Tag: travel

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. 

San Jose del Cabo Delivers

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I’ve been to San Jose a few times: twice on my own and once for my nephew’s wedding. It’s a super cute little town, and it has unsurprisingly developed quite a bit in the last decade. While it still has an artsy vibe, it’s considerably more upscale now. We knew almost immediately that one week just wasn’t gonna cut it. 

Day two we broke out the folding bikes to tour the town and scope out the local pickleball spot (shout out to Club Huerta!). Rode my bike there — a few intermittently hairy miles away — every other day-ish … and when my tires weren’t flattened by the sketchy road conditions. True confession: I am totally addicted to pickleball. I’ll admit that I’m an enabler, too. There, I’ve said it. Not apologizing, just sayin’. It’s just so. much. fun. I play for hours at a time and love every minute, win or lose. I of course prefer to win, but any good game works. And it’s always entertaining to see that while the names and hometowns change, the characters are pretty much the same: you’ve got your bangers, droppers and spinners; those who take the game entirely too seriously and those who pretend they don’t; the (usually male chauvinist) ball hoggers; the drivers who refuse to play close to the kitchen; the flagrant cheaters and the ones who almost always call a close ball out; the swearers and apologizers; young and old; all sizes, shapes, colors, and backgrounds. It’s truly a great equalizing sport, and the fact that you can go solo and get your fun, cardio, and socialization on for as long and hard as you want … chef’s kiss. Since T will play with me only under duress, and only enjoys playing with particular people, he’s always thrilled when he doesn’t have to sacrifice his time, jeopardize his body and ego (he has experienced some totally-not-funny-but-so-ridiculous-you-can’t-help-but-be-a-terrible-wife-and-chuckle court misfortunes), and inflame his plantar fasciitis just to indulge me. 

OK, moving on … Mexican food has not historically been my jam. But T got me into fish tacos a while ago and I’ve been hooked ever since. I’m happy to report that San Jose del Cabo did not disappoint in the taco department. The best we had were at La Lupita Taco y Mezcal downtown: not cheap, but both the tacos and mezcal were worth every peso and did the joint’s name justice. We did a repeater visit at their other location on Valentine’s Day and the sequel was just as good as the original. We also went on the perennial Thursday Art Walk (enriching and entertaining; a lot of incredible galleries here), biked to the local beach and christened our chairs and umbrella (the latter will require some future finessing), watched the Eagles destroy the Chiefs in the Super Bowl (sooooo satisfying), saw a movie (Absolution/Implacable. didn’t realize it was all in Spanish — with no subtitles — so didn’t get everything but was 100% clear that it was totally depressing and the absolute opposite mood we were going for at the time of viewing), did some puzzling, gave my nails and toes some much needed attention, visited the beautiful Gypsy Soul House (a decadent pampering indulgence that kicked off with the “nordic spa experience”: champagne, nuts and cranberries, followed by body exfoliation, outdoor shower, barrel sauna, cold plunge, sauna, shower, more champagne … all before a delicious 90-minute deep tissue massage. YUM). Groceries are about the same price as in the U.S. (how do the Mexicans afford it?), but spa treatments are bizarrely inexpensive. T got a haircut (long overdue), and also took a side trip to LA to visit friends and replace our busted water heater and poop tank. So our bucket squatting and cold water dishwashing days are numbered … hallelujah! 

One of the coolest things about cruising is the ability to alter your itinerary whenever and however you like. We ended up spending three weeks in San Jose vs. the originally planned one, and enjoyed our stay immensely. Next stop: Los Frailes, en route to La Cruz de Huanacaxtle — La Cruz for short — on the Riveria Nayarit.

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 Mighty Tercel, The Buddhist B*tch, and The Best Years of Your Life

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At that time, on every weekend morning, on the morning of every day I managed to have off, I would be walking in the cold lonely dark to the mighty Tercel, that crazy blessed contraption of a vehicle.

