Greg Norman’s Yacht Has Nothing On This
Our thirty-two-foot sailboat with a cooler full of beer is nothing like the 228 feet of Greg Norman’s yacht with its living room, dining room, and big screen TV. But when friends and I sail the San Francisco Bay, our day is always an adventure. And yesterday was no exception.
We started the day finding a bird nest in our sail. A sign, perhaps, that the boat hadn’t been out in a while. Were there problems with the vessel?
“No, mon,” Collin, the yacht club manager, said with his Caribbean accent. “Dese birds dey build da nest in no time, mon.”
He assured us the boat had been out only a few days before, and promised we’d have no problems. Who were we to question him? It was our first day out this season, and we were chomping at the bit to get going. As a tiny bird flitted by wondering what fate would become of her home, we moved the nest to a nearby tree, and prepped the boat. (Greg Norman’s yacht doesn’t have sails, let alone bird nests.)
“Um, Collin?” our captain asked. “The engine won’t start.”
“No problem, mon,” Collin said. “We plug it in and it start.”
He plugged an extension cord into our boat, and the engine turned right over. He assured us that motoring out of harbor would be enough to recharge the battery. (I wondered if he had an extension cord that stretched all the way to Sausalito, just in case. Alas, he didn’t.)
We asked for a different boat, but Collin in his we-be-livin-da-island-life accent soothed our nerves and we shoved off in this one. Music cranking (Foreigner Four), margaritas in hand (pre-mixed from TGI Friday’s), we motored off and set sail into the bay.
Thirty-knot winds made for rough going at first. But with a seasoned captain and motley crew, and some beers to chase down the tequila, we made it across the bay and onto the calm back side of Angel Island. A perfect lunch spot before we headed to Sam’s in Tiburon for cocktails on the outdoor patio.
Except for one thing. The engine wouldn’t start.
We called Collin on our cell phone (the old breaker-one-nine CB-radio routine would have been more fun, but we weren’t in a playful mood.)
“Collin, the engine won’t turn over,” we said.
“No problem, mon,” he said. “Use da jump-start kit.”
Ah, yes. The jump-start kit. The one that says danger, use only in emergency, cover your eyes, don’t touch the red and black clamps or you’ll be electrocuted, sacrifice a virgin to the volcano, and maybe it will work. (Does Greg Norman have a jump-start kit? I think not. More likely an entire team of mechanics.)
We tried. It didn’t work.
“Better come back, then, mon,” Collin said. “If you be here by five, I bring da tug an’ pull you in.”
IF we’re there by five? Was he high? He should bring his little tugboat across the bay, pull us into Sam’s and buy us drinks for giving us a boat that didn’t work! (I pictured the little bird lounging in its nest, downing worms from an empty tequila bottle, nary a care in the world.)
We had no choice. We cut our adventure short and sailed back in choppy waters and even stronger winds. (Another one up on Greg Norman! His yacht can’t sail. Ha.)
Collin’s tugboat met us at the breakwaters. He tossed us a line, then watched as we scurried to get our sail down. (I swear at one point I was almost blown off the mast, forever lost to sea. To which our captain yelled, “Don’t lose the sail tie!”) The tug dragged us past completely insane windsurfers (did they not notice that we were being pulled by a rope and couldn’t do much to steer around them?)
Somehow we made it to dock safely, a feat for which we were roundly applauded by Happy Hour cocktail drinkers on a neighboring boat. (I didn’t see them out there facing thirty-knot winds.)
I’m sure the bird in its nest was quite happy to have missed out on our day.
And except for never making it to Sam’s, we wouldn’t trade our adventure for anything.
Like I said, Greg Norman’s yacht has nothing on us.
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