Espiritu Santu, Los Frailes and the approach to Cabo San Lucas

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Feliz Anos Nuevo!

We spent Christmas at anchor in La Paz, a town I haven't been to in over fifteen years, but I'd always had very fond memories of it. It was a sleepy little town of dirt roads, adobe homes and very chill people. It is now a well developed city with a broad boardwalk that lines the bay, hundreds of hotels, restaurants, bars, souvenir shops, ice cream parlors, and real estate agencies. But the laid back attitude is still there, and of all the cruising spots in Mexico it is definitely one of my favorites. The locals are very friendly, happy and relaxed. There is still a feeling of being in a small town. Naturally the sunsets were spectacular, but it has been very cold and windy, with Northerlies blowing down the Sea of Cortes and whitecaps inside the bay. Getting back and forth by dinghy has been a damp experience most days.

We've spent a few days in harbor, enjoying ourselves, resting, and making repairs to the boat. One of the most important ones has been to the hot water heater. One of the fittings started leaking a while back, so we disconnected it. That was somewhere in the Caribbean, I think, and it really wasn't an issue until we hit Mexico. Before then, if you wanted hot water, you just dove overboard. Since we crossed the Tehaunapecs, it has gotten progressively colder, and, not surprisingly, the crew has become somewhat more piquant. Somewhere around the Tropic of Cancer we realized that not having a water heater was going to become a real problem, i mean, we like each other and all, but after three or four days at sea without bathing, you just don't want to be downwind of anyone. So we raced around town looking for parts to get it working again. We've managed to cobble something together, enough that we can now avoid hypothermia and/or trench foot.

We've also been eating well. AnnMarie is aboard now, so the food has been fantastic. Plus she brought down a full duffel bag of food and treats from the states, including various cheeses and chocolates, so while our appetites are always sated, our waist lines are increasing at about the same rate as the universe. When I first met Ann, she had been working as a pastry chef for the Fog City Dinner, in San Francisco. We dated briefly and then she moved on to the boat and began cooking up mouth watering meals that lacked for nothing except caloric restraint. Each night I would come home to what any condemned man might demand on the night before a hanging, and quickly realized that if I kept eating such rich food, I'd probably end up dead as well.

Not wanting to offend her by asking her to stop doing what was clearly a great talent and what she so obviously loved, I foolishly concocted a goof ball story that there was a terrible propane leak and I needed to disconnect the stove, leaving her with only a microwave oven and a ten inch barbecue grill to work with. While that slowed her down some, she continued to make fabulous food and eventually (several years later!) I admitted that the stove was actually okay to use. I continued to gain weight but that is only because where good food is concerned I can resist anything but temptation. Since she has been aboard we've had nothing but delicious, fattening meals...unfortunately there seems to be a problem with the gas line where it attaches to the stove, so I've had to disconnect it. Oddly enough, we do have a microwave oven and a barbecue grill, so no worries, eh?

On Boxing Day we pulled anchor and set sail for Espiritu Santu, the large island just north of the hooked tip of La Paz. Of course, the batteries died just as we were getting ready to leave the fuel dock, so we ended up stranded there another night until we could get new ones. Fortunately there were two available, at an ungodly price, but there is definitely something wrong with the electrical system of this boat, and I've no doubt I'll be investing some serious effort into tracking down just what is causing the problem. For now, we throw money at the problem. Isn't sailing fun! Especially for AnnMarie, who has to work to keep me in the style to which I've become accustomed: a grungy, dirty, smelly boat repairman.

The winds had been fierce lately, with gale warnings most days. There was some talk of the harbor captain closing the port, preventing any boats from leaving, so we wanted to get outside the harbor just in case. We were eventually headed south, so while forty knots and fifteen foot seas may sound like a lot, in this boat and in that direction it was actually a walk in the park. The only problem was that we'd need to go a few miles up wind to get to the relatively well protected anchorages out at the island. The La Paz harbor entrance is actually quite long, with a very small entrance just at the southern end, and the channel is paralleled by a sand bar for most of it. While it looks tempting to just shoot across, doing so will leave you stuck in the sand until high tide. Not a good place to be when the winds pick up. We could see five foot high breakers crashing along it as we motored out.

