Feeling particularly masochistic, I recently signed up to cook aboard a sail training vessel headed up the coast of Baja. Partly a delivery after the Newport-to-Cabo race and partly a lesson in upwind sailing, this was a trip up the notorious 850-mile stretch of coastline known as the Baja Bash – a sometimes daunting West Coast phenomenon usually left to paid delivery captains.
It might not be going to school barefoot and uphill, but the Bash is definitely not for those who avoid going to weather.
As the cook, I completed the crew with skipper Brian Kfoury, and first mate Karen Prioleau aboard Alaska Eagle, the flagship of the Orange Coast College School of Sailing & Seamanship. In mid-March, the boat welcomed six students aboard for what was expected to be a spirited ride. After a two-hour walk through of the vessel, we headed out under sail into the bay of Cabo San Lucas for crew orientation and drills including man-overboard, abandon ship and fire stations.
ZUZANA PROCHAZKAEarly morning watches aboard Alaska Eagle get the benefit of seeing the Baja coastline in the light of a new day.THE CLASSROOM
The boat was designed by Sparkman and Stevens for Cornelius van Rietschoten (with a name like Cornelius, he had to be a yachtsman) and built by the Dutch shipyard Royal Huisman to compete in the Whitbread Round the World Race. Originally named Flyer, the then-new aluminum boat started life as a ketch and won the race in 1978. She was converted to a sloop and renamed Alaska Eagle by new owner Neil Bergt, who campaigned her in the next Whitbread and eventually donated her to the OCC program for which she has sailed more than 200,000 miles with student crews onboard.
Sailing with six to 10 students, Alaska Eagle provides a tough 65-foot classroom. The hanked on sails are large and heavy and there is no roller furling. It takes at least six people to raise the main. None of the 14 winches are electric. Even the bilge is pumped manually with the strokes counted at the end of each watch. Nothing is automated and everything is supersized.
To some, the word student is synonymous with newbie, and although it is true that Alaska Eagle is crewed by a variety of sailors with different experience levels, these are not landlubbers out for a daysail. Mostly, crew members are looking to build their skills, see new coastlines or just have an adventure that they wouldn't dare undertake on their own boats.
Our group came from all walks of life – a CFO, ex-border patrolman, university administrator, private investigator, airline navigator and civil engineer – but they shared duties equally on board. A rotation of cleaning tasks served as a humbling equalizer, and a roster was posted with colorful designations such as Galley Slave, Deck Patrol, Secretary of the Interior and Head Honcho.
Watches were conducted in two-person teams working four hours during the day and three at night. Everyone alternated at the wheel, with 30 minutes of steering at a clip. No autopilot here. And with Alaska Eagle's barn door of a rudder, depending on the conditions, a half hour of steering could be a tiring workout.
ZUZANA PROCHAZKATeamwork is key when securing the supersized main aboard Alaska Eagle. THE CURRICULUM
Traditional wisdom dictates that boats headed north hug the coast to avoid a thrashing. Two boats that left the previous day had returned – one with a leaking rudderpost and one that had been pounded so hard that the captain decided to trailer the boat back up Baja coast. Looking at chart 502, which shows the run in its entirety, I wondered if these boats were harbingers of things to come. Ho
However, an enormous high-pressure system was settling over Baja and by the time we poked our nose around the cape, we found calm conditions. We ran the rhumb line, anywhere from four to 40 miles off the coast with easy motorsailing except around the capes, where strong currents of 2 to 3 knots slowed our progress. As we moved through the 10 charts, we ticked off the major landmarks: Punta Tosca, Bahia Santa Maria, Cabo San Lazaro, Punta Abreojos, Bahia Asuncion. The weather was good and we made haste.
Every afternoon, there was a new lesson. Subjects included an overview of weather and passage planning, celestial navigation, knot tying and even a hands-on sail trim class with notes written on what is arguably the world's most unusual whiteboard – Eagle's boom. We had impromptu extra credit lessons that generally occurred at 4 a.m., like generator maintenance or bleeding the engine because the fuel tanks were not switched in time.
ZUZANA PROCHAZKASailtrim class notes on the world's most expensive dryboard.
Every day grew a little colder but the discomfort was offset by the vistas – the stark and beautiful Mexican coast during the day or the unending canopy of stars at night. It was dark, very dark, and someone commented that driving a boat at night at 8 knots is a lot like a ride on Space Mountain at Disneyland.
ZUZANA PROCHAZKAWeatherfax readouts are scrutinized as class is in session.YACHTING 101
The midpoint of the trip up the coast, and a common stop for most boats, is Turtle Bay, where a whale welcomed our early morning arrival. Pangas offering fuel ran out to meet us in this safe harbor that offers provisioning, Internet access and even a medical clinic. Our special treat was dinner at a local home, cooked for us by Olivia, a local who caters for passing boaters or provides meals in her front room, complete with entertainment featuring her two singing Chihuahuas.
