Adventures in La Paz Part II: The Path to the Yard

Back in what seems like ancient history, when we were coming down the Pacific side of the Baja Peninsula, we decided to check out a place called Bahia Magdalena. After leaving Bahia Tortugas, we wondered why we were skipping the rest of the western coast of Baja. We looked at the charts and saw this great bay and estuary. Our guides told of good fishing and that this bay was a calving grounds for whales this time of year. There was a chance for fuel and immigration at San Carlos, deep in the bay, so we decided to check it out- having generally let go of anything resembling haste.

Approaching Bahia Magdalena.

We accidentally approached at night, as had been typical of the trip at the time. There was no moon, but the bioluminescence in the water were spectacular- the best we have seen- and lit up our path astern. The stars were likewise glorious. The bay is formed by Isla Magdalena, which, several miles long, constitutes the westernmost perimeter. At the southern end of the island there is a break about as wide as that spanned by the Golden Gate Bridge. The channel therein was well lit entering the massive, well-protected bay. All was well as we coasted in planning to stop at a small anchorage nearby to rest until the next day. Then, in the dark night, we heard a thump. We looked around but saw nothing, and assumed it must have been something shifting in the cabin. A few minutes later, I looked astern at a biological light show that had changed a bit from earlier.

“What are we dragging?”

We gathered at the transom. I put the engine in neutral and got a more powerful flashlight. It was a crab pot. It dragged under the boat miraculously without getting snagged in the prop. However, one of the small floats that extends from the main float to provide a retrieval rope pulled through the small gap just in front of the rudder that accommodates the engine prop. I shut off the engine and after a few minutes grappling with a boat hook, we unfouled her. About twenty yards down the long line to the trap was a big snag of coiled rope; my guess is that the snag kept the trap off the bottom and allowed the whole thing to drift into the channel, but it's probably not unlikely that it was just put in the channel because that's where the crabs are. Anyway, problem solved, we motored in to anchor.

Anchored just off the fishing village of Puerto Magdalena.

The rest of our stay in Bahia Magdalena was great. There are amazing mountain landscapes, beautiful deserts and plenty of whales. We failed to find anchorage at San Carlos, so didn't get fuel or immigration papers, but we spent some time at Puerto Magdalena, a little fishing outpost, which was a very quiet, pleasant place. From there, we went for a hike through the desert, past a marsh and on to the Ocean side of northern Isla Magdelana. I excitedly jumped about tide-pools, overturning rocks and taking photos.


 I came across one particular crab who was strangely comfortable with my presence. After taking several photos, getting closer and closer, my suspicion was peaked. I thought he must be dead but, it turns out, he was molting. Crabs, along with other crustaceans, insects, and several other taxonomical groups with some form of exoskeleton, undergo ecydisis, or molting, whereby they shed their exoskeleton and a new slightly larger one forms so that their body can grow. They are soft and vulnerable throughout the process, so they typically find a good hiding place and it's a rare sight to see (it's common to find the evidence, though, in the form of intact old molts of crabs, insects, etc.). Anyway, I got excited and took lots of pictures of the fellow.

A molting crab- the stubs are new legs- he must have lost a couple since
his last molt.

A nudibranch found in the tide pools.

Ok, yes, I moved some things around to set this one up.

The desert-beach interface in Baja is magnificent.

Like this story, our minds digressed from the old crab pot for some time. It wasn't until I was diving the boat a few weeks later in Los Cabos to clean the waterline and check the prop-shaft zinc that the crab pot came up again as a likely culprit. On examining the shaft zinc, I noticed two large vertical cracks in the leading edge of the rudder. They were on either side of the rudder shaft and clearly penetrated through to the wood of the rudder. I then rose to the surface and was seized by the now very short moment of panic that most boat-owners have experienced. A new problem. And below the waterline? I told the crew and we took some photos. There wasn't much to talk about though. It was highly evident we would have to haul the boat out to repair the rudder. We mused it would take a minimum of three days: one to dry out, one to lay epoxy, one to sand and paint. That was best case scenario, and we by now know how frequently best case scenario comes to be in the world of sailboats.

The underwater view of the rudder damage on starboard.

The underwater view of the rudder damage on port.

We didn't let it bum us out much, since it was merely a fact and nothing more. The good news was, the wood was not rotten yet, which bought us time. We could wait until La Paz to haul the boat, where we would have more boating infrastructure and where we were itching to spend some time anyway.