The day before we left we heard one of the marinas hailing a boat coming in from the sea and trying to cut across the bar. It was deceptively calm then, high tide, and perhaps they thought they might find enough water to get across. It is a long way around to the channel entrance, and skipping over might seem like a lot easier solution, but it isn't. We heard "Vessel approaching La Paz harbor, you are heading towards shallow water, alter course or you will run aground" on channel 16, the VHF distress hailing frequency that all sailors should monitor when at sea. There was no response. The marina repeated its warning several more times, each time being more explicit about describing the boat, its position and what course to take, but they never acknowledged the call or altered course. A few minutes later the vessel came on over the radio "Ah, who ever that was warning us about the sand bar, thanks...but we're stuck. So, where is that damn channel anyway?" I just hope I'm never on the same freeway with that guy.

Once out of the harbor we put up the sails in about thirty knots and close hauled our way northwest for an hour or two. Triton seems to go to weather best in strong breezes, and she bounced along at eight knots in some of the finest sailing we've done on her yet, but we've had to dress warmly and even wear hats! Eventually we tacked back to the northeast and reached for the island. We arrived just in time for yet another glorious sunset, and dropped anchor in a small bay towards the eastern end of the island, tucked in behind two smaller islands called, one called "Cock Island", the other "Chicken Island", at least that's what Robinson claims their names are, but would you trust anything a man wearing that hat would say? We spent a couple of days there, but never felt totally protected from the wind. The strong north east blows would crest over the cliffs to our north and race down into the anchorage. We put down a second anchor, but even still, the wind was cold and there wasn't much to do.

We eventually moved further north, hoping to find a good anchorage near a well know sea lion roost. Robinson had hoped to do some snorkeling there, but the waves were too large to be safe, so we decided to head further north but were slammed by the gale force winds whipping down the bay. We bashed along but soon realized we had too much sail up. It was quite a struggle to get the jib back in under such strong conditions, and in the process Jessica banged her hand pretty badly against the winch. Just another reminder how quickly things can go from glorious to horrific when sailing. We decided to duck out of the wind and found shelter inside a small bight off Islas Partida, a smaller island just north of Espiritu Santu. We spent the night, and although the water was crystal clear, there wasn't much else we could do but enjoy the scenery. Baja is just beautiful. I'd always been impressed by the Mexicans love for their country, and having seen a significant part of its coastline, I understand why. The red and brown cliffs, bright blue waters and dark green cactus make a perfect pallet of colors. That night there was a blood red moon low in the sky just over Robinson's hatch. I tried to photograph it, but with the wind and waves bouncing us around, the boat never stopped rolling enough for me to take anything but a blurry shot. At least, I hope that was what happened.

We then headed south, down towards Cabo San Lucas, but stopped for a night at Los Frailes, a nice beach open to the ocean from the east and south, but protected from the northerly wind that had been pushing us along by a large cliff that extends eastwards off the beach for several hundred meters. There are a few homes, hotels and palapas along beach, and the sea is teeming with fish. We watched as manta rays jumped up several feet out of the water and splashed down again and again. Jessica sat on the deck with binoculars and watched the cute guys walk along the beach. The water was a bit warmer, so AnnMarie decided to do some spring cleaning and scrubbed the barnacles and algae that had accumulated during our stay in Puerto Vallarta. I took a great shot of her, but we modified the image a bit just in case she ever decides to run for senate. The original photo is better.

We left there the next morning and headed for Cabo San Lucas. We had hoped to be able to sail most of the way, but the wind and waves were very high, and dead on our stern, which made it very difficult to do so. We motored along, and I eventually let out a drogue. This is a small, cone shaped parachute that provides resistance against yawing side to side when a wave comes up from behind and tries to twist the stern around. We had used it once before, but this time I had rigged up a second line to it, supposedly to make it easier to retrieve. It ended up fouling around the main line and collapsing the chute, but it still provided just enough drag to make running with the waves comfortable. I definitely need to figure out a better solution for getting the drogue back on board. Any suggestions would be most welcome.

