The Raven Odyssey: Day 21 of the 2nd Voyage: In which everything goes perfectly until it doesn’t.

Bodega Bay to Half Moon Bay: The day couldn’t have started out better: cool but not cold, dewy but not foggy, shifting but not just in one direction. Now able to go both forward and backward, we eased out of the slip and headed toward the channel—a 9-hour journey ahead of us to Half Moon Bay. The initial passage out was rough but once we got out about five miles and turned south, the sea calmed down, the sun shone bright, and the temperature shot up. The next eight hours were spent kicking back on deck, tweaking the autopilot every now and then, taking the occasional cat nap, and scanning the horizon for obstacles. Editor’s Note: A typical obstacle is a crab pot. Whereas we had a few of those, our other obstacle was MSC Line’s 1000-foot Arianne. It’s rare that a large container ship is the “obstacle” but when they’re only going 3 knots and you’re going 8, it turns into an interesting game of “chicken”. Technically we could have safely crossed their bow with plenty of room, but didn’t want to inadvertently end up the bug on their windshield. We could tell they were concerned; they just had the hull waxed.

We reached Half Moon Bay a little before 5:00 pm and as I’m preparing lines and fenders, I hear “whale!” and sure enough, about 200 yards away is a humpback whale swimming back and forth between the buoys. He’s sending up sprays and lolling along the surface and finally gives us “the tail” as he dives deep. It was pretty freaking cool! But I had work to do. There was a docking to be done and I was not going to mess it up. We made our way into the Pillar Point Harbor Marina—past the long breakwaters bright white with bird poop from the hundreds, nay thousands, of pelicans, seagulls, and assorted waterfowl that make these rocks their home—and found our berth, a side tie at the end of “H” dock. The Captain made his approach, turned us around for a starboard side tie and…no gears. No forward. No reverse. He immediately released and set the anchor in an effort to keep us from drifting toward the breakwater while I called for assistance on the VHF. We waited. And waited. The stern was starting to drift dangerously close to the poopy-white rocks. I got on the VHF again and implored them to come right away. I told them, “We’ve set an anchor, but the wind is driving the stern toward the rocks. If you could please come right away that would be … lovely.” Lovely? Granted, I was under stress. I was trying to convey the urgency of the situation while watching the rocks get closer and closer. I panicked. I froze. But lovely? Even I wanted to slap me. But help did arrive in the guise of Chris and Bo of the Pillar Point Harbor Patrol and they were able to push us toward and alongside the dock so we could get tied off. They were friendly, professional, and didn’t make us feel awkward for the situation we were in. They were lovely.

Once we got tied off, the Captain went below to the engine room and came back with a prognosis. The immediate problem was a nut that had come off that was allowing the reverse gear to disengage. This had triggered a larger problem with the gear settings in general. The Captain was able to fix the reverse gear and adjust the settings so that once again we had full functionality. We would be able to continue our journey the next morning.

Which leads me to the neighbors. The only spot the marina had available that was large enough for us was in the commercial/derelict section. We never mind the commercial docks and rather like the rattle and hum of the working boats, but derelict is something different. About a quarter of the boats on “H” dock are derelict—some sailboats, some power, some commercial. They are green with mildew, caked in bird poop, and look like they’d sink to the bottom as soon as you untied them. It always makes me sad to see boats in this condition. You know they were bought with the best intentions, but when life gets in the way, the boat is usually the first to be neglected.

But these are not the neighbors that I speak of—they don’t bitch, complain, argue, or jostle for space. There’s a “fine” boat in the slip next to us (and by “fine” I mean condemned) and on the other side of it is a finger dock that has been commandeered by the local sea lion community. At any given time there are at least eight of the beasts lumped one on top of the other vying for the best part of the dock (which I’m assuming is the part not sinking into the harbor under the weight of eight grumpy sea lions or perhaps it is and they want to be the first to desert the sinking dock when it finally gives way.) They bark and ark and orf and oof and belch and growl pretty much non-stop. As soon it starts to quiet down over there, a new sea lion swims up and tries to hop on and the symphony of bitching starts all over again. And they stink. Did I mention they stink? At first we thought it was the guano from the hundreds, nay thousands, of birds perched on their poopy white rock walls, but they got nothing on the sea lions. They put out a stink that’ll curl your hair if it doesn’t fall out first. I looked it up and a group of sea lions is called a “raft”. Guess that’s appropriate if a raft is four feet high, smells like a cesspool, and sinks like a brick.

So we ended the evening on the back deck—drinking beer, swatting at flies, holding our noses, and trying to talk over the cacophony one slip over—and hoped that the next day would bring a better outcome.