Red at night, sailors a-fright.
As you are undoubtedly aware, what was once a category 4 hurricane, yesterday, made historic landfall in California. Hilary be her name, destruction and vengeance be her game. Governor Gavin Newsom bravely declared a state of emergency, Los Angeles and San Diego school districts cancelled school. The Soho House, downtown Los Angeles, cancelled a Sunday evening soiree and coffee shops throughout Orange County put signs on doors reading “closed due to weather.”
Headlines across all major media implored people to “shelter in place” and “avoid dying.”
I was accidentally on a sailboat heading to Catalina with my two very best friends. The same very two with whom I was lucky enough to survive post 9/11 Yemen, war-ravaged Beirut, early days of Covid-19 Paris.
This brazen and selfish ignoring of common sense, potential strain put on “the system,” outrageous irresponsibility was not, as in times past, on purpose but only accidental as the trip had been planned for a week and you know how tough schedules can be to change these days.
We had been tracking Hilary, spinning off the Baja Peninsula, when we left Newport Harbor Saturday afternoon. Reports were calling for nearly unnavigable five foot seas and nearly unimaginable 18 mile per hour winds for Sunday.
We pressed on.
The Pacific was near oil glass, the sky lightly cloudy when we hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the jib. A steady breeze pushing us along at a decent 9 knots. We spoke of books and ate Italian sandwiches for lunch, arriving at Avalon in the late afternoon.
The harbor was empty.
We called the harbor master and he informed us that it was, indeed, closed, no mooring balls to be had, and that restaurants were likely closed too in preparation of the storm of the century. We thought of anchoring but had left our dinghy in Newport and if no restaurants were open it would be pointless anyhow.
Stress grew as we only had one more Italian sandwich to split between the three of us and dinner was fast approaching.
The call was made. We would return to Newport and sort out a meal.
The return trip was quick, a steady breeze for the first three-quarters, dying entirely as Fashion Island came into view. The sky turning a brilliant salmon as dolphins leapt, striking terror into the hearts of all.
Red at night, sailors a-fright.
Near the mouth of the harbor, we decided to motor to the public dock, tie off and walk to Restaurant A as we were really hungry and it would be quicker. The time was, roughly 8:30. It was open, we were seated immediately and ordered a butterleaf wedge salad, ceviche tostaditas, 22 oz bone-in ribeye and Atlantic lobster tail, all for sharing.
We washed it down with a Moscow Mule.
Afterward, we returned to the boat, motored back up the harbor to the mooring, fixed the lines then fell asleep on the deck.
At 3:00 am I felt a raindrop on my head and moved below.
It rained all night.
In the morning, we all woke up and it was still raining. We cleaned up then rowed across the channel right as Hilary, then a tropical depression, made its historic landfall.
Foolish jerks.
The end.