The Voyage of the MARTINI - Part 4
A Brief Prehistory
By Dave and Jaja

When my dad and I went cruising in 1983, the high-tech pleasure boat electronics age had not yet begun in earnest. A Magnavox sat-nav cost more than our boat. Solar panels were made using gold and diamonds (or so it seemed). Our Coastal Navigator flasher depth sounder was superior to the newer LED sounders. GPS was a regular feature in science fiction magazines.

I took a celestial navigation course taught by David Birch. His Seattle-based Star Path School of Navigation was in its infancy. Twice a week he bewildered the class with his innate knowledge of the Black Art. I became competent at working the practice celestial problems on the kitchen table. With the greatest confidence we set sail down the Washington coast, bound for San Francisco.

During the storm the furthest thought from my mind was worrying about our position. We were hundreds of miles from shore, heading due south. The sky was deep blue. I figured that when the storm ended I would whip out my Davis synthetic sextant and realign our earthly orientation. I did not keep a running DR during the storm; I did not estimate our drift, our course, or our speed. When the storm ended on day three, thick clouds hid the sun. We weren't lost - I just didn't know exactly where we were. We aimed the MARTINI due east, wondering excitedly where we would make a landfall. The west coast of North America is vast.

Our clothes were soaked. The cabin was a swamp - due primarily to going below with wet rain gear on. Life at sea level in a storm is anything but dry. We lit our Tailor-made kerosene heater to dry out, but the intense salt infestation below merely absorbed the moisture that a kerosene flame exudes. At least our wet clothes were warmer. We were dopey from fatigue.

As we sailed toward the coast we tried to grab a signal with our Radio Direction Finder to locate our position. No success. We tried hailing anyone on the VHF radio. No success. There is never a ship or a fishing boat ready to run you down when you need one most. After thirty-six hours of blind sailing, with low clouds covering the sun, we spied the Golden Gate Bridge. Its red suspension towers rose stiffly into the air like arms. Touchdown.

We sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge in the dark, drifted past silent Alcatraz, then let the anchor fall off noisy Sausalito. The sound of cars ashore was strangely reassuring. We eventually dried out in the hot September sunshine that prevailed over the following days.

As the storm eased its grip on our minds, its lessons took up the slack. Our experience level surged forward. I backtracked our course leading to The Bridge. We had been blown much further south than I had imagined possible without any sails up, and with ropes dragging astern. If luck is like sand, then navigation is the hourglass.

Comprehension.