So, after we lazily made our way round into the Sea of Cortez, having left the rudder damage in the back of our minds so as to enjoy fully our beautiful surroundings, there we were in La Paz. In the days prior we had made a list of side-projects to be completed while we were out of the water. We figured we could get done much of the tasks that precluded our crossing to the Marquesas. Our main goals, aside from the rudder, were to re-bed most of the stanchions, which hold the stainless steel lifelines around the perimeter of the boat, and to varnish the toe-rail, which is much more easily accomplished on the hard than in the water and was badly needed. Since much of the rudder repair would be spent in waiting for the wood to dry and for fiberglass to kick, we would be able to stay busy in the mean time.

On our second day in La Paz, I walked barefoot, having forgot my shoes at the boat, to three boatyards in town to determine prices and availability. I also had to negotiate so that we could perform our own repairs. A typical price was about fourteen dollars per foot for round-trip crane fees and fifty dollars per day in the yard to perform your own work. It was a bit painful to think about, but do-able. After completing this journey, I rejoined Taylor and Dana and we decided that we would go to the cheapest yard the next day and schedule for the following day.

Later, though, we ran into our friend Shane, a long-haired dude with tattoos all about his arms and back who I never once saw with a shirt or shoes. Shane is from Santa Cruz, CA, but had been around La Paz for a while. He bought his yellow 30-or-so-foot sloop a year ago for a dollar back home; it was barely floating, but he fixed it up, taught himself to sail and made it to La Paz. He had been there for months preparing his vessel for a crossing to the Marquesas with his little black cat. Shane is making do on the super cheap, at one point joking that he didn't know whether to buy windvane steering or groceries for his crossing. He, like so many of the cruisers in La Paz, was endlessly helpful. We hope to catch up with him in French Polynesia. Before he took off across the big moat, he mentioned one boatyard I hadn't visited. It was way out near the entrance to the channel away from town.

“It's called Berkovich. Talk to a guy named Abel. He's in charge. He's a good guy- laid back with a kind of strange sense of humor but he's fair and whatever deal he makes with you is gold. You won't find a better price.”

Trusting this, I set out on foot to find out the prices down the road. It ended up being a very long walk, and eventually I hiked up over some talus to the road and picked up a ride from some young Mexicanos in a pick-up truck. As I hopped into the truck bed, the guy in the back slid open the rear-facing window and greeted me in Spanish. I told them where I needed to go, which by then wasn't very far, and we were soon out front.

The Berkovich boatyard occupies a long stretch of waterfront but is relatively narrow due to the presence of the road on which I arrived. Nevertheless it is large and packed with boats. When I arrived, it seemed deserted. It was just after noon and, not seeing anyone around, I let myself in the gate and began to wander quietly among the myriad vessels in every imaginable state of growth or decay. There were some beauties and a great deal of potential in others, but the sadness of those neglected boats in various states of disrepair lingered. Combined with the heat of the surrounding Baja landscape and the quiet in the yard, it had a sort of eery feeling when I first wondered in solitude through Abel's yard.

Presently I came upon the office, which was temporarily closed. A man was listening to the radio in the driver's seat of a parked truck with the window down. He wore a gray short-sleeved shirt, large, dark sunglasses and a white cowboy hat that contrasted heavily with his dark skin. He was quintessential Baja. As I approached the truck, he turned the radio down and I soon learned that Abel wasn't around but would return in about an hour. I told the man in the truck, Abel's brother, that I would wait and proceeded to take another lap around the yard to admire boats.

I was staring jealously at a 52 foot catamaran that sat on a track lift recently hauled when the owners wandered up. We began to chat and it turned out the couple were finishing five years of cruising and selling their boat so that they could go spoil the grandkids in Berkeley, of all places. We talked for a while and they invited me on their fantastic, huge vessel for some lunch, which would turn out to be incredibly lucky, since I hadn't eaten and wasn't going to have the opportunity for some time.

Eventually, about two hours after I'd first arrived at the yard, Abel returned. Even more so than with his brother, it was immediately clear that this man had character. He had the full getup: leather pull-on boots, blue jeans, tucked in collared shirt-perfectly white, a prominent mustache. He had an authoritative air at first, which I would find to seem at constant odds with his also easy-going persona.

