Late one afternoon in Ventura, Bryce called to me, upset. I was below deck. He was on the dock. He had dropped Trent’s Penny Board, an old-school skateboard into the water adjacent to our neighbor’s boat. Trent recently bought it from a friend and really liked it. Bryce knew the cost to replace the board would be about $100, money he didn’t want to spend. Head in hands, fighting back tears, Bryce was lamenting his circumstance. I suggested he dive for it. I made up a weighted line to sound the depth; fifteen feet we determined and Bryce rushed to get his wetsuit. Together we deployed Kandu’s stern anchor and chain over the spot he remembered splashing the board. The sun was low on the horizon. It was warm above surface and below wasn’t terribly cold. We knew he wouldn’t see much and would have to rely on touch. Passer-bys encouraged Bryce to give it try, warning how difficult the task would be. It took a couple of dives before Bryce got his rhythm and technique down. Soon after, Bryce pulled up his brother’s skateboard. Many of the other live-aboards were amazed at Bryce’s success. He was very pleased with himself. I told him to wash the board off in fresh water and spray it with WD-40, which did immediately. The board survived with little damage until a couple of weeks when one of the wheel’s bearings froze. Trent’s Uncle Nick bought and replaced all of Trent’s bearings. Trent was satisfied with the repair.
A week after the salvaged skateboard episode, Uncle Nick bought for Bryce’s birthday a new Penny Board with a stars and stipes motif, just as Bryce had dreamed.
As mentioned in Part 1, initial efforts to retrieve the prescription sunglass my father-in-law, Ron, dropped from his shirt pocket and into the drink over our neighboring mooring slip failed. The mishap provided an excellent opportunity to try out some cool gear; 1) our Spare Air (mini-SCUBA tank) device, and 2) Jim’s, a neighbor’s, pony tank (small SCUBA tank). I learned about how long each allowed me to stay underwater at around 15′ below the surface and to not panic as I cautiously ascended without air in my lungs, to meet head-first the barnacled underside of the floating dock. I experienced what it is to dive in near zero visibility as my movements stirred the silty marina bottom, clouding my view like thick smoke from a slow motion house fire. And I received instruction from Jim on how to proceed in the manner taught to search and rescue divers.
Ron’s glasses fell in the water on a Saturday afternoon. Later that day, Bryce and I made our first attempts to retrieve them, as described Part 1. It wouldn’t be until Tuesday afternoon before I would be able to make another attempt, this time with our tethered compressed-air solution. Some call it SNUBA, a cross between snorkeling and SCUBA diving. Others call it a hookah system (if you try looking it up on the Internet, be sure to include “diving” in the search perimeters to avoid getting pages of links to marijuana devices) because of how it provides compressed air via a long hose tethered to your waist. It took days before I dove again because I wanted to find time to read the instructions and make sure I properly commissioned the unit into service. It’s an expensive piece of machinery that if improperly used, could kill a diver–no exaggeration.
SCUBA 101 (skip the next two paragraphs if you’re not interested in learning how compressed air can kill or maim one of us): Breathing compressed air is serious business. As a diver descends, the combined weight of of the air and the water above put into play physical forces that require serious consideration and respect. Ignorance is no shield against improper practice. Having had SCUBA instruction, I knew some basic practices: 1) at fifteen feet of depth, I could safely stay underwater for a long time, more than an hour, 2) to always be in a state of breathing, either exhaling or inhaling, slowly and deliberately–never hold your breath, especially ascending, 3) if you lose your regulator (the mouth piece from which your air is drawn), blow small bubbles, 4) do not ascend faster than your bubbles; 5) make a safety stop 10 feet below the surface for a few minutes before finishing the ascent (unless you’re out of air, then ascend blowing bubbles), allowing your body to release excess air stored in the recesses of your body and giving your ears an opportunity to acclimate to the lower pressure (I get dizzy the last 8 ft.). If a diver fails to adhere to safe practices, the physical laws of gas and fluids can work against the diver, releasing gases stored within their body tissues and blood stream (Henry’s law), creating painful air pockets between their lungs and chest, or sending air bubbles to the brain, like bubbles released from a freshly opened soft drink (Boyle’s law), killing or paralyzing them. Why does this happen? At depth, a diver needs higher air pressure to counter act the increased atmospheric pressures of the water surrounding the diver. At 33 feet below the water’s surface, the atmospheric pressure is double that of the surface which is about 15 pounds per square inch (psi), so 30 psi at 33 feet. At that depth, an air-filled basketball would be half its size. If you wanted the basketball expanded to full size at that depth, you’d need to fill it with twice as much air as with what it was filled at surface, which is the same thing as filling it with air that was compressed to twice its surface pressure. That’s why you can’t just take a long piece of hose and breath from it from the surface like a long snorkel. The air at surface is not pressurized (heavy) enough to expand a diver’s lungs at depth. With a long snorkel, you might be able to dive 2 feet underwater, but not much more. At the same time, if you don’t release the air from the basketball that’s now filled with twice the air at 33 feet, as it approaches the surface, the heavier air inside will expand to match the lower air pressure of the approaching surface, causing the ball to ascend faster and eventually explode. Okay for a basketball, not okay for lungs. By the way, without a lot of weight strapped to his or her body, it would be nearly impossible for a diver to swim a basketball down a few feet. A dolphin might be able to (basketballs underwater), but not many humans. Although, the deeper you get the ball, the smaller it gets, the easier it will be to push it down.
