The Last Sail

Story by Welton Rotz

We had been waiting a long time for a perfect day to sail. As usual, the summer winds in the San Francisco Bay area were strong and gusty, but I told my friend Tim that October would bring good sailing weather.

Tim has an older, bigger racer-cruiser with wheel steering and a high-aspect sail design—a design primarily for upwind sailing. (After all, isn’t that the way you win races?) He wanted to experience small-boat sailing. My physical condition—numbness and loss of strength in my hands and feet—has kept me from sailing for over two years. I, too, was looking forward to sailing with somebody who could do all the work.

Last Saturday was the perfect day. My small 15-foot sailboat, Test Bed, was ready to go. We launched at the Richmond Harbor ramp, about 10:30 a.m. behind all the weekend powerboat fishermen who were eager to get out on the water. The tide was high, the ramp down to the dock was easy for my walker, and it was a beautiful day. I had mounted “grab poles” to help me get on and off the boat.  Tim did all the work of rigging the standing lug sail. I could see he was impressed by the ease of rigging, the mast just dropped into place and was ready to go. The lug sail has only three lines: a halyard to raise the sail, a downhaul attached the tack clew to tighten the leading edge of the sail, and a sheet to control the set of the sail.

I took the helm, Tim cast off, and after two quick tacks and close miss of the end of the next pier, we were on to open water. Only a sailor knows the joy to be sailing again. Tim adjusted the curve of the sail by the tension on the downhaul for close-hauled or off-wind tacks. I demonstrated how to change the rake of the mast by the simple moving of a wedge.  Tim’s grin confirmed his enjoyment of small-boat sailing.

I passed the helm to Tim. It didn’t take long for him to learn the use of a tiller. He was impressed by the quick response of a centerboard boat. The wind was a perfect eight knots, gentle with no gusts, but strong enough to fill the sail and give us a noticeable wake. Tim experimented with how close the boat would point. On off-wind tacks, he was surprised at how fast the boat traveled. He admitted that his boat didn’t do as well off the wind.

This was a good day, a good sail, and Tim was a good sailor. I sat back, stretched out my legs, and let the memories and images begin to flow. Perhaps Test Bed was talking to me. Once, years ago, while sailing on a high Sierra lake, I had difficulty staying with the wind, which kept changing direction. A few days later, hiking on the ridge above the lake, I looked down and saw the pattern of the wind on the lake’s surface. The wind riffles looked like an asterisk printed on the water as the downward wind hit the lake and separated into many different directions.   

Meeting the challenges of the wind as well as the complexities of waterways is one of the reasons I love to gunkhole. I have sailed alone, with my dog, and often with friends. Over the years I have sailed many of the backwaters in Northern California, but sailing the tidal rivers has been the most enjoyable.  The Napa River above the city is not considered navigable so there are no bridge clearance numbers posted. Once, sailing at about half tide, my mast was able to clear the 3rd Street Bridge and just cleared the 2nd Street Bridge. However, I knew I would have to drop my mast for the next bridge. I surprised a Green Heron fishing along the river bank. They’re about the size of a sea gull, but elusive and seldom seen. When it did see me, it quickly disappeared into the shore grasses.

I sailed on with the incoming tide until I bottomed out. The tide turned. Both the dog and I stepped out to relieve ourselves. I placed a stick in the mud at the edge of the water to check the movement of the tide. When I returned to the boat, I was surprised at how much and how fast the water had dropped. Quickly turning the boat around, a difficult job now that the boat was aground, I headed downriver. The Green Heron has remained elusive to me.

Another gunkholing river was on the Estero Americano which drains the vast ranch land of West Marin, north of San Francisco. With permission from the rancher to cross his land, I followed the creek in my pickup and boat trailer, towards the ocean until it was wide enough and deep enough to launch my boat. The rancher had never seen a sailboat on the Estero, only an occasional canoe or kayak. It was early morning, the light breeze followed the meandering course of the Estero through the hills. I had to start the outboard. If the wind picked up in the afternoon, it would be a great sail back. After awhile I tired of the sound of the motor and ran the boat up on the bank. The hike to the top of the hill passed through a carpet of wildflowers. At the top, as far as the eye could see, were blue and yellow and red and white flowers. It had been a wet spring and the flowers responded.  Below me, the Estero snaked west to the ocean.  