We walked into Abel's office and I told him about the boat and the services we needed. After some discussion, we agreed to a rate of 600 USD for hauling the boat out and splashing her back in along with 3 days in the yard with the ability to do our own work. While we negotiated the price, he assured me:

“Look, wit me, they not gonna be any surprises. And, maybe you take an extra day, I not gonna worry about it- I not gonna charge you. You need a little help, you need tools, we help you. You have your own tools?”

“Yes.”

“What about fiberglass? You got your own fiberglass?”

“Yeah, we've got fiberglass and epoxy.”

“Ok, well, look, everybody come here leaves happy. They not gonna be any surprises.”

For those who haven't had to go through the process of putting a boat on the hard, it can be difficult to comprehend the complications and considerations involved. It's also wildly more expensive than most land-lubbers would guess. This was certainly the best price I had been quoted in La Paz, and the same job back home would be difficult to accomplish for less than a grand. What I found surprising was the resistance to people working on their own boats while they're hauled. Abel was the easiest to convince, but every yard I visited was displeased and added to the daily cost for my wanting to do my own work. That may be common in the States, too, but I am only familiar with good ole' Berkeley Marine Center, where it was never a problem.

Anyway, the conversation came around to scheduling and I was hoping to have Ardea pulled the next day. Abel glanced over at his pin-up calender with tides lines drawn across the days. The next day he already had a boat scheduled (i.e., written in tiny lettering above that day on the pin-up calender) and the tide wasn't favorable for getting two boats out. He suggested that, instead, we do it immediately. I really did not want to deal with it today- it was nearly 1500 hours already, this was beginning to be a long day and I greatly preferred to go back to town to eat tacos and drink beer. I tried to use the excuse that I had to walk back to town, which would take at least an hour, even though I was pretty certain I could hitch-hike in no time. No luck. Abel arranged to have his brother, who hadn't left the seat of that truck this entire time, drive me to town. I reluctantly agreed, assuming it best to take what I could get in regard to scheduling. I got the handheld vhf out and called the crew back at the boat to inform them that I would return shortly and we would pull the hook and bring her to the yard right away.

It took us about an hour to get Ardea underway and out to the mouth of the long channel to La Paz. When we got there, I saw through the binoculars that the huge hydraulic trailer that was to pull us out was not yet in the water. We waited a couple hundred yards from the boat ramp where the trailer was stationed, attached to a very old big-rig truck. A wind had picked up and was blowing about 8 knots at an angle to the boatramp; this was a rare instance in which a wind increase was met with scorn on Ardea. Soon, we called Berkovich on the vhf and were handed off to Mark, a gringo that works at the yard who I had met briefly earlier.

“You guys just want to let us know when to start the approach?”

“Yeah, Abel is changing. When you see him come out looking like frogman, you'll know we're ready to go. Just hang tight.”

We were getting blown toward the jetty, so I had to decided whether to try to keep Ardea in one spot, or circle back to the channel and start over entirely.

“How long's it gonna be?”

“A Mexican minute.”

I swung the wheel and circled back to the channel. Ten minutes or so later, the trailer was going in the water and we could see Mark standing on it, waving us in. I kept the bow pointed into the breeze, about 45 degrees off from the trailer, as long as I could on the approach. When we were close, I swung the wheel, lined it up as best as I could and slid in a bit too quickly. The result was a ding in the gelcoat on the bow, but I had needed the speed to maintain steerage- a rock jetty was only about four feet downwind of the trailer, so it was sort of a one-shot deal.

On the trailer.

During this process, people began to come out of the woodwork all over the boatyard. The couple from the catamaran stood watching from near their boat. A few scruffy old gringos stood along the jetty next to the trailer watching, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Several Mexicans that worked at the yard were standing around the trailer and truck watching the action. Earlier in the day I had seen hardly anyone around, but now their were a dozen or more folks who had emerged one by one and chatted amongst themselves as they watched Ardea come out.

Getting the trailer adjusted. Mark and Taylor standing on shore.

 Once on the trailer, Abel set about with full wetsuit and a mask diving around the boat to set the stands properly. Then, using a remote control, he lifted the boat up with the hydraulic arms at which point Mark put the truck in gear and started toward the gate. Soon they had us backed in and settled, still on the trailer, in the middle of the far North end of the yard, where I hadn't wandered earlier. After Mark brought us a ladder, we spent some time with the hose giving Ardea a good freshwater bath before she needed to dry out. Some folks said hello as they walked past, but for the most part, everyone seemed to sort of disappear again while we cleaned.

