Summer sailing in the San Francisco Bay is, pardon my French, a shite show. All the suspected romanticism and anticipated peace is blown away by 30 naught April winds and washed away by ice cold spray like backsplash on the Charles River in Boston… in the middle of January. It will leave you drenched in sweat and sea water, your muscles aching from trying to control the waves crashing into your hull, and if you’re like me, your skin taught…
