posted by Sandy Fails 0 comments

We are near our marina slip, but not completely in it – our boat is firmly aground about 15 feet from our intended destination. Tranquilo the sailboat is resting in about six feet of water with her keel stuck on the seafloor of the marina, leaving her nose just turned into our slip and her stern hanging out into the passage lane of the marina.

            While we wait for the water to rise and free us from our unintended toehold, we are taking advantage of this spontaneous lesson in sailing. Thanks to Michael’s iPad, we have just learned that we are about 20 minutes away from the lowest point of one of the lowest tides of the year. This would have been a good thing to know a few minutes ago when I was at the helm of Tranquilo, puttering through the marina for my second-ever attempt to steer her into the slip.

            I was taking deep breaths, loosening my white-knuckled hold on the tiller, trying to remain alert but relaxed. So what if I was steering a 28-foot, 7,000-pound floating object down a narrow lane into a tiny space between a concrete deck and someone’s precious mega-boat? My maiden docking attempt two days ago had gone flawlessly, with a veteran sailor/friend standing beside me issuing instructions and two people on the dock who pulled us into place with the docking lines as we approached. But today it was just Michael and me.

            (Let me insert a quick note. People told me about being at the helm of a sailboat: “Just think of it like driving a car. “ Well, forget it. This is like telling an equestrian to use subtle reining techniques while astride an elephant – an elephant floating on moving water amid expensive breakable objects.)

            I throttled the sailboat motor down to just above a sputter, adjusted the tiller so we’d avoid the monster-boat sharing our slip and aimed at the side of our dock, ready to pivot the boat at the perfect moment and slide gently into place. I’d visualized it a dozen times.

            Michael directed calmly, with docking line in hand, ready to jump from boat to dock to secure us in place. “Looking good, turn a bit more, there, looking good….”

            And then we just stopped. “Give it some gas!” Michael said, only a smidgen less calmly. I shoved the throttle forward and the engine nudged the boat ahead six inches. Then…nothing. The boat went no farther.

            I was totally confused. Where had I gone wrong? What should I be doing? Had I accidentally hit the brakes instead of the gas? Oh yeah – boats don’t have brakes.

            “I think we’re on the bottom,” Michael said.

He reached for his iPad to Google “San Carlos tides,” and I raided Tranquilo’s cooler for tuna-salad makings. (This shows our contrasting responses to stress: in a pinch, Michael seeks technology while I scramble for comfort food.) The guys from a neighboring slip meandered over to ascertain why we were picnicking while partially blocking the marina passageway beyond our slip.

A good sailor, I’ve learned, has a story for every occasion. This British bloke told us about running aground with a buddy where the tides cycled every 24 hours (not 12 or so as in San Carlos); they had a bottle of whisky and a box of crackers and 11 hours to wait before their boat would move. “When we left, we had a couple of crackers left,” he concluded.

            Sitting here now, waiting for the tide to rise while munching a tuna sandwich, I’m reminded of moving to Crested Butte just over 30 years ago, wondering how the ski resort manufactured those moguls I saw on the ski slopes. Now I’m venturing into the sailing world, living aboard Tranquilo for an early-winter vacation on the Sea of Cortez. And I’m starting from the same point: ground zero. Literally. But I now know one more thing about sailing than I did two hours ago: Check the tide charts before you go.