Tag: adventure

Puerto Escondido: A Little Swankiness In the Sea

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Desperately seeking a marina with power to get our generator situation in check, we sailed from Agua Verrde to Puerto Escondido. About four hours. We hand steered the whole way since the autopilot uses a ton of power, and it was a mercifully easy sail. A fellow sailor hit a reef near here, so we were extra cautious and vigilant. Thankfully all was good in the maritime ‘hood.

Except … there were no available slips upon arrival. We’d been super lucky so far with just showing up and being accommodated, and unfortunately that luck ran out. There was a fishing tournament that weekend, so all the slips were taken. So we took a mooring ball instead and resigned ourselves to (at least) another day and night sans wifi and with limited power. Not the end of the world for sure, just mildly inconvenient … especially when you’ve decided to stay in a marina and it’s soooo flipping close.

The next day we took the dinghy to the marina, which is pretty new (less than a decade), and it shows. Made the mooring sting a little more, ‘cuz it is noooice. Swanky up the wazoo, just the way i like it. Beautiful pool and hot tub, excellent restaurant and shower facilities, upscale market with all sorts of overpriced yum, and (cue the harps!) a pickleball court. (There was only one, and no one was ever on it, so that meant T had to indulge yours truly. Thanks, babe!)

We managed to secure a slip for one day (yay!), and luckily there was no boat next to us, Once we were in, the harbor crew turned us around — not our choice, and navigated us super close to everything expensive we could hit, but ok — so our stern was facing the dock. We got our generator fixed (T had done everything right, just had disconnected a wire in the process …) and then the angels sang once again as we cranked up the A/C, charged everything in sight, ordered water to be delivered, opened a bottle of chilled Italian red, devoured some delicious braised oxtails, and high-fived the marina life. It was only for a day, but we milked the hell out of it. And we’d  be back in four, so for sure we could hang. A little begrudgingly — especially now that we’d experienced it fully — but yes, dammit, we definitely could.

The following morning we had to get out early to head back to the sticks. Our mooring had its benefits, though, namely that you could catch fish there. T dropped a line, and voila! A few hours later we’d caught our very first, totally respectable, three-poundish fish. A bottom feeder, but hey … I’m not mad at a catfish. We realized later that it was a no-fishing zone, which likely explained the ease of the catch, but in the meantime, we fried homeboy up with a solid recipe from the Soul Food Cookbook, and busted out the champagne for a proper toast. 10s across the board.

The one drawback to Puerto Escondido is that, despite the swank, it’s isolated and a bit lacking on the soul side. So we had high hopes when we drove our rental car to the neighboring town of Loreto. Unfortunately it gave off a similar vibe, just with less swagger. Alas. The good news is that Jacques Cousteau famously dubbed the Sea of Cortez “the world’s aquarium”, and the dive shop is in Loreto, so of course I had to see for myself if Jack was on point … or wack. We made the most of the day, checked out their signature mission (underwhelming), bought a watermelon (ditto), and got me signed up for a dive tour the following morning. Had a great day diving on Danzante Island with Blue Nation. And while the water was a bit murky, the fish were indeed abundant. As a bonus, we were met with a huge dolphin pod and a few whales on our boat ride back … a little close to be honest, but exhilarating nonetheless. 

We lazed around for a few more days back in Puerto Escondido and left after a thoroughly satisfying two weeks. We’re planning to hit a few more anchorages in the Sea of Cortez before we head to Guaymas (a little south of San Carlos) to store our boat for four months while we do some air travel. In the meantime, onward to Puerto Balandra.

First Foray Into the Sea of Cortez

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We left Mazatlán at the perfect time in the morning to ride the tide and avoid any wind nastiness. Best Mother’s Day gift ever. We planned to go to Playa Bonanza, but conditions were such that we kept going to Agua verde. Took us two days to get here, and it was well worth the trip. They said the Sea of Cortez is beautiful, and from what we can see, so far they’re absolutely correct.

