As I considered the long trip north, solo, the Clipper Route held a natural appeal. First of all, once I got over the initial aversion to being 1,000 miles from help, it sounded less stressful. Assuming the 'set your sails and you're there,' depiction held true, I would be far removed from shipping lanes and the geographic hazards of coastal cruising. The winds are tempered and consistent, which means fewer sail changes and less motoring. In the parlance of my former life, the Clipper Route is "user-friendly." There was also the allure of a long offshore passage. On Gypsy I've never been more than four days between landfall--never more than 100 miles from shore. Sampling that rarified world of blue-water cruising seemed a fitting finale for our voyage. Even the words, 'Clipper Route,' conjured romantic notions of boxy wooden ships with taut white sails, heading for exotic ports. I was seduced by the mystique of solo circumnavigation, and without delving much into details I committed for the long haul.
Buoyed with enthusiasm for my extended passage, I made a list titled "every day." I planned to read, write, floss, study Spanish, take lessons from my new yoga book, and finally master the sextant that came with Gypsy (an antiquated tool for determining your position based on celestial positions). I envision myself spending hours in the sun, naked, in the lotus position, communing with Mother Ocean and contemplating the many paths my life might follow. Such innocent, noble objectives. Alas, they were not to be.
We leave Cabo San Lucas late on the morning on June 6. A brisk Pacific wind spills around the cape from the Northwest, cold and damp, putting to rest, for the duration, any illusions I have about shedding clothes. Instead I rummage deep in my cubby for a fleece pullover, socks and shoes, which, save a few fleeting exceptions, constitute my uniform for the rest of the trip. About ten miles out, the wind eases to 20 knots, and I sail smartly towards Hawaii. I get slapped around a bit changing the jib mid-afternoon, but otherwise our first day bodes well for swift passage.
At 8:00 p.m. I check into the Southbound Net, a daily exchange on the sideband radio where cruisers around Baja forecast weather and share info. The Net is run by Patrick, on Nostalgia-a real character with wry wit and a voice like Casey Casum. His voice becomes a dependable comfort as our days on Gypsy grow more challenging.
When it gets dark I start cat napping-rising every 30 minutes to check the sails and scan the horizon for traffic. I sleep with the alarm resting on my chest. Fifty miles from the coast, I don't see another boat until 4 a.m.-rubbing the sleep from my eyes I realize that an enormous container ship is less than a mile behind us. It looms, larger and larger, then silently slips past like a dark cloud. I hail the ship on the VHF radio to ask how Gypsy shows up on their radar. "Yah-we are German container ship, we see you good," they reply with thick German accent. I wish them well on their trip to the Far East and they offer half-hearted encouragement in return.
If I were to identify a turning point-- the moment when events start slipping out of control-it would be during the second afternoon, when the auto pilot alarm sounds. It's not a big deal-sometimes the mechanism struggles in heavy seas-but I notice, before shutting it off, an error message reading "low voltage." I hand steer for a while, and then, experimenting, lash Gypsy's helm to see if she holds course. To my amazement, she does-her sails balanced so she tracks across the wind. It's the same technique Josh Slocum used on the first solo circumnavigation, but it was attributed to the unique design of his boat. It's the first time I've tried it with Gypsy, and I'm delighted she will self-steer. I clean the connections to the auto pilot, and decide to conserve it for when we're motoring.
Unfortunately, when I do start the motor at dusk to charge the batteries, the auto pilot won't engage. I wiggle the wires and bang on the control box (the extent of my troubleshooting capabilities), then sit watching the gray sky go black. I am devastated. The good news about Gypsy holding course aside, the auto pilot has been my dependable second-in-command since I left the Virgin Islands over a year ago. I couldn't conceive of making the trip without it. Staring at the blank LED display, I feel like I've lost a good friend. I lash the helm again, and suffer through a night of fitful naps.
In the morning, I spend a few hours trying to resuscitate the pilot with my rudimentary electrical skills. No luck. I do discover that Gypsy will hold course while motoring, as long as there is a breeze and I leave the sails up. The problem with lashing the helm is that we are dependent on capricious winds. Whereas with the auto pilot Gypsy marches a straight line like a loyal soldier, with the helm tied she weaves like a drunken sailor, moving in the right direction but liable to stagger off on a whim. I don't need to sit at the helm, but I need to constantly pay attention, which, with 20 days to San Francisco, could get tiring.
