Day 7 of the 2nd Voyage: In which chaos turns to calm, bypasses cool and collected altogether, and goes right back to chaos again.

Coos Bay to Brookings: On their website, the Oregon Coast Visitors Association waxes poetic about Coos Bay with its “beautiful dunes and lovely beaches”. Apparently, someone forgot to tell the residents that there was a “lovely beach” nearby because half the town had dragged their lawn chairs, crab pots and boom boxes down to the marina and out on the docks. Editors’ Note: marinas aren’t exactly the cleanest bodies of water. In addition to the inevitable diesel and oil spillage, some people don’t exactly obey the “no pumping” rules (yes, it is what you think), making marinas veritable petri dishes of fonk. Crab may be bottom feeders, but it’s best to avoid the “bottom” feeders. At any rate, when we arrived in Charleston Boat Basin Marina the day before, we found ourselves having to dodge people, dogs, beach blankets, buckets of bait, coolers, and all manner of crab traps and fishing gear just to get Raven alongside the dock and tied off. We narrowly missed side swiping a small child with a fishing pole because he was spending too much time pointing at us and saying “big boat!” and not enough time listening to his mother scream at him to “move!”

Now either the crab weren’t there (it was Labor Day weekend—maybe they were at a “lovely beach”) or they just weren’t falling for the old “Friskies canned cat food inside a metal cage” ruse anymore, but when the pots came up empty, people looked around for a diversion—and we found ourselves the unlikely center of attention. So the rest of the afternoon saw a steady stream of people looking at the boat, asking questions, and gawking through the portholes. Thank goodness for dusk and no dock lights—by early evening, the last of the diehard crabbers had folded up their lawn chairs and left.

The following morning was peaceful. Apparently nobody crabs on Mondays—even if it’s a holiday. So in the early morning quiet we cast off—bound for Eureka. At least that was the plan. About five hours into the journey, we hit our first gale. Editor’s Note: According to the Beaufort Wind Scale, we actually ran into a “Strong Breeze” which is characterized by sustained winds of 22-27 knots (25-31 mph), 8-13 foot waves, and gusts strong enough to bounce the boat completely off course. They went with “Strong Breeze” to placate the novice sailor because “Poop Your Pants” would’ve instigated a mutiny.

We tried putting up the genoa (a sail up front, not the convention) to smooth out the ride but we may as well have hung out our laundry for all the good it did, and after an errant gust of wind caused it to jibe (slam to the other side with extreme force and foul language) one more time, it was brought down. After three hours of being jostled about in the wind and waves, we decided to forgo our plans to reach Eureka and tuck into Brookings instead. It would give us a chance to gather our wits about us, put the boat back together, and get a good night’s sleep. We would head out to Eureka in the morning when the weather forecast called for somewhat gentler conditions. Famous last words.

Pictured: Eight-foot wave directly in front of us aka "Strong Breeze"

Not Pictured: Pooping Pants