Twenty-five miles west of Santa Barbara by eight-thirty, between El Capitán and Refugio, an early start but I knew we were in for it; I’d been on this coast too long to mistake the dark scuff that extended out to the islands. The surf, breaking big on the points, would be blown out by noon.
Approximately the hour when we rounded Conception and ran, head on, into the unbroken North Pacific swell, long lines to the horizon, shearing into whitecaps, and a dry gale driving straight into our face. The blunt bow of the Hake slammed into the big waves like a crashing semi, shuddering, groaning, steel whining, spray flying to the stern; the only dry spot on the deck was a four foot square behind the pilot house.
Danny and I braced ourselves against the walls, Rinaldi’s face a snarling mask as he fought the wheel, his enterprise on the line, a gamble of everything. Blinding glare through the film of water over the windows, heatless, wind howling, little jets of moisture blowing through cracks onto the binnacle.
A tough haul, even for a seaworthy craft, and high drama: each swell stopped her cold, engines racing as the screws broke free on the crests, digging in again to drive her down the back side into the next one. We were making about two knots an hour, human walking speed, and as the afternoon passed, and the waves got steeper and more hollow, looming mountains of water, I wondered how much she could take before breaking up.
The pounding became monotonous, hypnotic, collapsing everything into the moment, no future, no past, just this now and the next jarring collision, fear ceding to a crystalline euphoria. It was like a drug--terror and pleasure and the soul stripped naked: sea junkies, taking it to the limit, one more time, and one more time."
