Happy New Year, everyone! Chris and I rang in 2025 in San Luis Obispo, a full-circle moment from our eventful New Year’s celebration there in 2023. This time, we revisited the “scene of the crime” with far less misadventure. Now, we’re cracking open that story to share it with you. Without further ado, I present: NYE from Years Past.
Ahoy, New Year
There we were, still stuck in Morro Bay, battling foul weather, engine troubles, and an endless stream of setbacks preventing us from heading south to Mexico. But, as sailors do, we turned lemons into margaritas and settled in to celebrate New Year’s Eve with friends. It was special—not just because of the circumstances, but because it was the first time we didn’t have work responsibilities on the holiday. For nearly a decade, Chris had DJed the New Year’s Eve party at China Peak Ski Resort, a family tradition passed down from his dad to his brother, then to him. Letting go of that tradition was hard, but instead of babysitting adults into the new year, we rang it in with friends in downtown San Luis Obispo (SLO).
Chris took his newfound freedom seriously. Beer, Old Fashioneds, Mai Tais—it was a strange mix for someone who doesn’t drink much. By the end of the night, the Metcalfe brothers had to carry him home.
The next morning, I woke up at 7 a.m., scrolling my phone while our new friend Owen slept uncomfortably on a deflated air mattress. Chris, groaning and hungover, didn’t remember much of the night, which was probably for the best. As I showed him photos, a text came through: “Is Avocet okay during the wind event?”
Wind event? What wind event?
Apparently, a surprise gale hit Morro Bay after we left, with winds over 40 knots and choppy water. Anxiety rising, I kicked Chris into gear, tossed him in the car, and sped 25 minutes back to the dock. When we arrived, my heart sank. Avocet, our floating home, had a ten-inch gash along her side. Our oversized fenders had been tossed aside, leaving her exposed. Tears rolled down my cheeks as frustration set in.
Chris, still in a haze, stumbled aboard while I assessed the damage. The gray barrier paint peeked through the scratched Awlgrip, a reminder of the painstaking work we’d done two years earlier. Despite the internet offering no solutions for repairing Awlgrip, I refused to give up. My brother-in-law assured me, “If anyone can do it, it’s Chris.” Looking at my hungover husband, I wasn’t so sure.
Chris recovered, swore off booze, and, with time, tackled the repair. The gash became a lesson—not just for us, but for others needing hope in “impossible” projects. It was a rocky start to 2023, but one I’ll never forget.
Back on the Hook
Before heading to the mountains for the holidays, we paid $600 to rent a slip for Avocet. Though our time technically ended on Jan. 1, Chris’s NYE recovery pushed us to extend through the 3rd at $60/day. Once Chris rebuilt the engine’s high-pressure pump, injectors, and starter, we were eager to return to the anchorage.
With everything reassembled, it was time to test his work. “Ready!” Chris called from the bilge. Holding my breath, I started the engine from the cockpit. The Perkins chugged, then roared to life. “Welcome back, baby!” Chris shouted as we cheered. After a quick 200-yard transit, we dropped anchor at 35°22.179’N, 120°51.521’W, where we’d spent our first weeks in Morro Bay.
Later, a loud knock-knock-knock echoed through the cabin. Outside, we found two sea otters cracking shells against our hull. Luckily, there was no damage, but we shooed them off. The otters drifted away, paws linked, resembling our Cleocat, who we’re convinced is part otter.
We’d arrived during prime pupping season in Morro Bay, where otters are active year-round. Popular viewing spots include South T-Pier, the Harbor Walk, and Target Rock. To help protect them, avoid disturbing their natural behavior—if they swim away, you’re too close.
Though happy to be back on the hook, anchoring wasn’t free. Morro Bay allows five free days before charging $1.50/foot/night. With harbor closures limiting departure options, the fee felt unfair. Still, with a working engine and the holidays behind us, we were eager to head south—only to find ourselves trapped in an inescapable Groundhog Day.
More Storms
Weeks of rain left us craving sunshine. Our batteries struggled as the solar array failed to charge, and the Renogy DC/DC charger couldn’t compensate. Initially, the rainy days felt cozy—perfect for movies, writing, and editing—but the endless gray soon took a toll. When the skies briefly cleared, boat dwellers emerged like cockroaches, stretching their legs ashore. We often joined our friend Reid from SV I’Mua, daydreaming of life in Mexico.
The atmospheric river finally brought excitement—quickly replaced by fear. As the storm rolled in, Chris increased our scope to 12:1 and swapped our regular snubber for a 20-foot three-strand line. Gusts hit 70 knots with a four-foot fetch, jolting us awake at 5 a.m. Avocet bucked in the waves but held steady while chaos erupted around us.
The Coast Guard checked on us repeatedly, praising our storm prep before rushing off to retrieve vessels that broke loose or docks that floated away. A powerboater nearly ran over our chain, claiming he thought we were “adrift.” Later, when Chris confronted him, the boater admitted, “I didn’t know you were anchored” and “I’ve never seen a boat anchored there.” Both statements were equally baffling.
Despite the drama, we weathered the storm unscathed. “We owe our anchor a beer,” Chris said, hanging up his soaked foulies. While the worst passed us, the storms were far from over.
