Swell Read online

  When it’s time, I pull on black slacks and a white blouse. I recently landed an afterschool job working on a handsome megayacht named Tamara, docked nearby. This evening they are hosting an open house for influential people in Santa Barbara.

  Behind the bar on the aft deck, I carefully fill champagne flutes. I’m nearly ready to take off with my tray of glasses when a lovely elderly diva in a glorious fuchsia pantsuit approaches.

  “May I have a glass, sweetheart?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you a student here in Santa Barbara?”

  “Yes, I’m finishing up my degree in Environmental Studies.”

  “Oh! Then you must meet Dr. Barry Schuyler. He’s one of the founders of that program.”

  I follow her with my teetering glasses over to a noble-looking elder gentleman, well-built and dressed in a handsome blue blazer with square, metal-rimmed glasses. His thinning hair is combed back cleanly.

  “Barry, you must meet Liz. She’s about to graduate from the ES program.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Schuyler,” I say. “Would you like champagne or an appetizer?”

  “Thank you, my dear, I’m pleased with my wine,” he says, lifting his glass. “Are you enjoying your studies? A few of my colleagues and I created the program after the Santa Barbara oil spill in 1969.”

  “Thank you for doing so. I’m loving it,” I say. We chat casually about my favorite classes and about sailing. Then he pauses.

  “Every September on the full moon,” he announces, “I sail to San Miguel Island for the weekend with a group of friends and students. Would you care to join us this year?”

  “Sure,” I say without much pause, “I’d love to.”

  Swells and exams come and go. Nearly every weekend I compete in a surf contest somewhere on the California coast. The last one of the season is the NSSA Nationals and I manage to snag the win. I ponder a path toward professional surfing, but decide that my competitive thirst has been quenched. I much prefer the thrill of exploring for waves, like I’d done on summer breaks from school in Baja, Barbados, Costa Rica, El Salvador, and Hawai‘i. Dad pays my tuition, so all year I can scrimp and save for traveling.

  That summer I stick around to polish and clean on the megayacht in hopes of landing a permanent crew position for their upcoming voyage. September rolls around, and a week before my last quarter at UCSB begins, I’m surprised when Mom calls to tell me that a certain Dr. Schuyler from the Environmental Studies department just called to invite me on a sailing trip. I’m surprised; he hadn’t even written down my name or number.

  I don’t know anyone else in the group. It could be awkward. But I’ve never been to San Miguel Island and hear it’s majestic. I call him back and confirm that I’d like to join them.

  Dr. Schuyler stands happily at the helm on our way across the Santa Barbara Channel. The boat is equipped with an autopilot and many able hands, but he clearly enjoys steering us toward the island in the distance.

  When he tires, he sits down beside me. “Tell me, Lizzy, what are your plans after graduating?” he asks, without taking his gaze off the sea.

  “I want to go sailing,” I say. “I want to go on a long voyage across the Pacific, maybe even around the world.”

  He peels his eyes from the horizon for a moment and looks at me earnestly. “I also dreamed of an extended voyage, but between raising our four children, my career as a high school teacher and college professor, and writing my PhD thesis, I never went. Plus, my dear wife, Jean, much prefers horses to sailboats.” He draws in a deep breath, and looks back out to sea.

  “You, my dear, most certainly should go. Don’t wait until life’s responsibilities anchor you.”

  Mark, Shannon, and I sit atop massive sand hills on the far side of Santa Maria after making it six hundred nautical miles down the Baja coast. We admire the mountainous desert landscape encircling the large bay. The same wind that pushed us here created these voluptuous dunes. Gusts softly push sand up our ankles. Swell swings back and forth on her anchor on the far side of the sheltered bay. We’re the only sailboat here. The long silence is rare for us, but from time to time Baja’s stark natural beauty and undeveloped expanses hold us in a spell.

  This desolate stretch of coast has provided plenty of challenges, but I’m learning every day. The first test of my mechanical savvy had arrived the morning after nearly hitting the sandbar. Ready to raise anchor, I turned the engine key, but nothing happened. I tried again: nothing. After half the day thumbing through manuals, troubleshooting, and nearly electrocuting myself, I placed a satellite phone call to Mike, my mechanic friend. He helped sort out the mystery of the neutral safety wire, and we continued down the coast.

