Read from Chapter 3, "The First Sail", of Pacific Lady: The First Woman to Sail Solo across the World’s Largest Ocean by Sharon Sites Adams with Karen J. Coates:

"In the final days of preparation, my dearest friends threw me a party, and I would learn weeks later that I needed their memory to survive. I could subsist on the sheer words of people who believed in my voyage. Their thoughts would push me through the roughest waters. I would read and reread and reread again all those messages in my logbook: "Our love and best wishes, our pride and our prayers ride with you," they told me. "Some people have mountains that need climbing—you happen to have an ocean that needs crossing," they encouraged. "You really are the captain of your ship and the master of your soul." They made me laugh, too: "I said it to Christopher, I said it to Wilbur and Orville, now I say it to you—take up stamp collecting!"

Among all those wise and witty words, one friend’s assessment of my voyage struck the essence of my soul: "Everyone has their own craft to sail. There have been seas you have already weathered, alone, squalls you have gone through, alone, rough waters you have already battled and won, alone. It is for this reason you can and will make this trip all the way, though at times there may be doubt. Bless you, but now, as always, come through."

The day before departure, all was snug inside the boat, everything but my toothbrush and makeup case. My shore clothes were packed in a suitcase and waiting to be flown ahead to Hawaii when the time arrived.

I dined that night with friends at a rooftop restaurant with a view to the glistening lights of Los Angeles, a thousand beacons of civilization, that community. It was my last night amid the masses. The boat was ready. I was ready.

We drove then to the marina and watched Sea Sharp among all the other boats. I kept thinking of my lessons, dos and don’ts, the mechanics of a boat and her sails.

Just a few hours remained, and until then I hadn’t thought about the burden I was handing my friends. I was their responsibility. They believed in me; I knew that. But I also knew they dreaded my leaving, too. They had delivered me to that dock, had prepared my mind, and had cared for my soul. That night, for the first time, I saw my responsibility to them: to return.

June 12, 1965, dawned gray and foggy. I woke fully rested and tiptoed into the shower for my last hot-water shampoo. I cooked my last breakfast on an electric stove, and I thought of a dry house, sockets, and switches that make things happen, all the comforts we take for granted.

That morning I wore new sailing clothes, white slacks and a navy blazer. I arrived at the marina, which was all hustle and bustle, full of people ogling Sea Sharp with her cover rolled back. There in the crowd were my minister, my banker, my doctor, coworkers, neighbors, friends, and so many strangers. My beautiful boat tugged at her mooring lines, just as anxious for the start as I.

A fleet was set to see me off, and I had arranged for friends to tag along awhile. Al would tow me to the breakwater on a fifty-foot racing sloop, Cotton Blossom II, with seven of my closest friends. They would sail beside me the first day until we parted, for better or worse.

The commodore of the International Yachtsman’s Exchange Club presented me with a mission, a letter from Los Angeles Mayor Samuel Yorty, which I was to take to Mayor Neal Blaisdell in Honolulu. Of course, Mayor Yorty told me, "There are faster ways of delivering the mail. But none are nearly so romantic or adventurous."

More gifts arrived, some with practical inclinations: lemons "for scurvy" and a can of octopus tentacles for "more hands." The crowd bombarded me with questions, but there were two that I will never forget: "Will you stop along the way?" and "Will you anchor every night?"

For the record, the only land between California’’ offshore islands and Hawaii would be fifteen thousand feet beneath Sea Sharp’s bottom. I’d have little chance to stop or anchor.

At 11:55 that morning, Cotton Blossom II eased up to my slip and threw me a towline. Sea Sharp’s dock lines were removed for the last time and readied for stowage; I wouldn’t be needing them for many weeks. Tears and hugs went all around. The towline was secured and we—Sarah Beth-Ann, Sea Sharp, and I—abandoned land. The figures on the dock shrank as we weaved through the harbor. Horns, whistles, bells, cameras, and waving hands, all growing smaller and smaller, and quieter, until they were gone.

As we approached the breakwater at the harbor entrance, I raised the genoa and trimmed the mainsail. We were astonishingly heavy in the water but I didn’t worry. Our load would lighten as I ate and drank my way along. The sails filled in an offshore breeze, and I cast off the towline. I set my course for Catalina with a fleet of press boats and spectators following for more than an hour until they, too, began to fade. By midafternoon I could see blips of sails on the horizon behind, but only Cotton Blossom II and Sea Sharp moved together."