Another key factor surrounding diving with compressed air is the quality of the air compressed. When compressing air, the air compressor siphons air from around its intake, the very air we breath at the surface, and squeezes it into higher pressures. If the air it captures is polluted, the diver will breath concentrated pollution. This can easily happen if the compressor breathes the exhaust of a gasoline or diesel engine, which puts out carbon monoxide, a toxic gas. In our case, our compressor works off AC electricity. To create AC electricity, the kind of electricity that comes from the outlet of your walls, we use a gas-powered generator. If the generator’s exhaust is sucked into the air-compressor, the diver could be poisoned. When we want to dive at a location other than directly under Kandu, we may take our dinghy out to a better diving location. The interior space of the dinghy is small, so the generator and the compressor will be near each other. We will need to be extra cautious, separating the two as much as possible and making sure the compressor only breathes fresh air. We must place it up wind from the generator with its own snorkel and carbon air filter. So avoiding engine exhaust and other pollutants is crucial. And there’s one more thing that breathing in will kill you: oil, any oil, even food grade oil. In the harsh marine environment, metals rust. To help prevent rusting, we coat our metals with a light oil spray (CorrosionX or Boeshields T9) to minimize contact from the oxygen and salts that cause corrosion. The air compressor is no exception, so we must be extra careful to spray only its metal parts and not the air filter. We must spray the compressor after each use, allowing time for the solvents in the oil to evaporate and for the oil to “dry” on the metal surfaces. In this way, we insure the diver doesn’t breath compressed oil. If a diver breaths compressed oil, his or her lung walls will be coated with the oil, preventing the lungs from absorbing air, causing the diver’s lungs to fill with fluid. Even surfacing won’t save the diver. So you can see how important it was for me to read the instructions describing the proper use of our new air compressor, and why it took awhile before I was able to dive for Ron’s expensive sunglasses.
End of lesson. Back to the story.
With the knowledge of the air compressor’s proper use firmly saturating my brain, I gather up a few more items previously not incorporated in my earlier recovery attempts: a multi-colored spring wetsuit (short sleeves and legs) à la early nineties to keep me a little warmer in the cooler water for an extended period, a weight belt to make it easier for me to remain at depth underwater, a large underwater light lent by Jim, and an 8-foot tether tied to the top of the anchor shank that will help me create my search-zone. We deploy the aluminum anchor just as we had the previous attempt, directly over the recalled drop zone. Once suited up, I start the compressor. The manual clearly states that to prevent deadly electrical shock, a wet diver should not turn on or off the compressor. Someone who is dry, wearing rubber soled shoes, and not standing in water should. I am dry for the start, but Ron, in his smart and dry street clothes, will turn it off and on from this point forward.
The new weight belt provided with the air compressor system has six little pockets within which to place weights of various size. The pocket technology allows the diver to easily adjust weights, readily adding or removing as necessary. It also allows a diver in trouble and needing to surface quickly the ability to loose a portion of the weights, making for a more controlled emergency ascent than were they to release the entire weight belt, which is the standard protocol. So, with marker anchor deployed, marking the focal point of my intended search area, I slip into the water; face mask covering my eyes and nose, regulator in mouth, fins on feet, anchor chain in hand.
First order of business, determine the proper amount of weights needed to attain neutral buoyancy (Archimedes’ principle): having the top of my head float at surface, breaking the surface as I inhale, and sinking as I exhale. Wet suits float, so I find I need 12 lbs of lead weights (2 x 5-pounder and 1 x 2-pounder) placed evenly around my weight belt to properly float (and sink) me.
Adjusting Weight BeltFinding Neutral Buoyancy
Jim’s large light strapped to my right wrist, I slowly begin my descent in to darkness. The regulator underwater amplifies each tin-can sound inhale, like that of Darth Vader’s. Each time the compressor’s ridged yellow hose touches my mask, I hear the rapid-fire thump of the compressor’s motor in my head, as if the compressor were on my shoulder. I push it away as I can. Although it is a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I can’t see much past arms lengths–just a dim light from the large lamp. I can see the anchor chain, but little more. The murky dark cotton-textured bottom behaves like the top of a cloud, the closer I get to it, the more it envelops me. Jim’s idea of using the light to visually inspect the bottom before resorting to touch is proving fruitless. At bottom, I can’t see the light beam through the water, let alone anything resembling the sea floor. If I’m unable to use it, then I don’t want to lug it around, stirring up the silty bottom. I consider ascending so that I may remove the cumbersome light from my wrist and leave it on the small concrete dock that separates Kandu from the neighboring boat. Just before I direct myself up, I feel an inanimate flat object under my righthand. It’s the 18″x30″ outdoor carpet mat that Trent had dropped many months ago, that I discovered during my previous attempt to find the glasses. I decide to take it with me. As I ascend, the light fades up and I can see what’s in my hand. Black silt streams off the small carpet like coal exhaust from the stack of an old fashioned steam-powered locomotive.