  Blustery offshore winds on that passage called for constant sail changes—reefing (lowering) and raising both the main and headsails as the wind fluctuated in strength. It made for good practice, but one gust overpowered Swell, pinning her down on her side when the jackline—a fixed line that runs the length of the deck—got sucked into the roller-furling winch. Hours later, we straggled into our destination, frazzled and wind-chapped, with only a few rays of daylight to spare. But to our delight, a thick northwest swell was arriving, too. Waves peeled into the horseshoe bay, and some friends we’d planned to meet waved madly from their campsite on the point. The surf pumped and bonfires raged for an unforgettable three-day rendezvous.

  We dodged lobster traps and long-line buoys on every passage, executed several tight, tricky double-anchor maneuvers, plowed through breaking waves on harrowing dinghy landings and launches, and escaped a near collision with a Carnival Cruiseliner. Mark and I panicked one evening when a bright light on the horizon appeared, until we realized it was Mars rising over the sea, not a northbound ship.

  Amidst the firsts and follies, I have started to understand how Swell sails and anchors. Even though neither have much sailing experience, Mark and Shannon gracefully mitigate my high stress and respect my overly rigid rules—like requiring hourly updates to the logbook on watch duty, and, no matter the weather, wearing a harness clipped to the jackline to go out on deck underway. Despite fatiguing watches, culinary challenges on passage, limited opportunities to bathe, cramped quarters, pulling ropes and wrestling sails, my crew has remained positive.

  Still seated together on the dune, I break our thoughtful silence by slipping a handful of sand down Mark’s pants. He chases after Shannon and me, and we all roll down to the bottom, choking on sand and laughter. After dashing into the cold sea to wash off, we pack up our gear and head for the dinghy. On the way, I come across a perfect, saucer-sized sand dollar on the low tide flats. I pick it up and stash it in my bag to send to Barry from the next port. Now that my nerves are settling, I’m beginning to comprehend the enormity of what he’s done for me.

  June 2002, Santa Barbara

  I tire of staring at the ceiling in my brother’s apartment and roll onto my side. The clock in the kitchen reads 1:30 pm; I am still horizontal. I’ve been in the States for almost a month, after sailing away as crew on the Tamara back in December. To my shock, the megayacht turned out to be owned by a commune of sorts, and the seventy-two-year-old leader of the more than fifty members hoped I would join his on-board harem of seven childbearing “wives.” I jumped ship in the Bay of Acapulco, happy to join a solo captain I knew on his thirty-four-foot sailboat. For four months, Rick and I sailed south looking for surf and adventure (and we found plenty), but at the same time he discouraged me from helping sail the boat, preferring I cook or clean. He whittled away at my confidence and I came home convinced that I’d never be able to captain a long voyage on my own.

  My dream is broken. A tear rolls down my face. I feel so lost. My friends are starting at corporate jobs; just that thought makes me feel numb. Since the election of George W., I’m more and more disappointed with the direction the United States is headed. I mean, refusing to comply with the Kyoto Protocol? Dismantling the Endangered Species Act? Gutting the Clean Air
and Water Acts? I want off this bus. But how? I’m completely out of money.

  Despite my pitiful state, my brother has welcomed me graciously. My things are in the back of my car, so as not to clutter his small apartment. As he leaves for work each morning, James endearingly pats my head as I remain on his couch, staring vacantly up at the ceiling’s thick beige drywall spackle.

  “Why don’t you go down to the beach today, Lizzy?” he encourages.

  “The surf is small,” I muster.

  “You know, getting a job isn’t all that bad. You can still have a life outside of work.”

  I can’t rally a reply. Silent tears run down my face and I squeeze his hand tightly, hoping he feels how much I appreciate his care. He kisses my hand before heading for the door.

  A dreary month goes by before I finally walk into the lobby of the Santa Barbara Yacht Club for Fourth of July festivities with some friends. Dr. Barry Schuyler and his wife, Jean, stand in the entryway looking distinguished.

  “Lizzy! Good to see you, my dear!” he says, smiling, then casually proposes something extraordinary: “I’m looking for someone to sail my boat around the world. Would you be interested?”

  My stomach drops and everything gets quiet for a moment. I wish to scream, “Yes! Of course!” but my uncertainty holds me back.

