Brian D. Howell Memorial Cruise

Here's how Brian D. Howell describes the fateful trip commemorated by the the Brian D. Howell Memorial Cruise

As it had the previous year, the Cal Sailing Club planned a cruise for New Years Day, 1987. The goals were for a jaunt over to Sam's in Tiburon and a late lunch/early dinner. January 1st dawned sullen, windy and wet. We (the participants) had scheduled to meet at the marina at 10AM, thereafter departing at 10:30. As the hour approached, I began to wonder if anybody in his or her right mind would consider such a foolish undertaking as to go sailing on such a day. Having nothing else to do, however, I grabbed my gear, jumped into my Accord and set course for M dock, where we were to assemble. (Note: I understand that this action intrinsically defines my sanity on that day.) For the record, I was outfitted as follows:

Cal Sailing Club sweatshirt
Blue Jeans
Socks and Shoes
Wool/Lycra "Watch Cap" (the same type I wear skiing)
A two piece coated nylon rainsuit. (The term "watch cap" comes from sailing.)

I had worn the rainsuit in lieu of "official" foul weather gear since joining the club the previous May. I had originally bought it for backpacking and had weathered several severe Sierra storms in it. I had also worn it through nine Lido lessons, a Jr. Skipper test and many afternoons of teaching and free sailing. Up to that point, it had served me well.

Upon arriving at the marina I first chanced upon Elizabeth Simon walking towards the L dock parking lot. She told me that Brian Batuello was also around, getting Rainshadow prepared and that and that Hester was ministering to Banjo. She wasn't sure whether the cruise was actually going to occur but had come down on the off chance that other masochists would make a showing.

And show we did! Within the next half hour, a pretty impressive crowd [given the weather] did materialize. Brian, Paul Kamen and several other members arrived. Alan and Chris Jackson showed up, Alan decked out in his flashy new yellowish foul weather gear (which, honestly, made me a little bit jealous). Alan's presence kind of surprised me as I had heard him not two months before decrying the passivity of sailing and swearing that he was going to remain a steadfast wind surfer. And yet, here he was and actually seemed to be rather happy about it! (Of course he now owns the Cal 2-27 "Photon" and races it competitively--go figure.)

Eventually our little flotilla set sail. I believe it consisted of a Cal Sailing Club Ensign captained by Elizabeth Simon; Rainshadow, under the command of Brian Battuello; Banjo, being sailed by Hester B.C.; and one more boat--Cinnabar?

As wet and windy as it was sailing through the harbor, everything seemed to spontaneously amplify as we passed the breakwater: the waves grew and lashed; the wind gained force; and, within a couple minutes, the heavens opened up seemingly intent on drowning us. I am sure the "three hour tour" themesong of Gilligan's Island passed through the thoughts of many of those present, it certainly did mine.

Unbeknownst to me, my "foulies" had gained numerous small leaks in my many months of intensive sailing since joining the club. In fact, later examination would show that the waterproof coating had been abraded off in several places--I surmised by the sand paper-like non-skid surfaces found so frequently on boats.

At first I was comfortable. Then I began feeling several small cold patches, which I knew from camping experience meant that my 60/40 parka had become wet and would soon soak through. But there was nothing I could do. I bore my burden stoically. Ultimately, I began to realize that I was in danger of becoming quite wet (and probably hypothermic to boot) and so I tucked myself into the cuddy cabin of the Ensign. It wasn't the most comfortably place to be but at least I wasn't getting any wetter--the already absorbed moisture did continue to suffuse through my clothing leaving me just generally damp and clammy. (For a moment I was overtaken with a pathological urge to do serious harm to Alan as he stood so comfortably yellow in the cockpit.)

Eventually, after some strained conversations shouted between our skippers, Brian B. suggested that we detour to Pt. San Pablo where there was a cafe (hoped to be open) with hot chocolate and heat. This would give everybody a chance (but yes, especially me) a chance to dry out and warm up. Contributing factors to this decision included favorable tides--we weren't making much good towards Tiburon right then anyway--and general agreement and desire amongst everyone else.

We traipsed into the cafe looking like a gaggle of drowned rats. Rivulets of brackish water formed on the floor as we dripped and wrung ourselves out. We made quite a sight to the holiday-dressed patrons (e.g., dresses or suites and ties).

Although a brief interlude had been planned, within minutes a pile of wet foul weather gear and soggy clothing appeared in a proprietor-specified corner, near a heater. Chairs became makeshift drying racks as we all secretly wished for clotheslines. The humidity rapidly climbed in the room and the air took on that scent we all know so well--eau de "warm foulies." You know what I'm talking about: just put your wet sailing gear in the trunk of your car on a hot day for even just half an hour. Then open the trunk and take a deep whiff. (I'm sure to this day, the waiters and waitresses who were on duty remember us every New Years--and if any still work there, cringe at the though we might once again take the place by storm!)

We stayed for an hour and then, slightly dryer (me much) and definitely warmer, we reboarded our vessels and continued our sail. During this next leg, the winds gradually abated and the clouds, now well wrung of moisture, began to disapate. By the time we docked at Sam's, the rain had become but a light sprinkling. Brian then suggested we make dinner reservations for about an hour later and take a walk. And that's what we did: Brian took us on a little tour of Tiburon and Belevedere, culminating at the top of the back steps of the Corinthian Yacht Club. Several of us remarked about surmised hot food and comfy conditions inside. The question of PICYA reciprocity was raised. However, Brian ultimately quashed our visions and we walked back down to Sam's. (By this time I was quite dry.)

Dinner was delicious and filling! I had a hamburger.

It was dark as we set sail for home. The clouds had all but disappeared and it had gotten much warmer. Dry and warm, I rode home on Rainshadow, spending most of my time up on the bow, lying back and staring up at the vivid scintillating stars, the gentle russssh and susserations of the water against the hull acting as a soporific.

I still don't understand why they thereafter named the damn cruise after me!

--Brian "High and Dry" Howell