It was funny because we were leasing an apartment in this complex where all the streets and buildings looked the same and parking was scarce and I often had to park a ways away from our place and sometimes it took me a while to find the bloody hell car. In some sense it felt like being in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Wait. I know I have a car, but do I actually have a car? And all this landscaped area looks like it’s from the 1950s and it’s never used. Seems like a staged set. People don’t walk on the grass. The trees are trimmed to have abnormal circular foliage. The buildings have no graffiti and are all the same maddening cream color. Do all of us who live here have the same name and wear the same clothes? And where is my bloody hell car? And did I park it, or did my other park it? Some alien entity who calls himself me …

We sublet a place from a woman we called the Buddhist B*tch. She, she declared, was an artist. She had a bunch of canvasses slathered with paint to prove it. Ok, maybe I should provide more detail. Let’s go for the DIY approach. Go to the hardware store and get some cans of paint, like white, red, brown, blue, yellow, green, purple, and get big brushes like the ones you use to paint a house. Now, take a canvas about four feet square. That’s it. Now mix up some red with the brown and purple and slather a big heart on the canvas. That’s right, a big heart. Cover nearly all the space and just leave a little space on the borders. Now dip brush in yellow and green and splatter it on top. Done. Occupation—check. Now get a bunch of pictures of you standing with monks in robes and press your palms together with elbows out parallel and fingers towards the firmament and put a sublime smile of smug enlightenment on your face. Transcendent piety—check. Voila! Buddhist! Artist! B*tch!

She had a rent controlled unit intended to limit financial pressure on those in need. She turned this bit of charitable policy into a tidy profit making enterprise. Her gig was subletting her rented rent-controlled unit for months on end while living rent free with a family member and stocking away thousands in cash. A clever hedge with strong margins. The problem was the place was full of mold of which she performed a cursory cleaning right before a new two-legged ATM sublet her digs. Another part of the problem, the most inexcusable, was that the pious saintly selfless soul played dumb and denied it. Press those palms together now! Mold? What’s that? What have you done? Never saw mold before. I think you guys brought that mold with you. 

In any case, our little peanut was coughing and coughing and coughing. She would stand there in her crib, hands on the rail, looking up at me, tears running down her little cheeks, crying and crying and coughing and coughing saying, “No thank you! No thank you!” She didn’t quite know what it meant but it was one of the few things she knew how to say at that time. We thought she had pneumonia and took her to the doctor who prescribed amoxicillin. Well BB had some kind of conflict with family (probably tired of her mooching Buddhist ass) and was giving us the boot, months before the agreed upon departure date. We had to scramble. We were both working. What were we to do? Well, of course that was not BB’s problem. Funny coincidence though, one of those ugly “paintings” was worth, with a substantial discount extended, she affirmed,  $2000, exactly the amount of our security deposit. We, she suggested, could just walk off with that sublime iteration of creativity nirvana and leave her with our cash. No. We did not think so, but thank you for that generous offer oh Saintly Selfless Nonmaterialistic One.

We managed to legitimately rent another unit (for less than the amount charged by BB) and immediately, when we moved in to the new spot, brighter, no mold or bad karma, the peanut was all smiles and prancing about in her blue onesie with the zip up and the little snap under the chin happy as pie. No coughing. Teletubbies were big then. She loved that damned show. We had no furniture but had a little TV and a beanbag chair on the floor in a corner with her books and stuffies. She used to march around shuttling her forearms doing the Teletubby walk. Loved that. 

