Aldebbie's Smooth Move, Part One

or, Part One of The Heartwarming / Heartbreaking Holiday Tale of Moving Aldebbie Out of Sausalito, Told Semi-Backwards.
by Leslie, photos and captions mostly by Don

The power stance

       The fog horns have finally stopped, so we uncleat the dock lines and toss them up on deck with a jaunty flourish. I've got my watchmen's cap and deck shoes on. Don's got his beard. Both of us are wearing nearly every warm article of clothing we've brought. We either look like sailors, or we look like people who think they look like sailors. We're way too Brooklyn-pale to actually pull off the complete nautical look, plus everything we're wearing was made by snowboarding companies, but we feel like sailors, at least. At last!

Built in wind vane 

Actual sailor shown for reference

As far as we got. No radar = no foggy forays

       Pay no mind to the unimportant fact that the only sailing executed in the unfathomably long-feeling week we'd spent stuck in the Bay, waiting for the engine work to wrap up and a storm to pass by, was on the way back to Sausalito, our sails between our legs, so to speak, after our first failed attempt out to sea the previous evening. The chowda' thick stew of fog beyond the long legs of the Golden Gate; the approaching nightfall; our radar appearing to kick out of service as the convoluted auto pilot seemingly kicked on--then off--then on??? None of this bode well for a three-night, overnight sail/motor to San Diego. Don put it best that evening at dinner (goddamn fancy Sausalito and its Mexican restaurant's $3 basket of chips!!!):

Wait, you wanted the 25 year old auto pilot with worn
off labels to work? Is it not supposed to go hard to port
every 15-30 minutes? Lemme get the manual

       "I feel like that guy in Clerks. 'I'm not even supposed to be here today!"

       But, there we were. Which meant that, however sailory we may have looked or felt, we were going to have to motor most of the way down the California coast in order to get our hired Captain, the venerable Mark Kocina, home to Los Osos by Monday night,"on penalty of death," warned his wife, likely no stranger to the way these boat deliveries tend to lag. Which, in effect, makes us less sailor and more yachter now. But, c'mon. We're not like these Sausalito yachters! Not like the charter yacht blasting holiday music for all the marina to hear. Not like the multiple diamond sporting, well-kempt and presumably kept woman docked next to us on a giant motor yacht, who clutches her face in horror as we inquire into the marina's bathroom key we'd forgotten to ask for after we'd pulled into our slip for the night. Who, as we explain this, and our lack of holding tanks for our  heads (toilets, in landlubbers' terms), makes repeated, breathless exclamations of, "Oh gosh!!"
       "I don't know what to tell you! We have three heads on board, so I didn't even bother to get a key for myself."
       I try to imagine the lavish rooms which must contain her three marine heads; each one the size of our entire cabin, decked out in matching monogrammed hand towels; little shell-shaped soaps in golden shell-shaped bowls; a midget in livery who pumps away her "caviar dreams" and complements her new manicure as he drys her hands.
       "I'd let you in but the owner's away..." and doesn't like riffraff on his yacht!
       "Are you members of the yacht club?!" she asks desperately. Well, it's  nice of her not to presume that our dishevelled little crew doesn't  belong there.
       "You should try going to the yacht club!"
       Oh, we all end up "going" somewhere. Don and I use our [the] head anyway, giving the old f-you to the Sausalito marina, while also becoming one with it in the most un-Zen way possible. Captain Mark takes the higher karmic road, quieting his stream on the woman's yacht. That about sums up how we all feel about Sausalito by this point. By no means do we endorse peeing on other people's boats, or crapping in their marinas. But honestly, you can only, excuse the pun, piss away so much time and money in one place before you start to resent that place a little. Okay, a lot!

I'm so hungry right now

       Now, you all may be wondering how such nice people got to such a dark place of disdain and deplorably unyachtsmanlike behavior. Why, aside from the pleasant man at the car rental place and everything about the Indian restaurant (open for breakfast! Cheap! Filling! Delicious! Arguably the best samosas in the country! Thermoses full of hot chai premixed with soy milk--decaf and regular!!!), we felt such rage against both Christmas music, and a picturesque little seaside town?
       Let's start with the core culprit and target of our growing angst. Greg. The thorn in our side. Greg. The fly in our soup. Greeeeeeeg. The shop vac in our bank accounts. Say it long enough, drawing out the e's with a vomitous tone, and it'll start to sound like the dirty word it fast became amongst our crew. Has Greg called Don back yet? No. Has Greg measured the life raft and cradle? No. What's Greg done so far? No idea? Oh, nothing?! Yay, he's finally called! Are you f-ing serious?! He can't work on our engine like he said he would? He knows someone who can? He hasn't called the mechanics yet? He called them a week before our planned departure? Is he Satan ?!!!
       So that's Greg. We came to Sausalito guns-a-blazing for his no-gooding hide. We were going to "talk" to him in person. Don was going to use his Tai Chi skills to overpower him, while I used my yoga skills to force feed him maggots and boogers after we heard his astronomical total for doing nothing and putting us behind schedule. We were going to make him cry and buy us all backrubs and ponies. What actually happened was not nearly as satisfying.
       Don: "So, we need to talk about settling up."
       Greg: "Oh, you don't owe me anything. Just the money for the life sling I bought. I didn't really get to do all the things I said I'd do. Just made some phone calls, mainly."
       And, to make matters worse, the guy looks like Santa Claus!    

