our prettiest states. Monterey was just a few hours away.

Who would have thought it? The Hard Day’s Night had a sequel after all. The Gorgeous Day’s Morning had begun.

-Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson

*This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

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