On the hard.

By the time we finished it was nearly dark. We had planned our course of action for the following day, which was important since several steps must occur with adequate time in between during fiberglass repairs and we had to keep our stay to a minimum. Finally, after what seemed an excruciatingly long day, we were ready to find food and beer. Awkwardly, and with noted distaste, we clambered down the ladder to the sandy floor of the yard. As we approached the ramp where Ardea was recently pulled, we saw a group of people under a flimsy white canopy sitting around a table, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. One of them saw us approaching and exclaimed amid the laughter and loud conversation at the table:

"Hey, it's the new guys."

Another turned and looked at us.

"Welcome to the Yacht Club."

Adventures in La Paz Part I: How long were YOU planning to stay in La Paz?

As day broke after another moonlit motor, we passed Isla Cerralvo and Isla Ballena, two beautiful islands lying northeast of Bahia de La Paz. Through the binoculars, we could pick out numerous idyllic anchorages on these islands and on the eastern edge of the bay, which was similarly lined with an incredibly variety of rock formations divided by small, white-sand beaches; cliffs of various pitch, colored with the browns, reds and yellows of the desert, but also occasionally with green, formed little peninsulas, several of which hosted enormous, bulbous, rocks at the end. Patches of mangroves, where there are said to be heron rookeries, dotted the water's edge at many of these bays. We made plans to visit once we took care of business in town. Thus we passed through the long channel that leads to a massive estuarine harbor; we set the anchor among dozens of other boats about 60 yards from the beach at the city of La Paz. We would soon meet people who ventured to La Paz for a few days and ended up staying for a few years, and we would soon understand why.

La Paz is the capital of Baja California Sur. It is a small, charming city. The waterfront is lined with beaches for much of its length. A wide brick path runs parallel and is bustling with whole families on walks, couples strolling, and children tearing about in play, especially on weekend evenings. This boardwalk of sorts, Malecón in Spanish, runs parallel to the water and roads branch off from it in directions resembling South. This was the view from our anchorage, near the West end of the Malecón. Ardea lay among many other boats in every imaginable state, from bristol to disrepair, just south of the channel. To the West lay Marina de La Paz, beyond which was another stretch of shallows where more boats were anchored. On the North side of the channel, many more boats were anchored behind the long peninsula of sand dunes that creates the harbor. We knew that we were in a veritable mecca for cruisers, but the scene was no less exciting.

Unfortunately, the first thing we had to do after anchoring was wait. We could practically smell the tacos, and strongly considered swimming to shore, but we needed to see about borrowing our friend's second dinghy. Our poor old unnamed dinghy struck off on her own a couple days before at Bahia de Los Muertos. You could blame margaritas or you could blame lousy knots or you could blame the fresh northerly that washed her to sea as we slumbered, but I prefer to think that the old dink was just fulfilling her dream of traveling to South America. Anyway, we had met Rob, singlehander of the Islander 44, Raka, a few days prior. He too was bound for La Paz and was planning a night passage to avoid the headwind and waves coming round the cape. We planned to leave the same night and found that Rob was a bit worried about his supply of diesel. So, on the way out, just after moonrise, we brought Ardea alongside Raka and passed him one of our jerry cans. He paid us for the fuel and offered to lend us one of his dinghies in La Paz until we could find a new one.

Rob got in a few hours after us and, after we coordinated on the radio, he anchored nearby. Only later did we learn that he had to hand-steer the whole way; like us, he relies on an electric autopilot when under power, but his is broken (well, nothing is ever really broken when you're cruising, it's either on the fritz, needs some work, or shat the bed). As such, he arrived exhausted and we regretted not giving him one of Ardea's crew to ease the burden. Nevertheless, he offered to lend us his rowing dinghy so that we could have freedom. I jumped in the water with a surfboard and paddled over to pick it up.

The small fiberglass rowing dink was a battered old bird, but tough. With all three of us in it plus two bags of garbage, we had about an inch of freeboard left. No room for sudden movements. Once ashore, we began the process that so many sailors have experienced in this place. We wandered the streets on foot and felt we were in a Mexican town for the first time since the tiny fishing village of Puerto Magdalena, nearly a month past. La Paz was no doubt the largest urban area we had been to and, after Los Cabos, we were relieved by a sense of authenticity. It had been a couple years since I was in a city whose sidewalks changed elevation so frequently or would suddenly fragment and disappear. After my first skidding stop at the chasm's edge, I felt a nostalgic joy and began to enjoy the city at once.

