Inching toward Ensenada

“Want to be part of our crew?” Lynn Brown eagerly asks as we paddle the harbor.

“The Ensenada Race?” I said, grinning from ear to ear.

Every April, I’ve watched the start of the Ensenada Race from our southern beaches. Hundreds of brightly colored boats have lured me, but proved elusive. I’ve longed to join them, but my sailing skills are at best, novice, and my sailing friends are serious racers.

Lynn’s husband, James, fits that category. A determined tactician with decades of experience, he captains his ship with pride and a deep skill set. He has recently acquired No Rationing, a 32-foot PRHF-I class, from Chicago. His acceptance of me as a fledgling crew member makes me a bit nervous, and a nagging thought echoes through my mind. Can I measure up to his standards?

At a pre-race dinner, James reassures me with his plan for the race is simple ? point toward Mexico and go fast! The race, as he describes it, is a “crapshoot.” The 125-mile route is taxed by capricious winds and a test of stamina.

The morning of the race, fog blankets the coast and winds are light and variable. Crew members include Steve, the original owner of the boat, and Missy and Andrew, owners of a Catalina 25.

I’ve never seen so many boats in one small space. Long and short. Newer and vintage. Mono-hulled and multi-hulled. A total of 460 entries fill the field.

Pywacket, the mono-hulled record holder at 10:44:54, is crewed by both professionals and sea scouts from the Orange Coast College School of Sailing and Seamanship. America’s Cup Champion, Dennis Conner, is set to start on a 78-year-old 82-foot wooden schooner, Kelpie, chartered for the race.

Gray skies hold and the wind diminishes in knots as each group starts. By our 1:10 p.m. start, it’s clear that finding the breeze will require sailing far west of the rhumb line.

The initial rush of excitement shifts to frustration with the lack of wind. We weight the boat with our bodies on the low side, trying to add ballast and increase our speed over the water.

Mid-afternoon, James asks if anyone wants to drive the boat and I volunteer. I discover that I am not afraid, and that I’m a pretty good driver. I love the way that the water, the air, and the boat work together.

We sail into a ruddy kind of sunset and prepare for our overnight of racing. Lynn serves a “pu-pus” followed by hot lasagna and a crisp green salad. Watches are set -- James, Lynn and I have the 9 to 12 p.m. and the 3 to 6 a.m. shifts. Steve, Missy and Andrew fill the gap in the middle, and we’ll stick to these three-hour intervals for the duration.

Darkness comes fast. We layer our clothing to fend off the cold and moist air. We inch ever so slowly toward the south, laughing about James’ “go fast” plan.

Phosphorescence lights the water’s edge with glitter-like sprays. Dolphin “torpedoes” streak toward us in the inky seas.

Watches change, and change again ? awakening us at 3 a.m. into darkness.

Andrew mentions that they have had 00 wind speed and 00 boat speed on several occasions.

“Are we there yet?” becomes a non-ending joke.

Mid-morning, three species of tiny birds, of a greenish to yellow color, take up residence on the deck. Boat-hoppers, they travel one ship to another. They are unafraid of us, and land on our hands, our hair, our legs.

A whale, late in her northern migration, surfaces right next to the boat! Hundreds of dolphins surface in every direction. They race alongside, winding back and forth under the bow, surfing with the hull.

The fog lifts just in time to see that we have not yet passed the Coronado Islands. While we knew this from charting our course, the actual appearance of them in front of us, instead of behind, is disturbing. The wind finally kicks up to 13 knots, but we know there will be no afternoon finish for No Rationing.

James drives downwind as darkness falls. We have the finish line in our sights and clock our ETA at one hour. And of course, the wind dies ? again. This time, it shifts to the south, directly on our nose at 1 to 2 knots maximum. We drift slowly forward. We can hear the band at the celebration party, but our hour turns to three.

Sheer tenacity ? and a couple of clever maneuvers by James, and we finally cross the finish line. We are sleep-deprived and on the edge of cranky, but joyous all the same.

Our time: 35:45:17. No record and no first place, but we have sailed the 125 miles and we are better for the adventure. We’ve had the wind at our back, our front, our sides. We’ve shared ourselves, our skills, our stories, and grown to know each other more fully..

My kind of journey, for sure.