  “Thank you, Dr. Schuyler, but ... I’m not sure I’m ... cut out for it,” I tell him, the words sticking in my throat.

  “Stop by my boat sometime. She’s in Marina 1, slip I-23. A small sloop called Freya.”

  A few days later I’m back on my brother’s couch, now fixated on the retired professor’s proposition. Was he serious? Give me his boat? There’s got to be a catch. I must find out! I finally drive down to the harbor. Dr. Schuyler is standing on the dock beside his boat when I arrive. It’s the same kind of boat that my childhood heroine, Tania Aebi, had sailed around the world at eighteen years old. I’m instantly intrigued.

  “Hello, young lady,” he says politely. “Did you reconsider?”

  “Hello, Dr. Schuyler, I did.”

  “Please call me Barry. Come aboard and sit down. Let’s discuss.”

  The tour of Freya doesn’t take long because she’s so tiny. But she’s clean, cozy, and organized. We sit in the cockpit and he lays out his idea. He explains that he and Jean are involved in all sorts of meaningful work with community charities and nationwide NGOs. But now at almost eighty years old, he finds that his longtime dream of voyaging still haunts him. He wants to live vicariously through someone else’s sailing adventure. The next best thing to living the dream himself would be to help someone else do it.

  The proposition seems too good to be true; I must give it a shot.

  After a discussion with Barry, my father approves, and plans are hatched. Barry writes up a list of my pretrip duties—very reasonable things like apprenticing with a sailmaker, a rigger, and a marine mechanic, and studying major ocean currents and wind patterns. I happily agree to write him letters and keep in touch from various ports around the world. He will help financially to get the boat ready for safe ocean travel, but after that I will have to figure out how to fund my voyage.

  My depression dissolves almost instantly as my sailing dream comes back to life. Barry and Jean invite me to live with them until I get back on my feet. I soon land a job as a bartender at a restaurant overlooking the harbor, and spend my off-days sailing and tinkering aboard Freya. Barry and I attend a ham radio course together, in hopes of keeping in touch via radio once I sail off. I take Freya up the coast and gain confidence captaining her short distances. She’s fit to my size and strength, and I soon feel more optimistic about my potential as a captain.

  But on the way to San Miguel Island from Cojo Point late in the summer, I take a wave over the stern off the notorious Point Conception. The cockpit is pooped and I’m terrified, bailing seawater as it pours down into the cabin. After this happened in only medium-sized seas, I start feeling nervous about making open-ocean passages in Freya. She’s so small; I can’t even stand up straight inside her tiny cabin. I will hardly have room to bring a surfboard or a friend. This isn’t quite how I envisioned the dream.

  When I express my concerns to Barry, he understands—and a week later, he’s back with a new proposition. He tells me that if I find a bigger boat and raise some money, he’ll match the funds to enable me to purchase it.

  My father, who just closed a business deal, is instantly willing to pitch in, and we soon find a new boat, just a few rows down from Freya. It’s a 1966 Cal 40—a type of sailboat that Barry himself has owned, loved, and knows to be seaworthy. He assures me we can have a rigger set her up for my slight, but muscular five-foot-four inches and 110 pounds. When I see the boat the first time, I stop in my tracks: A rainbow arches over her.

  On February fourteenth, 2003, Barry signs the paperwork to make me an elated sailboat owner. The retired professor and the young dreamer are now set to empower each other toward the same horizon-chasing dream.

  The northwest wind blows cold and constant on Swell’s stern quarter, making for a frigid 3 am watch. It’s our last night at sea before arriving in Cabo San Lucas. I pull my beanie low over my ears and praise the biting tailwind as I watch the speed gauge bounce between six and eight knots. Mark and Shannon have already fulfilled their night-watch duties. Leaning against the teak washboards, I soak up the scene around me.

  The nearly full moon is high in the sky, illuminating the mountainous southern Baja silhouette to port. The winged-out mainsail and white edges of the deck glow in the silver light. The low whistle of the wind and rush of water past the hull are sweet music compared to the noisy rattle of the diesel motor. Only eighty more miles until we reach the cape.