Ron, hoping I had been lucky, is disappointed I hadn’t found the glasses so quickly. To better feel the bottom and better plant myself in one spot, I remove my flippers and leave them on the dock too. Now I will be able to feel the bottom with both hands and feet. I dive again, my left hand sliding down the anchor chain, guiding me to my starting point. No longer encumbered by the spotlight, I am ready to feel my way over the silky bottom, determined not to quit until I recover the lost sunglasses.
Arriving at the upright anchor, its squarish crown sides are planted straight down in the silt, its erect shank pointing skyward. I untwist from the top of the shank the small white nylon lanyard that I tied earlier that day. I can barely make it out, but somehow I’m able to see it. It takes me awhile to get oriented. I’m a little lost at first, but calm down and begin implementing the plan: while holding the end of the lanyard in my left hand as far from the anchor as possible, I extend the reach of my right hand and both feet. In a leg-spread push-up position, I first move my right leg as far to the right as possible and gently poke my toes into the silt, moving my leg up and down, side to side. The bottom is soft. My toes easily sink into the fine, saturated silt. I cannot see but the dark grey-brown cloud that encircles my head. Were there somewhere else near me, I could not know. Just as in life, I know the immediate circumstance that surrounds my senses. The focus of my task is here, not elsewhere. If conditions are better someplace else, I don’t know, and don’t care to know. Once the right leg is done, I stretch the left leg as far left and away from the anchor as I can and begin carefully examining the bottom, first moving my foot up a couple inches at a time until my knee is to my chest, then a little to the right and back down again, a couple inches at a time, hoping to feel something rigid, not super soft mud. The water temperature is cool, probably in the upper 60’s. With my wetsuit, I know I can stay for about an hour before I begin to get hypothermic (cold enough where I’d have to consider surfacing), and that with the compressor supplying me with air, I can easily stay an hour or much more if needed. At a depth of fifteen feet, one hour of compressed air will not cause any physiological problems. So long as I ascend slowly and take a minute break at 10 feet, I’ll be fine. At the same time that my feet are working, my hands are performing a similar, but opposite pattern. It’s a bit like rubbing your head and patting your tummy. With an eight foot lanyard wrapped around my left hand and my body outstretched, I figure my toes are about fourteen feet from the anchor, creating a search diameter of about 32-ft., plenty large enough to capture my prize. Once one piece of the pie has been carefully felt up and down, maintaining my push-up position, I crab walk to the right a couple steps, past the area I think I’ve examined, and start exploring another piece of the dark black-brown cotton-ball pie, looking for the cherry pit in the pie. In New Orleans, they bake a pie with a little baby Jesus figurine mixed inside the almond paste filling. No one knows which slice will contain the prize, so you very carefully bite into your slice until you or someone else discovers it. Well, that’s a bit like what I’m doing. I’m carefully feeling my way through each piece of pie, first from the outer edge, then I’ll move closer to center and feel my way around the inner circle, looking for my prize.
I find and collect objects as I sift through the muck, clothes pins and a roll of tape. Each time, a little disappointed it isn’t the “little baby Jesus.” So I continue my pattern, hopeful that this systematic slice-of-the-pie approach will bear the intended fruit. I am determined to find it. Before descending, the dockside pundits, other live-aboard sailors, mocked my determination, sighting how they were not able to find objects ten times larger than the one I was seeking, figuring that the current had taken it far away. It’s taken me about 30 minutes, as best I can sense time, to complete the outer circle. Knowing my air hose and lanyard are now wrapped around counter-clockwise around the anchor chain, after moving up close to the anchor, I begin my search routine again but this time I move left, clockwise around the anchor, to slowly unwind my tethers. Fifteen minutes later, about halfway around the anchor, I am a little discouraged. I’m starting to get cold. Being careful not to stir up the bottom, I’m not moving around enough to elevate my body heat. I don’t want to start doing underwater burpee exercises for fear it will stir up the contents of the sea floor, possibly dislodging the sunglasses to drift away in the mild current. I tell myself I’ll stay down as long as it takes. Police search and rescue divers don’t give up, and neither will I. Maybe the anchor set on top of the glasses. I check, but they are not there. I continue with my search pattern.
At first I hesitate to believe it. The object that brushes against the outside of my right hand doesn’t feel like a clothespin and it doesn’t swim away. My numb hand feels something a little larger. I carefully examined what I’ve touched. They are the glasses, my “little baby Jesus.” I found them! Yippie for me. Kenny from New Jersey isn’t going to believe it! With the anchor chain in my left hand, and the sunglasses in my right, I carefully stand up from the bottom, gently moving the glasses through the water to wash away the silt. Standing there, I exhaust some of the compressed air from my body, not really a necessary step for the shallow depth I’ve been working, but it’s my practice. Still unable to see, I take time to swish the glasses underwater before placing them on my head, above my black mask. As I slowly ascend so as not to disturb the glasses from my head (I really don’t want to loose them now!), I begin to see what’s around me and I can see the air hose above me. I move around the anchor chain to complete my circle and unwind the hose from around the chain. The whole time I was down there, about 50 minutes, Ron had been monitoring the compressor and the air hose, taking up the slack and letting it out as I needed. As I break the surface and remove the regulator from my mouth, I declare that looking any further for the glasses is fruitless. Not seeing the dark glasses above my dark mask, Ron agrees and thanks me for the effort. He said he’d just have to drive to Mexico and get another pair. Unable to hold back any longer, I lift the glasses from my head and ask, “Like these?” He bursts out with a laugh of disbelief, and says, “If nothing else, you’re one persistent guy.”
