SIGHTINGS impact of settlement
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Latitude 38
• October, 2018
In late June, a settlement was reached in one of three wrongful-death suits resulting from an unusually strong storm in 2015 that overcame the Dauphin Island Race in progress on Mobile Bay, Alabama. The race was 18 miles of upwind sailing. The storm, for which a warning had been posted, struck with sudden ferocity. Nine boats were capsized or sunk, and six sailors lost their lives that day. The family of Robert Lonnell Thomas sued Fairhope Yacht Club over his death; this was the case that was settled out of court. The
LIA DITTON
Kayakers fishing, paddleboarders, tourists on the pier . . . everyone watches as I pull my stripy ocean rowboat into the mouth of Santa Barbara Harbor. I imagine their thoughts: "What is that? Where has she come from?" My eyes blur. I swallow the lump in my throat. If only they knew. Is a 4-knot current enough to help me row into 18 knots of wind? Twelve and a half days earlier, I round the Marin headland at 2:30 a.m. and for a moment feel very unsure. I break into a sweat rowing away from the rocks, as the tide carries me sideways under the Golden Gate. By Point Diablo, I am able to bring the bow around. Past Point Bonita I row at 6.5 knots. Soon, I am out into open ocean. The sea is flat, and 10 miles from the lighthouse, the adrenaline starts to wear off. I deploy my sea anchor at the edge of the 'Potato Patch' essentially anchoring my boat to the bottom. The morning is gray, the clouds low and drizzly, but around me are birds and whales and boats. As I row through the fishing fleet, there are cheers, jokes and stares. By the end of the day, I have to make a decision. Abort? Head south? If I head south, Don't forget that Lia Ditton has a seri- I am committing to a nonstop fiveously stacked sailing résumé. Here hour row, past the San Francisco she sails in the 2005 OSTAR. Sea Buoy, to the bottom of the ring demarcating the traffic separation scheme. I set off. My depthsounder charts my progress, until below me the ocean floor is too deep to measure — I am off the continental shelf. For the next four days I row 50-mile days, surfing at 3, 4, 5 knots down wobbly, wet mountains that tower behind my stern. The rowing is glorious, bordering on the sublime. I imagine I am a downhill skier, shoving off with my feet on a blast of speed, the oars my ski poles pushing hard off the snow. These are halcyon days. Then, in an instant, the high-speed rowing is over. The marine layer smothers the sun and the wind shifts and blows out of the south. In the evenings, when the wind drops, I row past shoals of sardines flittering on the surface. I row past long ears of sea grass and, as the ocean turns shades of opal, silence. The only sounds are my oars ruffling through the water, the occasional burp of a whale in the distance, or the splash of a sunfish rolling over, realizing that the day's sun is gone. There were, in total, five close encounters with ships. The first was with a car carrier moving at 18 knots. When I saw the boat loom out of the dawn, my whole body began to shake, which has never happened before. I lunge into the cabin for the radio: "Big ship, big ship, this is rowboat," which sounded ridiculous even as I said it. Nothing. No reply. Back at the oars, I pick up the pace. Flares, I thought? Rocket flare? They might think I want rescuing. Red handheld flare will do. I try the radio one more time. "Big ship, BLUE HULL, this is rowboat. We are on COLLISION COURSE." The response is immediate. The ship does a 30-degree turn to port. "I don't see you, are we clear?" asks a sleepy sounding Indian voice. "Yes, thank you." I reply. A few minutes later I stop shaking and gulp down some breakfast. My fifth close encounter wasn't with a container ship at all. There's spray flying around, I'm rowing hard and so don't notice until the last minute that a powerboat has crept up on me from the southeast. I'm excited to see people — it's been almost two weeks! The powerboat
CHRISTIAN AGHA
LIA DITTON
row the wind southerly
