I opened the shiny gold, foil wrapper carefully as to not break the precious contents. Creamy, chocolate bliss with a dreamy caramel center formed in a perfect square. I was attempting to teach Rod, my husband, the art of slowly appreciating the fine flavor packed in a Ghirardelli chocolate that often brings joy to my afternoons when I stop to enjoy one square on hectic days. Slowly being the key word. “Don’t chew,” I said. “Just let it sit and your mouth and let the flavor come to you. Wait patiently while it melts and it is an entirely different experience.”
Our kids, Hunter, eleven years old, and Phoebe, nine, watched me coach, giggling under their breath to each other knowing darn well how their Dad loves to inhale a sweet treat. We were perched in the small cockpit of our 36-foot sailboat, Terrapin. A large wooden steering wheel sits at the center of our seating arrangement and we nestled together around it in the chilly, saltwater air as Rod held us on course. It is Friday, December 16, 2004, and the late sun is making our faces radiate an earthy clay hue from reflections off the water and sails.
Typically, Rod eats candy impatiently; immediately munching the sugary morsel so his teeth can get right to the business of demolishing it. I was hoping to help him savor the moment, to take a chocolate break as I had a hundred times before, letting the flavors mix and dance on the palate. “Mmm,” Rod purred for a moment, then finished his square snack off with three chews and a swallow. “It does taste a little different that way,” motioning for me to pass him another, “Let me try it again,” he said with a smirk.
I had an alternative motive for trying to help Rod train his taste buds. It was my tactic to ration our chocolate. Our family had officially cast off our lines that day from Terrapin to sail out of Coyote Point Marina in San Francisco Bay towards the Golden Gate Bridge. We were finally leaving from land on an eight-month adventure that we hoped would provide us with a taste of flavorful characters and unforgettable experiences.
Ironically, we tie up Terrapin that evening at San Francisco Bay Marina which is aglow with a neon marquee that reads “Ghirardelli Square”. The Hills Brothers Coffee building is our protective neighbor illuminated by Christmas lights and the bright city scape that reflects off the water. We are stunned at the breathtaking panoramic scene from our floating home on this mid-winter evening--our sleepy hometown of Silverton, Oregon, tucked in the land-locked Willamette Valley just didn’t quite come alive like this at night.
Despite the million-dollar view, our cheap berth was uncomfortable. We sat unprotected from marine traffic in the bay making Terrapin’s exposed dark green hull jerk up and down and side to side from the waves of passing boats. The marina is also out of the proximity of town for an easy venture ashore with kids and simply provides us a transient resting place. That is okay with us. We had exhausted our stay in the Bay area by touring Alcatraz, visiting Haight-Ashbury, and the madness of our final provisioning of Terrapin. We ate dinner and settled in for the night planning to leave out the mouth of the river and over the legendary San Francisco Bay bar the next afternoon.
Finally, mid-day on Saturday we hoist the main sail and turn into the wind to glide under the Golden Gate Bridge. I think to myself how surreal it feels: We can only hear the swish-swish sound of our boat moving through water and the dull hum of our diesel yet we are passing by one of the largest metropolitan areas in America. “Look!” says Phoebe pointing to the water. A small pod of dolphins pleased with our wake escorts us towards the Pacific and I instantly feel connected with their carefree existence. I smile, sighing relief to be actually leaving the city and our busy life behind. I have no worry, surprisingly, and I realize it’s because we are all together and there is no mortgage to pay, no carpool to drive, no deadlines to meet.
The ocean swell begins to carry Terrapin slowly up high peaks and then down into deep valleys as soon as we approach the bar. Quickly my elated mood changes to serious focus. The frequency of these lifts continues to increase over the first fifteen minutes we’re offshore and so does the intensity of each climb. “Make sure you’re attached to the boat,” I say to the kids in the cockpit, feeling suddenly dwarfed by the size and power of the waves. I’ve read articles and heard stories of fatal attempts at crossing this bar. I’m standing with my feet planted in front of the helm, my knees bending to adjust constantly to the random movement. My sweaty hands are clenched around the steering wheel.
I glance at Hunter and Phoebe on the cockpit bench wearing toothy grins and shrieking excited shrills of joy as if they’re in the middle of a roller coaster ride at Disneyland. I choose to not reveal my overwhelming concern. “Whoa, this one is really big!,” Hunter says fearlessly and I nod with a crooked smile just as we start up another precipitous crest and ride it down shifting our bodies to help gravity bring us back to a stable, comfortable position.
Rod tethers himself to the boat with a safety clip and heads up toward the bow for a better look. This weird uneasiness is all new. Always entirely confident of Captain Rod’s ability, I’m not sure if I should start crying, yelling, or simply wait. Eventually, I can’t hold my words any longer and I blurt out, “Rod, I am really scared.” He instantly reassures me, “It’s fine. We are following the chart just as we should.” I retreat and start biting my cuticles, a nervous habit I’d developed over the years that keeps me quiet when stressed.
Five minutes later an approaching buzz breaks the heavy silence. Rod and I scan the horizon looking for clues and see what from a distance looks like a Playmobil toy set complete with plastic men, a rubber boat, and accessories descending upon us. When our visitors burst through a fog of spray in the valley of a wave, we are greeted by a cherry red inflatable Coast Guard Zodiac boat with nearly ten standing men wearing full rescue gear, helmets, and neon orange suits. Over the roar of their powerful engine, the captain tells us his vessel had been watching our progress and came to alert us of the danger of our location and heading.
Rod determines that our electronic charts must not up-to-date and Terrapin needs to point further west to avoid more treacherous conditions. He nods “thanks” to the crew and shouts to me from the bow to make an adjustment of “twenty clicks” on the autopilot. I obey his command by immediately tapping the left arrows on the electronic direction pad and we turn toward safe waters. Ten minutes later, the swell becomes less threatening and the boat flattens out.
Our adventure literally began with a dramatic turn for the better. Terrapin’s crew sat reunited comfortably in the cockpit after the affair watching the sun sink behind billowy clouds, float over the sea and then drift into tomorrow. We laughed at our ability to leave land in true, spectacular “Hill” style. It was the first of many sweet, unexpected moments during our journey that we treasured for their lasting effect. We couldn’t wait for the next. “How about a Ghirardelli?” I offered. For now, it was time to take a break and pass the chocolate.
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