While I rush up to take a hot shower, Ron works to rinse off the equipment with fresh water from the dock hose. Although some may say sunglasses didn’t warrant such an effort, I am pleased that I got the opportunity to try out our Spare Air and our hookah diving systems. I appreciated the education Jim gave me regarding search techniques. The overall experience was valuable and will help me in the future. And, the glasses provided me the excuse I needed to take a break from working on the boat, time away that was greatly appreciated. Plus I saved my father-in-law a drive to Mexico and back, and he got to experience first hand just how stubborn I can be when I’m determined to achieve an outcome. Although there was no guarantee of success, the value of persistance paid off . . . this time.
Another underwater salvaging event just occurred. Look forward to “A Tale of Two Skateboards.”
Anchor Used to Locate “Baby Jesus”Ron at Home with Sunglasses
These past 18 months, I’ve learned how difficult it is for me to learn a lesson of humility–Life decides what circumstances happen and when; not me. I get to react: make choices/decisions, pick my attitude. I don’t get to create my climate. The water that travels under Kandu and the winds that blow above her are not of my making. Although I may try to navigate toward favorable possibilities, in the end, nothing is certain. What was a circumstance a hundred times before, may no longer be when we arrive, for better or worse. The friendly gendarme that typically may have extended visas before, may require boats to leave the country in 72 hours. The bay noted for theft may hold the friendliest family, with whom we remain lifelong friends. Obvious, right? So why do I find myself still behaving as if I make my own circumstance? How many times will I pick a departure date, assuming that everything that needs to be done, will be done by that date, that no other events will arise, by our own choice or by chance, to interfere with that date? We signed up to depart with a 125 other boats, figuring this would force our hand to have to leave. We spent money, in other words, bet that we would leave on that date. Well, we lost that bet. When we realized we couldn’t make that date, what did we do? We set another date. And what happened with that date? We realized we couldn’t realistically achieve that one either. Are you starting to see a pattern here? What’s the saying, “If you want to make God laugh, make plans,” or “The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”? If this were an experiment, we’d question the premise.
What perspective would align us more with reality? We have experience preparing a boat for long distance cruising. Why has it been so difficult to set a date certain with this trip? What’s different?
1) The Boat: On the other three long-distance trips that I experienced, we left on my uncle’s boat, the boat that he built and maintained regularly. He knew what needed to be done to prepare Getel, his 32-foot ferro-cement cutter; the list was short and the surprises were few. For this upcoming trip, we purchased a 25 year-old boat that was built in a boatyard in Taiwan and had been owned by two unrelated parties. Having no history with Kandu, we had to make the discoveries, seeking professional advice as needed. One discovery would lead to another and often many others. The process was constant, and often discouraging, but the end result left us with greater knowledge and needed experience. Had we purchased a newer boat, we would not have had as much work. We would have been ready sooner and had spent much less in preparation. We would have had to spend nearly triple the amount of the initial purchase, but after the cost of all the improvements to the older boat, we would have been close to the price of the newer boat. The biggest differences are: a) putting all the money upfront versus a three-year “payment” plan, b) having a newer boat that would likely fetch a better resale value, and c) having the education of knowing every inch of your older vessel and how it was put together. Both options have their merit. Out of habit, I picked restoring an older boat, knowing I had the benefit of my uncle’s expertise, his time, his network of experts, and his desire to work on a boat. I now know Kandu nearly as well as if I’d built her. I know her plumbing and her electrical. I know a lot about her rigging, and picked every piece of equipment installed in her. I have an intimate relationship with her that I need in order to feel comfortable navigating her. I can feel her, if that makes sense. But this feeling comes at a cost, financial and in delay and frustration.
2) The Voyage: the other three cruising trips I experienced were relatively shorter in distance and duration than what we’re planning now. Instead of sailing to French Polynesia, Hawaii, and back over 10-20 months; we’re planning a five-year circumnavigation. We’re going to be out longer, away from the conveniences of home. We’re going to be subject to a greater variety of conditions: geologic, meteorologic, and cultural; not just the volcanic, coral-ladened islands of greater Franco-American Polynesia. Consequently, I want to be prepared for these broader variables. This has required greater research and additional equipment.
