Titanic

Two boats, two problems. In a previous life, did I travel on the Lusitania, or the Titanic?

The 22' sailboat Gerard took the boys and me out on in Carmel Bay, off Stillwater Cove in Pebble Beach, seemed fine.  Someone else had taken it out, so while we awaited its return, we paddled around in kayaks. There are drain holes in kayaks, beneath your butt. So our pants got soaking wet, paddling out to the seal rock, Poop Rock, as Jax christened it.

Then it was our turn. George, the Harbor Master, putted us out to the buoy where it was moored.  We came aboard, and Gerard set us to work - not that there was much, as it was still warm from the previous sailors.  Gerard motored us past the seaweed - it wouldn't do to get stuck there.  Once clear, we set the main and jib sails, and since Jax wasn't interested in steering, Lang took the tiller and pointed us toward Pt. Lobos. After a bit of jostling, he settled in nicely, rolling us over the increasingly large swells. Once they got overhead, Jax, nervous, went below. Gerard estimated 15' rollers. Lang took it in stride (as much as one can stride a wave.)

We tacked about, and then Gerard thought to take us back out and toward the Pebble Beach castles that lined the bluff north of Pebble Beach Links. Ten minutes later, he exclaimed - "whaaa?? What happened to the rudder?"

I looked at him. I didn't do anything with it. Then it hit me - another boat, another problem.

He said, "I have no tools," as he hopelessly swung the tiller back and forth, "the rudder is broken," while the boat bobbed in the now even-larger feeling swells. Jax uttered something akin to an 'Eeep!' and retreated below, again. Hearing bickering, I poke my head below, where Lang was now resting.  Jax is yelling something about Lang claiming to have wiped his seagull-poop-stained sleeve on the neck of Jackson's sweatshirt, before disclaiming, "It was a joke!" Jax rips it off. Behind me, Gerard laughs. He has two sons, ages 15 and 13.

I glance back at him. "Not much we could do with a toolset anyways, unless one of us swam under the keel."  He shrugs.

"We'll motor in." Firing up the outboard, he aims us toward land, some 3 miles distant. We immediately start circling. "What now?" Gerard exclaims. "Dammit, I think the rudder is jammed open. I'm going have to tack."

"With the outboard? I didn't know you did that, with a motor."

"You don't... but the rudder is causing drag, so we have no choice."  Gerard is very calm, thankfully. He tells the story of breaking another rudder, on another trip, I suppose to make us feel better. Jax, who had come back up, goes back down.

We hear a rend, a snap, and a scratch, and the boat lurches forward. Gerard looks back. "Hey, there's the rudder! Let's circle back for it." He maneuvers, and Lang volunteers to grab it before I can say anything.  He rolls up his sleeve and reaches over the starboard rail, as I grab the back of his life-vest, and then he grasps the blue fiberglass and foam rudder (about a yard square), and with Gerard pulls it in. The hole where it attached to the tiller post spits out a foul looking brown liquid on the seat.  "Well, we'll go faster now," Gerard observes, "without that blocking us."

On the ride in, we see hundreds of large jellyfish that look like giant egg-yolks. We come back through the kelp forest, and George, who has been alerted, comes and picks us up from the buoy, with his assistant, a 10 year old named Mark.

We debark, still wet in the pants from the kayaks, shake hands, laugh, and promise to do it again.

Soon.