Nothing Ventured: For All Adventure Lovers Who Want to Cross that Last Frontier

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Chapter 1

I’ve always known I was born a hundred years too late and the wrong sex—a shame, really, for I was certain I’d have been a natural at crossing the plains in a covered wagon!

My husband Ted and I were teachers, and we lived with our three youngest children, Bonnie, Terri, and Dan, in Arizona—the Last Frontier. During our vacations we explored by travel trailer a great deal of Indian territory, often winding up—usually by accident—in spots where surely no white man had ever before set foot. Sometime during those years we’d have loved to find Cochise standing one day in our doorway, instead of the inevitable tourist asking directions; but that could happen only in the Twilight Zone.

Somehow we conceived the idea of buying a sailboat and going on from where the covered wagons left off: at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Ted knew how to sail, and he’d always dreamed of doing something like this, so we began looking for a boat. Due to our ignorance of boat quality, we purchased an expensive but totally inadequate sailboat which we named Santa Maria. It certainly did not have blue-water sailing capabilities, we soon discovered.

And then came another blow in the form of the arrival of some kind of maritime tax bill for $600. We had to pay it, which was not easy as we had no income at the time. We soon sold the Santa Maria at a substantial loss and vowed to be more careful henceforth and not get caught up in any future tax traps – as Edgar Allan Poe wrote in a poem of his, Quothe the Raven ‘Nevermore.’

Then suddenly our Ted was gone, killed by cancer, leaving behind four greenhorns who barely knew a sailboat from a steam shovel. Though already a grandmother, I couldn’t just sit and rock alone on the front porch, even in beautiful Sedona. Of course, we could all drown at sea, but that would beat dying slowly of boredom and loneliness—and the children, young adults now, were ready for adventure.

It began to look as if our sailing days were over before they even began. However, the children, young adults now, were ready for adventure. So we tried again. In Los Angeles we found a good-looking Islander ’37. After a thorough investigation we bought it and named it Rising Sun. It turned out to be an excellent boat. Soon we’d be off under sail into the wild blue-water yonder!

We bought a sextant, tools, and manuals, and took all the seafaring courses offered. Bonnie and Terri would crew, I’d navigate, and Danny, at eighteen, would become one of the youngest—and most inexperienced—sea captains. We were about to live Teddy’s life dream for him or die trying, which, in point of fact, we very nearly did eventually.

Weekends we practiced sailing to nearby Catalina Island. A fellow yachtsman accompanied us on our first trip over, leading the way. Low fog suddenly developed and, scared spitless, we turned right around in the L.A. Channel, leaving our friend wondering what happened to us. We made it the next time but arrived late and had to find and pick up our first whisker pole (mooring buoy) in Cherry Cove in darkness; hairy for us, but we did it.

After that we had no trouble with Catalina crossings until one evening when, returning under sail (our engine was overheating) through that long channel, we noticed a huge freighter about to dock just ahead of us. We easily sailed between her and the pier and continued on. Soon we heard, to our dismay, the siren of a police patrol boat and saw its blue light flashing as it rapidly closed with us. Having his hands full at the moment, the officer asked the location of our slip. I’ll see you there tonight, he assured us, and of course he kept his promise. Cops are invariably bad news when they flag you down, either by land or by sea, but this one was different. The freighter had miscalculated and almost climbed onto the pier, wiping out yards of pilings, etc., to the tune of astronomical damages. The pilot blamed it on his attempt to avoid the little sailboat and was threatening legal action, until the patrolman pointed out that any dodging (of us) would have been in the opposite direction, which settled a matter or two. So don’t let anyone tell you there’s never a cop around when you need one!

Later we learned that in early spring of each year the maritime tax men walk the docks of yacht marinas levying taxes based on the approximate value of each boat. Due to our previous experience, we realized ours would be very high, as there was no comparison between the Santa Maria and Rising Sun. We also found out that only those boats present in their slips in the marina at that time would be taxed. It was crucial, due to the tax situation, that we be under way at that time. Our course of action became obvious.

