(By the way, I've lost track of the dates, so what you see at the top of these several posts for the month of October may be off by a day or three.)
I dragged my folding bicycle out of the forepeak and put her in commission for the first time since Seattle. This subject had often been a matter of entertainment for my old crew, Jim, who liked to hint that I should haul it out of storage every time I hit port. The implied question was, of course, "Why in the heck had I brought it along in the first place?" Well, now it seemed a useful enterprise, so I hoisted it over the lifelines and onto the dock, oiled various critical moving parts so that they would, in fact, actually move, did up the quick-acting locking bolts that kept it shaped like a bicycle, mounted the saddlebags, and off I went.
This utility gave me the wherewithal to get to grocery and marine hardware stores, a bike parts shop (for parts that, in fact, did NOT move any longer), and various other destinations with relative efficiency. Most importantly, I could resume my morning routine of coffee with internet and a roll at a nearby Starbucks.
Eventually I got tired of paying for dockage, so arranged reciprocal moorage at Chula Vista Yacht Club. CVYC is WAY down at the far end of the bay, but Baja Ha-Ha-ers with more energy for planning that I had had already soaked up all the available spots in the main bay around Shelter and Harbor Islands. I didn't really mind, even though it drew me away from the center of Ha Ha activity for awhile. I'd lived on Mabrouka down there for a little while back in '99 (Wow, that sounds like such an ancient turn of phrase and makes me sound ancient, too.) so it was a familiar trip down another lane of memory.
I attempted to enjoy the sunny day by sailing down the bay, but that started to be unsuccessful toward the end of Harbor Island, so I furled the genny and motored past downtown. A nice breeze puffed its way back into existence soon after I passed under the Coronado bridge, so out went the genny again and I had a somewhat boisterous sail the rest of the way. It was a fun challenge jogging this way and that, with even a couple of ninety degree turns down the narrow channel that had been dredged toward Chula Vista through the shallows of the back bay.
This took me past my old employer, National Steel and Shipbuilding Company, where I could see from the multiple ships under construction that they were enjoying prosperous times. Then it was past more than a mile of naval vessels in different states of layup, and finally to the end of the channel where I had to start my engine and douse my sails before entering the marina.
Even in the day time entering a strange marina can be like trying to hit a piñata. You put on your blindfold and swing when everyone yells, "Swing!", but they jerk the damned thing up and down so that connecting your skinny little bat with it is almost impossible.
CVYC was in a part of the marina I wasn't familiar with, so I was captive to the yacht club commodore's advice on the approach. I could come in bow first and then either back out or turn around to exit when I left, or I could back in upon entry, thus positioning myself for a convenient exit. When I cross-examined him on available maneuvering space for coming in bow first and turning around for a bow out exit, he replied that he'd certainly seen many 50 ft boats come in and turn around in the fairway.
Well, I'm pretty confident in my ability to maneuver Mabrouka in tight spaces as long as I don't have much wind or current to deal with, so I went for the last option. After all, if other fifty footers could do it, so could I. Nosing around the corner, my heart sank a bit. Apparently he'd failed to mention that those fifty footers had had two engines and a bow thruster. The fairway was only about 60 or 65 feet wide.
I felt committed and put my pride on the line by proceeding to maneuver Mabrouka in a tight pirouette, backing and filling and backing and filling her in a one-eighty that made the adjacent residents only slightly nervous. Though almost unnoticeable, there was a little breeze that pushed me deeper and deeper into Doomsville as I worked. I even turned down offers from the dock to receive thrown mooring lines, having learned that giving even partial control of my boat to unknown dock-bound skills often makes things worse. Finally turned around and with my adrenaline back down to normal levels, I pulled forward, then backed down one more time to position myself for a final, gently angled approach to the dock. Mabrouka and the neighbors were safe and I accepted gracious compliments for a job well done. It was gratifying to have this display of helmsmanship become a matter of several amazed conversations over the next day or so.
I only thought to myself, "Whew! I managed to pull that one off."