The mouth of the Estero was almost blocked by sand, creating a small lake with sandy beaches.  There was not a person in sight. Nor had there been for a long time. The heavy winter rains had washed out the footpath down to the beach from the headland trail. I was completely alone, another joy of gunkholing. The wind did pick up and the sail back was faster than traveling by outboard.

Of all my gunkholing experiences, my favorites were exploring the tidal rivers on the Mendocino Coast.  For two summers in the 1980s I lived in Mendocino while teaching stone carving at the Mendocino Art Center.  Of all the rivers, Big River was my favorite. There is a flat, hard sand beach just upriver from the ocean surf, that makes a good launching site. The beach is part of the remains of the old logging industry and saw mill. There are numerous pilings, and a huge rusting wrought iron chain used to anchor a log boom, or a ship, or who knows what. The best way to experience the river is to start in the morning, catch the incoming tide, and sail with the onshore wind. The tide flows upriver for about 8 miles.  Some places the river widens out to flow through marshes along the edge. Then it narrows to where the tree branches almost touch across the water. In one of these narrow places is the remains of an old splash dam. These dams were used to raise the water level in the river so the harvested redwood logs could be floated downstream. In the summer, the dams were dynamited open to allow the collection of giant logs to roar down river, to be caught by a log boom at the sawmill. This, of course, was an ecological disaster. The rushing water and the logs tore out everything in their path. There has been no logging in this area since the early 1930s. It is good to see the river healing and returning to its pristine state.

After a few hours of sailing upriver, the lifting incoming tide is almost spent. The onshore wind is also softening. It was here in Mendocino that I added the tops’l to my rig to catch the winds higher up. The river flows out of a large meadow. The meadow was built up by the runoff from clear-cutting the forests on the surrounding hills in the late 1800s. The river narrows, the boat brushes along the grass on both sides. This is as far up river as I can travel.  

The only way to return is to lift the bow up on the grass and swing the boat around. I remember to lift with my legs, not my back. In the water, I see a large fish continuing upstream. Maybe it is a salmon. I sit on the bow for a little rest. There are no man made sounds, no roads, no power lines. Time stands still. Or better yet, time seems to stack up, layer upon layer. It’s almost like stacks of movie film which had been recorded and shown, and are now waiting to be viewed again. One image is the time of the logging of the giant redwoods, wood to be used for building the ornate Victorian homes in San Francisco. Before the logging was the time of the Pomo who called this their land. Their homes were located far enough inland to be out of the coastal fog, enjoying the same sun that I too am feeling now. And back and back in time until time seemed to circle around to the present. The fish have returned and now even the redwoods have regrown. Maybe not the giant first growth of before, but tall, hundred year old trees.  

I become aware of a new sound, the trickle of water flowing. The tide has turned and it is time for me to finish turning the boat around and head downriver. I wish that there was a better sounding name for this sailing experience than “gunkholing.”

Tim was doing a great job of sailing. I set the memories aside. The afternoon winds were just picking up. It was time to head in. The day had given Tim many new experiences sailing a small boat. There was one more I would like to share with him.  He was accustomed to having his sail’s sheets cleated down. On a long tack the length of the harbor, I released the sail sheet from the jam cleat and placed the line in Tim’s hand. 

Already, as I write this, the memory of the rest of the day is fading. When Tim and I returned to the dock, as hard as I tried, I was unable to get out of the boat. I had very little control and strength in my legs. With the help of three fishermen, Tim was able to get me up on the dock to my walker. Test Bed has been washed down and put away. Our 40 years of sailing together is over.

It was a perfect day for my last sail.

Keep one hand on the tiller, and hold the sheet in the other hand.
Through the tiller and the rudder, you have touched all the waters of the world.
By holding the sheet, and controlling the sail, you have made contact with the
currents and the winds of the earth’s air.

You are in control of these two great fluids of the earth.
You are the captain of your ship. This is co-creating with the earth.
Feel the power between your hands, between your arms, and across your chest.
Let this power flow through your heart, and claim it as your own.

•SCA•

First appeared in issue #134