The basics finally completed, we set to work in earnest, knowing we had to complete the fitting out of Rising Sun by late February. It was crucial, due to family commitments in San Diego, that we be under way at that time. Before we realized it, the deadline was upon us. We had to leave, even though the boat wasn’t quite ready. The owner of our marina, an elderly Dutchman named Hans, a former inmate of Dachau, a Nazi concentration camp in WWII, happened to be on hand to watch us leave. We knew he understood, and would even remove Rising Sun’s name from the roster of yachts if need be. So, accordingly, at dawn on March first we cast off. We had trouble enough backing out of our slip, never mind negotiating the channel, and the open sea was a nightmare! Small craft warnings were flying, and understandably no other sailboats had ventured forth. We were, like Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, Alone, alone, all all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea; and never a saint took pity on our souls in agony.

Not so, actually. Behind us a patrol boat was coming up to help. We reassured him, smiled bravely, and sailed on. A miserable hour passed, then two, and suddenly a huge navy helicopter was hovering overhead, a gesturing orange-clad crewman visible in its doorway. We gave him the thumbs-up sign.

We’d been traveling south fast on bare poles; no canvas up, obviously. I was at the helm, getting continually drenched by waves coming aboard, and throwing up my boots over the side, but still clutching the wheel. The others were rolled up tighter than fortune cookies on the bunks below. Just before dusk a small plane appeared and circled low. Again the query: were we in trouble? You bet we were! But we’d come this far, and somehow we’d go on. We waved cheerily.

We passed an indescribable night on that pitching sea, but dawn came at last, and the storm abated. Inexperienced, we had failed to store our provisions properly, and Rising Sun’s interior was a shambles! Flour, coffee, syrup, mayonnaise, fresh fruit, etc., were intermingled in a nauseating paste on the cabin sole. Embedded in the gooey mess were our books and charts, the latest arrivals on the scene after the collapse of a newly-installed shelf.

We cleaned up the cabin while continuing to sail south. We were looking for an inconspicuous little island behind which we could drop anchor and stay for a few days. We found one and did just that. After all, the boat was totally self-sufficient, always carrying food, water, books to read, games to play, etc. After four days we sailed forth and returned to our slip in our marina. Our first question upon disembarking was, Have the tax men walked the docks yet?

Yes, they left yesterday, we were told.

Hallelujah! Home free! We settled in again, and after a couple of months we really left, en route to Hawaii.

Chapter 2

First there were necessary chores. For days we women sorted, inventoried, labeled, and dipped (in varnish) stacks of canned goods and repackaged assorted groceries, while Dan checked the equipment. Finally all was ready, and we were Honolulu-bound.

The four of us plus mascot Son Chan, aboard Rising Sun prior to departure.

In the open ocean we were confronted by strong winds, smashing seas, and an overcast. We heeled far to port, and everything fell off the starboard shelves I had proudly installed in my V-berth, landing on top of me in bed. Netting and shock cords were a must. (The V-berth is the one farthest forward inside a boat, and its contour corresponds to the bow; hence the V shape.) The bathroom floor got very wet, and Danny tried out our new bilge pump, without much success.

Those first days continued bad. The unusual overcast permitted only occasional sextant shots, and the seas remained rough. Terri stayed in bed, seasick and miserable. The bathroom flooding spread onto the cabin sole, soaking our nice new carpet and squishing underfoot. Our low-voltage lights were very dim, despite frequent use of the Honda generator.

Preparing meals was a juggling act. Lettuce heads and cabbage, tomatoes and potatoes, fruit, eggs, etc., rolled in every direction; impossible to catch when the cook (me) had her hands full just standing upright! (Later I added a strong, bolted-down galley safety harness.) One day a full saucepan completely disappeared, turning up later wedged behind our gimbaled stove, which had swung forward with a jerk; an irresistible escape route for the missing pot of spinach. Obviously we needed a back rail (as well as the front and sides provided) on our˝ stove.

Dan said that this was without doubt the most uncomfortable method of travel ever invented. You got that right! muttered Terri from her bunk. Bonnie, ever the optimist, told him it MUST get better or no one would ever sail anywhere!

Four days out, the weather began to improve. We dried our carpet and damp bedding on deck, I cleaned up the cabin, and Terri got well. Only one fly in the ointment remained: despite Dan’s continuous running of the generator, our cabin lights fizzled out completely that night. There was nothing for us but to dine on canned food in the dark—and I inadvertently spilled bean soup on Terri’s head—and retire. Preparing for bed at the best of times is not easy. If the boat lurches, you can find your toothbrush halfway down your throat, for example. Without light everything is twice as difficult. Also, day or night, you have the ever-present unending