A Goat Harbor Adventure.

[Bepi]

This past weekend I anchored at Goat Harbor, Santa Catalina Island. The first joy of the passage was the canoe being swamped just inside LA Harbor by two vessels speeding by creating steep waves that it slipped down and over turned. Few joys in life exceed the pleasures of refloating a swamped below the gunnels canoe by lying on your chest, grabbing a thwart with one hand and scooping with a five gallon bucket with the other, as each vessel lurches in the opposite direction. Had the ancient Canadian Voyageurs been witness I would have been handed several beaver pelts and a bottle of liquor as reward for the exhibition. After refloating the canoe I explained to Roxanne that we could, in fact, secure an 18ft fiberglass canoe on her deck. This completed I rubbed my minor cracked ribs and sailed, all single reefed, past the Los Angeles light at five knots. The crossing averaged 16-18kts wind speed and was a mixed bag of swell and chop which put the crew, relaxing below, on the sick list. Approaching the island various points were identified, Ship rock, the quarry, Empire Landing, Rippers Cove, Little Gibralter, and then Goat Harbor. It was a fairly exposed spot, but Roxanne, on one hook, cooperated well with the wind and swell. The crews strong desire to be ashore for relief inspired him to swim ashore. With a tied trash bag for his dunnage he swam the 40 yards and laid down in the warm sand. Getting the canoe off the deck was not so bad and I always enjoy landing her through the small surf. We had dinner on land and then I left the lad to sleep under the stars while I held anchor vigil and managed a few winks. Up with a pre-dawn sky I had a cup of joe and canoed down the coast a half mile or so to get a closer look at Little Gibralter with the idea of moving. As I paddled flashes of white below became a school of mackerel. These were drawing lines on the surface of the water and their medium was the small fry who lept for their lives in 15ft long, cascading, rooster tail swathes around me. There was room for me at gibralter but the group there looked so content that I did not have the heart to break into their solitude.
On returning to the beach at Goat Harbor I found the crew still soundly asleep, so I went on a hike, and then another hike and then I came back, woke up the crew and we motored off to Two Harbors. There, what appeared to be the embodiment of the Brittish John Bull, here to claim a spot and the weak to the wall, was expounding as his vessel spun round inspite of their two dinghies deployed bow and stern. I motored slowly round giving all room possible to a departing vessel and to those who wished to supplant them. Union Jack and his team were still having a very difficult time but, eventually, I was able to get an idea of where they were trying to anchor so I anchored as far away as possible.
My crew moved to shore and in some palms shade slept some more. I tried to nap but fatigue and care and an aching side meant I only rested. Later in the afternoon we walked through the village and saw many paddle boards and their owners. The next day was their annual race. These are not to be confused with a stand up paddleboard. These are prone, lying on your stomach. Today, by far, the leading maker of these is a fellow named Joe Bark, but the origins of the sport go back to the 1930s when Duke Kahanamoku and Tom Blake traveled the US and the world selling their life saving hollow wood surfboards to municiple life guards and life saving assistance leagues. This year the event made some of the local papers.
In the evening the crew read while I did some casting into the kelp with no luck, but it's always a therapeutic exercise. The next morning I retrieved my stern anchor and then getting in the bow anchor by hand with 12 knots of wind in my face came within a few feet of hitting British Bob who's vessel on one hook had swung nearly over my anchor. The crew, following orders, perfectly executed an emergency reverse and the wind carried us away to open water. We motored out of the harbor, past any chance of flukes in the wind, and set the reefed sails.
The return trip saw the lad at the tiller to keep focused on things other than potential ailment and I trimmed the sails. We averaged 5.5 to 6.5 knots With many 7.5s and a couple 8.8s which I give no credit to. We returned to the dock exhausted, bumped into each other getting her buttoned up and down and home we went.
It was great to anchor at a new cove and, though rough and exhausting, any weekend spent with your son is always the Greatest Of All Time.