As we approached Cabo San Lucas AnnMarie caught a beautiful Dorado, and we had a delicious dinner that evening. AnnMarie also made a tub of ceviche, which was incredible. Robinson and I fought over the last portion of it, and at one point I thought it might come to bloodshed, since we were both armed with forks. Ultimately we each shoveled as much in our mouths as we could, pushing food off the others fork whenever possible. You think its dangerous to get between a bear and her cub? Try standing in between a hungry sailor and one of Amp's recipes and you'll learn the true meaning of danger.

We reached the harbor towards sunset, and went past Cabo's famous archway on our way into the very well protected marina. Later on we'll probably take the dinghy over and try some snorkeling, if the weather permits. For now, we are heading into civilization again, and will probably spend at least one night dockside. That means hot showers, restaurant food, bad tourist attractions and tacky Americana, but I could use the rest. It has been a long trip and I'm looking forward to getting home. We need only get through a few days in Cabo, reprovision, fix whatever is broken, and then we are headed up the hill for Ensenada, then sunny San Diego and ultimately San Francisco Bay! In the meantime, I wish everyone a happy new year and hope this next one will be even better.

Cheers for now!

Robb

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Cheesecake in Paradise.

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Dear Readers,

I'm sorry I haven't been writing as regularly as I should. It shouldn't be hard to do, but the day seems to get away from me and I find myself falling into bed each night exhausted, too tired to even think about writing much. Everything takes a thousand times more time and effort than you think it should. Just today Mota, Jeff & I were laughing about how little we get done, how we would have done seven things before breakfast back home, how doing something as simple as making breakfast here means first washing dishes; which means first figuring out the water levels; which means noticing the leak; which means pulling up the flooring and disconnecting the hot water heater; etc., etc., etc.

Any given action can result in hours of ancillary delays that involve dinghy repairs, plumbing or finding the short in some electronics. Everything just takes a long time to do, and nothing gets done well, fast or cheaply when you are out at sea.

There is so much I'd like to tell you about, but nothing has happened here, yet we experienced so much of nothing that it fills our day to the brim. It has been a wonderful and satisfying time here in San Blas islands. We weren't supposed to come here (remember we are on a delivery, not a cruise!) and didn't decide to detour back south until we realized that we were stuck in Colon (which is a pretty accurate description of the town, BTW) for another two weeks until our transit.



We decided that we might as well spend it navigating through palm strewn, white sand islands rather than sitting in a marina (paying hundreds of dollars a day) drinking too much and playing volley ball with ten year old girls. Or, alternatively, sitting at anchor in "The Flats" (the designated waiting area for canal transit) inhaling the trash dump's incinerator output. Go figure.

We arrived in the San Blas at dawn two days ago. We had passed over them on our way here from Aruba. The sail down was frustrating as we had little wind and what we did have was mostly on the nose. That first night out there was a beautiful sheet-lighting thunder storm over Panama's Eastern coast that entertained us as we motored along. Jeff & I played guitar and sang songs and watched the fireworks show.

It was a lovely night. Later on, Mota came on watch and he and I approached the islands as the sun rose, slowly inching our way into the anchorage, trying to figure out which piece of wash covered rock matched which green palm covered island in the pictures contained in the cruising guide.

Mota keeps marking up our charts, correcting all the places that don't show rockssticking out of the ground or dead trees pointing up out of the sand. We've decided that he was born six hundred years too late. Had be been alive back then he would have been called Motatoo, The Great Cartographer and/or Day Planner Mota the Undermedicated. Below is a picture of what we believe he would look like...


No doubt we'd all be living in the United States of Amotia, and that it would have names like Diet Coke Straights, Point Frapachino, Hippy Crack Island and Long Island would of course be called "Those Sexy Mutha' Fucken' Islands".