Sal's safety central

How you doin?

       Greg may have even misquoted us on the price to recertify our old liferaft, but by the time we suspect this, after a fun-filled trip to Sal's Inflatables to buy a brand new, super shiny and not-at-all-cheap liferaft and cradle, our rage has turned inward. It will soon calm to a simple sting of regret for trusting people remote from us, combined with the slow burn of waiting around for all of Aldebbie's immediate engine needs to be crammed into a week, when the work was supposed to be taken care of three weeks prior. Aw, Greg. I'm sure you're an alright guy to have beer with, but please never tell anyone else you are a "mechanic" or a "captain."
       Who else made our burn list? Ug. West Marine. We had to patronize three of them. I imagine that once upon a time in port cities, there were small mom and pop supply shops all around marinas, perhaps even offering reasonable prices to compete with the competition. Then, much like Walmart, West Marine came galumphing into town and forced all the little guys out of business. Now, West Marine is simply everywhere you want to boat from. Like God. Or Santa. Or Starbucks. All you can do to avoid feeling too much of their iron grip on your wallet, is to research what you need early, try to find it cheaper online or elsewhere, and learn what you can do without, or do with what you've already got. Captain Mark told us a good story about about a guy who went to sea with a tree trunk (or was that a tree limb?) for a mast.  We won't be resorting to that, hopefully, but between that guy, and the Pestilence kids, we have a lot of leeway (amazing how many sailing puns you can make without even trying) with which to improvise and strategize cutting corners.

Way up there

       Speaking of the mast, I should probably stop being such a pessimist and get around to telling you the nice things about not tearing out of Sausalito straight away. The first being time to check out the rig. Damn, I don't remember unfurling the genoa being  this hard! That harsh, squawking noise coming from the top of the mast doesn't sound so awesome either. Yep, our easy peazy roller furling foresail was not feeling or sounding so easygoing, so with Captain Mark's help, up Don went in the bosun's chair. We didn't figure much more out about the problem, other than that the former owner of Aldebbie (so nicknamed because boats are supposed to be classy dames, and Aldebaran sounds rather like a masculine gladiator to us) had replaced part of a shackle with a ring of wire, but even that didn't seem like the core of the issue. We did however, get some great pics of Don in action, and Don got himself a nice view and a killer ab workout.

Coming down is actually
a lot more awkward then going up

       Another positive: eating lots of that good Indian food in Sausalito (once with my college friend John, once with my dad, once with Mark), and lots of cheap Mexican food in San Francisco's Mission District. No freaking $3 basket of tortilla chips here! Here, the chips are free, and you can get refills! The salsa bar is epic, and includes roasted jalapenos, spicy carrots, and radishes, providing Don with plenty

Damn you autofocus! but this place
is definitely worth a second photo

of fodder with which to make fun of my "condiment problem." As in, I have a problem not  using all the condiments available to me, especially at a Mexican joint. Lisa has attributed this problem to me growing up with "hobo stew," a delicious, recession-friendly meal that requires pouring every canned legume and veggie imaginable into a giant pot. I made it once for Don. He wasn't too sure how he felt about it. Fancy Fierros outta go live in Sausalito!

"Whipping" up close

       Last, but certainly not least, was being able to hang out with my mom and aunts in SF while they were all in town for their annual Christmas shopping spree! Mmm, mmm! Two fancy dinners with cocktails? Now I really sound like a brat for all my beeatching above! Spending nights at my sister's nice Russian Hill apartment, whipping lines and watching Mad Men, wasn't too shabby either.

whippin fa days

       Yeah, that all sounds great, but what about the part where you actually moved the boat? Oh what? You're getting impatient just waiting around for this thing to go somewhere? Welcome to Part One of our story. Part Two of this beast of a tale will commence very soon. Stay tuned, and have yourselves a merry little holiday in the meantime!

We'll go "under the gate" in part two