Misadventure in Los Angeles
A tale of inexperienced youths from the Midwest who ‘buy’ an ocean-cruiser moored in Lotus-land and learn about boats
by Jeff Potter
One thing led to another and I got in over my head. There were chances of escape along the way, and at times I thought I was out, but The Boat kept coming back.
My uncle Tim had a 30-foot wood cruising sailboat that represented to me a Shang-Gri-La of adventure-even though I hadn’t seen it. I knew only that an unusual relative possessed a some sort of key to freedom in an unknown, far away land.
Then, at age 22, some pals and I fell into the ways of hunkering and scheming. How were we make our way boldly into the world? we wondered. I then heard the news that my uncle’s boat was in need of repair and slip fees. I approached him tentatively, inquiring as to his willingness to consider my pals and I as his loyal servants aboard his stately vessel, if he would but let us taste fresh sea breezes and pay the slip fees for him.
My uncle knew he had live ones on his hands and that, in order to set the hook properly, he’d have to stay calm. He said Maybe. Then I tried recruiting every pal I had with emergency tales of South Seas and Musketeers. No luck.
But before I quit I had to see for myself this unseen thing my heart had been pulling at me so strangely about. So I headed out to its home in Marina Del Rey, Los Angeles, boat-home of the stars. The day I got there I parked my Rabbit behind a Rolls on the quay. Then I said let’s whip this pup up the coast to some more affordable hideaway. But my uncle was unconvinced that I’d find a crew.
Since one pal was actually “on his way out” at the time, in a show of good faith I proudly popped a $1000 check on Unk. All I had. And a telltale sign of my desire to become involved with this boat no matter how abandoned I, too, became. For that was promptly my condition. The money disappeared into the rent-hole faster than I wrote it out. It also served to put future responsibility for the boat in my lap, despite my distant residence.
So my two uncles-Tim and his brother Kent-and I took my new boat, Stampede, out for a day sail. After a nervous and thrilling half-hour sail to the breakwater on a glorious day, I thought “Yes, indeed, sailing’s the ticket!” It was my first time aboard a real boat. We rounded the breakwater. Ahh, climbing the swells, a beautiful motion. South Seas, here I come! I could hardly control myself. The whole scene seemed so right. Ten minutes later I was puking over the side, wishing I was dead, astonished at the lack of reason for life, startled to realize the obvious mercy of God for striking people dead when he did-he did it to spare them the misery of living a second longer. “It’s OK with me if we head back in,” I said. I agree, voyaging isn’t for everyone. Life on land is the most beautiful thing possible…we’ll stick to land and have our fun there.
After we sailed back behind the breakwater, the sickness went away, but fatigue stayed, as did humility. I felt like I was coming out the other side of the mid-life crisis I’d always heard about. Little did I know how often I was to get this feeling in the coming few years. The uncles didn’t rub it in. They let me conclude that cutting our losses was the best thing. I presume they were nervous about it all as well. We give the boat to the Boy Scouts. All the long-distance hassles, all the expense…Whew! Boy, I’m lucky I wised up. What’s a thousand dollars anyway? Voyaging? Hoo, that’s a very scary thing in reality.
-But there was also a vibration in the air I didn’t hardly notice, one involving the uncles intentionally taking me out, getting me sick, and gladly letting me drop the monkey business and quit the quest.
They misjudged the curve. Once the bug bites you never know how far you’ll go.
A few days later, friends came to visit me while I stayed at my uncle’s. That visit lingers pleasantly with me still. Twin sisters, like family to me, cruised the sunny boulevards with me at the helm of a convertible for a couple days. -A friend, noting I had no car and that the visitors were L.A. newcomers, and blonde, loaned me his big, red Buick rag-top. -Then we spontaneously went for a sail. Without anyone knowing. My only time aboard since the puke-fest. Did I remember how to operate it from watching unk? Have to look competent. Don’t forget a Dramamine.
I still can’t believe I got that 6-ton slow-turning honey out and back into its narrow slip without destruction that first time. I know, though, that I felt like Rocky when I gently, and completely luckily, nudged her home.
Later that week I let casually drop to the unks that I’d taken the girls out sailing. They looked at each other, raised eyebrows. Touche’
But the boat remained in crisis. The next summer I finally found pals who were willing to adventure. Praise be! All for one and one for all, Joel, Mike and I grabbed the money we had, loaded the Rabbit and headed to L.A. from our temporary lodgings in Ski Bum, Colorado. The fact that I was on crutches from a broken leg didn’t seem a serious impediment-curious, in hindsight.
We arrived, paid the back rent once again, accepted the Hoseannas of friends of my uncle who’d been supporting The Folly since the previous summer, and moved aboard. Illegal, but since we were working ’round the clock to prep for a prompt sale, we got forbearance from the management.
I’d never really looked at ole Stampede before. And I’d finally read up on boats. Now I saw how quirky she was: a cleanly homebuilt gaff-rigged cutter made of plywood on store-bought oak, with a teak deck. 26-feet on the water, 29 on the deck, with a walkable sprit. She had a huge cockpit with a solid, rather quirky banister around it, a beautiful wheel, standing room, hard chines, 9-foot beam with a beamy stern, low freeboard except for up front where her bow curved skyward, roomy foredeck and side decks. She had a modest full-length keel, but quite a cabin sticking up-she even had ratlines going up the shrouds! Long, high boom, modest mast, few sails. A definite two-by-four look to her. Yet she had salt. Damn, she did. And even though she looked a bit funny, every day people craned their heads to see her, and they never seemed to scoff. Fancy boat people would even invite us over for drinks and comment on her fine looks. Our pride grew.
We coasted on our bikes through marina after marina, scoping the other craft for ‘reggae’ cruisiness; and we confirmed how funky we really did look. The only boat that rivaled us was an amazing old wood-and-hemp 25′ junk-both she and her young, inexperienced owner seemed to have a glint in their eyes. Our boat was clearly one of the few that looked like it might actually head for somewhere. Of course, sinking outside the breakwater was also a strong part of its look.
We took Stampede out for a sail. And became stranded as the light So-Cal breezes died on us. Then our motor developed A Problem. We paddled with little oars, with our hands, too, as I embarrassingly recall.
We soon became the feared boat of the marina. People worried when we cast off lines even for the briefest of jaunts. People really worried when we came back-making dangerously slow turns into, first, our narrow waterway, then narrower jetty opening, then even narrower slip slot. Our bowsprit swung over cockpit dinner parties as pleasant people raised their arms in fear. These were our salad days. (And, yes, we did have one little collision….)
Speaking of salad, after our first sail, we decided we had drag below. Spent a few days upside down underwater in the oily lagoon scraping the hull free of hundreds of pounds of moss and shell-fish. For awhile we had a strange new respect for Olympic sailors. Hmmm, what patient fellows they must be-funny how it looks like they’re going so fast. Very tricky, we decided. We honed our skills. …And finally also cleaned our hull. We were delighted to hear water rushing past rather than a mossy forest sound.
The next day-sail none of us could stop smiling. We pointed her out and refused to turn her back. Out of sight of land for the first time! Freeze breezes kicked up and steadied for the first time. This was sailing! Mexico was just 100 miles south. We looked at each other, shit-eating grins. “You want to just go for it? Everything’s here!” We saw flying fish and sailed over some off-shore drop-off where the sea became indigo instead of green. The sun flashed. The spray flew.
We felt lucky to be alive. Strolling her teak decks made us feel like masters on a clipper ship. We also napped steadily, as all of us with great reliability gulped Dramamine. We sprawled against big pillows on the foredeck and in the roomy cockpit. We had a ship of plenty. And a new Bigger-Than-Life life.
At sea that day vistas opened up that we thought only existed in movies. Ships and freighters took on such a sharp hugeness as we sailed close by. The smog was down. We even saw the mountains behind L A. The salt air was truly, idiotically, like a tonic. We looked at each other and had to slap ourselves to believe we were really doing it. Arrrr! Maties! We finally felt our priorities settling into order for once in life.
Our ship came to us with a huge stash of spare parts and gizmos. We knew nothing about them. It all looked like trash–but each gadget, we discovered in amazement, actually worked and had a definite purpose despite its homemade look. There was a self-steering aparatus made of surgical tubing, lead lines, special camp-stove rigs, engine repair jigs, stuffing box stuffers-who knows what all? We also learned that the ethic of ship-shape and everything in its place is a beautiful one indeed, and began to follow it strictly.
Over the next week, we deduced what was needed in the way of repairs. Elmer’s glue and silicone seal was used a bit, but we knew there was no future in that. We tried to fix things properly. But the Atomic 4 engine fully baffled us. Even so, she was so sweet and easy to work on that we couldn’t hold a grudge. When she ran, she gave our boat real power and had a deep, gentle pulse. Of course, we wouldn’t have needed it if it at all if weren’t for the light airs of So-Cal. (These should be abbreviated LASC, or something.)
By God, we swore, if our boat was somewhere else, we’d really go! Our heavy boat was brilliantly built for the sort of windy waters that obviously weren’t here.
In the meantime, we looked about ourselves. We rode our bikes far and wide, we hit museums and discovered the cafes and best bars of a half dozen districts. We decided to really step out once and bought snappy suits from a thrift shop for an evening at a ‘hot’ nightclub.
We lounged away warm evenings in the gentle rocking of the boat, reading lights glowing, oh-so-pleasant music coming from our little Walkman with throwaway pop-on speaker. Lights reflecting across the harbor. Car alarms going off. Halyards slapping lazily all around. Happy hour feeds when we needed a change. For us this was all new, and far more than we could want.
Well, there was the question of our voyage. For the past month we’d been learning a lot about sailing. Like how utterly helpless we became when the wind died and the motor failed. We finally lost Joel to dread depression.
Within the day Mike and I realized we needed to act or forever hold our peace. The rent ran out, engine or no engine. We killed both birds by weighing anchor and heading south to cheaper waters with my unck Tim aboard. As we took the seaward tack, Tim hunkered down to repairing the engine as only he could.
Earlier, I’d parsed out a plan at the pay-phone whereby we’d haul out in the cheapest boatyard around. The nearest ways were 50 miles to the South. We’d never sailed that far before. Now, as we rounded the big headland to reach for Long Beach, the breeze died. Tim tightened the last bolts of the refurbished carburetor and started the engine. Perfect. We motored into the evening. And arrived in a new world in L.A. Harbor.
We were big-eyed in the night as we slipped through a world of skyscraping cranes and freighters. Sounds of metal scrap sliding down troughs floated tinkling and strangely to our ears. Lights of the city on the water. Mercury lights glowing as we drift by the civilized portion-the Shops at San Pedro-a long row of restaurants, latino music, nite fishing charters backing out full of guys, and the bright lights of a permanently moored nightclub/passenger-liner, couples dancing on the verandah, waving down at us. We chugged under high bridges, blinking in awe.
We feel like the patrol boat in Apocalypse Now. Fresh breezes ruffle our hair as we enter this dirty hard-working new world. Rugged craft jam the unkempt docks of little, squeezed-in marinas everywhere there’s not a freighter. We finally find our watery address, tie up and kick back. By God, we did it!
(2400 words)
Will the low-rent debauch ever end? Find out in the final chapter! Coming Soon: Expert Repairs, True Voyage, Business-As-Usual, and City Fun.
L.A. epic, part 2
In the Twilight Zone on an old wood boat
by Jeff Potter
We join our inexperienced crew, Mike and Jeff, after they’ve sailed their quirky old 30-foot plywood gaff-rigged cutter, Stampede, into the scenic port of Los Angeles. They started their adventure in sumptuous Marina Del Rey-where the boat had been soaking for ten years. The boat was on the verge of being scraped. It was theirs free for the taking, like all those free-boat ads you see in M-in-B…and also for the taking over of all bills, debts, and responsibility. Were they up to the job? Of course, such marina luxury was not for long. After two months of bicycle errands and repairs, Mike, Jeff and Uncle Tim sail the fully-equipped 60’s-style (hemp lines and all) full-keel ocean cruiser to cheaper climes. The 50-mile move is their longest voyage. It ends at night with the thankful sailors entering a lunar world right out of Bladerunner. Oil rigs, kleig lights, cracking stations, junkyards. Scenes from movies pop up everywhere, places where the heroes are taken to be killed by drug dealers-in real life, too, we sense. The 10-mile by 10-mile harbor horizon is jam-packed with million-ton 300-foot-high bright red cranes pilfered from the Kaiser after WWI, aerial freeways over waterways, and trinket malls lining the swankier parts of the port. All this topped with noxious fumes mixed with salt air-fumes that, over time, bizarrely start to smell comfortable to the Boys. All these things make for an exciting home-sweet-home. We return to the tale…
For the next nine days Mike and I work on the boat. We work in the busy, rugged yard of an Italian ship-chandler and his four sons. We work among boat-owners, old salts, bums, and many, many latino hired hands. A big family. We thought we might get out in a couple days. Wrong. We knew nothing. And discovered that everyone you ask tells you something different when it comes to boat repairs. We tried to act savvy, chewing over the sage advice we were given by everyone.
The panic of our first day had every local declaring his own solution, in his own language. The way to success gradually dawned on us. We asked specific questions, decided for ourselves and went to it. Once we acquired this Wise Technique of the Experts we got grunted approval. Such was the Way of the Boatyard.
The boat needed hull repair and bottom painting, a rebuilt rudder, some new keel bolts and seam reglassing. No problem. Where there’s beer and sandpaper, there’s a way!
We rode our bikes after work to excellent, cheap Angeleno restaurants where we were guitar serenaded over sun-burnt margaritas. No English speakers in sight. We felt we were accomplishing something every night as we climbed our stepladder 9-feet up to the cockpit, and fell asleep with sooty dew spotting our sleeping bags. So weird to wake up to the sound of jack-hammers and see you’re ten feet over a boatyard. -And a stone’s throw from a freighter and six huge cranes.
But, God, what a bill! It took all I had, of course. We then discovered that an extremely cheap berth was opening just a hundred yards down from the boatyard. What luck! We later realized we were moving into the lives of a bunch of alky bums and their $300 floating homes, homes they gambled away with frequency.
What a life. Mike and I grooved hard on all its vibes. We kept a decent boat bar, a sufficiency of groceries for the most part, and a daily newspaper and breakfast at a little joint at the remote end of the marina.
Soon we felt we had to make another Big Voyage. But we dragged our feet. There was always something more needing fixing. Finally, the big day arrived-and Mike actually decided to stay ashore that so-important weekend. For the life of me I honestly don’t know why he didn’t go-did he think we’d sink?
So I embarked with my neighbor, a pudgey, loud guy who volunteered when I finally announced the It’s Time To Go! alarm-and who brought aboard three cases of Burgie Beer for the jaunt. I was nervous, about both the vast amount of beer and the neighbor, and with good reason. The rule of the area was to be friendly to everyone, but trust no one. Too many cops beating on boat decks with billy clubs, too many calls to the dock phone from guys needing bailing out from jail. But the trip turned out to be magnificent.
We sailed faster than ever before, with stout breezes all the way to Catalina Island-averaging 5 knots! We finally sailed somewhere exotic. And I finally got to steer into an unknown, crowded anchorage at night! Yes! We even took a water taxi!
My pal, John, with fifteen beers in him proved a boon companion, indeed-if a little too boon. He was rolly-polly and had a huge mane of curly hair and handlebar mustache. He padded about the boat with bear-like bare feet, admiring it. He saw its rugged capability. Why, if it weren’t for his whatever-it-was, his troubles, he would be sailing for the South Seas right now in his own boat….
After a night of debauch, bankrupcy and arguing with strangers about billiards, bets and dames, I went back to the boat. John returned at 4 a.m….by way of swimming…since he wanted to stay out and had no taxi money. I was asleep in the cockpit when he heaved like a seal up over the rail, shaking wet, totally drunk, and boomed “Christ! My cigarettes are wet!”
We were faced the next morning, penniless, with the question of getting to shore, a quarter mile away. We had no dinghy or raft. Obviously, John said-with me scarcely believing he was still alive-we get all the lines, tie them together, then tie the end to his leaky surf-ski we brought over. One guy paddles ashore, the guy on the boat pulls the surf-ski the quarter-mile back. It worked of course.
I actually had $1.15 which I had kept from the demands of alcohol the night before and declared my low intention of getting a meager breakfast, though John would have none. Not nice, but look at him, he wasn’t nice, either. Meager breakfast, my ass, said John and off he went. I sat down for my tiny plate of hash-browns. Ten minutes later John returns, “Here’s money, now let’s go get steak and eggs!” He’d pestered bartenders ’til he found one who’d give him a loan and came back to me-who’d abandoned him-and bought us a huge round of chow.
John had brought fins over to the island-he gave me one and we hopped into the harbor water. I saw many things new to me under there. Brilliant turquoise vistas flowing away entirely across the harbor. Flights of red, orange, green fish. -How much more could one newcomer to sailing take?! I noticed an old bent-up one-speed bike on the bottom. Then saw John motioning that I help him recover it. A true-blue scavenger!
After a bit of shore rest, I returned to the water, gingerly crabbing my way through the rocks of the surf. I said “C’mon, John, creep through this way, it’s easy.” He stood up, all blubber, on a big rock near shore, staring into the surf. “Naw,” he said, looking into the surf, “that’s too easy.” Timing himself with the arrival of a wave, he-“Hey, wait,” I blurted, “you can’t do”-dove into what used to be six inches of water over sharp rocks, with a belly-flop most useful, and came frog-kicking out to me. It was the noblest move I’d seen in a long time.
We then had another great sail back to the harbor where I regaled Mike with the weekend’s tales.
But back to this issue of nobility, of the special spark of water people. Back when the boat was on the ways, we had encountered an old widow in jeans who had a couple of kids our age. She asked what we were up to and immediately I knew something was special about her. All weathered and old, she still had a twinkle in her eye. But her kids whined, and their boat was primitive and dumpy. Later, she told me her story. -About how she and her husband sailed in that same boat to New Zealand in the 1950’s. About how she and he dove and salvaged to earn their way. How she gave birth to her son on that boat. How he was raised in the South Pacific-the same kid who was now complaining-and how when they had a daughter they sailed for home. …How the boat caught fire in the middle of the ocean and they began to row away from it in their dinghy-man, wife and two babies. And how it then rained, and their boat was saved. That’s the kind of ‘something extra’ I mean.
But work was pressing from my real job. Soon I had to leave L.A. to return to Colorado where my ‘real’ home supposedly now was. Mike, too. But the boat was finally safe.
I returned that winter for a trade show. What a funny thing it is to live a dual marina lifestle. Staying on the musty little boat, emerging each morning in coat and tie to the hung-over teasings of my neighbors, and catching the bus into Long Beach. The best thing is flying out of a Colorado winter-to wake up with a palm tree overhead, flowers on the jetty, halyards slapping and the sounds of wind, water and boat-traffic on the breeze!
I returned again a half year later for another convention. This time I stayed to finish off the Boat. It was exciting to be a broke wing-nut in the mountains with a fully equipped ocean cruising yacht in L.A. But it was too much. No real partner on the horizon-how can you find a seafarer in the Rocky Mountains? Time to sell.
I’d learned a few things, though. The big lesson was that if you wanted to sail, go look for any of a million boat-owners who need help sailing. If you want the peculiar feel of ownership, buy a boat-you might not ever sail, though.
Another lesson: Price means nothing in the world of boats and timing is everything. Depending on the ever-evolving desparation of the owner, any size and type of boat can be purchased for as little as $1000. Step two: However much money you possess, it will be spent on that boat. You will be broke. But in your mind, it’ll be for a mighty, bold cause.
It’s hilarious to hear crazy boat talk from otherwise intelligent people. A well-trained physician once told me enthusiastically of a 70-foot motor-sailer that he could buy for a mere $12,000! Lord, I thought, people really do fall down these holes, don’t they. I asked my pal if he had $20,000 spare change yearly from now until eternity. I also predicted, with a tired, sage tone, that that vessel could be had, at some point within three months, for $1000. But he’d still need to supply the yearly treasure chest. Oh.
So I ran want-ads. And came close to bankruptcy from ad fees. -That’s how it works. Any one factor can about do you in, now add them all up.
I nearly went bonkers from the want-ad goose chases. I learned to ferret out sincerity-no, that wouldn’t narrow it down enough-I looked for intention to buy now, and spiked the rest. Sorry, bye.
I’d been making little sailing forays in the meantime. I invited pals and newly-met acquaintances aboard for evening cocktail cruises. Let me tell you, not too many members of my bottom caste can do this. We did. We barbequed giant shrimps that neighbors had dropped off whole, in buckets. Quiet reggae or jazz mixing nicely with the thrift shop wine glasses as we idled along. Strolling the deck. -God, you could stroll my deck. I’d leave the big carved wheel, engine rumbling away, and stroll on forward with other folks and stand and chat and scarcely hear the engine. So we’d glide through the skyscraper-high bridge-bright lights-lonely nights. Heaven.
Other times I’d go out alone in the day–even if the engine wasn’t working. I’d just line the backward-drifting boat through my neighbor’s sterns, then quietly kick off and hop onto the bow pulpit. Not too many other people did that. I guess they were sensible. But I’d head out to sea and meet the spanking breezes and feel like I could go on forever. I might cross paths with another single-hander, him aboard his $100,000-yacht, share nods of equality. I’d set a course, the boat flying on a reach, heeling solidly. God, it was like a house afloat. I’d go below and cook up soup, just to do it, and look out my window and notice a leaning, shimmering lighthouse. Hot damn, this is sure different from normal!
Then I’d head back in, maybe glide on in effortlessly, maybe get becalmed and scull in with my huge newly acquired oar, maybe get a tow, maybe almost get run over.
Once, we went out for a midnight debauch. I took us out past the glow of all lights. –That was a fun angle for visitors and me alike: get to where it’s pitch black then turn around. Phosphorescence always lit everything underwater with that unbelievable Peter Pan glow. Nobody ever believed me when I told them the glow would happen, so I’d take them out to where they could see the sea’s own light. All teasing and snickering would cease in stunned awe. Then we’d booze it up until it was time to head back (captain staying alert). That was always fun, even if we sometimes got scares from coming too close to huge buoys we missed seeing from behind the sail, or came too close to big ships, or got wildly rocked by big bow waves. -One guy nearly fell from wildly swaying spreaders once; he hung dangling in his coat and tie; I’d forgotten he was up there while I made sure we were safely passed by a trawler. It was a world full of overwhelming things for all of us.
But no one was buying and I was getting weary. The asking price of my boat bottomed out. No $1000 anymore, $500 takes all.
In the next empty weeks, however, the boat worked its perverse magic on me all over again. I had more ‘house-at-sea’ sails. The price climbed back with my morale. A new-found friend and I overhauled then finally fixed the engine for good. It was a simple, tiny short. (All that pain!) Hey, she was almost good as new now…maybe I should keep her!
I met more wondrous sailors. Savvy, wacky Viet vets and friendly, potential boat buyers. Everything on the boat started working perfectly. Everybody who came in contact with her was charmed, enchanted. We soon landed a winner at $5000. In a world of knife-fights and boozy thefts, I demanded cash and unhesitatingly followed my puzzled suburban buyer to his bank. The big roll felt good.
It was time to head home. The elemental life was getting to me. Like driving a motorcycle across the country without a helmet or windshield, then finding out you have to turn around and drive back. -Too much fresh air. On the way to the airport, I forgot to drop off at the boat the two outboard motors that were stashed at my uncle’s. Then I lost my ticket. Right there, on the carpet, in the aisle, after the metal detector. My lip starts to quiver. Shouting gets me nowhere with the attendants, my plane leaves with my luggage. Next cheap flight away from the land of palm trees is at 5 a.m. Arrgh! Next flight possible: Ten minutes. For three times as much. I pull out the roll, peel off bills. Run. Arrive in Denver. No chance to alert friend as to the change, so she’d just left. It’s now midnight and I’m on the last bus to Boulder. Heavy duffle-carry up the hill. A light dusting of snow. Crisp, clean air. Starting to feel better already. Home. Tired. How tired can a person get?
A good long ride, though. The five grand disappeared in two days from paying the bills. But I was missing ole Stampede already.
(2900 words)
Potter publishes a magazine called Out Your Backdoor, which originally ran this story. It’s a free-spirited mag about real-world, non-glitzy culture and adventure, blended with how-to and literary reviews. It also covers a lot in the way of boats and bicycles-as well as interesting cars (Citroens and such) and about anything else that’s hard-to-find, high-quality, creative but affordable. A 4-issue sub costs $8. Write to: 4686 Meridian Rd., Williamston, MI 48895.
