Bethel Island, California: The Three DayTour
by Korbel Tom
Ken and I headed out from Glenn Cove, Vallejo, CA on my sailboat with my 16 foot fishing skiff
bounding behind. It was late afternoon, the tide was against us, and we'd been drinking hard at Ray's
Corner in Crockett all day. Perfect time for a jaunt to Bethel Island, up the Carquinez Straits past
Benicia, Martinez, Concord, Pittsburgh, and Antioch. Ever so slowly towards the darkness we charged.
We leaped laboriously, and with what seemed a great passage of time, into places of fuzzy, curious
wonder and foreboding navigability. The motor had begun to show signs of third degree dead or dying
syndrome.
As the wind and tide finally turned favorable, we sped towards, and past our destination at alarming
speed up the darkness-cloaked SAN JOAQUIN RIVER. We needed to make a turn into a channel
(False River), which was at least as illusive as my night vision was un-accounted-for. Ted kept
saying..THERE! THERE! I would swerve in toward the bank to see only a dead cow laying on a rocky
levee..then, hurriedly swerve back to the main shipping channel for safety. It became harrowing..the
channel lights made no sense;..green..red..red..green, green red, way out in the distance..as they
danced from one side to the other of what I hoped was The Channel. There was no moon to help, and
my spot-light, while serving well to avoid immediate disasters, wiped out any night vision mustered up.
Straining to find reason in what I saw of the channel markers was tedious. I became convinced we had
passed the passage-way to Bethel Island. Ted was my only navigation guide; I had to trust him..to a
point increasingly trying, and eventually, unbearable. I realized we simply were not going to find Bethel
Island that night. It was late, I was wasted, and the boat was rapidly becoming not big enough for the
two of us..
I found a spot that seemed anchor able, and anchored.
We woke to find the boat roughly where it was when we passed out, fully in the water and floating: all
good things, to be sure. Ted got his bearings in the morning light, and it seemed we were just a beer
beyond a main waterway to Bethel Island, and perhaps a six-pack past the one we had been looking for
in the blustery, not so long ago drunken night. Our prospects looked much better in the morning, and
the remaining grog on board worked wonders keeping the scurrilous crew from mutinizing.
We managed to sail into Bethel Island down Old River, past Frank's Tract into Sand Mound Slough till
we got to Piper Slough, which required a hard to the starboard type turn, straight into the wind..AVAST!.
No room to maneuver. The motor started..sputtered out..and went to GONZ, right there. Ted manned
the skiff, towing me and Opus, The Sailboat, to the spot he had in mind. We anchored next to his
friends from San Rafael who were currently partying on a biggish Criss Craft and a cool old two-master
for a couple of days. We were within a short skiff-trip to The Rusty Porthole, Bar and Grill, and it was a
nice spot for fishing and swimming.
They left after three days.
I anchored there for three months, with a DEAD motor; fishing, drinking, and commuting to work at the
pipeline via my fishing skiff and '60 Chevy 3/4 ton Apache Pick-up.
bounding behind. It was late afternoon, the tide was against us, and we'd been drinking hard at Ray's
Corner in Crockett all day. Perfect time for a jaunt to Bethel Island, up the Carquinez Straits past
Benicia, Martinez, Concord, Pittsburgh, and Antioch. Ever so slowly towards the darkness we charged.
We leaped laboriously, and with what seemed a great passage of time, into places of fuzzy, curious
wonder and foreboding navigability. The motor had begun to show signs of third degree dead or dying
syndrome.
As the wind and tide finally turned favorable, we sped towards, and past our destination at alarming
speed up the darkness-cloaked SAN JOAQUIN RIVER. We needed to make a turn into a channel
(False River), which was at least as illusive as my night vision was un-accounted-for. Ted kept
saying..THERE! THERE! I would swerve in toward the bank to see only a dead cow laying on a rocky
levee..then, hurriedly swerve back to the main shipping channel for safety. It became harrowing..the
channel lights made no sense;..green..red..red..green, green red, way out in the distance..as they
danced from one side to the other of what I hoped was The Channel. There was no moon to help, and
my spot-light, while serving well to avoid immediate disasters, wiped out any night vision mustered up.
Straining to find reason in what I saw of the channel markers was tedious. I became convinced we had
passed the passage-way to Bethel Island. Ted was my only navigation guide; I had to trust him..to a
point increasingly trying, and eventually, unbearable. I realized we simply were not going to find Bethel
Island that night. It was late, I was wasted, and the boat was rapidly becoming not big enough for the
two of us..
I found a spot that seemed anchor able, and anchored.
We woke to find the boat roughly where it was when we passed out, fully in the water and floating: all
good things, to be sure. Ted got his bearings in the morning light, and it seemed we were just a beer
beyond a main waterway to Bethel Island, and perhaps a six-pack past the one we had been looking for
in the blustery, not so long ago drunken night. Our prospects looked much better in the morning, and
the remaining grog on board worked wonders keeping the scurrilous crew from mutinizing.
We managed to sail into Bethel Island down Old River, past Frank's Tract into Sand Mound Slough till
we got to Piper Slough, which required a hard to the starboard type turn, straight into the wind..AVAST!.
No room to maneuver. The motor started..sputtered out..and went to GONZ, right there. Ted manned
the skiff, towing me and Opus, The Sailboat, to the spot he had in mind. We anchored next to his
friends from San Rafael who were currently partying on a biggish Criss Craft and a cool old two-master
for a couple of days. We were within a short skiff-trip to The Rusty Porthole, Bar and Grill, and it was a
nice spot for fishing and swimming.
They left after three days.
I anchored there for three months, with a DEAD motor; fishing, drinking, and commuting to work at the
pipeline via my fishing skiff and '60 Chevy 3/4 ton Apache Pick-up.
Life on the sailboat was seductive at Bethel Island in the summer of 1992. The bars
were full of fun-loving people, the atmosphere was Wild West on the Water; warm,
and finite with an alluring element of danger.
I stayed from 1992 till 2005.
were full of fun-loving people, the atmosphere was Wild West on the Water; warm,
and finite with an alluring element of danger.
I stayed from 1992 till 2005.
It was
the
best of
times;
some
of the
times.
the
best of
times;
some
of the
times.