Regatta blues

Jarring potholes. Cyclone fence covered with barbed wire. Across the train tracks I see dead trees, freshly cut and stacked, waiting to be loaded onto a seabound vessel.

I had heard rumors about rumors that somewhere out here there was a boat club. There was a lake. Somewhere out here people were having fun. Or so the story went.

I bumped past a sign that said “Public Notice.” I caught the word “no” but had to keep my eyes on the road. The potholes were vicious.

In the distance I see the Port of Sacramento, which is actually neither in the city nor county of Sacramento. It’s in the city of West Sacramento, which is in Yolo County.

Yeah, it matters.

I had heard a regatta race was set to be held today. UC Davis has its boat dock over here. Curiosity drives me on.

Finally, I see a sign of canoes or something. And a guy pulling junk out of the back of his truck and throwing it into a dumpster. This is notable only because he is blocking the road and I have to slow to edge past him. He turns and stares hard. Really hard.

Taking this as a good sign, I slide down my window.

“Yeah? You a member? This is private.” Turns out there are a few boat clubs that lease docks here. Private. Did he mention that, maybe twice more? 

We continue a bit of jocular banter of this sort for another 30 seconds before he allows me to drive on to the water’s edge. I'm just curious and want to take a look, I explain. He glances suspiciously at my back windows.

“Just don’t park or get in anyone’s way,” he warns, jutting his chin toward the empty parking lot. “If you want to join, we’re always looking for friendly people.”

I totally swear he said that.

The lake isn’t much but it’s peaceful and comes with a unique view of some large cargo ships at the adjacent docks. These ships take advantage of the narrow deep water channel that cuts through the California Delta, enabling them to sail from the Pacific Ocean through farmland and pasture for hundreds of miles until they arrive here. Giant cranes lift cargo containers of goods off and then lift others on. On and off, on and off. Wal-Mart is prominently featured on the sides of many containers.

Off the parking area, I see a few small boathouses and racks for equipment. A handful of sailboats are lined up on shore.

“You sail?” The guy is back, this time on foot and carefully keeping his distance.

I’m not technically parked since my car is still running and I left the door open.

“No, but I’d be interested in kayaking.”

“I hear kayakers put in from the other side.” He juts that chin of his again. “Over there.”

I follow the arc of his chin across the water and see no sign of a beach. He reads doubt in my eyes and doubles down with “I’ve seen kayaks out there.”

We’ve run out of conversation so I say goodbye. On the boathouse wall just a dozen steps away, there’s a bulletin board with a few announcements. A stack of flyers about something seems to be untouched. I bet there's information about the clubs, maybe how to join. Investigating further seems to be pushing my luck.

“Well, think about it,” he says.