3) The Crew: On the first two previous trips, I was crew, my uncle was captain. The first trip was to Hawaii and back when I was 14 years-old, a 4-month, relatively brief and austere trip, as cruising goes. The second trip was with his family, wife and two young daughters. I was 16-17 years old and we were away for 20 months, again with few luxuries (the one head (toilet) barely worked). On the third of my cruising voyages, I was captain and my youngest brother, Nick, was my first mate, and the head worked. There was no refrigeration. We were joined at various stages of our 10 month voyage by his workmate friend, another brother (Curtis), Leslie, and my uncle. For this upcoming trip, the crew is my family; Leslie, Bryce (13), and Trent (11). Employing what I’ve learned from my past experiences and what drives my family, in order for this longer voyage to work, I’ll need to make the boat comfortable (well ventilated, fresh smelling, and accommodating (refrigeration, electronic communication, water-making, microwave, etc.) and fun (fewer boat projects and more options for adventure). We’ve installed 10 solar powered fan vents and purchased three shade canopies. I’ve spent much effort in odor abatement, addressing the foul smells that typically emanate from the bilge, engine room, and heads. And we have added many daily comfort features both big and small. I am an admitted safety freak, and have installed many safety features including an AED that my brother, Nick, purchased for us. Working to get the boat as ready as we have will hopefully provide fewer requirements of time away from other, more fun adventures with the family. Were the family’s initial cruising experience to be that of waiting for me to frequently install or repair something, tearing up the boat and strewing tools about the cabin sole, they would feel that the promised transition from preparation to adventure were false; that working on the boat at the level we’ve been over the past year were not just a period of preparation, but a normal part of everyday living, then they would quit/mutiny. It’s important that I leave with a smile on my face. For fun, Leslie and I got the boys involved in surfing and they love it. They each have two boards, plus a large soft-top and Boogie boards. We purchased a tethered underwater diving apparatus that allows us two to explore the nooks and crannies of the surrounding seabeds. We have two folding bicycles and an electric scooter for land-bound exploration beyond public and pedestrian transportation. We have a tandem kayak and an inflatable stand-up paddle board for water-bound exploration beyond our boat and dinghy. For entertainment beyond our library of books, we have a multi-system television capable of receiving local broadcast from any country we visit and a region-free blu-ray and DVD player capable of playing discs from almost any country, along with the 300+ movies we’re bringing. And the boys have their Xbox and iPads with their games aboard. We also have a keyboard. It’s vitally important to the success of this venture that the family enjoy the first year. If not, I risk a premature return to California.
Based on the experience of the last year and half, it seems arrogant to believe I can set a date for such a complex event as that which we are about to embark. Why have I have had such difficulty putting this principle into effect? Every time I think I’ve learned the lesson, that I don’t get to decide when and what life events will occur, I find myself frustrated that events aren’t going as I have planned them. In practice, I only own the rudder to my life (and barely); the water that flows around it belongs to God. A paradigm shift is occurring. No longer bound by the constraints of the Baja Ha-ha’s schedule, recognizing that the pressures of schedule are self-inflicted and that going with the flow makes for a more harmonious process–when asked about our departure date, we reply, “We’ll know when we’re going to leave a week before we leave–no sooner.” I hope I can learn and live this lesson, the humility of circumstance.
Surfers in Ventura, and probably elsewhere, use the word ‘quiver’ to denote the group of surfboards that a surfer owns. It’s not unusual for avid surfers to stock a dozen or more boards in their quiver. Some have 50 or more and drive large cargo vans. Waves at each location differ from waves at other locations, at any given time, the particular waves at a given location differ depending on weather and sea conditions. This phenomenon of uniqueness, of only-here-only-now, is what makes surfing so compelling to many surfers: every location is unique and no wave is the same as another. This characteristic is something Robert Weiner, the acclaimed surfboard maker, expressed to us when we purchased two more of his world-renowned surfboards. Bryce and Trent’s surfing abilities have improved over the fall, causing them to want smaller, 5’6″-7″ boards. Smaller boards are more maneuverable than larger, but also less stable. They are easier to duck dive under waves, but not as fast to paddle. Robert warned the boys to not be discouraged by the difficulty they would experience as they learn to control these shorter boards. He said, if they give up, they miss the opportunity to enjoy surfing even more than they already do.
Robert advised Bryce and Trent on their choice of some great used five-finned boards (with five fin boxes at the tail end of the board, surfers have many fin configuration options to choose from, depending on the type of surfing they want to do). Trent picked out the Get-Up G board recently surfed by professional 16-year-old surfer, Nolan Rapoza. Bryce picked out a similar shaped board, a Black Punt, one inch shorter and tad thicker than Trent’s, but no art work. Robert taught Trent how to peel off the stickers Trent wanted removed and how to clean up the left over adhesive with Goof Off. He then instructed Bryce how to prepare and paint his board, if that’s what he wanted. He even offered to paint it for him if he wanted. It’s apparent that Robert wants children and their parents to be excited and comfortable with surfing. He wants surfing to be a positive experience in a teenager’s development. With all of Robert’s hands-on help, Bryce asked if it might be fair to state that Robert was sponsoring him. In response, Robert said that ‘because they only surf Roberts boards, and that he helped them with their boards, they now represent his shop, and as such are responsible for making his brand look good by treating other surfers with courtesy and kindness.’ The boys nodded approvingly. He told them that their upcoming sailing adventure would bring them great wisdom and awareness of the world and other people. He wants from the boys a full report of the best surf spots when they return. I asked if he’d mark up a map for us, letting us know some of the great surf spots that he knew of around the world. He graciously agreed and we returned home to show mom the new boards we just bought.