In those first evening hours, wandering the streets in search of nothing in particular (except, obviously, tacos), we were all overjoyed at the place. It had history and character and people. We gladly explored and, when time came to find some dinner, we followed our ears and noses to a little restaurant on the West side of town, about a dozen blocks from el centro. There were maybe twenty tables, all on well-packed sand underneath a large rectangular tent. A live band consisting of guitar, bass and accordion were playing Mexican folks songs to a packed house. It was mostly families, everyone from infants to grandparents were presently listening to blaring music in the space of half a basketball court; save for the infants, many were singing along.

Luckily there was a bar with three seats open; it was in the back near the entrance and was simply a tall metal table about five feet long and two feet wide with metal bar stools. It was our ideal situation; if a place is packed and has music and we're the only white people there, we've found we can generally expect a good dining experience. The guy running the restaurant was incredibly friendly and made for a hilarious time. The music was pretty grand too. At one point, a woman requested a song and, after a little chiding, got up and sang beautifully herself while the band played. We couldn't believe what a genuine community we'd stumbled upon. It was a fitting introduction to La Paz.

On our second day, we tuned in to the local vhf radio net on channel 22. At 0800, the net begins and, over about half an hour, covers everything from weather to arrivals and departures, mail delivery and equipment barter. I was pretty excited to see how active and amiable the large cruising community was in La Paz. By 0830, without leaving the cabin, we had found out that there was daily coffee and cookies in the morning at Club Cruceros, near Marina de La Paz and only a short walk from our anchorage. We also got a lead on a new dinghy. What a place.

Club Cruceros has a small space near Marina de La Paz. It is a primarily gringo group of small-boat cruisers that are passing through or have stopped to stay a while. There are people who are only around for a few days and people who haven't left for ten years. We got a chance to meet a couple groups of younger cruisers and began to understand the degree to which the viejo cruisers remain young at heart, a lesson which would come to be demonstrated often. At our first coffee, we met new people and immediately began to benefit from the mutual support given by our fellow mariners. The people there have such a range of experience in boating and ample local knowledge that they provide a very valuable resource to new arrivals. They certainly saved us a ton of time.

Over the next two days we took care of a great deal. We bought a dinghy that is sufficient but needs a little attention, got our laundry done for the first time in over a month and showered for the first time in... we don't actually know. We played volleyball with some Club Cruceros folks and drank beers with Rob from Raka and some of the new folks we'd met at CC. In a very short time, we were regularly running into people we knew. It was surreal how quickly the place became very comfortable. I suppose it makes sense though- there are a lot of gringos around whose main activities include exploring the town and working on boats and you start recognizing faces fast. The process is underscored by the openness and generosity of the people, both cruisers and locals. It's fantastic how gregarious everyone is, and it all seems to operate in a mutually beneficial manner.

The place made an impact on all of us straight away and we were easily attracted to its charms, but we came with a hefty to-do list and we were going to have to take a break from the tranquilo culture and get to work for a few days. On Monday, our second day in town, I wandered down the Malecón getting quotes from each boatyard. The thought of withdrawing from the ever-joyful cruising culture we had just found was difficult, but the fact remained: Ardea had to be hauled out before we could leave La Paz.

Bahia Frailes: Our first jaunt in the Sea of Cortez

“Can I sneak past you?”

“Climbing over you...”

“Can I get by?”

“You goin' up?”

“You comin' down?”

“Lemme squeeze past...”

Un amigo de Bahia San Jose del Cabo.

We've just about exhausted the various methods for announcing that our path in and around the boat is obstructed. Most people that have become familiar with Ardea see fit to wonder aloud how on Earth we three manage in such close quarters. Add a headwind and a four foot chop on the nose like we had in the short passage from Bahia San Jose del Cabo to Bahia Frailes and sometimes we wonder ourselves. Tempers do flare from time to time and the banter never ends. But for the most part, we make do alright. No doubt we've come to appreciate time ashore and our inland excursions have necessarily become more substantial.

Sunset as we approach Bahia Frailes.

Fish tacos with fresh sierra.

