Day 41-44 of the 2nd Voyage: In which it’s one step forward and two steps back but at least we’re 100 miles closer to our destination.

Richard the Mechanic returned on Saturday with the transmission in tow and the “smoking gun” in a small sandwich baggie. It seems that inside the valve that feeds the oil into the transmission was a cylindrical object with another cylindrical object inside it and a spring. Now there should definitely be a cylindrical object inside there as it regulates the flow of oil; but the object(s) inside ours were squatters. The general consensus now is that when the previous owner was having transmission trouble, his mechanic identified this same valve problem and went to replace the part...only he either did not have or could not get the part so he took the part off of a different model and “made it fit”. And much like me trying to stow eight bottles of wine in a space built for six and wondering why it suddenly smells “vineyardy” after a rough voyage, sometimes “making it fit” can have less than stellar results. Of course this mechanic—being an overachiever—actually made two things “fit”: the outer casing of the part was too long so it was squished in till it actually bent, while the inner casing was not long enough so a spring was added to fill up the space. End result? A “design” that not only hindered oil flow, it hindered future mechanics from fixing the problem by being wedged in there so tight. But unwedge it Richard did and when the transmission with its new, model-correct part was finally reinstalled, it passed its sea trials with flying colors—maintaining proper PSI and not leaking, spewing, or spitting fluid of any kind. With tentative optimism, we planned to set out the next day.

 

 

Pictured: A trifecta of trouble.

Not Pictured: The transmission it belongs to cuz it definitely ain't ours!

 

Santa Cruz to Monterey: It was just a three-hour jaunt across the bay and served more for confidence-boosting than anything else but the air was warm, the water smooth, and in spite of the fog it felt good to be underway again. We had no troubles whatsoever—the transmission performed admirably. It would have been a perfect little crossing had it not been for the game of musical slips we got to play at the marina. The nice thing about most marinas, especially those run by a municipal port, is that they will always try to make room for you. Sometimes it works, sometimes you wish you had never asked. I had called ahead to the Port of Monterey for availability and after much thought—during which I could hear the shuffling of papers, the clicking of a computer keyboard, and the hum of other voices—I was told “H1. It’s all the way down at the end nearest to the harbor wall where they offload the fish. It’s a bit shorter than you so you’ll stick out a bit. And you may want to put out fenders on both sides.” Wait. What? That didn’t sound good. When we finally got in to the marina, we found “H” dock and headed down, way down, and there at the end was the largest purse seiner fishing boat I’d ever seen squeezed into a marina slip. I called the harbor office and said, “There’s a giant fishing boat in our spot.” “Oh no. Your slip is on the other side of him; in between him and the wall. You’ll want to watch his stern—it’s sticking out a bit—but you can do it.” I’m glad he’s so confident in our abilities. But that stern that was sticking out? Try jutting out twenty feet into the waterway—like a big, steel Cape Horn. And when the Captain finally rounded it, the “slip” turned out to be a small area of fetid water with creosote pilings on one side, a small finger dock with sea lion barriers on the other side, and about two cleats for the whole thing. Oh, hell no. I called the harbor back. “This won’t work. What else you got?” More paper shuffling, more murmurs. “Okay. Go back out to the entrance and come back again to “A” dock, there’s room along the end tie. But do us a favor and back in. Oh, and go as far south along the dock as you can.” Okay. We head out of “H” and find “A” dock. I call the harbor office again. “Um, yeah. About ‘A’ dock. There’s a schooner there already. If we dock in front of him, we’ll be sticking out into the waterway.” There’s a pause and then he says, “Wait. How big are you again? What’s on ‘A’? A boat?” At this point I’m beginning to get the feeling this guy has lost control of his marina. I look over at “B” dock and say, “B end tie is empty. Can we have “B?” Another pause and then, “Oh, ‘B’ is empty? Yeah, why don’t you go head and tie up on ‘B’—that’ll work.” After we got squared away, I went up to the office and he remarked. “I’m pretty sure you could have gotten into H1 with some fancy maneuvering.” “Probably,” I said, “But I didn’t want to disturb the sea lions. They were doing such a great job of totally ignoring your barriers. Besides, ‘B’ will work perfectly.” “Oh. ‘B’ was open?” Sheesh.

Monterey to San Simeon: It was a long 12-hour slog, but we finally reached San Simeon right at sunset. There’s nothing there—just a short dock for the day-trippers heading up to Hearst Castle—and unfortunately, “nothing” also pertained to the lighted buoys that were supposed to be there to indicate the best places to anchor (as in, “here are the rocks so don’t anchor here”). Without any guides (and no other boats), we had to guesstimate the best place to drop anchor. The good news is that it was an excellent anchoring. The bad news is that we were a little farther out than maybe we could have been and the wind was coming from the south which, since the harbor is not protected from the south, meant rolly (very, very rolly) conditions all night. And big side-to-side action is not conducive to a good night’s sleep. Luckily the next day’s journey was not that long.

Pictured: The sun setting on the San Simeon anchorage.

Not Pictured: The large kelp beds that you must navigate to get in (trust me, I'm going somewhere with this.)

 

Pictured: The Deck Boss doing battle with the flies that congregate on aforementioned kelp beds and seek refuge on our boat (see?)

Not Pictured: The carnage. The Deck Boss has a mean swat.

 

 

San Simeon to Morro Bay: A mere three-hour trip—the highlight of which was crossing through a pod of about a hundred dolphins! —and one we were glad to make in the daylight. If you’re not familiar with Morro Bay, “morro” is Spanish for “rock” and there is a giant rock right at the entrance to the harbor (seriously, look it up—it’s a giant 530 foot tall rock) with a seawall stretching out and nearly meeting a breakwater stretching from the other shore. Great waves break on either side and in the middle of the seawall and the breakwater is a narrow entrance where you must cross a bar. A bar is a big mass of sand that accumulates at the entrance of a river or harbor and if you don’t cross them at the right time, you can get stuck. And that’s embarrassing when it's a minor "stuck", and boat destroying if it’s major. But the Captain cleared the bar like a pro, navigated the twisty turny channel, and performed a tricky docking. Good spirits all around—until a clunking noise was heard coming from the engine…

Pictured: Morro Rock ~ English Translation: Rock Rock

Not Pictured: Sense