En route, tons of turtles: some solo, some with avian hitchhikers, some in pods, all (seemingly, at least) incredibly chill. I wondered if they get lonely, or crave companionship of some kind. Do they welcome their transient feathered friends, or are they indifferent? Do they have feelings (at whatever level of consciousness), do they enjoy their travels, or do they simply pass their days and drift mindlessly wherever the current takes them? Curious, I turned to the Almighty Google and learned that sea turtles are essentially solitary creatures. They migrate hundreds — sometimes thousands — of miles from feeding to nesting grounds … the rare times they travel in groups, and still not necessarily. The females faithfully return to their own natal beach to get their nest on, while the males are the ultimate wanderers, never usually returning to land after they hit the sea. That said, neither would win any parenting awards. While the absentee fathers are drifting off doing their own thing, the mothers are euphemistically free-ranging it: laying their eggs, digging their nests, and heading back to the ocean, leaving their babies to hatch on their own and fend for themselves. “I’ve done my part, sweeties … smooches, good luck, and bon voyage!” Many live to be over 100 years old, so if you make it, you really make it. So there you have it. You’re welcome.

Back to our regularly scheduled program … The passage had promised to be a rocky repeater, but day one was unexpectedly pleasant. Not a ton of wind, with a beautiful sunset and a bright full moon. Later that night the wind picked up so we could finally turn the motor off. Unfortunately that also meant the rolling waves were back —strong, but at least not debilitating. We ultimately arrived at Agua Verde without major incident. greeted by a fish skipping along quickly, vertically, and totally comically on its tail (although maybe not funny to him; looked like brotherman was trying to get the hell outta dodge), and a 100-strong dolphin pod (which I wasn’t quick enough to capture on video. Gotta work on that …)

Agua verde is simple and unassumingly beautiful, with a pristine beach and a backdrop of dramatic rock formations. About a half dozen boats anchored; sweet little beach with a couple of restaurants, huts, and tent palapas; pretty clear water; breathtaking sunsets; and quite the abundance of pelicans. We thought people were throwing chum in the water since they were so active and plentiful, but turns out there’s just that much fish there. We rowed to shore and had a deliciously fresh fish taco lunch, visited the mini market, headed back. devoured baby back pork ribs and rice for dinner.

Day 3 T busted out the Pakayak: a monstrous modular kayak that I’d been against because of the cost, size, and general unwieldiness. Plus we were only going to get one (again, size, ugh,) so I also had major FOMO. But he’d researched it, ignored the fact that we’re on a monohull, and proceeded to store it our berth (more ugh). Ultimately, and wisely for the sake of our marriage, he had the good sense to store it on the bow. Six months later (!), it was finally launch time. A little rocky at first, but he ultimately conquered it and made an island circumvention. 

Day 4 I had a first leap off the boat into the ocean. refreshingly perfect temperature. T had another (much more successful) trip on the Pakayak, and we had dinner at restaurant #2 — grilled fish with soggy yet somehow tasty rice. Bonus: I slaughtered him (seriously, it was a blood bath) in three back to back backgammon games.

Finished The Clockmaker’s Daughter: a mixture of tedium and intrigue, with the latter just edging out  the former. Started on the often-cringily-trying-a-bit-too-hard-but-usually-entertaining-nevertheless David Sedaris’ Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls. Our idyll was interrupted, however, when our generator gave out on us, and Captain T was uncharacteristically unable to fix it. So … with no generator to top off our power, it was time to move on to a marina and get ourselves sorted. Next stop: Puerto Escondido.

Sorprendentemente Bien En Mazatlan

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The plan was to sail from La Cruz to Isla Isabela, a day and a half sail.

Unfortunately, the conditions sucked. Rolly and nausea-inducing. The highlights — and believe me, there were few — were about a dozen turtle sightings, infinitely more welcoming than whales. The only other bonus? I was so queasy I inevitably lost some much needed poundage. Anyhoo. When we finally got to the island, the holding seemed as sketch as accounts had warned. So .we continued the sea suckage for another excruciating day and a half to Mazatlan, a place we had zero interest in visiting. We’d been there 30 years ago, and it was frankly an armpit. 

What a difference a few decades make.  Mazatlan far exceeded our (admittedly low) expectations.

