Ladies' sail to Catalina

July 23

The first thing I did – well, after we motored for four hours under flimsy grey skies, got the boat through the narrow catawampus of cans, and moored, got the dinghy launched (and swiftly winched back up because the plug wasn’t in) and hatches opened, and devoured some Chinese chicken salad and rosé – was to sleep. I dragged my sweatshirt and tired ass to the bow, laid on a bundled spinnaker with my sweatshirt wrapped over my shoulders and eyes, and slept, despite the cold breeze that lifted and fell erratically through the bay. I slept soundly until I heard the call: “All boats in!” from the boy’s camp ashore. “All boats in!” came the reply from port, “All boats in!” from starboard, and then repeated in the strong tenors of young men throughout the cove. Lidos overflowing with youngsters paddled and sailed by in the waning breeze of the late day; I eased upright, rested, and got ready for the evening’s revelries.

Below deck the Makeup Wars had begun. The intermittent splash of showers, the drone of the blow drier, the dance of towel-clad women scurrying back and forth like busses in Times Square, to get ready, bearing Nebuchadnezzars of hairspray, the lacquer and fragrance wafting topside.

“Does anyone want a drink?” Iris sings out. Barb reminds her to fly the cocktail hour flag: a string of panties, off the burgee halyard at the shroud. But the only ones I have worthy of public viewing are on, and I defer: lest they drive the men wild I tease. Instead, we let the lovely fragrance of shampoos and lotions fill the air in the main salon (how appropriate) and as it does I figure I’d better get serious about getting gussied up too, for our annual dinner and dancing outing at the Harbor Reef: a dusty dirty open air saloon on the edge of an island in California.

Oddly American

The sky and water are dour grey, but brightened up with swathes of bunting, flags, and sparkling streamers of red, white, and blue. Everywhere Old Glory flies, in various sizes; fluttering in the morning breeze.

We’re moored in Avalon Harbor – with one-million other boats, all compelled to start their generators and launch their noisy puttering dinghies at dawn, when other saner people who are finally-at-the-island-for-the-weekend might want to sleep in. Still it’s relatively peaceful, cocooned in my bunk (I’m sleeping in the ‘garage’ – the quarterberth normally used for stowing tools, extra sails and beer) with the various critters (one dog, two cats) sniffing by to see, I guess, if I happen to have a bag of treats or side of beef in my bunk or can be compelled to get up and find them some.

Avalon is said to have one of the best Fourth of July celebrations, with a fireworks and a huge parade winding through the contorted streets of this hillside city (hard to imagine, as Avalon is about as big as your thumbnail) that includes the entire USC marching band. Insane. I can hardly wait.

For now, we’re gearing up for a long hike/dog walk followed by a ride into the interior with a friend who lives here, but too entertained to leave yet as the Harbor Patrol is moving a boat that didn’t come off its mooring by 9AM as required, while the boat owners dim-wittedly chase in their dinghy. The patrol boat has got the renegade stinkpot side tied, and is squeezing adeptly through the anchorage, where boats are rafted up and crammed in like sardines so close you could leap-frog across the bay. Modern-day cowboys. Which reminds me of the rodeo, and another slice of Americana, and how much I want to try mutton busting: but that’s an a dispatch for another time …