Catalina Classic, Interrupted (2013)

Damn.

But let me begin at the beginning.

I sent my blog about my first Catalina Classic to Mike Debrecini, my 2012 boat captain, to read before I posted it. His return email was so positive about our experience together, I more or less immediately asked him if he’d like to go on another adventure. I was leaning that way, but his enthusiasm put me over the edge. He consulted his first mate and wife, and soon said yes.

We reunited at Cabrillo Marina early Saturday and prepared to go. But first, the Orient was thirsty.  It was sunny when we started, but as soon as we left San Pedro Harbor, we saw… nothing. It was foggy. Even the Port Angeles lighthouse was difficult to make out at distance. But with plenty of technology on board, the only question was how long it would take.

Just south of Santa Barbara.

Easing out of the slip for gas-up.

Looking nice ... so far.

And that's the last we saw of anything anchored to land for quite some time.

The view ahead was no view at all.

Our technological "eyes": the instrument panel.

The bright spot was sighting a blue whale pod, but we weren't quick enough to snap a photo.

As we approached Isthmus Harbor, we could see it was clear – but only over the harbor. It was as if the sky opened here alone.

Isthmus Harbor enjoys a magical sunshine moment. It lasted until after sunset.

Jon Duff and the Raiatea crew had arrived the previous night with their paddler, Dan Bates. As we pulled up, we could see the wheel was off its column and all three men were standing over it, working.

Another day at work on the Raiatea. But it's a labor of love. Right????

My Unlimited class ride, hanging out.

Dan Bates, out for a paddle.

What happened next wasn’t pretty. Before the day was over, Mike knew one of his twin engines wouldn’t be helping us on race day. Aside from the mental exercise of analyzing what might need his attention, Mike had to also turn his thoughts to a more immediate problem: how to steer the boat during the race on his port engine alone.

DeeAnn hopped the 2 p.m. ferry for the mainland and snapped a few shots on the way out:

Foreground: dinghy bumper cars parking lot. The beach in view is the race's start.

The real parking lot, at maximum capacity.

Orient.

Saturday evening’s check-in/meeting/dinner was fun to go to as second-timer. The race grew from 77 last year to 88 this year, plus Marine Wounded Warriors relay teams. I felt a stronger connection, and knew a few of the other paddlers by name. Which for me was an accomplishment, as I’m name-challenged (it's a good thing My captain's name is Mike!). When Mike and I signed in, we were handed our race number: 60 (my age).

Tribal gathering. And the food was pretty good, too.

Race Director Francziska Steagall, left, checking us in.

Stock class (12-foot) boards are weighed. It must be at least 20 pounds, or weights are added.

The small lawns fill quickly with paddleboards.

It never fails to impress me what a production this is. Enormous amounts of time and energy make this event possible. And to think it's been going on continuously for over 30 years since Buddy Bohn and friends revived the Classic. It's just mind boggling.

Speaking of that number, 30, this was Joe Bark's 30th Catalina crossing. Let see .... 30 times 32 miles equals OMG to the 30th power. Congratulations, Joe! You're the best example of tireless positive energy I know.

A sadder event was also marked: the death of Bob Meistrell on Father's Day 2013, the day of the Rock-2-Rock race. Bob's brother, Bill spoke eloquently, portraying Bob as one of the great positive forces of our time who left exactly as he would have wished, but is so profoundly missed. If you weren't moved, check your pulse. I never got to meet Bob, but found great inspiration in Bill's tribute to treasure this moment-to-moment gift we call life. Bob's son, Daley, paddled this 2013 race in under seven hours.

Bedtime came early. I woke up around 3:30 a.m. feeling rested and ready. Thanks to the moon, I could see my way as I paddled to shore. I was one of the first to check in. The fire was about to be lit. I watched everyone arrive. It impressed me how low-key everyone is. I strongly suspected that had a lot to do with the challenge ahead.

When the time came, we all lined up, standing in a few feet of calm water. It was a peaceful yet highly charged moment. Ten minutes from racetime was announced. Somewhere within that ten minutes the starting siren was accidently sounded. Reflexively, we all sprinted out, even as we were told this was a very unfortunate mistake. Most of us came back. I and others near me lined up again, in the water. And stood there for some time before it became clear that some paddlers had not returned. I took a jog along the beach and the fire was started again. In all, it took nearly half an hour to get them back to the start. When the race did start, it was 23 minutes late. This meant two things: I was cold, and the windy part of the race was going to take more than an “extra” 23 minutes.