  My solitude frees time to think. It’s still so surreal that I’m actually here aboard my own little ship. It seems all too improbable—too extraordinary to pass off as luck. In hindsight, I can see how the string of adversities helped lead me here: I cursed the disappointing job on the Tamara, but thanks to that evening serving drinks on her aft deck, I met Barry; and despite the disheartening sailing trip with Rick, the experience taught me exactly what needed to be done in order to outfit Swell for my limited strength and size. I still don’t know how I’ll manage once my savings run out. I honestly haven’t had time to think about it.

  March 2003, Santa Barbara

  Barry estimates it will take about a year to prepare the boat for the voyage and assembles a team of local experts to help. I spend my days working alongside Mike the marine mechanic, Marty the rigger, James the electrician, and Bennet the sailmaker, learning all kinds of tips and tricks about tools, glues, resins, metals, hardware, rope, sail material, knots, wood, backing plates, wire, and ways to build, fix, troubleshoot, customize installations, and transform what was old and rotten into something strong and durable. Four to five evenings a week, I bartend at a restaurant in the harbor, squirreling away my tips for the voyage.

  Barry and I meet in the parking lot of the Santa Barbara Yacht Club once a week, where we walk arm in arm up to the dining room on the second story. We stand near the window for a moment and look quietly out at the sea; I feel our mutual dream on my shoulders. After we’re seated, he pulls out a manila folder containing an assortment of pertinent article clippings, and a small stack of books with the pages carefully marked. We read through the items while he regally sips white wine. We both intend to keep things simple, but it seems no matter how hard we try, overhauling the boat for the voyage becomes more and more involved. The list of refit “to-dos” and purchases quickly expands. When our food arrives, we dig into discussions of current projects and dilemmas.

  The outfitting process becomes all-consuming. We often dig into one repair, only to find three more. Each decision is a compromise in a forty-by-eleven-foot space. The boat will be my home, my transportation, and life-sustaining capsule. If I want to carry more water, I have to sacrifice a second fuel tank. Building a small navigation table means losing the port-tack
sailing berth. Which do I bring, a spare mainsail or my beloved 5'9" squash tail surfboard? The choices seem infinite and there is never one simple answer.

  Where safety is concerned, do I need an EPIRB and a life raft? Manual and electric bilge pumps? A storm drogue and storm sails? Life jackets? Fire extinguishers? A flare gun and flares? A saltwater still? A backup GPS? Overboard bag? Is the electrical system grounded properly? How will I receive weather information? Is there redundancy in all the major systems? Is my tetanus shot current? Do I need a strobe light? Jacklines and harnesses? A bilge alarm? First aid kit? Underwater epoxy? What about a lightning rod? Emergency scuba gear? Bolt cutters for cutting away the rig if it falls?

  Barry helps me keep focused. We know that the boat needs a sound hull, strong standing rigging, and a reliable engine. He has her hauled to assess the underside. The leaky deck rail is ripped off and glassed over. Mike checks over the engine, reinforces the rudder shaft in case of a collision, and donates a stronger boom that’s been sitting in his workshop. The rigging cables need replacing, so once the boat is back in the water, Mike teaches me how to measure, cut, and fit the new wires. I haul myself up the mast to replace them one by one.

  Marty makes dozens of changes to adapt the boat for my size and strength. He carefully rerigs the inner workings of the new boom with heavy purchases to make sail adjustments easier, and equips the boom’s exterior with small winches and sturdy blocks to aid in reefing. He reworks and upgrades the components at the mast head, installs high-visibility navigation lights and a removable Solent stay for a storm jib. He meticulously reinforces every possible point of weakness in the rig, replaces all worn-out halyards, sheets, and hardware, and also teaches me useful knots and clever leverage tricks. Self-tailing winches are installed in the cockpit and on the mast.

  For long-distance voyaging, a self-steering wind vane is fixed onto the stern. Bennet fits a spray dodger and sun shade in the cockpit. The main windows are replaced; hatches resealed; and a long-distance SSB radio, VHF radio, GPS chartplotter, and new navigation lights installed. James adds a small watermaker, and bigger deck cleats, too. The mainsail and furling genoa are in decent shape, but the bow anchor needs new chain and rode. Plus, this kind of voyaging requires a stern anchor setup, backup anchors, extra rode, extra chain, shackles, swivels, line leads, and chafe guards. There won’t always be a local chandlery or someone to call to make repairs, so I also need spare parts, equipment manuals, and tools to fix and maintain the vitals. Our projected year of preparation stretches into two.