Overcoming the Char-hell-ston Malaise

"Welcome to hell."

Hell? I knew Charleston had its flaws, but this was the first time a local had put it in those terms.

After much deliberation, Kyle and I had come to the decision that we'd leave La Mouette in Oregon for the winter and continue south by land, bound for San Diego. As that was our original "first" destination, it only seemed fitting that we still aim for it, regardless of our mode of transport.

La Mouette will winter in Charleston, with further decisions concerning her fate to be put off until the spring. She may reside in Oregon for some time longer than that, or we may transport her back to the Puget Sound when the weather favors our endeavors a bit more. Regardless, it may be years before she tastes the salt off the Australian coast.

Before leaving her, though, she needed to be readied for the stay. The first thing was to get her off of the transient dock and into more permanent mooring.

Having no engine, we enlisted Randy's help in moving her about the marina. He kindly dropped his dinghy in the water, attached the outboard motor, and lashed onto La Mouette's starboard side.

The weather had been gusty and rainy all day, but it seemed to be clearing up, giving us a chance to get La Mouette moved.

I readied the mainsail, so I wouldn't be caught helpless if the dinghy motor died, and moved to take the tiller. Kyle, who was going to walk to the new slip to meet us and catch the lines, undid the dock lines and tossed them aboard as Randy kicked the engine into gear.

I swung the tiller hard over to bring La Mouette's nose around, but got no response, and instead looked on in horror as the current dragged us towards another finger dock, with its accompanying metal pylons that La Mouette knew all too well.

I yelled for Randy to try and maneuver us with the dinghy, and he jammed the throttle up, managing to drag us just clear of the dock and into the open.

As our boat speed increased, I finally got some rudder control and was able to steer us off of the transient dock towards our new slip.

Thankfully everything went smoothly from there, though Randy did get soaked as the waves broke over the gunwales of his dinghy.

I did get a bit of a scare as we approached our new slip at low tide and I glanced over the side to see the rocky bottom appearing dangerously close to the surface.

Nothing is quite so frightening on a sailboat as looking down to see clearly defined ground lurking beneath the water.

I crossed my fingers and steered on, and we managed to get La Mouette safely to her new home on G dock, just in time for a gusty downpour to roll in.

We'd just made the only window that would open in the weather all day. Huzzah.

All that remained was to pack up what we wished to take with us, get all of her vulnerable external gear (sails, life raft, etc.) tucked safely inside, and rig up auto bilge pumps (to monitor the water level of the bilge and pump it out without any human presence necessary).

On the last trip to the marine supply store, I was chatting it up with one of the salesman when I mentioned that our trip south had stalled and La Mouette was to be a resident of Charleston for the foreseeable future.

"Welcome to hell," he cheerily replied.

A few moments later, as I rang up some items with a different salesmen and told him of La Mouette's engine woes, I heard it a second time.

"Welcome to hell." This time less cheery.

I guess the locals know how awful it is after all.

Once we had what was needed to button up the boat, it was decided that I would head to Eugene to secure a rental car while Kyle would finalize La Mouette's winterization.

I made a call to the taxi company to have a car pick me up at the marina at 7:15 the next morning, Wednesday, November 4th, to transport me to a bus station in Coos Bay, a town about 10 or 12 miles away.

"7:15 tomorrow morning at the marina complex," the driver confirmed before hanging up.

Excellent. Only one more night in Crabvolkia.

(Although, to be fair, life on our new dock was pretty good. We were in a separate marina basin, and no crab folk ventured that way. It was clean and out of the way.

One guy, who the security guard jokingly referred to as the "admiral of the dock," stopped by the boat to warn me to keep it locked up when I wasn't around.

"Watch out of the tweakers!" he warned.

Oh, trust me, I always do.

I took a few moments to talk with him, as I wanted to know of any potential threats to La Mouette's safety, but his story began to stray from sensible warning into absurdity.

"You see this?" he asked as he rolled up his sleeve, pointing at what looked like a needle scar. "They did this to me. The cops found me wandering down the road spouting gibberish. I don't remember a thing!"

Maybe he was telling the truth. But maybe he was what he was warning me against, and his trip over was a good way to scan the boat for booty.

I told him that if the tweakers wanted a couple of old boat cushions, they were welcome to them. Of course, there was more to take than that, but no need to let the admiral in on it.)

