Solo

Four foot waves at the narrow mouth of the channel into the marina. The depth sounder seems to be measuring them — oops, five feet — instead of the distance to the ocean floor. Habibi’s draft is six feet and we haven’t run aground, so I’m guessing.

I’ve joked that, since she is fiberglass, I’ve added a 37-foot longboard to my quiver. True dat. Because now we’re surfing. Near treacherous rocks on a four foot swell. Something I’ve done before. Ain’t happy about it, but ain’t panicking either. Hunh.

To back up: Anger showed up the night before. Yet another man had shoved me out of the way on my own boat. After much contemplation, I remembered that I am an excellent driver with experience parking a multitude of vehicles in a variety of situations, and of course I can exit my small slip without crashing into concrete. Jesus H.

In the morning, I’m prepared to solo. Neighbors help with lines, and once free in the thorough-fare, I do a little happy dance. One of the women fist-pumps and hoots in response.

But it’s a twisty, shallow channel out to Sea, and I’ve never done it alone. I keep an eye on traffic, depth, wind, and motor along. Ah, the tricky part. A two foot swell heading toward me at the mouth. Watch the shoal on starboard, the breakwater on port. Throttle up a bit… Yeah! I’m OUT! Woo hoo!

The breeze is shifty, and I head for the islands, cruising past Isla Pájaro (Bird), and over to Isla Venado (Deer). More wind now, but that’s okay. Lots of room to play. I lock the wheel and walk to the bow. Okay.

HA.

Anchoring is SO much easier than anyone (including the naysayer in my head) has led me to believe. Habibi has a slick, safe system with a couple of ways to lock and stop. And plop, the trident is over, with 75 feet of chain carefully released behind. Saunter back to the helm and put ‘er in reverse to test it. Holding, baby, holding fast. Another happy dance.

After a celebratory swim and hull check (yes, I did buy the right zinc for the prop strut), it’s time to head for the marina, 10:30 a.m. The wind is picking up and traffic is increasing. The anchor rises sweetly. Oh, don’t let the chain pile up. I knock the stuck link out of the windlass with a hammer, and proceed. Oop, turn it the other way — ah, nested in place on the bowsprit. So cool!

Now back to heeling and surfing four foot waves, with a dropping tide and wind pushing me toward rocks…

Steady on, woman. Steady on. A yellow flag flaps on the jetty, the Harbor Master’s way of saying, Be careful, but come ahead. So I do… will I crash and sink? or …

I am officially a Bad Ass.

Adrenaline shakes me like a rag doll after I’m safely through. My jaw tries to lock and the bod is super cold. Breathe deep, sweetpea. One more hurdle. I take my time, turning along the channel, and down the lane between Docks 4 and 5. Then glide nicely into slip #9. Like it’s nothing.

“You’ve done this before,” says a helping hand, grabbing a line to fasten Habibi in place. Yes, sir. A million times in my head. Solo.