Cape Disappointment Lives Up to its' Name!
The Columbia Bar is home to some of the roughest seas in the world. The nearest landmark is aptly named "Cape Disappointment", haunted by the dashed hopes of more than 2,000 skippers, who lost their ships where the Columbia River collides with the Pacific.
The waves were tumultuous, the winds harsh as we turned East, on the homeward leg of Sankara's journey to Portland. The rain was driving, and Sankara flew along "like a fine Arab charger". So much power, and yet we ripped through the combers in an eerie silence.
The backstay ripped away the stern of the boat as the mast fell into the sea. The sound was like what you hear in the woods, when a Doug Fir crashes to the forest floor. Our speedy passage into the mouth of the Columbia was over--we wallowed like a pig in a tough. Rigging spaghettied over the cabin and deck, while the mast threatened to become a battering ram against the side of the hull. Our euphoric venture had turned into a dire situation.
Sections of the mast were hollow, and quickly filled with water. Lifting the heavy, cumbersome stick onboard took a supreme effort. Using the boom, we attempted a jury-rig sail, simply to maintain some steerage, keep her bow into the waves. The engine had performed beautifully in calm conditions, but the stormy ride knocked enough funk loose in the fuel tanks to kill the engine. We were almost "dead in the water".
This was before the days of cellphones and GPS. Using an old-timey, little-more-than-a-crystal-set Radio Shack radio, our "Mayday" reached the Coast Guard station. "What is your location?" asked the Rescue Dispatcher.
"Uh....Pacific Ocean, west of Oregon? There's a big green wave just ahead." Pathetic, yes. But this was before GPS, remember? And shooting the heavens with a sextant wouldn't have worked at this particular moment (even if I knew how to do that).
An angel with a white light halo appeared off a stern, in the form of a white fishing boat called "Pacific". Using her as a reference point, along with a Russian factory trawler a few miles to the West--we were able to direct the Coast Guard rescue cutter to our location. Still we were blown more than 60 miles to the north--our rescue came from the Westport, Washington Coast Guard base, not Cape Disappointment.
So--in a moment, a good day went sour, and we nearly joined the Graveyard of Ships. That "oh-oh" moment, when you're sliding sideways on the ice, when the windshield blows out on your space shuttle, when Santa Ana's troops are pouring over the Alamo walls--"how do I work this?"
Cape Disappointment Lives Up to its' Name!
The Columbia Bar is home to some of the roughest seas in the world. The nearest landmark is aptly named "Cape Disappointment", haunted by the dashed hopes of more than 2,000 skippers, who lost their ships where the Columbia River collides with the Pacific.
The waves were tumultuous, the winds harsh as we turned East, on the homeward leg of Sankara's journey to Portland. The rain was driving, and Sankara flew along "like a fine Arab charger". So much power, and yet we ripped through the combers in an eerie silence.
The backstay ripped away the stern of the boat as the mast fell into the sea. The sound was like what you hear in the woods, when a Doug Fir crashes to the forest floor. Our speedy passage into the mouth of the Columbia was over--we wallowed like a pig in a tough. Rigging spaghettied over the cabin and deck, while the mast threatened to become a battering ram against the side of the hull. Our euphoric venture had turned into a dire situation.
Sections of the mast were hollow, and quickly filled with water. Lifting the heavy, cumbersome stick onboard took a supreme effort. Using the boom, we attempted a jury-rig sail, simply to maintain some steerage, keep her bow into the waves. The engine had performed beautifully in calm conditions, but the stormy ride knocked enough funk loose in the fuel tanks to kill the engine. We were almost "dead in the water".
This was before the days of cellphones and GPS. Using an old-timey, little-more-than-a-crystal-set Radio Shack radio, our "Mayday" reached the Coast Guard station. "What is your location?" asked the Rescue Dispatcher.
"Uh....Pacific Ocean, west of Oregon? There's a big green wave just ahead." Pathetic, yes. But this was before GPS, remember? And shooting the heavens with a sextant wouldn't have worked at this particular moment (even if I knew how to do that).
An angel with a white light halo appeared off a stern, in the form of a white fishing boat called "Pacific". Using her as a reference point, along with a Russian factory trawler a few miles to the West--we were able to direct the Coast Guard rescue cutter to our location. Still we were blown more than 60 miles to the north--our rescue came from the Westport, Washington Coast Guard base, not Cape Disappointment.
So--in a moment, a good day went sour, and we nearly joined the Graveyard of Ships. That "oh-oh" moment, when you're sliding sideways on the ice, when the windshield blows out on your space shuttle, when Santa Ana's troops are pouring over the Alamo walls--"how do I work this?"