We arrived in Bahia Frailes on Sunday evening after a full day of wind-less motoring in the hot sun. It wasn't until the last 10 nm or so when a 15 knot wind and associated swell coming around the southeastern edge of the Baja Penninsula hit us head-on. By then we couldn't afford the time to sail close-hauled; we would have ended up after several long tacks coming in at night and we were wary of rocks at this small anchorage. So we fought through it and found this place quite protected. Our main motivation for the stop was the presence of Cabo Pulmo just around the corner. There lies the (allegedly) only living coral reef in the Sea of Cortez. On Monday morning we set out on foot with a backpack full of snacks and snorkels to check it out.

We knew the southern end of the beach in Cabo Pulmo was only a couple miles away, so we decided to head into the bush to see if we could hoof it. We climbed a tall sand dune at the end of the beach next to the large and steep hill of granite, which was providing a nice lee shelter for Ardea. From there we gazed at the vast, gorgeous desert speckled with fool's gold and chunks of the same granite. I in my flip-flops, Chittick with free-dive fins in hand, Dana in shorts and a t-shirt with his backwards Hawaiian-print hat, we set off following narrow animal paths surrounded by thorny desert shrubs and cacti of many sorts. Despite its incessant scratching of our arms and the occasional dagger-through-the-shoe, the flora was incredibly enjoyable. It was also surprisingly and increasingly thick.

After ducking and dodging a meandering path through the flatlands for a while, we caught site of a fairly large basin with a dry drainage leading the way we needed to go. This must carry a fair amount of seasonal water from the surrounding hills for it was a good deal less vegetated, though happy green shrubs crowded the edges of the drainage and yellow-green forbs dotted the basin, the soil of which was a bit darker than the surrounding. We figured we could try to work our way down there or head up the hill where we would have to hop from rock to rock but where the plants weren't so thick either. After forty five minutes or so, our goal had become to work our way to the road in the distance as opposed to trying for a direct route to Pulmo.

More due to convenience than anything, we ended up on the hill-side, which provided amazing views. After billy-goating along for a while, we gathered on a big rock overlooking it all, now quite sweaty from the trek, and took it in. From there it was only a few hundred yards to the road.

On the way down the hill, dipping under thorny branches and tip-toeing among small barrel cacti, we ran into a large pile of bones, some with small bits of dried flesh and hide still attached, but mostly dry and bare. Surrounded by cacti, chunks of rock and red dirt, it was a quintessential desert scene. The desert is quite the poet. We sprung from this, though, as we suddenly heard a noisy vehicle rambling down the road and we hoped to hitch a ride the rest of the way.

On the road.

We made it to the road in plenty of time. We could see then that it was a truck, which was exciting because we felt more likely to get picked up by a truck. As it got closer, we realized that it was actually a cement truck, but sure enough he stopped up. We asked if he could give us a ride to the town at Pulmo and, though he had no passenger seat, he happily agreed. Dana and Taylor clambered into the cab and I stood on the step-rail, hanging onto the handle next to the door and the sturdy posts of the rear-view mirror.

Bahia Pulmo.

Our new friend proceeded to book it down the road of loose dirt, over dunes and into troughs like so many ocean rollers. He may as well have been an aspiring rally car driver. Occasionally, he would look over and say something to Dana, who was the only one that could hear him over the roaring engine. At one point, after double-clutching on his eight speed monster, he affectionately patted the dashboard and exclaimed, “El Patron”. Admittedly, it handled the go-kart treatment pretty well- I certainly hadn't much trouble hanging on. I looked back and watched the cement tumbler in the rear. It was spinning slowly as we charged along and I thought how the cement probably benefited as much from our speed on the undulating road as from the mechanical rotation. We three passengers looked at each other, smiled and shrugged.

It wasn't long before we arrived at the tiny town at Cabo Pulmo. A couple gringos passing in a small truck laughed as the three of us jumped down from the cement truck before it tore off down the road again. We headed out to the beach where there were a number of small umbrella-like structures about four feet high and made of grass. We gladly accepted the shade and chowed on some tinned sardines and saltines. Then Chittick and Dana headed for a snorkel while I perused about town (my fins are out of commission so I opted to wait to borrow some). I made a long loop, passed a few of the small fishing boats that are very typical of Baja, watched a few older white couples saunter along the road and continued to breathe in the desert.

