In the San Francisco Bay boating community, ‘The Big Left Turn’ is talked about in wistful conversations about the future and for some, reminiscing about the past. In many cases, ‘the big left turn’ is synonymous with the annual cruiser migration that heads to Mexico, especially during the summer and fall. People all along the west coast of Canada and the United States, people who have chosen either temporarily or permanently to live a life-at-sea, begin their southward migration.

Some leave early so they can take their time, exploring the coast as well as sights further inland. They may spend a day or two, or longer in order to experience a place and get to know the people. Those that leave later, especially in the fall, move at a faster pace, eager to get to the warmer waters of Mexico as soon as the end of hurricane season makes it safe to go south. They may spend nights anchored, but many will sail through the night depending on the number of crew, the speed capabilities of the vessel, and the goals of the trip. Some people will only have a few weeks to complete their trip, some may have months, and some will have years. Some get to Mexico and then come back, bashing northward against the current and hoping for good weather windows, some stay in Mexico or continue south, then east through the Panama Canal and into the Caribbean or head west into the Pacific, and some go on to eventually circumnavigate the globe.

But to all cruisers along the west coast, the Big Left Turn is a great big deal. It represents dreams realized, goals achieved, major obstacles overcome, and giant leaps of faith taken. In the past, Charles and I have sailed through ‘The Gate’ on countless occasions and made left turns as well as right turns. Left turns took us south to Half Moon Bay, while right turns headed us northward to Drakes Bay, Bodega Bay, or Tomales Bay if we felt like bunny-hopping over the sand bar. So…, so far, our ‘big left turn’ was all still well within our usual sailing grounds, no new paths were being forged. As we headed south, we reminded ourselves that we were seeing this stretch of familiar coastline for the last time. There was one noticeable difference however, the lack of a constant, niggling reminder of a return date.

The stress of the past few months, not to mention the past few years, had left us numb. We were tired and utterly spent. In an emotional fog we made our way south, motor-sailing. The winds were light and we were impatient to put some distance between us and everything we were fleeing. We charted our course, put Magick Express on auto-pilot, and took turns keeping watch, our previous trip to Half Moon Bay still a traumatic memory in my always overly-anxious and disaster-focused mind.

It had been almost eight months since our last trip here. It was 2021, the January long weekend, and it was right in the middle of crabbing season. Crabbing season means traps, lots and lots of traps, and the only thing alerting us to their presence is a small, usually dirty and growth-covered float that needs to be avoided or its line can get wrapped around our underwater parts and make them not work anymore. Yup. You can see where this is going.

Rather than do the most sure thing (head west until we are deep enough to where no one is crabbing) we decided to take advantage of wind and just head south paralleling the coast but travelling a few miles off shore, keeping a watch and dodging crab pots. And oh, the crab pots we dodged! There had to have been hundreds, but dodge them we did. For four hours we watched and maneuvered, and maneuvered and watched until we finally got to the harbor entrance and turned into the wind to take down our sail. We started the engine to make our way into the channel and within seconds it choked off and would not restart. Apparently, during our final turn, we had wrapped the line from a crab pot firmly around both our rudder and propeller shaft.

To make matters worse, the wind (which we could have used to sail into the harbor) had now died and we were left to the mercy of waves. Did I mention that it was a Mavericks weekend? For all those unfamiliar with surfing competitions, the Mavericks Invitational is known for big (like 25-60ft big!!) waves upon which the reigning titans of the surfing world jostle for dominance and ultimate glory. This competition takes place at Pillar Point, aka The Breakwater at the Entrance to the Harbor! So we also had that going on…

And if that wasn’t enough, we were drifting towards a rare and protected reef that, according to the caution symbol on our charts, needed to be avoided at-all-costs. Sure, no problem.

Thankfully, after years of sailing together, Charles and I function like a well-oiled machine. We immediately kicked into our self-appointed roles, me panicking and doing my best not to totally freak out, and Charles calmly assessing our situation and calling for a tow. It is that kind of solid teamwork that really makes our situation work. Knowing you can count on your partner to perform their role is crucial and it goes a long way towards building trust. Charles knows he can always count on me to panic, and I know that I can count on him to behave rationally. Go team! You are welcome, honey.

Obviously the story ended well. Depending on who you talk to, it was either a harrowing ordeal that ended with a dramatic rescue, or, as Charles puts it, “we got a tow” from the very competent Pillar Point Harbor Patrol who helped us in, put us up at an end-tie for a few days, and recommended a diver who came at sunup the next morning to cut and remove the line and attached float. The Harbor Patrol had us cut the trap free before the tow.

Sailing is often characterized by physical and emotional extremes. Those living the cruising life describe it as giving you the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. As traumatizing as the crab pot situation was at the time, Charles’ calm and competent nature combined with the response of the harbor patrol, restored my faith in people and in my own abilities. We had made it through completely unscathed, met some great people, and had a much better story to tell than if our trip had been uneventful. When emergencies happen and assistance is needed, people – especially boaters – will respond. It’s human nature.

That weekend, a storm came in that brought the big off-shore fishing boats back to the shelter of the harbor. With too little dock space, these 80ft beasts began side-tying together. We were sheltered by behemoths, their solid mass bearing the brunt of the wind and deflecting the white-capping waves from reaching our hull. It was the mighty protecting the vulnerable, (okay, well protecting the easily-annoyed at least!) from the incessant slapping of waves on our hull and the uncomfortable rocking that undoubtedly would have resulted. The price we payed for our comfort? Their engines ran all night and their massive flood lights stayed on. There is always a price.

Our sail toward home at the end of that weekend was gorgeous. We had a beautiful weather window and calm seas. The stress from the trip down had all but vanished. Surviving our crab pot ordeal (hereafter referred to as ‘my brush with death’) emboldened me, I felt brave. So much so that, upon our return to our home slip, for the first time ever, rather than hand the wheel back to Charles for docking, I docked the boat myself! All 62 feet of her! In the past I had imagined horror and carnage as I came in too quickly, hitting the dock, damaging our home and sinking her. Or worse, hitting someone else’s boat, or the fuel dock, you name it, if it is horrifying, I have imagined it. But none of that happened, instead, I nailed it.

Eight months later, our final trip to Half Moon Bay lacked all of the drama, terror, and exhilaration of our ‘near-death-experience’ adventure the previous January. Hence the telling of that much more harrowing trip to Half Moon Bay instead. It is unknown whether the lack of excitement was due to our state of stunned exhaustion, the paucity of [crab] pots, or the fact that nothing much happened. Regardless, we took very few photos, our ship’s log had minimal entries and neither of us can remember anything of any significance happening. Crabbing season was over, the only float we saw was a random one that was likely lost during the previous season, and there were no real waves to speak of.

The stress of our previous trip was fading from memory as we arrived, without incident, at the breakwater entrance. I was able to finally exhale as we made our way to the anchorage, dropped the hook, set up our hammocks, and did some hammocking while pondering the immensity of what we had just done and tried not to think about the uncertainty of what was to come.