John Lymberg of the 10-meter Flying Tiger Savage Beauty reports on his solo delivery after the Delta Ditch Run:

Looking for a good laugh? Bored? Then read about the Savage Beauty delivery back to San Francisco from Stockton the Sunday after the Ditch Run.

So, I left the dock around 6:30 am. The skipper on the 1D35 next to us says, "Where's your crew?" I say, "They took off last night.” He says, "Crew, they'll do that."

With chart in one hand and tiller in the other, I set off ‘motor-twisting’ through the Delta, trying to find my way home. The early sunrise made the river beautiful and dream-like. Around 9 a.m., the wind got up to 23 knots and slowed me down a bit. The Tohatsu gets great gas mileage, but just to play it safe, I thought I would look for a nice fuel dock off the channel somewhere - I didn't want to run out of gas.

On the chart I found a promising stop showing at least 8' depth, in Pittsburg. Coming up to the marina, I saw tall 50’+ masts, a new housing development, and lots of boating activity. Nice. I swung the boat around. Small entrance, but brand new gas docks are visible just 20 yards away. Depth showed 12 feet. Perfect.

Five yards in, I felt the sickening, sudden slow-down of mud hitting keel bulb (6.7 feet on depth gauge now). I decided to throttle up, and up, and more up. The boat moved from slow, to slower, then free as we pushed through the sticky mud and made it to the dock. I got gas, turned the boat around, and cast off. I throttled up again knowing I had to plow through the soft mud again. Bad idea.

Two seconds later I was thrown forward so hard, the tiller extension had come off but was still in my hand. I tried everything except the "flying-the-jib-off-the-transom" trick.

People on docks were entertained. People on shore were pointing, popping beers and flinging open lawn chairs for the ringside view of me rocking the boat, flailing and cursing.

A big cruising sailboat comes through the entrance with a salty older couple. I warn him about the shallow depth. He says he draws 5.5 feet. He offers to help. That's the good news. The bad news is - he helps.

I throw a line that he ties to a cleat. With both our props thrashing for several agonizing minutes, I am finally pulled free. I am so thankful. My celebration is cut short when I get stuck again 10 feet from the entrance.

The guy quickly undoes the line and yells, "Sorry, but that's all I can do for you now..." He throws the line in the water like it's poison. It's still attached to my bow. The water is frothy and brown, as my outboard is noisy at near full throttle still attempting to push through that godforsaken mud.

Suddenly I am free, and squirting through the narrow opening into the channel. The very next instant, there is a piercing "schreeech-pop!" sound.

Silence.

The boat is now quietly drifting along the wall sideways. The strong ebb is pushing us toward a rocky shore.

I quickly scramble to hoist the main. I get it halfway up and luckily into some wind and manage to pull away from the wall, then attach the tiller pilot. Disaster is averted, as now I am sailing, but sailing into a narrow channel.

I run up to the bow and cut the line which is taut like a bowstring to the prop, then run back and fling open the outboard compartment. I raise the motor and see blue line wrapped snugly around the prop, water sloshing around. I thrust my arm in to try and unravel the knot, but no matter how I stretch and contort, my fingertips just lightly touch the the top of that tightly wound mess.

I am constantly jumping up and tacking the boat, as it constantly sails out of the channel. Other boats pass me, people staring. I poke at the line with my knife - I cannot get a good angle on it to cut it.

What to do? I decide to try and muscle the outboard out of the well to get to the prop. Cover off, loosen bracket screws - too stuck and heavy. Finally I wrench the outboard head to one side, enough to stick MY head and one arm in. I think: the photo boat is missing a really good photo opp here.

After several tries, I manage to unwrap the line from the prop, put the motor back in the water, and say a quick prayer promising that I'll be good to everyone from now on. I turn the key, and the engine roars to life. Hallelujah!

I would make it back to San Francisco that night. Winds gusted to 22+ knots with choppy seas from Vallejo to the Brothers. In the slot winds blew up to 27 knots, with short, steep, breaking waves slamming over the cabin top, soaking the driver. And finally annoying wind puffs at the docks attempted to force the boat sideways onto anything nearby, and me on two hours sleep the night before... is that all you got?

We'll do it again - or not.

- John Lymberg