There are palm strewn islands with reefs everywhere and it is very easy to bump into things, which is bad (lets get this good/bad thing straight) so we go slow and don't let Mota near the throttles. We've dinghy'ed around a bit and aren't anxious to move the boat if we don't have to. Actually, it is mostly because that would mean going through the arduous process of pulling the anchor back on board, which involves standing on the fore deck while pressing the button for the electric motor. The thought of this much effort sends shivers through our souls. Anything could happen if we slide down this slippery slope. It is better that we stay put and sip our cool drinks while talking to other cruisers. The wise sailor doesn't take unnecessary chances.




We're staying in an area called "The Swimming Pool", so named for the color of the water and its 90 degree water temperatures, along side ten or so other cruisers. Our position is N09,35,38 W078,40,59 for those of you with the wherewithal to look it up. The bottom is mostly white sand, our CQR anchor caught on the first try and we've not budged since, although I think I should put more rode out and maybe a second anchor, as the winds have picked up a bit.




When we were at anchor in Colon, the weather was beautiful. Since we've arrived here there has been a low pressure trough moving through up north which has brought a week of rains and winds that spring up on us each morning at exactly 9:35AM, continually catching us unaware. We scurry about the boat closing hatches and hiding books and towels. Each time we act so surprised, it is amusing how we convince ourselves of the unexpectedness of it. You just can't believe it could rain in paradise, and always at exactly the same time.

As I write this the Mother of All Rain Squalls just arrived and is blowing rain sideways through the boat.We've locked everything down now and I sit warm and dry writing this email as Jeff and Mota are dancing about on the trampoline in the howling rain having the time of their lives screaming into the storm. It is hard to explain how such a simple thing like this could bring so much joy, but it is a delight just watching them.

Last night was "Pot Luck Monday". We all dingy'ed over to "BBQ Island", which is about one hundred yards around, made of white sand, palm trees and coral. It is just large enough for a small hut and one cotton hammock, which we first discovered the day before, it was inhabited by a tall, thin, tan and beautiful Brazilian woman with the kind of accent which allows her to say things like "I hop ju no mind, I sink da barka, how ju say? boata? by mistake". You would just smile and say its okay, you really didn't like the boat very much anyway, rather than see her frown. Now Jeff & Mota have been stellar crew doing yeoman like work the entire journey, but I thought they might mutiny when she said she wanted to go to Mexico and I explained we couldn't take her. It was a tense moment, but I've prohibited them from carrying any edged weapons in the presence of pretty women - a rule that has saved my life.

Life on board has definitely had its share of physical perils. It is surprising how safe we've made our normal lives, so much so there are no sharp corners or edges to trip over. Once we've removed ourselves to this rugged world our ability to navigate becomes severely compromised. No doubt we'll all adapt as time goes by, but in the meantime we trip, stumble and bump into everything. We've all banged, bruised or bashed ourselves in numerous places learning the unexpected curves and corners of this boat. Jen started photographing all our various cuts, scrapes and subdermal bleeding, to see who had the worst impacts, but MaryAnn was clearly the winner of that contest. She could walk past a greased wall and get black and blue.

For my part I've managed to tweak my back and am now doing a great imitation of early man learning to walk upright. Soon I'll move beyond grunts and clicks and start using tools and fire, which will be helpful because the pain killers are running out.

The local native tribe, The Kuna, have been by our boat several times already. They paddle up in dug out canoes and sell fish, fruit, vegetables, whatever they think the cruisers might need. They will beg for food, water, gas, money, anything they figure you'll part with, but aren't very aggressive about it. Sort of like a cross between a quick witted street vendor and a cagey homeless person in Berkeley.

