Bethel Island, California: The Three DayTour
by Korbel Tom
Ken and I headed out from Glenn Cove, Valejo, 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 lept, laboriously, and with what seemed a great
passage of time, into places of fuzzy, curious wonder and foreboding navigability as my
motor doggedly indicated an increasingly annoying lack of enthusiasm with the proceedings,
and in fact, the voyage itself.
As the wind and tide finally turned favorable, we sped towards, and past our destination at
alarming speed up the darkness-cloaked SAN JUAQUIN 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, hurridly swerve back to the main
shipping channel for safety. It bacame 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 becomming not big enough for the two of us..
I found a spot that seemed anchorable, 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, so long ago drunken night. Our prospects
looked much better in the morning, and the remaining grog on board worked wonders at it's
assigned, yet perhaps daft, arena of deployment.. (putting the kabash on any notions of
mutiny, smoldering even still, in a scurrilous, hot-bloodedly impertinent crew).
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 manuever. The motor started..sputtered out..and
refused further sevice. 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 broken motor; fishing, drinking, and commuting to
work at the pipeline via my fishing skiff and '60 Chevy 3/4 ton Apache Pick-up.
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 lept, laboriously, and with what seemed a great
passage of time, into places of fuzzy, curious wonder and foreboding navigability as my
motor doggedly indicated an increasingly annoying lack of enthusiasm with the proceedings,
and in fact, the voyage itself.
As the wind and tide finally turned favorable, we sped towards, and past our destination at
alarming speed up the darkness-cloaked SAN JUAQUIN 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, hurridly swerve back to the main
shipping channel for safety. It bacame 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 becomming not big enough for the two of us..
I found a spot that seemed anchorable, 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, so long ago drunken night. Our prospects
looked much better in the morning, and the remaining grog on board worked wonders at it's
assigned, yet perhaps daft, arena of deployment.. (putting the kabash on any notions of
mutiny, smoldering even still, in a scurrilous, hot-bloodedly impertinent crew).
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 manuever. The motor started..sputtered out..and
refused further sevice. 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 broken 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.
(Old website, new browser window)
It was
the best
of
times;
some of
the
times.
the best
of
times;
some of
the
times.