On the way back I distracted myself for some time trying to capture the most angelic sound of waves washing over a beach strewn with small rocks. The joy wasn't so much in the crashing waves, except inasmuch as that sound is always appealing, but in the clattering sound of the rocks being rolled toward the Ocean as her most recent beckoning compelled them to the depths. It was incredibly pleasant- it reminded me of the beach at Fort Kronkite back home- but, it turned out difficult to record effectively on the little camera I had with me.

When I got back to our little grass umbrella, Dana and Chittick had come back and were lying like reptiles in the sand. It was getting late in the afternoon, and we needed to start on our way back somewhat soon, but I wanted to get in the water and check out the reef we'd made so intrepid a journey to see. Dana decided to go with and we all three walked down the beach a little way to pick a fresh spot to explore.

There were a number of healthy-looking coral heads but they were not very dense; they sprung up from a sandy bottom littered with coral rubble. Still though, we saw a fair number of fish and I dove to flip coral rubble and admire the complex epifaunal communities adorning their undersides. We had made it about a hundred yards from shore, though it was still only 10 feet deep or so, when Dana got my attention from 20 yards or so away.

“Hey dude, I saw a decent size shark...”

Intrigued, and expecting a black-tip reef shark or some other skiddish species that I'd love to check out, I replaced the snorkel to my mouth and started swimming toward Dana. No sooner had I begun kicking than the shark swam in front of me. It was about eight feet long, a uniformly dark gray across the whole of its body. It swam near the sea floor so I couldn't see the underside of the beast. It had a boxy head, a broad body and substantial pectoral fins. Most strikingly, the long caudal (tail) fin had an acute indentation near the top. It was not a reef shark. It took little notice of me as it passed, swimming toward Dana, though not acting in an aggressive manner. I followed it and veered right to meet with Dana as the shark sauntered harmlessly to the left. I spat out my snorkel and it didn't take much discussion before we decided to get the hell out of the water.

We hadn't known it at the time, but this was almost certainly a bull shark. They are known to inhabit waters from the depths to the coast and can even venture up rivers into freshwater. They're on the short list of sharks that can most definitely be a problem for people (probably coming up third behind the great white and tiger, but you'll have to watch Shark Week to find out for sure). This fellow never seemed to care much about our presence, but Chittick had certainly noticed the speed with which Dana and I scurried to shore and we were glad to be there when we arrived. It was a bit of a large specimen that Poseidon threw at us for our first shark encounter of the trip, but it was fine in the end. To be sure, we will see many more, but for the most part they will behave the same as the other fish toiling about the shallows. I think Dana agrees that we'd be happy to have that be the last bull shark we visit.

After walking the road for a half hour or so, we hitched a ride from an older lady from Washington state and her dog. She was returning to her campsite not far from where Ardea lay waiting and was kind enough to give us a lift. We crammed in among her water containers and groceries. En route, after learning of our exploits at the reef and the location of our boat, she informed us that the snorkeling in Bahia Frailes was actually quite good- the small tour operations at Cabo Pulmo often took folks around the bend to check out that reef. I joyfully realized that not for a second had I felt our exploits were wasted for having had a great reef so nearby- we are most definitely in it for the ride, and our day had brought fun and adventure. Even so, we began to wonder whether we would actually be leaving at dawn the following morning.

Back at Bahia Frailes, another new friend bid adieu, we noticed two new boats at the anchorage. Rowing out to Ardea, we decided to head over to the newly arrived sailing vessel to say hello. SV Grace brought a jovial bunch and we had a great time chatting with them for a little while. Grace is a gorgeous Hans Christian sloop planning to spend a year in Mexico before heading across the Pacific with the class of 2013. We happily talked boats and plans and fishing; Joshua, a young lad aboard Grace, was jonesing to catch a fish and we offered to lend him the bible (read: Cruiser's Guide to Fishing). It turns out they had a copy.

Then, Valerie, co-skipper of Grace with Tip, recalled, “Yeah- that's the book that taught me what a FAD was...”

None of us knew what a FAD was.

“A fish-attracting device!”

Ohhhh... haven't got to that chapter yet. As I pondered what- exactly- a fish attracting device might consist of, Bud, the mirthful older chap sitting in the captain's chair with a cocktail chimed in, complete with arm out and hand hanging at ninety degrees:

“I always thought a FAD was a guy with a limp-wrist...”

