Flo wrote the following mini-short story about a frightening ordeal she and her children faced on a sailboat while leaving Santa Cruz Island.

Perilous Potato Patch

My freezing hands grip the slippery tiller of the 23-foot Coronado sailboat as it strains in rhythm with the keel to break free from my grasp. The choppy waves throw the boat side to side like a dog shaking a chew toy in the forceful winds and rain. I am too frightened to move but I have to keep the boat steady. The water was flat yesterday, and reflected the sun like a mirror. Hardly a breeze stirred. Manatees sunbathed on an array of rocks at the shoreline like mermaids. Today, the rocks on each side of the passage threaten us.

On the bow, my friend Bob is tugging at the main sail, trying to roll it into a compact package as it descends the mast. The tiller jerks, and my grip begins to slip as the boat lurches again. The tiller appears about to break. “You almost knocked me overboard,” Bob angrily shouts as he grabs the mast. The sail falls against the rail.

A scream behind me blends into the wind. “I almost fell out,” my ten-year-old daughter sobs; her eight-year-old sister is crying behind her.

“Get them below,” Bob orders as he swiftly grabs the rain-soaked sail and starts to crab step from the rail. He steadies himself as he sways with the lines along the deck between the bow and stern. He safely steps into the cockpit and grabs the tiller from my grasp. He tosses the sail into a deck box. "Just another day in a yachtsman's life," he says.

I knew we were in a life threatening situation. He only uses the phrase when circumstances
become dangerous. Fear swept through me, making my body shiver. Grabbing a hand of both of my daughters I guide them down the steps into the galley. My stomach is churning and I hope we make it out safely. Sitting inside the cabin makes the sensation worse. I can’t believe how savage this strip of water has become after its lake-like calmness as we powered between the north end of Santa Cruz Island and Santa Rosa Island the previous day. This is the danger of Potato Patch. I climb back on deck.

We are beginning to break free of the islands, entering the Santa Barbara Channel 23 miles off the coast of Santa Barbara, California. . The ocean chop isn’t as bad, the tiller yields to Bob’s command. I strain my eyes to see through the rain. Minutes become hours. I am still
shaking with fear. Being a poor swimmer doesn’t help.

The deep tone of a navigation buoy bell in the distance overpowers the sound of the rainstorm. Suddenly it appears before us. We are nearing land. The buoy rocks wildly with the waves, the bell ringing to warn other vessels that land is near. Another boat bobs on the surface of the swells as we both approach the harbor. As we rise on a swell, the other boat disappears from sight, and reappears as we descend into a trough.

Finally, we reach the safety and calmer waters of the harbor entrance and power our sailboat toward the nearest dock. Several people wave to us as we approach. Someone yells, “I was in the restaurant watching you!” Another person offers us a drink, and someone else offers blankets.

I climb below, hug both of my girls and whisper, “Let’s go home.”