The next day, the second half of the trip started much as the first, with calm winds and long, grey rolling waves full of dolphins. We stayed on the outside and spent much of the day getting past Isla Navidad, Isla Cedros and Islas San Benito. A few days later we motored past Ensenada. Conditions were so calm that we pulled up to check into the country at the police docks in San Diego with the main still up.
Since actual sailing had been limited to a few hours here and there, Brian decided on a day of yachting on San Diego Bay to give the crew another lesson at running the boat under sail. As it turned out, he was right to revisit crew coordination before the last stretch.
THE FINAL EXAM
The next morning, I woke at 5:30 a.m. to the sound of halyards slapping like the tolling of a school bell. Southern California is the land of lazy sailing where true wind rarely tops 10 knots. There is never wind in the early morning unless things are about to get sporty. The Baja Bash might not have been all that so far, but the West Coast wasn't going to let us get away without a serious final exam.
Turning the corner around Point Loma, the seas grew lumpy. This wasn't on the syllabus. Or was it? One look at the skipper's grin and it was obvious that he expected a blow. After days of calm motoring, the crew had grown a bit complacent, cocky even, but a lesson in humility was coming.
We brought up the number three genoa and a staysail, and with one reef in the mainsail, we cut the engine and started sailing – surprisingly close to the direction we needed to go, and with only a few tacks up the coast because Alaska Eagle points so well.
The seas grew throughout the day. First there were 8-footers and Eagle thumbed her nose at them. But they continued to build and by 4 p.m. the seas were fast approaching 20 feet, with the big waves cresting and breaking. It was becoming an E-ticket ride.
ZUZANA PROCHAZKAAlaska Eagle shows her racing heritage as the day gets off to a sporty start.I was sitting with some of the crew in the saloon eating lunch when a giant wave came in through the center cockpit hatch, dousing us. Straight faced, a student commented that his sandwich had been a bit dry after all. Karen noted that it was a first for her, despite all her years sailing on the boat.
We soon found ourselves heaving to repeatedly as we struggled to keep things on deck under control. First, there were the heavy sausages of sails on the foredeck that kept trying to snake their way overboard, no matter how many knots we tied. On the second heave to, we tucked a second reef in the main. Velocity made good toward our destination was only 2 knots in the previous hour, and the iconic twin domes of San Onofre power plant, a Southern California landmark, teased us, still looming there in the same place.
We hove to a third time for a real lesson in teamwork. It was time for the number three to come down and get Alaska Eagle on her feet under double reefed main and staysail. Five of us on the foredeck hauled and pulled to free the halyard and unclip the hanks with freezing hands. Crewman Bill Pink had been on the wheel for an impressive 90 minutes during this mess, and his arms and shoulders were aching. "I had two thoughts and neither of them had to do with how much my arms hurt," he told us later. "First, I thanked God that I was steering and not up there on deck with you guys as you went up and down 15 feet with nothing but sky behind you one minute, and then down in the trough the next. And second, I wondered what I would do if the next breaking wave swept you all off the deck."
Spray was everywhere and with the screaming wind, we couldn't hear each other speak. Every other wave sent a cold rush of salt water down my foulies and then tossed my bruised knees back onto the anchor chain that runs 20 feet along Eagle's foredeck back to the mast. We finally pulled the sail down despite the wind and with little ceremony, stuffed it down the forward hatch where it stood like an 8-foot, crumpled, soggy peak – a reminder of an impressive effort.
The day was sunny and probably quite enjoyable inland. But out here, Alaska Eagle was the only thing moving. Even the Navy off Camp Pendleton had stayed home. The wind was now steady at 30 knots and gusting to 35. But with the proper sails up, the boat pounded along at 8 to 9 knots, a bone in her teeth.
Around 6 p.m. we came bursting into the tiny harbor of Dana Point at 9 knots, where Brian spun the boat on a dime behind the jetty and stopped right below a pole flying two red flags signifying gale conditions.
We had made it in and the sudden calm was like a slap. I heard people on shore cheering and honking their horns. One man yelled into the wind, "I've never seen anything like that!" I wished I were on shore to capture the moment. What a fitting welcome for a former Whitbread winner. We pulled down the sails and squeezed into a guest slip, grateful for a safe and steady haven for the night.
The next morning we had a calm, two-hour motor up to Newport Beach. A visitor on board would never have guessed at the previous day's events. Our Baja Bash might not have happened in Baja, but it taught us a few lessons and left an indelible impression of what the uphill slog might have been like under different circumstances.