The winds, since we left, have been brisk and steady out of the northwest. Our course, close hauled, has been southwest. Given that we're ultimately heading north, it's frustrating to lose latitude, but I was warned ahead of time that on the Clipper Route you angle south before swinging north. On our third afternoon, the winds shift west, pointing us even further south. On the Net, boats along the coast report benign conditions-not much bash to Baja. I'm loathe to abort the Clipper Route, but the weather won't cooperate. So I tack north, veering towards landfall mid-way up the peninsula. We are 250 miles from Cabo when I change course.
My decision isn't dictated by winds alone. Without the pilot, I'll feel better being able to tuck along the coast should a storm blow up. Also, the passage thus far has fallen well short of expectations. It's been cold, damp and gray every day. None of my daily goals have come to fruition-it's too cold to read outside, too rocky for yoga, too overcast to use the sextant, and I'm too preoccupied with our course to write well. The only thing I don't have an excuse for is not flossing. I begin to see this trip as a necessary payback for a memorable year with gypsy. My days are spent bundled in a sleeping bag on the salon settee, listening to thrumming of the sails. We make good headway sailing north.
On the fifth day there is sun, and within hours I would lament the glum predictability of gray skies. The winds increase all morning, and by noon we are heeled over in 25 knots, pounding into confused seas. By 3:00 p.m. we're confronting a gale-35 knots out of the northwest with breaking waves spilling across Gypsy's deck. For the first time ever I "heave to," setting two small sails so Gypsy backs slowly against the wind and seas. Then, aching and exhausted, I hit an emotional wall. I climb into my soggy sleeping bag and run, panic-stricken, through multiple "Mayday" scenarios. Though 50 miles from shelter we're in no real danger-Gypsy, as always, is handling the weather admirably. But, pushed to the breaking point, I'm inconsolable.
I finally slip into a troubled sleep, and when I wake at 10 p.m. the weather has eased enough to make headway. The sky is clear when I climb into the cockpit, and I'm cheered, immediately, by a shooting star streaking low across the horizon. A good omen. I start the engine, and we begin a slow, bumpy progress towards the coast. We haven't been under way five minutes when I hear a loud grinding, then a clattering, then, before I can shift to neutral, a gut-wrenching screech from the transmission. I shut down the engine, blood pounding in my ears. "Nooooooo!!" I scream into the night. I add oil to the piping hot transmission and re-start the engine. With some difficulty I shift into gear. We're moving forward, and the transmission sounds okay, but it will cause problems for the rest of our trip. So much for shooting stars.
The following morning I witness a wonderful sight-land, poking through the haze. We motor sail all day along the coast because I'm reluctant to shut down the transmission. Heavy winds torment us in the afternoon, but with our destination in sight I have no trouble staying upbeat. We arrive at Turtle Bay, a protected cove with small fishing village, just after midnight. It's been one week and 600 miles since we left Cabo San Lucas. For the first time since leaving the Cape I fall into a deep, undisturbed sleep.
The remainder of our passage is tranquil by comparison. It takes four days from Turtle Bay to San Diego, with overnight layovers on two islands along the way. The weather is mostly clear, the winds are moderate (I steer by hand for the final 15 hours), and it actually gets warm enough, at times, to shed fleece. I can't shift Gypsy into reverse, but the transmission still allows forward progress. Whatever gods were subjecting me to these hardships seem satisfied now that I can be broken.
Crossing into U.S. waters on the morning of June 18, I sing 'America the Beautiful' from the bowsprit at the top of my lungs. My voyage with Gypsy has been the best year of my life, but I am ready now for the familiar comforts of home. As I motor past sea lions sunning on the harbor buoys and find my way to the San Diego customs dock I am flooded with nostalgia for this forgotten way of life. I can't wait to ride a bike, to taste sushi, to see my family. I can't wait to catch up on the insignificant details in everyone's lives. I can't wait to tie Gypsy to a dock and not have to keep going. But after 12 exhausting days aboard Gypsy what I look forward to more than anything is walking barefoot on green grass. And as soon as land, that's exactly what I do.
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