Back to the Dock
With our lithium batteries struggling from weeks of gray skies, we took Brian and Breezy’s advice and called the Morro Bay Yacht Club. Founded in 1956, the club has a rich history, from improving harbor conditions to hosting regattas and summer sailing lessons. Once tied up at the side dock, we plugged into shore power, kicked on the heaters, and began drying out after weeks of dampness.
Our arrival drew plenty of attention. Most members warmly welcomed us, but one encounter left us laughing at its awkwardness.
While doing laundry at the club, Chris was approached by a member who asked, “Is that your little boat down there?” Chris replied, “The 41-footer? Yes, that’s ours,” assuming the man had a mega yacht. But the follow-up was stranger: “She looks good in the dark, but I might have to take that back in the daylight.” Chris laughed it off, collected the laundry, and shared the bizarre comment with me.
Having worked in a marina, I was used to such interactions and quickly thought of comebacks like, “I could say the same about you.” We laughed it off, changed for a movie screening at the club, and hoped for another encounter—but the moment never came.
Despite the odd exchange, our time at the yacht club was a much-needed break, complete with warmth, power, and good humor.
Back to the Anchorage
Before leaving the yacht club dock, we installed a shaft lock, solving a long-standing issue with our hydraulic transmission. Without it, the shaft constantly spun, creating drag and preventing our autoprop from feathering. With the lock in place, we could finally enjoy the full benefits of our feathering prop, gaining a knot of speed.
However, during the installation, we noticed a serious issue: our SigmaDrive coupling was cracked. The SigmaDrive, which allows for up to three degrees of misalignment between the engine and shaft, had already failed us once during our 2020 haul-out. Bruntons replaced it at the time, but now the inner sphere was cracked again, making it unsafe. While waiting for a replacement, we installed a rigid split coupling to keep us operational until we could get a new SigmaDrive, which wouldn’t happen until Catalina Island—but that’s a story for another time.
With the temporary fix in place, we returned to the anchorage, our project list longer than before. Rain continued to pour, soaking everything and keeping the harbor entrance closed, confining us to the bay. Days felt repetitive and dreary, with the gray skies weighing heavily on us.
Still, moments of joy broke through the monotony, often brought by visits from friends who reminded us there’s always good to be found—even when circumstances feel bleak. With their company and a resilient mindset, we held on to hope for sunnier days ahead.
The Ground Ran Into Us
It was another gray, rainy morning as we lay in our berth, the sound of rushing tidal currents lulling us into a false sense of calm. Around 4 a.m., the gentle motion turned violent as Avocet began to list heavily. Our belongings shifted, and we realized the inevitable: we had run aground.
Contrary to popular belief, you don’t need to be underway to run aground. Anchored where we’d been days before, we hadn’t accounted for the storms shifting the sandbar further into the anchorage. Combined with an easterly wind and a low tide, Avocet was now immobilized, listing at 20 degrees by sunrise. Harbor Patrol advised against pulling us free to avoid damage, so Chris deployed our stern anchor using the dinghy and set up a 75-foot snubber line midship to kedge ourselves off. All we could do was wait for the evening tide to rise.
As we listed further, the horizon became visible through our hatches, and water crept ominously up the port side. We hid from photo-happy tourists, paddleboarders, and tour boats circling us like a spectacle. A friend stopped by to lighten the mood, joking we’d careened ourselves to clean the bottom, but the onlookers didn’t help our embarrassment.
When the tide finally returned, Avocet freed herself with a triumphant pop. Thankfully, her encapsulated keel showed no signs of distress from the sandy grounding. However, retrieving our Fortress anchor proved a challenge—it was deeply stuck. Exhausted and soaked, we left it as our primary anchor overnight.
The next morning brought sunshine and relief. Using the windlass, we recovered the Fortress and were greeted by fellow sailors who assured us we’d joined a “prestigious club” of those who’ve run aground in the Bay. After all, as the saying goes: if you haven’t been aground, you haven’t been around.
Our Great Escape
Our last night in Morro Bay was a modest but heartfelt celebration. With Reid, his dog Elly, and a surprise visit from our friend Kris, we reflected on our time in the bay, shared future sailing plans, and promised to reunite soon—if Reid sailed south behind us and Kris visited in the summer. Though we were thrilled to continue south, leaving friends behind brought a familiar twinge of sadness, a recurring theme in this lifestyle. The “see you laters” never get easier.
The next morning, under a golden veil of sunshine—a promise that the storms were (mostly) behind us—we sailed out with a gentle 10-knot breeze and five-foot following seas, bound for our homeport of Ventura.
Avocet spent nearly two months in Morro Bay, enduring brutal storms, a gash, a grounding, and countless smaller challenges that had us praying for calm. Reflecting on the experience, I dreaded reliving it, but writing has proven cathartic. Through my memories in print, I see it wasn’t all bad. Moments of joy—like mornings filled with the chatter of otters or the company of new friends—shine through.
Life aboard continues to teach me about perspective, and this journey was no exception. I’ll cherish the lessons and memories from Morro Bay as we sail forward, grateful for the silver linings.
Wishing you a year filled with perspective and silver linings!