Although we don’t have a lot of space on the boat, Leslie and I feel the boys’ passion for surfing warrants the effort to find a way to transport the boards. Besides being physically demanding, surfing might inspire the boys to seek out remote beaches around the world, an adventure for the whole family, and provide them instant entree into surfing communities that exist locally, all around the world.
The next day, Bryce drew a design on paper for his board. I read an article on the Internet and went off to buy the supplies. We found them all at Michael’s craft store and headed back to the boat to prep and paint his board. It took nearly all day, but the board turned out great. We just need to add three layers of clear coat to finish the job and we plan to do that today. Working with Bryce to make his vision of what he wanted his board to be allowed me to take time away from working on Kandu. Painting the surfboard provided a great excuse to work with my son and show him how to paint something, a skill he will soon need for Kandu. Painting a surfboard is something I would have never imagined doing, and wouldn’t have done had it not been for the excitement and desire Bryce so earnestly expressed. His eye for color and design impresses me.
While I taped up Bryce’s design on his board, Trent practiced duck diving his new board in the marina in front of Kandu. He loved how much easier it was than with his first board. The last few weeks of surfing brought large waves. Not able to duck dive his large board because it’s too buoyant for his weight, the surf beat Trent up, concerning him that he may drown. He wanted a smaller board that he could duck dive under the waves. It was Trent who first wanted to add a smaller board to his quiver (well, one board may not qualify as a quiver, but anyway . . . ). So after an hour of practice, Trent was ready to try his skill. We reminded him of Robert’s warning, to not be discouraged if surfing the new board wasn’t fun at first, and off he went to Mondo’s Beach, the Waikiki of Ventura. The waves were not large, but Trent’s desire to master his board was. On his first wave, he popped up and away he went, turning and maneuvering like he’d had it for months. Trent’s athletic abilities impress me. His ability to put into effect the training he receives is remarkable.
The boys want Leslie and I to surf too, so I guess we’ll find some room to bring our long soft-top beginner board too as the Kandu family prepares to stock a quiver of memories.
Bryce’s Design Represents His Country and His Board MakerTrent on Rapoza FireMade for Nolan Rapoza by Robert WeinerRobert Weiner on his board before selling it to Bryce, Bryce’s first board.
A study showed that in food tastings, such as chocolate, when the host announces that the next morsel will be the last of the tasting, the taster’s senses heighten, the level of appreciation swells, and thus the last candidate chocolate scores higher than were it elsewhere placed in the line up. In short, knowing something is the last, the experience becomes magnified, more memorable and savored.
When sailing through the Hawaiian Islands in 1990 with Leslie, we tended to see proportionally more of a given location when we had only 7 to 10 days to spend than when we had six weeks. The more time we had, the less we saw.
I suppose with shorter time windows, we are more deliberate and comprehensive with our efforts to encapsulate the experience of a given place. These concentrated experiences are more intense and memorable than when we are time complacent.
This past weekend, we held an “Open Boat,” a chance for friends and family to see us and Kandu before we head out in a few weeks. They came from as far as San Diego and Yucaipa: friends from our former workplaces and friends whose lives intertwined with our children’s, friends from lives before kids, friends of our parents, friends recently made in Ventura, and yachtee friends living aboard neighboring boats, and more. It was terrific seeing so many supportive faces and getting a chance to share our plans. It was a bit like a wedding, not able to spend as much time with everyone as we would have wished, especially considering the distances they traveled to see us and the months since we last met. It was intense.
The experience set off a bout of deep sadness for Leslie. The intensity of what was in large part a farewell celebration brought forth an acute awareness of just how much love there is between our friends and us, and that we will not likely be seeing most of them over the next several years. In cases where older friends or family members are of deteriorating health, we were cognizant that these days could quite possibly be our last together, bidding adieu was especially heart-aching.
Among those included within this list would be my father. Last winter, my father barely survived a bout with the flu. Although he didn’t attend the Open Boat, we visited him six weeks ago at his place to celebrate his 80th birthday. He lives alone in a small studio apartment in Tehachapi, near my brother Tom and his family. Driving from Ventura to Tehachapi , understanding the visit may be our last with him, I had intended to share with my father my thoughts of growing up and of my life’s course. I suggested to Bryce and Trent that they ask questions of their grandfather. On seeing him, having such dialog or asking such questions seemed contrived and melodramatic. “Let’s just be,” I told myself, “The past is what it is. Our relationship is what it has been, and one weekend isn’t going to change the past or make for a better future.” So I just enjoyed my father’s company as we celebrated his landmark birthday together with my sons, with my brother Tom and his family, and with my brother Nick. I went for a glider ride over the mountains of Tehachapi, something I’ve wanted to do since I was 6 and saw it on the Disney Sunday television show. We witnessed Tehachapi’s world renowned train loop in full action. We lunched on ostrich burgers. And we spent quality time playing with my brother’s children for the first time in 6 years, horseback riding, archery, tractor driving, and more. In short, with little time available and sensing we may not have time together for a long time to come, if ever; we lived with intention and thus baked many wonderful memories of family and of Tehachapi.
