I woke at 4:30 AM, thirty minutes before the alarm.

Letting Victoria sleep, I quietly made coffee and prepared Riviera for her first sail to Catalina Island.

What did I forget? I ran through my checklists. Checked and double-checked. But eventually, I had to untie the lines.

With the engine idling and Riviera’s dock lines free and clear, Victoria and I took a deep breath, gave each other a quiet nod of assurance, and, an hour before sunrise, shoved off. Next stop: Newport Beach.

5:30 AM – Sunroad Safe Harbor Marina

Leaving the protection of San Diego Bay and the city’s twinkling pre-dawn skyline, Riviera met swells bolstered by storms off the Mexican coast. Before long, we settled into the monotonous rhythm of the four-foot ocean valleys. The sea was a windless, rolling, glassy grey expanse from my helm to the horizon.

After two cups of coffee, I am “Chatty Patty.” Pontificating to my motionless wife about this and that. Endless drivel flying out of my mouth. In contrast, Victoria was silent. As the wedding specialist at the Fairmont Grand Del Mar, her days are filled with brides, mothers, planners, chefs, and designers, all working to create another over-the-top fantasy wedding. A constant flow of timelines, texts, phone calls, and first world problems that need to be solved five minutes ago. She loves what she does. But twenty miles offshore, no one can get to her.

We don’t have Starlink. No messages. No calls. No emails.

“You’re pretty quiet,” I said. “How you feeling?”

With her coffee in both hands, she turned to me.

“I’m free.”

People often ask us, “So what do you do out there for 12 hours?” I’m never quite sure how to answer that.

Offshore, wildlife entertainment is the best show on earth. “Look!” Victoria yelled. Just a few feet off our starboard beam, the unmistakable cutlass-shaped dorsal fin of a mako shark darted around Riviera, quick and restless.

North of La Jolla shores, bat rays broke the surface performing a wild, unchoreographed ballet, while a California flying fish, as if afraid to get wet, tiptoed across our path.

Then the motorcycle gang showed up. A pod of at least a hundred common dolphins chased us down and surrounded Riviera. Kneeling on the bow, we watched them race alongside us, cut across the bow and disappear beneath the hull, only to explode through the surface again.

Show-offs.

“Look at us! We’re faster than you!”

We felt like voyeurs, peeking into someone else’s home, and time was irrelevant. That ache in your neck that’s annoyed you for the last two weeks, the balance in your checking account, the emails that still need your attention. All of it, gone.

5:45 PM – Newport Beach Harbor

Billy’s Bar and Grill in Newport Beach is a voyeur’s dream. Halfway through our well-earned mai tais, we discovered a whole new definition of wildlife. Seated near a window with a view of the bar, Victoria and I sipped our drinks and watched the show. Middle-aged men in oversized Tommy Bahama shirts meant to hide their beer bellies, and whose big year was 1992, jockeyed for position around fifty-year-old cougars desperately trying to pass for twenty-seven.

Outside on the restaurant’s dock, we spied a nefarious old salt settling up with a hooker. Just a few feet away, a pretty young woman and her well-dressed, but nervous beau boarded a gondola, all set for a romantic sunset cruise, maybe even a proposal.

7:00 AM – Newport Beach Channel

The morning came quickly, and after sunrise we were on our way, enjoying a rare southeasterly breeze that carried us across the 26 miles to Avalon. Sails trimmed, Riviera fell into a port tack groove. The air was warm and dry, and Catalina Island was veiled behind the distant marine layer.

The conditions were near perfect. Flat seas, a steady beam reach, five knots under sail. The excitement and anticipation brought back a childhood memory of a family trip to Disneyland. I couldn’t have been more than eight.

My brother Bill and I lay prone on the cabover bed that jutted out over Dad’s 1970 Chevy half-ton pickup. Crawling through morning rush-hour traffic on northbound Interstate 5, our greasy hands and faces pressed against the tiny camper window, we waited for the first glimpse of the Matterhorn.

Midway across the shipping channel, I saw it. A thin, barely visible, ghostly outline on the horizon. Santa Catalina Island.

But the closer we got to Avalon, the inbound traffic increased. We couldn’t help but feel left behind as powerboats thundered past, their sleek wraparound windshields, retractable sunroofs, and twin engines at full throttle churning the ocean, leaving us to deal with their pounding wakes.

Feeling envious, I muttered, “Where’s the skill in that?” As if Riviera sensed my contempt, or perhaps my jealousy, she plowed through the wakes and settled back into her groove, continuing her quiet glide toward Avalon.

Avalon’s landmark, the massive Art Deco Casino, stood like a fortress at the harbor’s entrance.

We made our way through the controlled chaos of the busy mooring field, carefully threaded Riviera to her assigned ball, tied off, and cut the engine. We both sat down at the same time.

Our eyes met, we smiled and exhaled.

Avalon, for better or worse, is consistent. Like a West Coast Coney Island, the smell of fried food, fish brine, popcorn, and sunscreen wafts through the air today as it did 50 years ago. The houndstooth pavers are salt-pitted and worn smooth by decades of sandals and sneakers. The grout, a mix of sand, chewing gum, and bird shit.

Victoria and I have our rituals. Tacos and margaritas at El Galleon, laughing at the tourists unloaded from cruise ships, dinner at Blue Water. And of course, our favorite activity, watching others struggle to secure their boats to the mooring balls. It’s our thing, our place. Unbearable with someone else