Behind the Gate

As they sailed out of the Columbia River, past the little towns they had often visited to escape from the city, they couldn’t help but feel a sense of adventure. Sure, they had only been at this for a year, most of which was spent fixing up the boat to make it comfortable for a long voyage, rather than perfecting their sailing skills, but they thought this would be a good test of their abilities. It was well know that the Columbia River, where it met the ocean, was one of the most difficult areas to sail. They figured if they could make it through there, they could sail anywhere. What they hadn’t taken into consideration is how the difficulty level changes based on the conditions. The day they had chosen was so calm that they had to turn on their old diesel motor to give them enough power to make any sort of forward progress. It was hardly a test of their sailing capabilities.

The first few days out on the ocean were a bit challenging, but beautiful. Their 28 foot boat was a little small for the ocean swell, but they soon settled into the rhythm as they made their way down the coast. They rose at the crack of dawn daily and pulled anchor, setting off with their ever chugging diesel engine and sails flopping in the light breeze until they reached the next cove at dusk and tucked in for another night aboard. That all changed on the sixth day of their journey. It had started out as beautiful and calm as each day before it, however, around noon, the sky suddenly darkened as a wall of charcoal grey clouds swept across. Next came the wind, whipping around them, seemingly from all directions at once. They quickly dropped their sails, the jib flopping overboard and dragging behind them in the water, as the ocean churned, getting angrier by the minute. It was too dangerous to run to the foredeck now to do anything about it. They clung on to the tiller and lifelines in the cockpit, knuckles white, holding on for dear life as the ocean broke over them again and again, soaking them to the bone, ripping the dragging headsail to shreds.

They didn’t know how long the storm had been raging; they just kept hanging on, hoping for the best, expecting the worst, and questioning why they had ever decided to undertake this journey. Then, like a mirage, they saw something glowing in the distance, the sun, breaking through the dark clouds on the horizon, drawing them towards a red beacon on the water. They grabbed the tiller and, fighting the waves, pointed the bow of their boat to the light in the distance.

They sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge just as dusk gave way to night. Outside in the ocean, the storm was raging on, but behind that Golden Gate the Bay was calm, and they knew they would be alright.