This is what the cruising circumstance does. It offers an opportunity to live with greater intention. We, the people we meet, and those who visit us from afar are keenly aware of the limited time we have together. A little voice reminds us that our time together may be the ‘last time.’ Under such circumstance, we all naturally focus on creating wonderful experiences by which to fondly remember. As a result, we often get to experience the best of people. Of course when we leave, we are all very sad, but it is this fore-looming sadness that spurs us to magnify the living while we are together. Living land-life, I tend to be more complacent because I have time to meet up again later. I squeeze loved ones into a busy schedule to catch up, spending spurts of time here and there. But when I see a friend for what may be the last time, for many years to come, it stirs a feeling of intense appreciation, of greater awareness of the present . . . life is magnified.
The cruising life comes with many rewards and many prices. This past weekend in saying farewell, Leslie and I felt deeply the toll cruising places on friendships. In saying farewell, we experienced the heightened sensation that comes with tasting ‘the last chocolate,’ . . . for now.
This week marks the end of a successful school year for Bryce and Trent and the beginning of a surf summer.
On Monday, I chauffeured Trent and Bryce to and from school aboard “Rebel Child,” my former boss’s tricked out Jeep, modified for a form of extreme off-road driving known as rock crawling.
Crawling Rebel Style
A show car, it’s a real head turner. While riding shotgun, Bryce remarked how much he loved stoplights, getting a chance to see everyone’s reaction to the “crawler rig.” I dropped him off to a group of jaw-dropped, screaming girls. I later picked up Trent surrounded by a group of on-looking buds. As Trent described it, he had told his friends that he had a surprise for them after school. One classmate guessed it would be a new dog (something Trent really wants). Exiting campus, one of his classmates saw the Jeep with its 40-inch wheels, full armor, and large skull decal emblazoned across its doors and proclaimed, “What a cool car!” Trent said, “I know,” walked up to it and opened the front passenger door. “NO WAY!!!” said his blown-away friends as he climbed inside. I have to thank Tommy again for letting me do that for Bryce and Trent. It was so much fun.
Trent promoted out of fifth grade yesterday. He adored his teacher, Miss Bird, who understood and appreciated his qualities from the first day at, what was for Trent, a new school. She made him feel valuable at a time when he was vulnerable. She inspired him to be his best self. He beamed as she talked with him after the ceremony. Trent leaves Pierpont Elementary having earned excellent grades (top scores for two quarters) and having forged several friendships, most of all, Charlie. We see Charlie several times a week, visiting his family’s beach home or having him on board Kandu. As part of the class of 2014’s mural, Trent and Charlie have their initials permanently imprinted on the school’s perimeter wall. The last week of school included a pajama/movie day, an all sports-day, a beach day, and finally, and after-graduation pool party. Leslie and I are so pleased for Trent, and very proud of what he accomplished this school year in Ventura at Pierpont.
Farewell to Elementary SchoolWaiting To Be CalledPositive Role
Big Gulp
Trent’s Mural Initials
As Trent did with Pierpont Elementary, Bryce entered Cabrillo Middle School with practically no connection to anyone on campus. But unlike must young people his age, Bryce entered with cache, boldly walking on with his colored duct tape bowtie (he would later be referred to by his classmates as the “bowtie guy”). He left yesterday with a yearbook packed with praise and well wishes. Like a typical guy, Bryce enjoyed woodshop and PE the most. With his grade point average having floated between 3.75 and 4.0 throughout the year, he made honor roll (and yes, we got a bumper sticker). His school treated the entire honor roll to a day at Magic Mountain’s rollercoaster park, bussing them there and back. Of course Leslie didn’t miss the opportunity to “chaperone” the kids, getting to ride all but one of the roller coasters while the students did their own thing. Also, classmates who’d heard Bryce perform months earlier at Ventura High for the school district’s talent show, encouraged (begged) Bryce to participate in their school’s talent show. Last Thursday, Leslie and I attended Bryce’s performance of Train’s “Hey, Soul Sister” as he sang against a karaoke track to the entire school, one grade group at a time. The seventh-grade class greeted his introduction with screams and cheers. As a token of his gratitude, the day before the last day of school, we helped Bryce make 90 of his banana cream pie doughnuts, a treat he invented in the fifth grade: doughnut-holes piped with banana cream filling, dipped in glaze and graham cracker crumbs and topped with whipped cream. His gesture of appreciation was well received as made apparent in his yearbook where many praised his talents as a singer, baker, world adventurer, and all around cool dude—a remarkable combination that represents just a part of what Bryce is capable.
