“We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths, for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought upon our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice.” — Richard Henry Dana
We made it into Dana Point harbor and set the hook just as the sun slid behind the tall cliffs. It had been a calm trip from Catalina but a long one, so while Colin put things away topdecks, I went below to conjure dinner from the last of our fresh provisions and a can of mystery vegetables. (Somehow in the process of removing the labels to prevent cockroaches, all cans accidentally got labeled as green beans). Turns out our surprise ingredient du jour was peas, which worked out well enough in a frittata with carmelized onions and goat cheese. Once we cleaned up the dishes, we were asleep within minutes — about the time the rest of SoCal was turning on the evening news.
In the morning, I pulled back the hatch and poked my head up to find we’d slid back several centuries in time.
Even better, we’d landed in the middle of sailing history paradise.
Let’s set the stage. In early 19th century America, public education was still virtually non-existent and many kids began working before they reached their twelfth birthdays. Thus, not many of the working class were in a position to write memoirs, and especially not sailors, so most people knew little of their daily life and struggles.
Then there is geography. At the time, there was a fascinatingly remote area of Mexico, that didn’t have many resources, but in the name of holding territory was dutifully populated by settlers, banished to the hinterlands with hoards of cattle. Then the cattle multiplied. Drastically. Suddenly there was a valuable international trade resource in the area because cattle hides were used for everything from leather satchels to the belts that ran the growing number of machines in industrial factories. Still, very few Americans had yet heard about the strange territory of Alta California.
Enter a Harvard-educated son of a prominent colonial family, who decided to undertake a sea voyage to help cure his vision problems. At the time, it was thought sea air a viable cure for opthamalia, only instead of taking a grand tour of Europe as his compatriots may have done, in 1834 he signed on as a deckhand on a relatively small commercial brig out of Boston named the Pilgrim. Over the course of two years, he voyaged up and down the coast of this empty land called California, visiting villages and outposts with Spanish names as unfamiliar as San Diego, San Pedro, Santa Barbara, Monterey and San Francisco, living the life of a lowly sailor. When he returned, his book Two Years Before the Mast not only described these places in great detail to a fascinated audience, his descriptions of the abuses commonly inflicted on sailors had a similar impact on the public as Charles Dickens was having on perception of the London poor half a world away. So if you are a sailor who has never been flogged by your captain, you may have Richard Henry Dana to thank.
The spot Colin and I had anchored — Dana Point — is named for its most famous visitor, and we have both been great fans of his work for years, but we hadn’t expected to find a full sized replica of his ship sitting right off our stern that morning.
But wait! There’s more! Why be satisfied with one sailing giant experience, when you can have two? Hang with us here. Can you handle a little more history?
Somewhere around the time the first pharaohs were conquering Egypt, while tools were still made of stone, Polynesian navigators were making journeys of thousands of miles over open ocean in canoes built of logs and coconut fiber, reaching sparse islands without a single nail, much less the aid of a compass, clock or sextant. According to Tristan Gooley, author of How to Read Water: Clues and Patters from Puddles to the Sea, “The Pacific Islanders’ reading of water ... has never been bettered by humans, anywhere on Earth”
While the art of Polynesian navigation appeared lost after contact with Europeans, in the 1970s an intrepid group in Hawaii set about finding what could be re-discovered. Using sketches, they re-created a traditional canoe, building with fiberglass (as traditional koa logs could no longer be sourced), but staying true to the original design. At that time, they could only find a single person qualified to navigate the maiden voyage using traditional skills, and they plucked him from Micronesia to make a historic voyage in 1976 from Hawaii to the Marquesas.
While I was not staring at the original Hōkūle‘a from my companionway, I was a mere hundred feet from her sister ship, Hikianalia, which was moored in front of the Ocean Institute on their latest voyage.
Soon, Colin and I found ourselves swaying to Hula music, touring the vessel and chatting with crew who’d sailed on both ships. One of the most amazing things I learned was from a sailor from Moloka‘i named Todd, who’d explained that because Hōkūle‘a’s two hulls are lashed together, rather than being built of a rigid form like modern catamarans, the vessel flexes in high waves. Engineering-wise this helps prevent catastrophic failure, but what really struck me was when he said the experience was like riding something organic over the ocean. Many a sailor has come to believe their vessel has a living spirit, but I can only imagine it is that much more true for sailors aboard Hōkūle‘a.
And what about those navigation methods? For those who aren’t sailors, suffice it to say it involves reading the weather (i.e. clouds form differently over land), the stars (using an open hand as a sextant), and the swell (which refracts when it hits land, creating different patterns). If you want to know more, the website for the project explains it all far better than I ever could.
So how lucky were we? This amazing scene we’d accidentally parked Pristine in filled our curiosity reservoirs and gave us the chance to chill out and melt into this floating lifestyle. We did some provisioning, laundry and other errands. We caught up with our friend Dan for an amazing dinner (thank you, Dan!). But mostly, we just did what we wanted — which I think is the whole point of this crazy alternative life we’ve chosen.
Next up, we will sail back to the present day, planning to spent about a week in San Diego while Colin attends a memorial and Pristine and I get ourselves shipshape enough to collect our captain and head south of the border, down Mexico way.
Meanwhile, here are a couple of bonus shots from the past week.
Fair winds and following seas, dear friends!