And So, I Decided To Do the Ha-Ha — A Hilarious Tale of Heading South
A rollicking tale of mayhem and mishaps. Crews’ names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.
Grace, a Traveler 32, Philip Rhodes double-ender, cutter-rigged, was my boat of choice, largely because she was floating and legally mine. I made all the proper arrangements: changes, fixes, additions, deletions, upgrades, downgrades, and several decisions I immediately questioned. Eventually there was nothing left to do but acquire crew.
Steve, my best friend, said he couldn’t get away long enough but could help me down the coast from San Francisco to San Diego. My cousin Don agreed to sail from San Diego to Cabo. Don didn’t have much offshore experience, but he had taken the Basic Keelboat course, which meant he possessed a certificate and confidence — two things that often travel together and are not always helpful.
For extra moral support around Point Conception (on the way back), I recruited Minnie and Pluto (also known as Guinevere and Lancelot) from the marina to join me on the Santa Barbara-to-S.F. leg. If nothing else, their names alone improved my odds.
My new girlfriend Susan, whom I had known for only a few weeks before announcing I would be vanishing at sea for a month-and-a-half, agreed to fly to San Diego and sail up to Newport Beach, where she was originally from. I would then singlehand the “fun run” from Newport to Santa Barbara. I should mention that most of my sailing is done singlehanded, so having crew felt vaguely illegal, as if I was breaking some longstanding personal rule.
Don and I decided a third crew member might be wise for the San Diego-to-Cabo leg, assuming we wanted to arrive with the boat, our sanity, and at least one functioning relationship intact. Thus began the adventure.
Before I left, Don and I attended the Latitude 38 Crew Party in Oakland, which is exactly what it sounds like: a room full of sailors enthusiastically overselling themselves. We interviewed several excellent candidates, but one stood out as precisely what the doctor, the insurance company, and probably my mother would have prescribed: Queenie.
Queenie was a 57-year-old single woman planning to continue south after the Ha-Ha. Age-wise, she fit right in — Don and I are both in our 60s — and her résumé was intimidatingly impressive: 36,000 offshore miles, first-aid certified, could cook, and was comfortable standing long watches at the helm. In short, she appeared to be the only adult among us. We agreed to meet at the Police Dock in San Diego two days before the Baja Ha-Ha Kick-Off Party — because nothing says “solid life choices” like assembling your offshore crew at a police dock.