Chef at WorkQuality ControlAmigas Signing InBryce’s School Year Ends
Lastly, this week marked the beginning of what will likely be a surfing summer. After months of afterschool surfing soft-top short boards from Costco at Mondo’s Beach, proclaimed as Ventura’s Waikiki; we provided Bryce and Trent a private surf lesson from Jeff Belzer of Makos Surf. He taught much to us all: some basic surfing skills, practices, and exercises (and vocabulary); local surf spots; and the various characteristics of a surfboard and where to buy one. The latter sent us over to Robert Weiner, founder, owner, and renowned shaper of Roberts Surfboards. Rob patiently listened to what we learned from Jeff and to the boys’ opinions and hand selected two slightly used epoxy boards from his used board stock. Bryce and Trent surfed on them the next day. They liked one, but not the other, so we returned it as Robert suggested. Not having in stock another like the one the boys liked, he graciously pulled from his car his personal board and swapped it with the board the boys did not like. It not only matched the preferred board, it came with a dedication to himself embedded in the board: “Made for myself. Lord, thank you for this board.” With a surf camp starting next Monday, Trent and Bryce, and an invitation from Miss Bird, an avid surfer, to surf with her some day; the boys are well set for a surfin’ summer.
The Pipe at Surfer’s PointArtist’s Touch
Gracious Icon
Robert’s Board. In the Background, Leslie’s Sailboat Races
“Westchester Family Prepares for Trip Around the World” – Hometown News Article
Starting this October, Westchester’s Rigney family will embark on the trip of a lifetime as they leave their home, their friends and most of their possessions behind to spend the next three to five years traveling the world and its most exotic locations on a sailboat.
For Eric Rigney, the trip is the culmination of a lifelong dream that started when he was just a teenager, when he and his uncle, Bill Kohut, sailed to Hawaii on a cement sailboat they built together. Later they would travel to French Polynesia and spend 18 months living on the island like locals. The experience left Eric with the dream of working hard and one day recreating a similar experience with his own family.
Now Eric and his wife, Leslie, and their two children Bryce, 12 and Trent, 10, are renting out their home, tying up loose ends and getting their 42-foot sailboat named “Kandu” ready for the trip that will bring them to 70 different countries if everything goes according to plan.
While the snug living quarters or the danger of sailing in the open sea may scare most families from making a similar trip, the Rigney’s see this as an experience to grow as a family and take a break from the instant gratification, video games and fast food culture that is prevalent with a lot of teens these days.
“We are trying to pull them [the kids] out of the commercialism a little bit and pull them out of the Internet and the texting world. Life seems so fast right now, that we are going to slow things down. It’s also an opportunity as a family to grow,” said Eric. “I think it’s rare that parents get the opportunity to live with their kids, shoulder to shoulder, almost like back in the day when people were farmers. We have that opportunity where we can work along side each other and then have a unified goal to take care of the boat, maintain the boat and get to where we need to get. We need to rely on them and they have to rely on us, so it makes us a stronger family unit.”
While the chances of encountering a pirate ship, a whale bumping into their sailboat, or a direct lightening strike are rare, the Rigney’s are confident they can handle any situation that comes their way. They have carefully calculated their route to avoid storms and they will stay away from areas where pirates are known to congregate. They have been studying navigation, practicing first aid and will have shipwright, “Uncle Bill,” on board for the first seven month. He brings decades of ship maintenance and sailing to the team.
When the group sets off this October, their first stop will be Cabo San Lucas for the Baja Haha, a sailboat cruisers’ rally. There they hope to meet up with other like-minded families before heading off to such exotic locales as the Easter and Pitcairn Islands. For the Rigney family, the more far-off and unusual destination, the better.
While their days will be filled with cruising the oceans of the world, learning about the cultures they are visiting and all of the chores that accompany life at sea (laundry, fishing, taking care of the boat), a few creature comforts will be smuggled on board, including the Xbox that the boys will be allowed to play every once and a while. Leslie and Eric hope that once the trip gets started the experience and the hands-on learning will far outshine the lure of electronics.
While their friends and their family’s reactions to their trip range from excitement to concern, the Rigney’s hope their trip will motivate people to go back to basics and spend more time with their families.
“For a lot of people what [this trip seems] to do is inspire them to want to do something with their family and do something as a group for an extended period of time,” said Eric.
Interested in learning more? The Rigney’s will be detailing their travels through their website at rigneyskandu.com. They are also looking for schools or organizations to team up with to collect data and information.
Late one afternoon in Ventura, Bryce called to me, upset. I was below deck. He was on the dock. He had dropped Trent’s Penny Board, an old-school skateboard into the water adjacent to our neighbor’s boat. Trent recently bought it from a friend and really liked it. Bryce knew the cost to replace the board would be about $100, money he didn’t want to spend. Head in hands, fighting back tears, Bryce was lamenting his circumstance. I suggested he dive for it. I made up a weighted line to sound the depth; fifteen feet we determined and Bryce rushed to get his wetsuit. Together we deployed Kandu’s stern anchor and chain over the spot he remembered splashing the board. The sun was low on the horizon. It was warm above surface and below wasn’t terribly cold. We knew he wouldn’t see much and would have to rely on touch. Passer-bys encouraged Bryce to give it try, warning how difficult the task would be. It took a couple of dives before Bryce got his rhythm and technique down. Soon after, Bryce pulled up his brother’s skateboard. Many of the other live-aboards were amazed at Bryce’s success. He was very pleased with himself. I told him to wash the board off in fresh water and spray it with WD-40, which did immediately. The board survived with little damage until a couple of weeks when one of the wheel’s bearings froze. Trent’s Uncle Nick bought and replaced all of Trent’s bearings. Trent was satisfied with the repair.