The average male adult Kuna is about four foot high, has several teeth, sometimes as many as ten, with deeply tanned, leathery skin stretched over muscle and sinew with zero percent body fat. An old male Kuna (anyone over the age of about twenty five) can paddle a canoe twenty miles in a strong head wind without breaking a sweat. The woman wear very brightly colored clothes with elaborate, beautiful wrist and ankle wraps. Those Kuna I've met on the sea all seem to have problems with cataracts, most with clouded eyes, yet I'm yet to see anyone wear protective sunglasses. I'm not sure why this is such a hard concept for them, they've got the dirty T-shirt and Jim Beam baseball caps down no problem.

We've bought a few items from them and we barter on price, but I think we may be paying way too much anyway. We need to find out what the market prices are here, lest we get labeled the soft touch boat. We bought some fish and an octopus the other day. I tried to fillet the fish, only to realize after the fact that this wasn't a skill I'd practiced since I was ten, and the fish was such that leaving the skin on would have been the correct way to cook it. Instead we ended up with bits of flesh, no piece larger than a pack of matches. We decided to make ceviche, which turned out amazingly well. The octopus we cooked up with some rice and spices, which Jeff & I relished. Mota took a dim view of this food group and politely declined. I think he has been put off the whole food with tentacles thing ever since I first showed him a tin of what he calls "El Pulpo En Brown Crayon Sauso". There's no accounting for some people's taste.

We met several very beautiful woman on the island today. I realize now what a horrible public education system I suffered through in High School. Any school that does not adequately equip its students with the skills that are necessary in later life, is, in my humble opinion, a failure and should be burned to the ground - its teachers put in stocks and the principle tarred and feathered - but I'm not bitter. Among those skills I consider mandatory is the ability to converse in at least one other common language of the world - especially when one finds themselves on a beautiful beach inhabited by several stunningly pretty women from South America whose combined English vocabulary is under thirty words.

It was the job of my 10th grade Spanish teacher, Mr. Castennata, to prepare me for just such a occurrence, and he failed miserably. Perhaps this is because I was a lousy, inattentive, obnoxious student, but in large part I think it was because he was also my soccer coach and graded my class performance on how well I did on the playing field which, given the fact that I sucked as a soccer player, meant D- grades and left me resentful and unwilling to try to conjugate the verb "communicatir" - to chat without sounding like a complete idiot.

Years later, I stood on a beach, in paradise, surrounded by several Brazilian woman, completely unable to carry on even the most basic conversation, cursing Mr. Castennata and the New Jersey Board of Education. If it kills me I will learn how to mutter such complex Spanish phrases as "I'm sorry, please say that again but slower?" or "You know, even though I appear to be retarded, I'm sometimes quite witty when speaking English".

To make this all the more annoying, both Jeff and Mota appear able to converse with them, or at least act like they know what they are talking about. I remain the slow, retarded child in the back of the crowd. Our typical encounters with anyone not of English origins involves Jeff or Mota chattering away with them in Spanish while I stand back and try not to drool on myself.

Occasionally one or the other of them will turn back and quickly translate something about the fact that whomever they're talking to just described their recent Pulitzer Book award for upcoming new fiction in Portuguese, or their travels in Peru for National Geographic, or that they have just uncovered some as yet unexplored prehistoric cave in the Andes and are making detailed sketches of it.

I nod and try not to spit on myself when I say "Si, Mucho Gusto", which I believe means, "Yah that's great" but could also mean "Zippidedoda" or "I found a dollar once" for all the odd looks I get when I pronounce it. Whomever we are talking to invariably pause just long enough to glance at me and make that 'almost wince' people do when they are trying to decide if you are a danger to your self or others. I smile back and nod a lot, which only convinces them that they are probably better off backing away slowly while maintaining eye contact.

Never the less we continue to inflict ourselves on the population and are even now preparing to go snorkeling among the reefs. I wouldn't be surprised if we meet some talking fish and I'm left having to hear Jeff explain how the fish described the sunset in terms that brought tears to his eyes, and made poetry seem pointless, all of which, of course, would be in Spanish. I'm bringing a spear gun just in case. Smart fish probably still tastes good with garlic.



Cheers for now.

Robb


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