Point Conception, 118 miles NW of Pt. Fermin . . . a bold headland 220 feet high that marks an abrupt change in the trend of the California coast. There is comparatively low land immediately behind it. Point Conception has been called the "Cape Horn of the Pacific" because of heavy NW gales encountered off it during passage . . . a marked change of climatic and meteorological conditions is experienced off the Point, the transition often being remarkably sudden and well defined . . . and cause heavy offshore gusts."

If Point Conception is true to form, I will soon be getting my first real taste of heavy weather sailing.

• May 10, 1976: By 7:00 p.m., we were definitely in the Point Conception vicinity - seas were on the rise as was the wind. Dave was asleep below and Allen was topside trying to deal with his sea sickness. Karl was at the helm when a large wave smashed into the cockpit soaking all three of us - Allen, Karl and me. It seemed an opportune time to don foul weather gear, so I went below.

By the time I returned to the cockpit, wearing my oilies, the seas had already built to such proportions as I had never seen before. The little sailboat was pitching and rolling violently, and Allen was now wretching miserably.

I crept cautiously out onto the bowsprit to furl the jib sail, finding myself perched precariously out over the bow like some bare-breasted figurehead as the boat was plowing through enormous waves. One swell lifted me up, up, up to such a height that it seemed we were pivoting precariously on the boat's transom - another foot and the boat would certainly topple over backwards, or so it felt.

The wave suspended me there for a moment, dangling in mid-air clutching the  bowsprit, my eyes growing large as I looked downward at what appeared to be at least a twenty foot drop. All at once the boat came free falling down through the air with a final crash! Water completely engulfing me, the bowsprit stabbed into the ocean like a dart thrust upon a dartboard. It's a damn good thing I was wearing a harness, my body shackled to the boat, or I would surely have been pitched overboard headlong into the turbulent seas.

And this was only the beginning of our bout with Point Conception.

The winds were clocked at more than 40 mph and the seas were getting heavier and heavier. Allen had long since abandoned any sense of dignity and was vomiting all over himself. Seeing and smelling it caused my own first pangs of sea sickness. Karl shouted for me to do something or other. I looked at him for a moment before saying, "Just a second," as I quickly made for the port side rail, snapping my harness shackle to the lifeline and heaving my guts over the side. I must have handled the whole thing with some grace though, because Karl didn't even seem to notice what I had done. Feeling refreshed, I was now able to carry out the requested task.

Allen, now so violently ill he likely would have welcomed death, sought refuge below deck on the cabin floor. Lying on his stomach, embracing a saucepan he had removed from the stove top, he threw up over and over again into this receptacle, clinging onto it desperately with both hands. Allen would remain in this position for the remainder of the night. Anyone of us going below would need to step over (and sometimes unavoidably step on) the prone Allen, hopefully avoiding contact with the vomit-filled pan.

Dave took the helm from Karl and I went below to get as much sleep as possible since we would be sailing around the point all night and would need to be well rested.

Going below was a frightening experience. I thought for sure I would be sick as I made my way about the cabin, watching it bounce all around me and smelling the vile stuff Allen had given up. I managed to make it to a bunk, kicking off my soaking boots and jacket, and tried to lie flat. The cabin was spinning, making me feel much like being on a bad drunk with bed spins.

I knew I needed to take my mind off the stinking, violent world in which I was presently entombed, away from the spinning cabin, away from the stench of toilet chemicals and vomit. Closing my eyes, I began to think about Darla - the girl I'd (somewhat reluctantly) left behind, like a true man of the sea.

As I entered that never-never land somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, my mind began to fill with images of Darla. I swore I could detect the sweet odor of her hair. She has the nicest smelling hair, it always smells so fresh and so clean, with a scent like coconuts. I could see her face with the little up- turned nose and searching eyes. I could almost feel her touching me with a gentle caress. I could nearly hear Darla's angelic voice speaking to me, "Mike." First it came softly, like part of a fog filled dream, then sharply, "Mike!" Jerked back to reality, it was Karl shouting my name from the cockpit.

Karl was at the helm and wanted desperately for me to relieve him. My God, had I been asleep for four hours? I sat up and was immediately thrown out of bed by the boat's violent lurching, crashing into the galley table with an awful thud to my cheekbone. The crash awakened Dave who mumbled, "Hey man, are you all right?" I assured him I was, though dubious as to the veracity of such assurance.

Stumbling around in the dark, turbulent cabin doing a sort of dance while trying to pull on my boots, I suddenly realized I was stepping on Allen who had - mercifully for him - passed out and was asleep on the floor. I side-stepped trying to avoid him, inadvertently placing my unshod foot into his saucepan - which was now quite full of the wretched stuff he had been spewing.

The realization that I was standing in puke, coupled with the thrashing about of the cabin, became too much for my senses to handle. I flew out the companionway, hitting my head on the sliding hatch, and clambered out to the cockpit for some air.

Making my way to the starboard rail, I threw up violently. Karl implored, "Are you all right? Can you take the wheel?" He was anxious to get below where it was warmer, quite understandably so. I assured him I was capable, although I myself was not thoroughly convinced.

Minutes later, on deck alone in the middle of the night, no longer were any stars - or even the moon for that matter - visible. It was very, very black and difficult to see much of anything. The boat was pitching and ploughing through heavy seas, heavier than I had ever seen before in my limited sailing experience.

The little boat would heal over drastically, burying the rail, water pouring into the cockpit. Huge waves would crash upon us, the cockpit continuously filling with water nearly to my knees. Salt spray was heavy and continuous, burning my eyes to the point where I sometimes couldn't see anything at all. And, if I looked away from the compass for only a second, we would bounce and leap off course . . . not just a few degrees, but more like thirty to forty degrees in a single leap. At one point, I found myself heading almost due north instead of the desired course of due west, then a moment later we would bounce back to a westerly heading.