On the morning of the 4th, with only a couple hours of sleep under my lids, I waited in the chill morning air for the taxi.

I'd gotten outside at 7:10, wanting to be ready when it arrived, but by 7:20 there was no cab to be seen. At 7:21, I got a call from the driver.

"Hi. Did you need pick up at the bus station? I'm waiting outside."

"No. I'm going TO the bus station. I need pick up at Charleston Marina Complex."

"Oh, whoops. Guess there was a mix-up. I'll get there as soon as I can."

By 7:30 I was starting get a bit sour. If I can't catch the 8:00 am bus, I can't get another until 1:00 pm and what the hell am I even doing awake?

It was then that I got a call from the driver informing me that he couldn't make it in time and they would have to send a different driver to get me.

The cab finally pulled up at 7:50 (after driving by me once). I jumped in and told him to get me to the bus station by 8:00, if that wasn't too much trouble (which it obviously was).

Now, I'm not really a morning person (I've been described by my father as a mean rattlesnake in the early hours). People who know me well understand that it can be hazardous to speak to me in the morning unless I've specifically addressed you first, especially if I've had very little sleep and have been standing outside in the cold for 40 minutes because of your company's inability to put addresses into computer systems properly.

But the cab driver didn't know me well. So he talked. And my ire grew.

"You know, I had the strangest delivery this morning. Three pregnancy tests and a jug of juice."

Not strange enough to interest me at 8:00 am. Sorry.

"I once delivered a maple bar to a lady. Twelve dollar delivery charge for a two dollar item."

The clock read 7:59 and we weren't even in the town yet. I looked out the window, ignoring him and cooling the morning rage.

Fortunately for me, similar kinds of people to those working at the cab company also worked for the bus depot, and the bus didn't exactly leave on time. Despite arriving late, I was able to get a ticket and board it before it pulled away, allowing me to opt out of bludgeoning the taxi driver to death.

Having spent so many years in Japan, where cell phones are seldom used on public transit for verbal communication, it was a jarring experience to ride on an American bus (especially after basically being cut off from civilization for a couple months).

I generally like some privacy when I'm on the phone, but I guess most bus passengers don't feel the same. One fellow even read his credit card number (3-digit security code and all) aloud while making vacation plans. I didn't feel the need to steal credit card numbers, but it seemed foolish of him to assume that I, or any of the other passengers, would be above such things.

Once I'd arrived in Eugene, I called a friend (who had visited us in Charleston weeks before, expecting to never see me again) who picked me up at the bus station to grab some breakfast. After enough bacon had been consumed, we spent a few hours hanging out and chatting before he drove me to the airport to pick up a rental car, a brand new Nissan Altima.

The rental attendant tried to sell me on the uber insurance, telling me I could return the car in any condition, no questions asked, if I signed up for it. While the idea of totaling a rental car in some ridiculous fashion sounded intriguing, I knew there would be some catch designed to prevent that very occurrence and turned him down.

The first thing that struck me about the car as I approached it was that there wasn't a key, just a wireless remote. That didn't make any sense until I opened the door and saw that there wasn't any keyhole on the steering column, just a round START button on the dash. Huh. I didn't realize that cars had gone to push-button start. No worries. Just push the button.

Which I did. The car's electrical system turned on, but I didn't hear any engine sound or feel any vibration. Hmm... maybe it's a hybrid. I didn't think the Altima was one... but. Shift into gear, accelerate. Nope. Definitely not a hybrid. How the hell do I start this thing? I thought I was technologically savvy!

I'll attribute my troubles to sleep deprivation, because I suddenly realized that a little symbol on the dash readout told me to hold the brake and press the button. Oh. That makes sense.

The car started up smoothly, I adjusted my seat and mirrors, and was off.

It was an amazingly beautiful scenic drive back to the marina, which I pulled into some time after dark. Driving in, I realized how small Charleston really was. When you walk everywhere, places can seem larger than they are, but it took mere seconds to pass through the whole town, literally a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of place.

Having transport for once, we picked Randy up and drove to Coos Bay for a little food not made by the same place we'd eaten at almost every day since arriving. We settled on Chinese. It wasn't special, but at least it was different.