We’d heard good things about the El Cid marina, and decided to dock there. (As I’ve said before, I’m a marina girl, so I was down for it regardless.) Either way, we were profoundly grateful to arrive and end that hellish passage. We anchored outside the harbor for several hours waiting for high tide, and communicated with the office and harbor master about our intentions. Despite that, it was a bit of a shit show once we finally entered the channel. The harbor master was no longer answering the radio, the office had no idea where our slip was, all the while we’re in the middle of the harbor, sleep deprived, irritable, and trying to keep it together.

We finally docked at a coveted end tie, but annoyed that we’d have to dock, go the office and pay, and then dock again. I’d emailed all our documents ahead of time, so we expected check-in at least to be easy breezy. It was easy, but as they couldn’t access the email account where I’d sent the info earlier, it wasn’t exactly breezy. Everything got done, just not as efficiently as we are (increasingly were) accustomed to. I am slowly learning to chill — not an insignificant lesson — and it turns out that the end tie was indeed our final slip destination. So at the end of the day, everything concluded like most things do in Mexico: late but ultimately handled, with much hand wringing on our side and absolutely zero on theirs.

El Cid Marina is also home to a resort, complete with tasteful pools, restaurants, ping-pong (where I handily defended my championship win streak against T), and a host of daily activities (of which we only did a stretching class, but it was good one). Found a couple of pickleball courts (always yay), had a manicure (6.5/7 out of ten, but 100% better than nothing), saw Thunderbolts (the only movie showing in English, and entertaining), and ate at some good restaurants. Old Mazatlan was especially nice, and we had a delicious Asian dinner just outside the square, with a churro ice cream sandwich that was off the charts good. (You know it’s good when you forget to take a picture because you’re in such a rush to dig in. The image below was downloaded from the web.) The square was super picturesque and bustling with music and activity.

We’d genuinely consider returning to Mazatlan, which I never ever thought I’d say, ever in life. It was seriously that bad back in the day: dusty, dreary, and kinda gross in general. Now it’s bustling with upscale hotels and restaurants, paved roads with bicycle lanes, palm trees, objective attractiveness. The transformation of the city is actually astounding. Who knew?

Mother’s Day is celebrated on Saturday vs Sunday In Mexico, and it’s a big deal. Lots of stores are closed (or close early), no one plays pickleball, restaurants are packed. We were leaving the following morning at the crack, so we spent the day prepping and provisioning, and T made one of my favorite indulgences: chicken wings and french fries. True story. And I enjoyed them. Thoroughly. Couldn’t pop the champagne (alcohol is never a good idea before a passage, especially one expected to be — again! — kinda brutal), so we cranked up the A/C (luxuriously), ate (heartily), watched the latest episode of The Last of Us (open-mouthedly), and got ready for a 7am exit to the Sea of Cortez. Specifically the plan is Playa de la Bonanza, where we’re hoping to find blue, swimmable water, sandy beaches, and maybe, just maybe, a chance to try our recently acquired spear gun.

Cruising To and In La Cruz

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The sail to La Cruz de Huanacaxtle was pretty choice. Day one we sailed in mostly perfect conditions. Day two brought more tranquil seas (such a drag to motor once you start to actually sail more), but we’ll call it a win with relatively few whales and relatively little drama (yaaasss!). Watched the ridiculous Night Agent series, finished Murakami’s satisfying Men Without Women, and dove into The Clockmaker’s Daughter, a promising novel by Kate Morton. We enjoyed dramatic sunsets followed by beautiful, clear, starry skies. Once again we arrived without a slip reservation, and once again we got lucky … and snagged the last available slip. Docking was a bit tricky for the 35K-pound (45 with all of our kit) Kouk — the slips here are shared by two boats with no dividers between — but we maneuvered like champs and high-fived it heartily upon arrival. Perfect location close to the marina office and “yacht club”, which is not a club at all but rather an air conditioned circular windowed room where people go to cool off, read, and do the various things that people do on their laptops. Upstairs is a beautiful rooftop bar and restaurant, where we cheers-ed to another safe passage with mescal (a drink I’m coming to increasingly appreciate), so-so tacos, and a lovely view of our dock.

La Cruz is rougher than the considerably more upscale San Jose del Cabo. (Had a conversation with another sailor who said San Jose had gotten too chi-chi for her. I found it more chic than chi-chi, but I am honestly not mad at either.).The streets are rocky and more often unpaved than not, the town square is nothing to write home about, and its restaurants are more homey than elegant. That said, the marina is all that and a bag of chips, and there are activities galore. Presentations on all things sailing are plentiful, an outdoor amphitheater with movie nights every Thursday, an impressive farmer’s market every Sunday with food, housewares, leather goods, live (excellent!) musical entertainment, and everything in between. And la piece de resistance … wait for it … three pickleball courts! There’s a lovely yoga class within walking distance on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, hosted in a condo complex that overlooks the ocean and where you can hear the waves and birds during your practice. There’s also a beautiful spa nearby, salsa lessons on Monday and Wednesday nights, and a refreshingly and reasonably priced fish market where we heartily consumed delicious shrimp, mahi mahi, tuna, and lobster. 

We (and I use “we” generously) made a ton of great dinners, hosted and hung out repeatedly with our friends Shannon and Andy on Tino Pai, made new friends, and had a few great nights out. One of the more memorable was at El Mar: modest location and ambiance, excellent fried shrimp and tacos. Mon ami mescal was served with salt, dried orange slices, and something that looked like little roaches. After wrestling with my shamefully pitiful Spanish, I finally understood that they were grasshoppers … which unfortunately tasted just like they looked. Something to be tried for sure, but let’s be clear: never to be voluntarily repeated. Apparently grasshoppers are a thing here, though … I had some more mezcal at another bar and the serving platter had what i thought was spicy salt but after inquiry revealed to be grasshopper (let’s just call them) crystals. Note: they’re decidedly tastier in dusty vs full body form. Could simply be a presentation thing. Either way, they’re much better licked than munched.

In actual boat news, Captain T installed the cockpit shower and the water heater. Much sweating and swearing ensued along the way, but we can now have a hot water rinse in the cockpit after a dunk, a hot shower on the boat when we’re not in a marina (or are too lazy to hike to the marina showers), and — finally — hot water to wash and rinse the dishes. No more greasy containers! Hallelujah! Next was the poop tank, so we’re really cooking with oil. Still used the bucket to avoid having to move the boat to empty the tank, but that bad boy is in working condition and the odeur (which we fortunately or unfortunately didn’t notice until it was totally gone) is ancient history. And as the final La Cruz project, Captain T installed air conditioning … the luxury I never knew how much we absolutely needed. I cannot adequately express how ridiculously delicious it is. I mean seriously … speechless. If the angels sang when the water heater and poop tank were installed, there was a full blown, Kirk Franklin-led gospel concert when we turned the air conditioning on, it worked (on the first try!), and we greedily indulged. I’d thought before that A/C was a nice-to-have. And it is. But I’d never. Ever. Go without it again. It is just … beyond.

I had to go back to the Bay Area unexpectedly because someone stole the rear license plate from my car (which my mom is driving). A good excuse to spend time with her and friends. Got some beautification in, did some puzzling, played some pickleball (shocker), went to Tommy T’s Comedy Club to see Guy Torry (unexpectedly hilarious, right up there in my top five comedy shows) and play some impromptu ping pong afterwards with one of my besties from high school. Had an amazing time with my favorite sister friend/sister-in-law and played (more!) pickleball, saw the tulips at Filoli Gardens, made dinner and libations, gabbed and spent the night together. (Side bar: such a shame that sleepovers are not really a thing when you get older. Soooo much fun.)

Then my mom flew back to La Cruz for a little vacation. Side bar number two: When I first heard about the Trump tariffs, my immediate thought was that champagne was going to go through the roof (not the most world-conscious view I know, but I’m just sayin’ …), so I ordered a bunch which I brought back from my Bay Area trip. What I hadn’t realized is that it would go bad when we leave the boat during the hot Mexican summer, so we have the rough-but-somebody’s-got-to-do-it job of consuming it all before July. Back to the story … more MoDa (Mother/Daughter) hijinks ensued in La Cruz, bookended by two champagne dates, some devastating (for Mom … ha!) Boggle games, spa time (with a small and deceptively aggressive masseuse who made me a forever convert from deep tissue to the more relaxing and civilized Swedish), salsa lessons, music bingo, more puzzling, and just lots of good ‘ole conversation. Mom had been hesitant to come and I’m so glad she did: the week flew by and we’ll both remember our special time together in La Cruz. Love you Mom … Carpe diem!

April is the last month of the season in La Cruz. The weather is getting hot, La Cruz Pickleball sessions ended (although we did get a small group together to play at Punta Pelicanos afterwards … thanks for the invite, Catherine!), the crowds everywhere noticeably thinned. We did our provisioning, had a final dinner party (kicked off with champagne, of course) with new friends, prepped the boat, and got ready to leave the marina. We ended up staying in La Cruz for a lovely, memorable two months. Next stops: island hopping in the Sea of Cortez before we put the Kouk on the hard in San Carlos.

A Whale of a Time in Los Frailes

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The sail from San Jose del Cabo to Los Frailes was easy and uneventful — just the way I like it — with the exception of an unnerving amount of whales. Dolphins are cute, whales up close are .. well … not. Not because they’re especially menacing, but rather because of their alarming nonchalance about their size. Like linebackers used to everyone getting out of their way, these blasé behemoths cavalierly glide and lollygag, breach and frolick, and in general have a grand ‘ole time … all the while completely oblivious and unconcerned about their absolute ability to upend your boat and end your sailing experience abruptly. We saw a couple dozen on our relatively short jaunt … as T pointed out, about 24 more than we needed to. 

It took us six hours to get to Los Frailes, an idyllic little spot with a long sandy beach, a scattering of houses, some fishing boats, and a few other sailors. It was super windy upon arrival, so we thought we’d have to keep a keen eye on the anchor and be prepared to haul out posthaste. Turns out we just happened to come in at a blustery moment. It was super chill almost immediately after we anchored, and we settled in nicely. T contacted the boat closest to us that was also on noforeignland — in case they had to contact us in the event we were dragging — and they invited us to a potluck party on the beach the following day. Sweet. 

We were in the cockpit night one, watching the latest episode of Shogun, when we heard it: a rather strong exhalation of breath. It took two more before we realized what the sound was: whales. Our neighbor had warned us about whales circling our boat, but … really? This might be — OK, definitely is — more up-close nature than a sistah signed up for. One of those “What exactly is your ass doing out here?” kind of “Now, girl, you know you knew better” moments that my melanated brethren in particular would be shaking their heads about when the tragedy ended up on the nightly news and they found out the identities of the deceased. The next morning, T shouted “Whale!” as one was brazenly circling our boat in the light of day. Hmmm. Let’s just hope Willy doesn’t decide to be extra free when we’re riding the dinghy to shore. And maybe we’ll just wait to christen that paddleboard …

Another unfortunate discovery on this trip was that our beloved Topo Chico is toxic. Isn’t it always the case that the good sh*t you really like never really likes you back? UGH. I’d had some stomach issues for a couple of days — I’ll spare you the details — and as the common denominator was Topo Chico, I decided to look it up. Turns out it has like ten times the amount of “forever” chemicals — polyfluoroalkyl substances or PFAs, advisably avoided and decidedly no bueno — allowed by the FDA. And we’d just stocked up on three cases of the stuff. Alas, my research and stomach are both forcing me to end this relationship prematurely. It was good while it lasted, but I’ll have to say adios to my newly discovered, gut busting, carbonated delight. Sorry, Topo Chico … Unfortunately it’s not me, it’s you. 

Anyhoo … The beach soiree happened a night later than planned, since the waves would’ve made dinghying to shore more of an adventure than necessary. It was fun when it did go down, though — still not without a bit of dinghy drama upon entry and exit — and we felt like true cruisers as we gathered wood, made and nursed a fire, and met our sailing neighbors for drinks, grub, and stories as the sun went down. We brought chop jae, banana bread and wine, and there were potatoes and meat and kids with sparklers and marshmallows and laughter and good times had by all. 

Los Frailes was a sweet little stop we’re glad we made (thanks S/V Tasi for the recommendation!). Our blubbery sea bros showed up again upon departure, so maybe it’s a hello/goodbye thing with them. Either way, as they just kinda mind their own business, there are luckily no tragic or cautionary tales to tell. Onward. Our next journey: a two-day sail to La Cruz. 

Something That Never Happened

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It starts on a cool moonless night with a pinniped pod lounging on a channel buoy about four miles or so off shore. The conversation goes something like this.

Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaat! Move over. How? Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! Yes. Something like that. Yes. Your warm spot, my cold spot. Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! And give me a scratch. Yes. Right there. Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! Now you have to turn your warm spot too. Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! That was good fish we had today. Yes, good fish. Want more. We get more. Yes, more. Later. Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! Want sex. Want sex too. Too tired. No privacy. Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! Feel shark? No feel. Safe here Yes. Safe here. Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! Get off my spot. Ouch. Don’t bite! Oh God, gas. Jesus, Eddie. Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! What?! What the f is that? Where?! What?! That. Red light green light. Coming right for us. Who is that a**hole?! Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! Dive for your life!

And so, so many things to attend to, so many things to think about. So many parts to get. So many failure scenarios that might play out, so many things that might go utterly wrong. This pump needs rebuilding. Gaskets must be replaced on leaking thermostat housing, mystery elements of standing rigging, main sheet blocks should be replaced, strange haunting noises of problems in germination … this leaking, that broken, this needing repair, that a cause of concern … As all of this like Ringling Brothers acts going on and on in three rings in my head, trapeze artists flying through the air, tight rope walkers high overhead, women with giant colorful feathers sprouting from their heads in skimpy sequined outfits standing on galloping white horses, clowns in baggy pants with white faces and big red noses, tigers jumping through hoops, some jackass with a snapping whip … It’s not like I live the boat. I am the boat. I feel all parts of the boat incrementally wending their way to compromised function, malfunction, defunction … It’s a bit like the implacable obsessions of the disaster mongers, those incurables who adhere to any report of calamity, landslides, hurricanes, wildfires, avalanches, floods, earthquakes, tsunamis, tornadoes and sand storms … you name it. They imbibe it all. They absorb. And they share. Going to the mountains? Well watch out for the blizzard. You heard about that family that got caught and had to eat each other? Kid now only has one leg. Going to the beach? Don’t get too close to the shore; you heard about that guy who was swept off the rocks the other day. What? A vacation to Italy? You haven’t heard about the volcano?

Somehow, I just want to be free, just want to clear my mind, to draw in a deep breath, thought-free Savasana on a rubber mat on a wooden floor in a spacious room with tall glass windows and a view of the mountains and cherubs fluttering about over a green field outside, playing some sort of endearingly ridiculous slow motion game throwing big inflated flowers at each other that just float slothfully through the air. And there’s a mime, because talented mimes are always underrated. This one is cooking an elaborate invisible meal, a delicious work of culinary brilliance, aided by his sous-chef, a dolphin wearing an apron, because this dolphin has just had enough of swimming in circles in a sea show and has decided to take up cooking. That’s what I want. Everyone smiling, bright sun warmth and colors, and garden gnomes bringing me towels and water, maybe a bowl of miso soup.

But instead it’s a moonless night and there I am motoring out of San Diego at about 6.5 knots, autopilot on.  Sage mariner that I be, I have checked the chart and cleared the final pair of buoys and all is well. I go down for a minute to refill my water bottle and when I come back up, Jesus Christ. There is a tower of a buoy smack dab right in front of me closing fast. I go to the wheel but it won’t budge because the autopilot is on and now I have seconds until disaster. Must become robotic, logical, mechanical. Get flashlight to see autopilot control. Check. There it is. Hit “Standby”! Check. Back to the wheel. Check. Manic turn to port.

From the fellows on the buoy: Aarfff! Arrff! Rumfff! Pffblaaht! Holy sh*t here comes that son of a b*tch!

Seals jumping off in all directions like the soaring sparkling petals from one of those flowering fireworks explosions.

I missed that deep sea buoy by four feet. It must have been sixteen feet tall. And how big and bad and heavy and deep was the keel tube under it? 6.5 knots? Pretzeled bowsprit. Forestay popped. Cracking hull. Taking on water. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!

But it’s not something that a supposedly salty fellow would like to admit. It’s not something that anyone whose sole abode is his hull would like to mention. It’s a scary thought to recall. So, for the sake of convenience, pride and piece of mind, it never happened. Yes indeed I shall try to learn from this near miss. But, on the flip side, ironically, when everything seems to be part of a larger scheme of impending doom and disintegration, when the needle for intervention is in red zone at DEFCON 1, I do find it somewhat diminishes the intensity of a “crisis” at hand and proffers comfort to think of what never happened and how much worse things might have been if it actually did.

The Costly and Complicated World of Feathering Fantasies

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Many have been the times when I gazed with, let’s admit it, a bit of envy and resentment down the fairway at some jackass in one of those “other” boats, under power, all gleaming and shiny with broad ass, swim platform and dual helm effortlessly backing straight down the middle of the fairway with one finger on the helm. You see, those boats have spade rudders which allow such precision and control in reverse like popping an eight ball with a clean snap into a side pocket and the cue left there smugly spinning. No, that boat was not for I. You all know the blather. I had to get a mighty vessel with a canoe stern and a skeg-hung rudder that could fend off shipping containers, submarine scopes and the bulbous metal helmets of ancient deep sea divers left drifting upon the tides. What was to do? Well, I schemed and I calculated, connived, negotiated with me woman and pulled that lever on my one-armed-bandit credit card-Ding! Ding! Ding! A feathering prop was my answer. Why five minutes on the phone with the retail outfit had me, the self-esteemed skeptic, convinced this five-thousand-dollar outlay would dramatically improve my whole outlook as well as my reverse performance and there would I be, ribbons of fine tobacco smoke twisting languidly upwards from my meerschaum, silly white cap and double breasted pea coat with gold bands around the sleeves, toss in a parrot on me shoulder and two or three young ladies naked as the day toasting florescent aperitifs in silly glasses right there in me cockpit whilst with index upon the wheel, my vessel did glide straight as an arrow right down the center of the fairway. And so, with this idiotic vision in mind, I did pursue the project. My diver fellow assured me he could obtain one at a reduced rate and could install it right there at the dock—no haul out necessary. Everything looked golden. In fact when that impressively sold piece of bronze kit arrived straight from Italy, it did have a golden and finely engineered appearance like an object more suited for worship rather than use. Well let’s cut to the chase. We all know the arch of these tragically flawed aspirational endeavors. The damn thing did not fit. The hub was too long so there was not enough space between the hub and the strut, not even with the ridiculously overpriced line cutter removed. So, my diver, good fellow that he was, took it back. No charge. And that’s when the cogs in my clock tower started turning. My brilliantly salty racing champion pal began relentlessly spewing admonishment, disappointment and calumny upon me for abandoning the feathering fantasy and leaving behind the possibility of that .5-.75 knot gain that the new prop would give me. He cajoled and wheedled, contrived and construed until he had me absolutely convinced that hauling the boat and installing the new longer shaft that the new prop would require was a valid, worthy and reasonable pursuit. And so it happened. Thank the Gods for Jorge in the yard whose precise measurements made the fit. The new shaft was slightly longer, and of course I had to have the cutlass bearing replaced and, oh yes, a new PSS shaft seal, oh, and a new coupler. It was a bit of a project but the day finally did dawn when we re-launched and retuning along the estuary came the critical moment of impeding triumph when I reduced speed, put it in neutral, waited for it to glide to a halt and then made the tremulous clunk at the lever to shift that puppy into its first test in reverse. Yes there I was with lips slightly parted brows knit and a despair dark as Erebus in my eyes as my boat, despite all attempts at control and correction, did donuts in reverse in the estuary. Ok, let’s try to look on the bright side. I do get the speed gain, important for cruising. Cutlass bearing replaced. Replacement of old pitted shaft and addition of new PSS shaft seal eliminated misting underneath the engine. New coupling meant that shaft could now be removed aft as well as forward into the cabin; whereas, the old coupling was sealed on and shaft could only be removed through the cabin. These were the thoughts I attempted to use to salve my soul. In reality this great investment taught me a couple of lessons: one, I had suffered a costly delusion once again; two, some boats just don’t back up. And there you have it. Some grand dame walking a wobbling aging asthmatic pug along the quay did that morning look up when she suddenly heard a prolonged and maniacal scream emanating from upon the waters, the scream, possibly from a fool, who from his money had thus been parted.

Do You Know the Way to San Jose?

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We left Asunción for another three-day sail, this time to San Jose del Cabo … if they’d have us. All the marinas we checked with were full, so TBD. At minimum, we needed to find a place to take a proper shower, as the hygiene situation was getting pretty dire. Suffice it to say it was a good thing we didn’t have guests on board and the funk was confined to the family.

Chef T had prepped cranberry muffins, potato leek soup, and clam and garlic pizza for the journey. And when the weather window looked good, a huge pod of seemingly hundreds of dolphins assembled to bid us farewell. The seas were infinitely kinder to us on this passage, and our sailing to motoring ratio is improving. (It’s sooooo nice when the engine is off and everything is quiet.) T also hooked the water maker up. The good news: the install worked. The bad: water’s leaking from multiple hoses. We were running low on water, totally out of Topo Chico, and my eight-glass-a-day intake was taking a hit. So, totally inconvenient timing for that little convenience, but that’s a fix for another day. In the meantime, we were hardy and hydrated enough to eke out a few days of minimal H2O intake.

Night one was relatively (and blessedly) uneventful, with the exception of some drama I slept through: Apparently the pin sheared and fell out of the traveler, so the boom was totally free (no bueno). That said, the boom break mitigated what could have been a total disaster (muy beuno), and Captain T was able to get it under control and save the day (night) yet again. 

On day two, we debuted a new cockpit platform T constructed that gives us more lounging space. Divine. We also set out our fishing line for the first time, eagerly awaiting and discussing the preparation of the catch that never came. Day three was no better. Turns out we lost the lure on the virgin run, but no such excuse for the chaser. I’m sure that big catch is right around the corner, and will be all the more delicious for the wait. Finished Jo Nesbo’s The Leopard and Close to Home by Michael Magee. The former was a little disappointing (gratuitously convoluted), and the latter a good debut read from an unknown (to me, at least) young Irish author. Also finally read one of our daughter’s favorites: Instructions for Dancing, a sweet little love story by Nicola Yoon.

When we finally sailed into San Jose del Cabo, we were shocked by the weather change — like 20 degrees — and quickly changed from long johns to tank tops. This was after we recovered from wanting to kill each other upon arrival (combination of three days of less-than-ideal sleep, no slip reservation, hopeful and finally answered marina calls to check availability, confirmation that best marina option had never received our original documentation, scramble to resend said documentation with uncooperative scanner, wait for call back and ultimate thumbs up on slip availability, plus the ever-present anxiety around docking for fuel, blasé attendants necessitating three boat position changes, then final docking in a new marina slip, trying all along to rush but also not rush …) It was … well … a lot. After all that, the office offered us the option to get picked up for check in, but when we gave the thumbs up they informed us that our ride had run out of batteries. Huh? So we walked for what seemed like an eternity (actually 4,000 steps, but still … really? Just to check in and take a shower??) Turns out there’s a shower right next to our boat, so thank the gawds for that positive future note. We stopped for some extra crunchy (solid euphemism for shingle) fish and chips and ice cold Topo Chico when our business was done, and then made the extremely wise decision (cue the self back pat) to get a golf cart (OK, now the battery issue made sense) ride back. Settled in for some solid makeup sleep almost immediately. And with that, day one was successfully in the bag. Six more to look forward to.