So, I would get in that car. Ok. I can’t say it. All right. Here goes. It was always loaded with wood, building materials, wire, tar paper, bags of concrete, all that was necessary for whatever was the projet du jour. Ok, let’s just get it out there. The car only had one seat, the driver’s seat, because someone (won’t mention who) had removed all the other seats so he could fit in all the building materials. Oh praise be to you wherever you mightst now be oh Mighty Tercel. So there in the dark and cold in the am, I would start the car—and that crazy car always started and when I turned on the radio, at that time, it was always that Cold Play song that goes, “And it was all yellow …” It was so God damned morose and I’d be sucking it up, singing along. I think the worst part of any project, especially in those days, was starting. I arrive and everything is empty, cold and hopeless. I feel the cold damp. I see the trench I am digging for the bathroom drain lines but I also see the layers and layers and layers of all the other projects I have to complete in the next six months to make the place livable before our money runs out.

I remember one day I had to pop over to the local hardware store rather than do the half hour drive to the Home Bleepo to get something quick, a drill bit or a saw blade. I just recall driving down the street past the cafes and restaurants and it was as if I were floating past a Broadway set with all these little tables on the sidewalks and mini dogs dressed in mini dog clothes and arch hip types in black and gray and black and gray and black and gray keen on their laptops other more colorful types quaffing wine or clustered at tables with cups off coffee, throwing back their heads with great guffaws.  My funky self in the habitual work getup covered with stains of paint, dried silicone, sheet rock mud, remnants of expanding foam, torch burns, rips, solder burns and flux … was just floating by, mouth open, kinda dumbfounded, like some sort of troglodyte who had crawled up from the earth. What the f*ck was this?

The point is, at that time, with two jobs, full time day and part time nights and working like a maniac every spare moment I had to get that shell of a house move-in ready, I was always hearing that these were the best years of my life. That was the buzz. These are the best years of your life. Outside of the joy brought by my kid and my wife, I didn’t quite get it. I was just working my ass off.

In reality though, what makes it the best, I guess, in retrospect, is the energy and the vision, the relative absence of heath fears, the habitual eating and drinking whatever I wanted, working from dawn to midnight nonstop for an entire week during vacation with alacrity and focus, living with a feeling of promise. So, I realize now that was it. I guess, younger people, though hard to grasp when you are busting your ass, it is true.

One thing. Oh thirty and forty and fifty somethings, you must never raise your eyes to some glorious imagined horizon. You must never be deceived by snowy haired couples riding bikes in neat Sears and Roebuck attire, smiling with white teeth. Believe me. They are all on some kind of pills. They live in terror. Some or several parts of them barely work anymore and if they are lucky, the teeth were installed, with stabbing cost, through multiple sessions of needles and drilling, socket wrenches and head clouts, screwing of nuts and bolts into bone; the process makes Laurence Olivier’s work in Marathon Man seem like playground shenanigans—you don’t want to know about it. In fact don’t think of it. Ever. Yes. Make a plan, but live now. But again, there’s the rub. Some are loaded. Praise be. That’s wonderful for them. For the vast majority though, they are locked into the economic system. They can’t just drop everything and say screw this I’m out. They have to power on or make a sustainable plan. It has its frustration, but escape plans can be systematically laid while the best years of life must be lived and lived through.

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.

Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad …

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We set sail from Ensenada to Asunción, a three-day cruise and our longest to date. Chef T made a delicious array of waist-busting carbs for the passage: saucepan cookies, banana bread, spaghetti bolognese, and fresh baguettes. Hoping at some point we’ll be slim again, ‘cuz we’re definitely currently on the fat track. 

No wifi or cell signal, so no feeding my obsession with New York Times Spelling Bee (serious, followed by, Wordle, Connections, and Strands. Not gonna lie, I go through a wee bit o’ withdrawal when I can’t get my games on …) Instead, alternating between Jo Nesbo (with his gratuitously complicated and macabre plots, The Leopard is par for the course), the ever-bizarre and thought-provoking Haruki Murakami (this time short stories, Men without Women), and a dash of Wordbubbles. It’s both disconcerting and liberating and to be forced out of connection when you’re in the middle of the ocean.

