When we last looked in on our intrepid duo they had found themselves in a bit of a pickle. Unseen forces had them trapped, tethered inexplicably to the murky depths of Monterey Bay. With their plan to head in to the fuel dock now in jeopardy, the crew knew they needed a miracle, but would it come in time? Or is this where their story would end, full of poop and out of fuel? Let’s find out…

When it became clear that our anchor was good-and-truly stuck, we began trying different tactics. We tried loosening the chain and bringing it in again, nothing. Then we tried loosening the chain and circling in one direction, then the other, but to no avail. We called the Harbor Master to see if they knew what might be down there but they were less than helpful, telling us it was a 200 year old anchorage so what did we expect? Well, I for one expected a little more interest and at least an iota of assistance from the Harbor Master, but I guess we got spoiled in Santa Cruz.

Thankfully, Monterey is a very popular scuba diving location and many people learn to dive here, some of the classes even walking into the water from the beach. In fact, in our original cruising plan, Charles and I were going to stay here for a few weeks learning to dive with otters, seals and sealions in the formidable kelp forests of California’s Central Coast but, as you know, those plans changed. With that in mind, Charles called a local dive shop to see if they had any divers willing to come out and have a look.

Within the hour we had a diver, Sheldon. Six feet and some inches tall, strong-like-bull, and clearly not afraid of sea monsters or their toothy, gaping, anchor-eating maws. He geared up and got in the frigid water, his cold-temperature dive suit undoubtedly easing the shock, and quelling the squeals and dramatic “heeheee-hoohooo” breathing, that I always find necessary when entering chilly water. After a few minutes he surfaced, “You are fouled on an unholy trifecta of anchors, one the size of your dinghy and as big around as my thigh!”, he said, “… along with a big spaghetti-pile of chain”. Of course we were. Clearly we were going to be here for a while so I began doing the laundry I had been putting off, trying to make use of the delay rather than getting distracted by all of the underwater drama. I was also trying very hard not to think about how much this new adventure was going to cost us.

It turns out, when we dropped our hook, we caught a huge 10ft long, 100 year old fisherman anchor, the kind that are now often repurposed as statuary to create maritime ambiance in seaside villages and marinas. This giant anchor lay, lurking below the surface, waiting,… and over the course of a few days, with the tide going in and out, we had swung in alternating circles, our chain wrapping around one way and then the other repeatedly, getting snared under the various ‘sticky-outy’ bits. We would find out later that there had been three of these monstrosities further out, in deeper water but years ago, a cruise ship had dragged its anchor during bad weather and caught one of them, displacing it and dragging it closer to the beach.

And apparently we weren’t the first to encounter it here either. At least two other boats had done the same thing, their anchors and attached chain cut free from their vessels and abandoned, left to further entangle ours. When all was said-and-done, we pulled up three anchors, one of which was ours, and then mapped the gargantuan one on the navigation chart to help future boaters avoid the same trap. Sheldon had need of the smaller anchor, and the bigger one we would look for an opportunity to sell to recoup some of the costs, thereby reducing somewhat the price of our freedom.

And so, as the drama was nearing an end, I had just gotten my skivvies strung across the cockpit like parade flags when we were finally released from our watery entrapment and began to make our way in to the fuel dock. It had taken a few hours but we were finally unattached, intact, from the bottom. As we headed in to dock, parade flags fluttering, passing massive, spotless mega-yachts, the contrast was pretty apparent, but we didn’t care. We were just glad to be free.

As we set about topping up water and fuel, we met the family from SV Valiente returning to their dinghy. They had docked it here while they came ashore to explore. As Charles began chatting with them, I pointed toward the end of the dock, mentioning that we had just seen a pelagic red crab (a species of squat lobster) so the mom and kids and I began to walk in that direction.

As the mom and I chatted, her youngest, a boy about 7 years old, casually strolled right off the end of the dock! KER-SPLOOSH!! As his mom helped him back on the dock, I ran to grab a towel. “Don’t bother!” she yelled, “He is used to being cold and wet, and towels are too hard to launder and dry, he is fine!” You gotta love boat moms. It only took me one attempt at hand plunging and wringing out towels to discover that tidbit, not to mention rewashing because the fluffy towel mildewed before it could dry.

As he stood there dripping and unfazed, oblivious to any discomfort he may have been feeling, he gestured excitedly towards different types of starfish that were clinging to the rocks on shore. With each point of his finger he rattled off their scientific names as well as their common ones “Patiria miniata, the bat star, that one is Pisaster ochraceus known as the purple sea star”. His excitement with his surroundings obvious and infectious, fueling his curiosity for knowledge about those surroundings. Learning through curiosity, what an amazing way to be raised and a far cry from the current education system so many are familiar with.