Paddling past Ship Rock, the water was pretty churned up between the density of the paddlers and the boats. Visibility was good – I’m guessing a mile at least. Yet it took much longer for Mike to find me than last year, maybe three miles into the race.

We settled in and the surface conditions became nearly ideal. Eventually I caught up with Jo Ambrosi and we chatted. We recognized each other from the Jay Race.

Mike told me somewhere around mile 10 that I was right on course, meaning on a good line to intercept the R-10 buoy. It’s about 23 miles to the R-10, then another eight-plus miles from there to the Manhattan Beach Pier.

Things didn’t stay nice for long. By the time I got to 15 miles, the wind was up and so was a current. My speed dropped off. Way off. By mile 17, I was feeling a lot like I did last year around mile 25. It became clear I wasn’t going to finish this race. I was cold, I was feeling unusually weak, and some cramping was starting to occur in my calves.

I did the only thing I could do. I sat up on my board. Mike slowed the boat, stopped and came aft. I let him know it was over. Mike later told me he had the thought of talking me through it, until he took a good look at me. I got on the boat, Mike called in to inform patrol I was on the boat, and that was it.

My paddle lasted 3:43. Something was wrong: I had paddled much longer than that many times in training, including two 27-mile paddles three weeks apart.

I asked Mike for his phone and called DeeAnn. My first words were: "I'm okay." She immediately asked what went wrong. I told her what was top of mind. I could tell she felt and shared my disappointment. She was on her way to Manhattan Beach, but would now head for Cabrillo Marina.

Next, I began to feel really cold.  I knew I had to get on some dry clothes now or risk getting worse.

After that I saw my water bottles. I was still working on my first bottle. I should have emptied it within 2 ½ hours, 3 hours max. So, in addition to losing my body heat, I was getting dehydrated and had failed to maintain my glycogen levels.

There was one other suspect: the seasickness pill I took. I tried it on a 21-mile paddle and all went fine (or so I thought), but I slept a lot afterwards. I selected the kind I took because I had read drowsiness wasn't a side effect. I read wrong, as I later found at on further internet searches. I now think it's quite possible, perhaps likely, that both my mental acuity and muscle function were affected.

Mike asked me where I wanted to go next. Mike had a sick boat. The answer was easy: Cabrillo Marina.  

Because we were in thick fog, Mike found himself disoriented (no pun on the boat’s name intended). Within minutes Mike got the data he needed to choose the proper heading.  On the way, Mike mused over how, without instruments, we’d have no reference point, no idea where to go. We were completely surrounded by gray wallpaper.

Over the radio, I began hearing captains calling out their positions relative to the R-10. The were speaking in yards, and there were several of them. It sounded like there was virtually no visibility out there. We heard later that one paddler got about 6 miles off course. Must have been at least a 40 mile paddle, total, but whoever he was, he finished (I was the only DNF listed in the results).

DeeAnn and I attended the after-party. DeeAnn noticed someone was waving her over to his table. It was Jarret Winter, one of Santa Cruz's best. He had been on the escort boat for Aaron McKinnon, another strong Santa Cruz paddler who has placed in the Jay Race. This was going to be a fun night.

Especially inspiring this year: the name of every paddler who finished was read out by Francziska and asked to come forward to collect his or her finisher's trophy. Winners all.  The top trophies were handed out as part of that. 

As I told other paddlers what happened, I got nothing but respect, interest in what happened to me out there, help and encouragement. It was like I had 10 or 15 best friends. At that moment, nothing could have meant more to me.

I posted to Facebook and many other friends responded similarly.

DeeAnn asked to hear every detail I could remember and wanted to help me sift through them to better understand what happened and what to take away from the experience. That was incredibly helpful. And kind.

The next day, I spent time making notes about the valuable lessons I had learned. And I would not trade that for anything.

Here's how it ended up for me. Last year, I couldn’t believe how amazing it felt to finish. What keeps creeping back into my thoughts now is how good it is to be standing at that starting line. I hope and plan to be back, hip deep in water, trained and ready for Catalina's siren to sound. Damn, that would be cool!

And, as I write this blog, the following quote has just come in via the New York Times:

"I have three messages. One is we should never ever give up. Two is you never are too old to chase your dreams. Three is it looks like a solitary sport but it takes a team." 

- Diana Nyad, upon completing a swim from Cuba to Florida after five attempts over 35 years. (She was 64.)

EPILOGUE
The ride home had its compensations. We stopped in at Bella Cavalli Winerey near Solvang, sipped wine, visited, and said hi to the horses, too.

The Santa Ynez Valley is home to many wineries. And it looks so grand at magic hour: