Learning the Ropes (and How Much Tuna to Pack)

What our first sailing trip taught us about adventure, mistakes, and the courage to begin

As newbies to the sailing world, Roger and I had questions.

How many cans of tuna and cases of water does one pack for a trip to Catalina Island? It’s twenty-six miles from Long Beach to Avalon Harbor at Catalina, a six-hour sail if the wind is right. But if we get blown off course, we’re going to need a lot more tuna, right?

Captain Roger

Will the anchor hold? (Spoiler alert: Not if you don’t put out enough scope.) What’s scope?

If the wind blows us in one direction, will we be able to turn around and sail back the way we came?

Why do we need to tack? What’s tacking?

Do we really need to do man overboard drills?

Did you know the phrase “holding on to the bitter end” has a nautical origin? On old-timey sailing ships a “bitt” was a wooden post on the deck where sailors could secure ropes, such as the end of the anchor rode (“rode” is the sailor-type word for anchor rope or chain). So, the “bitter end” is the very end of the rope that’s tied to the bitt. It’s embarrassing to toss out the anchor and watch the bitter end go overboard with it because you forgot to secure it to the bitt. It’s also expensive, unless you happen to be a certified diver and are willing to follow the bitter end overboard to recover your anchor.

Thankfully, most of our voyages didn’t have a bitter end. And after that first sailing trip, we had answers to some of our questions.

We thoughtfully packed three months’ worth of tuna and water based on the idea that if we lost our way and ended up in Baja California, we’d need it. It proved to be enough.

A harbor mooring was available, so we didn’t have to test our anchoring skills. Several trips later when no mooring was available, we had to anchor outside the harbor. That’s when I learned what “scope” is. Scope refers to the ratio of the length of the anchor rode—see definition above—to the depth of the water where you’re anchoring. Ratios—ugh. Who wants to do math when you just want to lounge on deck with a cool drink? Surely it’s enough to make sure the anchor is touching the bottom? Oops, that’s two more questions and this is supposed to be the answers section.

But if you want a good night’s rest at anchor, you need to know the appropriate scope. In calm conditions, it’s somewhere between 5:1 and 7:1. So, for instance, if the anchorage is 12 feet deep, you want to pay out between 60 and 84 feet of rode (5 x 12 = 60, 7 x 12 = 84).

Before I became a weather-beaten seasoned sailor, I assumed you just dropped the anchor straight down from the boat. What I didn’t know was that the anchor must be dragged to “set” in the mud or sand on the bottom. Otherwise, you might get to know your neighboring boaters a little more intimately than you wanted. You have to pay out enough scope to allow the anchor plus a length of rode to lie flat on the harbor floor. Then you motor backwards until the anchor flukes grab the seabed and stop the boat.

As for tacking, that’s when you sail in switchbacks because you can’t sail directly against the wind. For our first trip, the wind was extremely favorable, so we didn’t have to tack back and forth; we just sailed in a straight line to the harbor.

Man overboard drills would have been a good idea, but I don’t remember doing any before heading for Catalina. We were just extra careful not to fall overboard, which isn’t usually a great plan, but it worked for us that day.

That first trip to Catalina on our little 25-foot MacGregor sailboat was a dream come true. I fell in love with the movement of the boat as it heeled. Through the wooden tiller I could feel the keel working against the sails, keeping us from tipping over. Dolphins played all around the boat. I didn’t want the trip to end.

After a comfortable night in a hotel on the island, we were eager to start sailing back. All three of us—Roger, me, and the GPS—pointed in different directions toward our home harbor. The sailing was again wonderfully exhilarating as we strained our eyes to find familiar landmarks on the coast. Turns out, it was a good idea to follow the GPS’ course, or Roger would have sailed us to Santa Monica, and I would have taken us to Ensenada, Mexico.

From being newbies, we gained nautical confidence through sailing lessons, reading Sailing for Dummies, and getting out on the water in all kinds of weather and sea conditions. Because our first experience went well, we wanted more. Isn’t that the way it often goes? A first experience may generate enthusiasm for more—even if it didn’t go perfectly. We might become determined to overcome obstacles or learn the rules or discover better ways to do things. Other times a first experience can confirm that something isn’t for us—maybe because of a public flop, a lack of interest, or the cost.

For us, sailing became a joy, from overnight adventures to boat maintenance. But even if it hadn’t, that first trip to Catalina still would have been worth it—for the questions we asked, the things we learned, and the courage it took to leave the dock.