As all of this was going on, Charles was chatting with their Dad about boat things and boating places and found out that they were headed north to Alaska and hoping to get in to Canada. We exchanged information regarding passages and ports to the north and they gave us the same for stops south. We also filled them in on kid things to see and do in Monterey (Dennis the Menace Playground and tide-pooling are our favorite things and both are free!). Going north at this time of year is a lot of work and it will be largely uncomfortable (it is called ‘beating north’ for a reason) but thankfully, they were settling in to Monterey for a week or so, so Charles would have friendly neighbors for part of the time I was gone.

The next few days were filled with getting things done in preparation for my trip to Canada and seeing as much of Monterey as possible, visiting Colton Hall Museum and Jail and the Monterey Moon Tree (a sequoia [Sequoia sempervirens] grown from a seed that was aboard Apollo 14, orbiting the moon 34 times along with seeds from five other tree species, before returning to earth), as well as continuing our Historic Area visits that were now covering territory a little further from the waterfront.

The day of my appointment we drove 50 miles to Soledad for my Covid test where I managed to undertake a mighty tumble, breaking the camera on my phone, bruising my arm, and severely damaging my pride, the stress of life and international travel during a pandemic distracting me from paying attention to where I was walking.

We explored our final area in the Historic District, this time focusing on California’s oldest stone building, completed in 1794, the Spanish colonial San Carlos Cathedral, also known as the Royal Presidio Chapel. My favorite part, the plexiglass peek-a-boo windows to see what the walls had looked like before they were covered and restored.

It was here, while we were enjoying the serenity of the grounds, that Charles got the call from our lawyer giving us the total of our bill so far. This included our time in court a few months ago, and was continuing to increase as no common ground had yet been reached, nor did it look likely. We had walked this road many times before and we always ended up at the same dead end. But this time it was different, by leaving the Bay Area we had forced the conversation. It was so liberating, expensive but liberating. Poor Charles had to bear the brunt of this phone-call burden, my psyche was too fragile to know the totals and I told him not to tell me. I was worried it would bury me so deeply that I wouldn’t be able to see hope.

My last day before my trip had arrived. We started the day with fresh baked bread, followed by a dinghy ride to shore and a walk through the hotel district to pick up some cheese, crackers, and nibblies. We were having company that evening, Paul and his girlfriend, owners of a sailboat charter company called Sail Monterey on Fisherman’s Wharf. Charles met him during one of his many shore excursions for boat parts and job prospecting.

We had gone for coffee with him the previous day and we were hoping to meet his girlfriend before I left. It was likely that Charles could do some work for him while I was gone so we were hopeful, we needed to have something go our way, and quickly. Then, as we were walking we met Sheldon and his nephew who had been evacuated from his home due to forest fires near Lake Tahoe. He didn’t know if his home was still standing and it put things into better perspective for us. No matter how bad it got, at least we still had each other and we had our home.

As I relaxed in my hammock enjoying my last afternoon on the boat for a while, Charles was working on one of the dinghy motors. I had been re-reading Cannery Row because I have a thing for reading books where they take place. As I turned the page I lost my grip on the book and it tumbled, hitting the kayak under me which acted like a slide, and whoosh…, bloop!, into the bay. I leapt up, yelling “my book!” as I watched it float past towards the back of the boat, gradually sinking lower as it absorbed its surroundings. As I watched, leaning out over the water, there was another bloop!, this time my sunglasses from off of my downward facing face. Sigh. This was not shaping up to be my day.

Charles on the other hand, an avid reader and book lover, heard my cry and sprang into action, jumping into our (motor-less) dinghy and pushing off towards my slowly submerging (and easily replaceable!) paperback. With much effort and very little grace he paddled canoe-style, zigzagging with each stroke, the current carrying him with the book. By the time he had it safely onboard, he had drifted quite far and was continuing to do so, his small paddle largely ineffective against the tide.

Now it was my turn to be the hero. I ran to the stern and opened our rescue sling, tossing the free end into the current to float in the same direction as both of my dinghies while Charles continued to paddle back towards Magick Express until the sling reached him and he was able to pull himself back to the boat. Whew! And I was now the proud owner of a book that, because of the salt water bath, will never dry. A book that is now literally steeped in the waters of Monterey Bay, how fitting that it be Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. And please, no one tell Charles about losing my free work-picnic novelty sunglasses, I can’t imagine the lengths he would go to.

That evening, other than the steady rocking that gradually increased until we had to cut short the visit, our visit went well. It left us with a hopeful feeling, and a bit of a sense of community. If the work didn’t end up panning out, at least I knew that Charles would have some friends he could lean on while I was gone. I would be away for three weeks and was worried about leaving him alone with his thoughts in an uncomfortable and roley anchorage with no emotional support system near him or bossy wife to distract him. With the recent court memories still raw and painful and nothing of any substance decided upon, our future was clouded and unsure. Knowing it would be less bleak than I had imagined made a world of difference, and it felt a little less like I was abandoning him. He had been through hell and was coming out the other side with determination and hope fueling every step. He just needed to keep going and I needed to get home to see my family.

General Monterey ‘vibe’ photos.