We were pumped that we avoided a nasty storm at the outset. The sea was glassy, the horizon stunning, skies clear, stars bountiful and bright. A day in and we finally turned the motor off. Immediate zen. We tried the Monitor windvane for the first time, too (an autopilot that uses wind vs. power). Averaging six knots, all three sails out, two reefs in the main … oh yeah, baby. 

Of course when everything’s going perfectly, the pendulum is bound to swing … and swing it did. Mightily. Unbeknownst to us, we were experiencing both the literal and proverbial calm before the storm. Whereas day 1 was heaven, day 2 was pure hell: nausea-inducing waves for a straight 24 hours. Went to bed feeling sick and woke up sick (just one slice of banana bread all day, so unsatisfying dry heaves on both occasions. TMI I know, but UGH). We finally broke outta that sh*t middle of day 3, The sun came out and the waves mellowed like they hadn’t just traumatized us. Regardless, we were thankful. Chef T whipped up some tasty pork fried rice and all was right again with the world. 

Arrived in Asunción and anchored without further incident. We ended up staying a week there. It was too windy to venture out sooner, and since we were still PTSD’d out after leg two of our previous passage, we didn’t want a preventable repeater. It meant that we couldn’t easily go to shore either, though, so we were landblocked most of the time. T went out with a local guy, Larry, one day to get more fuel, and pleasantly surprised me with a delicious mesquite-grilled chicken on the way back. (The man knows the way to his woman’s heart is through el pollo.) A couple days later the weather was relatively calm and we ventured into town to see what was what. Not a lot, honestly, but the people were super nice. We stocked up on our increasingly beloved Topo Chico mineral water, limes, relatively good looking meat, and some ginormous chicken drumsticks. I don’t know what they’re feeding their chickens in Asunción, but i’m not mad at them. T baked them with some vegetable paella, and feast we did — heartily and thankfully. I also made some banging pesto pasta with shrimp (yes, i do lift the occasional culinary finger). 

We also made two unfortunate and simultaneous discoveries in Asunción: leaks in the poop tank and in the hot water heater. The poop sitch is manageable. We just have to pump the goods regularly, which is no problemo. We’d been advised to replace the aluminum tank with a plastic one, and unwisely ignored said advice. Alas. So now we’ll have to try to get one mailed to Mexico and hope it reaches us some time this century. The hot water heater, on the other hand, will be annoying for more than a minute. Cuz … like … dishes? showers?? I was lamenting about both to a sailor friend, who said she didn’t use hot water unless she’d been sailing and the engine heated it up. I asked, “So how do you shower and wash dishes?” Her reply: “We take a swim in the ocean and rinse off in the cockpit, and sometimes the hose even gets warm from the sun. And we wash our dishes with salt water and rinse with fresh.” I was shooketh. And immediately knew she was more hardcore than I’ll ever be. She didn’t agree with me, but I need me some hot water. Stat. Not to mention a fresh mani: My nails are tragic.

Blissful Baja via Scrumptious San Diego

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We sailed 14 hours from Avalon to San Diego, and another 12 from San Diego to Ensenada. Both trips were delightfully uneventful, although the stretch to Mexico was pretty rolly.

San Diego is the epitome of California living. The weather is perfect, the people friendly, the entertainment accessible, and we were able to handle our business efficiently. We were told that we needed to stop here for exit paperwork (turns out that wasn’t necessarily the case, but the marina insisted on it in case we had an existing and therefore dreaded TIP — temporary import permit — on our dinghy). We had originally planned to sail straight to Mexico, but made the San Diego stop per our Ensenada marina’s request/mandate. We know people who weren’t able to enter the country because of an uncanceled TIP, so we were OK with taking the precaution.

So Cal makes you realize just how small San Francisco is.. We rented a car since San Diego is huge, which turned out to be a great decision. We did all of our exit paperwork, saw Nosferatu on the big screen, soaked in the decadent marina hot tub, provisioned (including the fiercely addictive Trader Joe’s cheese puffs and cheese crunchies, along with the mandatory chicken I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find enough of in Mexico). I got a great mani/pedi and played some excellent pickleball at Waterfront Park, both a short distance from our marina. We finally got my critical puzzle deliveries (missed the drop off in Avalon), and put an exclamation point on our last day with a large order of Five Guys french fries (plus a double cheeseburger for T). Suffice it to say that our fitness journey is currently not a linear one.