By the time we'd fed and gotten the boat all packed up, it was about midnight. I was pretty tired by this point, but there was no way I was not going to be the one to drive us out of Charleston.

Farewell, sweet La Mouette. Hello, Pacific Coast Highway.

The drive south was amazing, as anyone who has driven the PCH can attest to. Winding through redwood forests, racing along cliffs that drop to the rocky waters below, it was nice to be driving in a new car rather than an old jalopy. I nearly made Kyle ill no some of the sharper hairpin turns and endless s-curves, but I sure had fun.

Our only trouble came from a police officer who didn't believe that Kyle was who his driver's license claimed him to be. Considering I was driving (the speed limit, no less), I was unsure of his fixation on Kyle's I.D.

As his questions continued, it became clear that he suspected us of renting a car in Oregon to bring drugs into California. I'd never been suspected of that before, but given my shaggy, unkempt nature, it wasn't unreasonable for him to consider me a candidate for such behavior.

Apparently reassured by our answers, he left us with the cautionary advice to "slow down. The weather is getting bad."

I looked at the gentle-seeming sky and couldn't help but remind him of my Wisconsin driver's license, and he conceded that none of the local climate could compare to Wisconsin winter's adverse driving conditions.

On Friday, November 6th, we spent the day lazing about at the beach in Ventura, California. Venture is just south of Point Conception (California's elbow), the point on the sailing trip we'd been dreaming of, when the Northern Pacific violence gives way to SoCal sunshine.

It was difficult to watch the boats sailing about in the calm, serene waters, knowing that La Mouette was stuck in some Oregonian sailboat trap (we were not the only boat stranded there this year), but hanging out on the sunny beach helped soothe the hurt some.

We spent the weekend in Ventura, staying at a friend's house. We relaxed, went to a farmer's market, cooked real food (as opposed to restaurant fare), and hung out around a bonfire.

All in all, it was just the sort of relaxing weekend needed to rid us of the Charleston Malaise, as we'd taken to calling the mood brought about by our extended stay there.

From then on it was south yet again, to San Diego, our destination, where we've enjoyed the last month of summery winter in the company of my brother and his wife (along with a few strays here and there).

Kyle bought a new truck and left on December 9th, bound for Seattle, and I'll be out of here on the 15th, headed home for the holidays and then off to... somewhere.

I've had ample time to reflect on the trip.

To some it may seem that disappointment is what has been left in its wake, but I state definitively that disappointment is not what I feel.

I feel thrilled, terrified, proud, vain, humbled... confident. All of the things that I felt before, but more so.

We sailed the North Pacific in September and October (it just isn't done, people!) and it didn't break us. Yes, it did break the Volvo Penta engine, but not our spirits. Had our vessel been able to continue, she would have found willing crew.

As it is, we made it pretty far. One thing we learned from the old salts we met along the way was that it's tough to make the trip out of the Puget Sound and south to paradise.

This year was Randy's third attempt to leave Seattle by boat, and now he's stuck in Coos Bay as well until the weather begins to turn in the spring.

When Kyle had first found La Mouette, one of his nautically knowledgeable friends told him he was better off buying a boat in the Caribbean than trying to start from the Puget Sound. We'd laughed off that advice back then. It seems sound now.

So, it may just be rationalization of defeat into victory (a useful skill, btw), but I feel triumphant. Sure, things didn't go according to plan, but they so rarely do. What would be the fun if they did?

I've had an amazing four months since leaving my job, and I wouldn't trade them. I've experienced large swaths of the spectrum of human emotion in that time. I've writhed in debilitating agony and gasped at the beauty and terror of the natural world.

And while it may seem strange, in many ways, the moments of agony were as good, or at least as important, as the moments of contentment and bliss.

So now... the trip is done. Well, that trip is done. The future will unravel to reveal others (though admittedly not for a number of years).

La Mouette will rest in Oregon for the winter before most likely heading back to the Puget Sound. I may or may not be there to greet her.

If I can convince my old job that I'm worth bringing back, I'll be headed towards Seattle. If that doesn't play out as I hope, my thoughts are leaning towards heading back to Japan. My work visa expires in mid-June, so if I want to renew it, I'd best get there before then.

But those are decisions for another day.

For today, La Mouette's journey south is at an end, and so is the documentation of it.

See you on another day for a different adventure.

Sailing Vessel La Mouette out.