We arrived in Mexico without incident and ultimately found our marina and slip. A little bit of confusion post docking when they hadn’t reserved us for 50-amp electrical, but we were exhausted and really didn’t; want to move. Luckily they finally let us borrow a 30-amp and all was well. We successfully handled all our business with the port captain the following day, and met up with Rodd and Shelly (S/V Tasi) for some fish (shark!) tacos and gab. T beat the pants off me at pool (it’s OK, he has to be able to win some game against me.

Got an excellent body scrub and 80-minute massage at the hotel spa. I usually request men since women tend to give wimpier massages, and when this tiny little Mexicana showed up my heart sank. But sistahood put a hurt-so-good deep tissue massage on me that left me muy, muy satisfied. Then my buzz was killed by the Texans losing to the cheater Chiefs in the playoffs. We hosted a sweet couple — Judy and Gene, who came to Ensenada four years ago and never left — for cocktails. One thing that’s great about living in a small space is how little time it takes to clean up before you’re expecting company. So even if I’m feeling like our place is not presentable for socializing, it doesn’t take long for it to be (excuse the obvious pun) shipshape.

Greece: A Retrospective

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We were in Greece in September and October. The best months to visit, we’ve discovered. Crowds (and beaches!) thinned, weather tamed, locals mellowed, I don’t miss the frying pan summers there.

We were both too lazy and busy to bother with writing. Will do better next year! In the meantime, here are the highlights:

Itinerary: Athens, Rhodes, Symi, Karpathos, Symi, Athens

  • Athens:  Admired the art of the Goulandris Foundation, walked in the park (hordes of turtles), checked out Kolonaki (the Pac Heights of Athens: very posy and Louis Vuittony). Saw an opera performance by the Greek National Opera at Stavros Niarchos Hall: Iphigenie en Aulide & Iphigenie en Tauride. Heads up: the crepes sold outside the venue are not to be missed.
  • Rhodes: Saw Count of Monte Cristo, went to the beach (our usual and also tried the free beach. As the comedienne Sommore says, “Free ain’t good”. She’s correct in this instance for sure.). Got my first haircut in Greece: I’d give it a B-/C+.
  • Symi: Did our usual lazing around, a ton of cooking, a day of scuba diving, a couple of dinner parties, the requisite puzzling, a lot of reading, marveling at the beauty of the harbor, and movie watching. My dear friend and first college roommate Kerry came and visited us for about a week, and we had a great time gabbing, going to the gym, watching scary movies, eating great food (prepared expertly by Chef T comme d’habitude), had an awesome last day at Toli beach where Kerry had a mini photo shoot
  • Karpathos: Virgin trip to this island. While initially aesthetically underwhelming, the food was some of the best, most reasonable and varied we’ve had in Greece. Tried zucchini flowers for the first time: delicious. Drove to Olympos, met a nice Dutch couple and had lunch together, bought some beautiful handwoven throws from a traditional Greek proprietor, We also experienced some crystal-clear water while diving on the island. Visited some incredible beaches (and one with an amazing equally incredible restaurant overlooking it. And of course the mandatory mani/pedi with a dose of post-service drama: T was supposed to pick me up but apparently deleted that mental memo, so i ultimately decided to walk back to our apartment (not a given, based on my questionable navigational skills), only to find the outside door locked. Luckily the manager was able to let me into the lobby, but then I couldn’t get into the room as T had the key, the door was locked from the inside, and no amount of knocking brought him to the door. After some mutual worry, panic, and hand wringing, said manager finally banged ferociously on the door and T woke up from his (clearly) deep slumber to let me in 🙄.