With apologies to our readers, we got a pretty good laugh out of that one. Sooner or later, with some of Valerie's delicious Kaluha chili in hand, we rowed back to Ardea, truly happy to have made some friends. It was then easily settled- we'd stay another day in Bahia Frailes, enjoy the nearby snorkeling and perhaps be lucky enough to catch another joke or two from Bud. We would leave the next evening instead and allow the gentleman in the near-full moon to guide us to Bahia de los Muertos. If the weather were anything like it was that evening, it would be a very pleasant passage indeed.

On the row back to Ardea.

A thousand miles of wisdom.

There have been a great many moments of doubt among us; not just the crew of Ardea, but many of those close to us. The latter sometimes implicit but more often duly expressed. Quite understandable. Experience we lacked. But now, at anchor in Bahia Magdalena, having sailed over a thousand nautical miles from Ardea's old slip at Berkeley Marina, we have a bit more of that magical stuff. As with most of my exploits to date, to learn more has meant to accept that the process of uncovering new knowledge, asking new questions, solving new problems has only just begun. With this in mind, and humbly, we reflect on the experience that we all now possess and look back on what went well and what did not.

It will come as no surprise to those who have read our earlier posts to this blog when I say that things began on the rougher side. The challenges of preparing the boat were great but were only a portion of the tasks that beleaguered the crew prior to departure. Each of us had our own things to attend to as well- cars to sell (or, in Dana's case, cars to park on family members' lawns), bills to pay. The uprooting of one's life is a heavily involved process. Then there was time to spend with family and friends that are like family. None of us left much time for the preparation of our own minds. As much as I would like to think that I had been working on that for years, the adjustment period, when it finally came, was tangible to say the least. Combine all of that with poor weather and engine trouble on our first day out... like I said- there were a great many moments of doubt in those first days.

With each trial came triumph as we meandered down the coast. Certainly a great many of those issues could have been avoided had we performed our engine service earlier and had more sea-time before our actual departure. Our shake-down sail to Drake's Bay went all too well but we modified the boat significantly since then and we would have benefited from more sailing before we left. Little things like figuring out just how much of our stuff would fly across the cabin when we heel and getting ahead on the constant re-configuration of our cabin to find the optimal arrangement of the things we access most.

It took a while to get our dinghy and ditch bag situated properly. I might also add in that vein that after sailing so much with the inflated dinghy on the cabin top, I am considering looking into a canister life raft in La Paz or Puerto Vallerta. It would be much nicer to have our dinghy rolled up. It would still have to be out for lack of space elsewhere, but when we're in port and the dinghy is in the water, the boat feels much bigger outside. I think we all agree that it would be a great improvement to have more open space on the cabin top while under way, especially as the weather gets warmer.

We have all been challenged to find ways to pass the time under way as well. We anticipated this one and brought some games, art supplies, many books (some paper, but we have two kindles on board and, thanks to our friend Joe, an extensive electronic library, which as been wonderful) and instruments. But even with these at our disposal, it has taken time to determine how and when they are best utilized while sailing. The weather- mainly the swell- dictates a great deal about what can be accomplished with reasonable comfort, so it was not trivial to figure out what to do with the sudden abundance of free time that we all have. The most difficult thing for me was to slow down my whole being. Coming from the urban environment, the lifestyle of the full-time job with innumerable hobbies to upkeep, it was tough to adjust at first to being confined to a thirty-one foot boat that is itself moving no more than about ten miles per hour. But once that slow-down happened, and we ceased to consider running the engine, even if sail power forced us to be content with three or four knots for hours on end, it became easier to pass time. Above all else, we read books. For me it is a mix of novels, old textbooks and books pertinent to cruising. And it has been fantastic. So, sure, we sometimes get a little too aware of the ticking of the clock on passages, but for the most part, we make do. As one might imagine, to sit and watch the sun or the stars or the luminous trail of angry plankton in the bow wake or astern is therapeutic.

Goodnight, old friend. The sunsets don't get old...

All of this comes more naturally as one learns to live at sea. And, thankfully, general living at sea quickly becomes easier. One learns to move with the swell without much thought and to sleep whenever Ardea will allow it. Waking up in the middle of the night for watch is really not very taxing after a while. In addition to finding entertainment, we've become better at cooking, cleaning and fixing things as we sail. We also learn to appreciate things that we might not have thought would be so glorified.

Perhaps the top of that list is adorned with Purple Drink. My older brother was kind enough to set us up with a hefty ration of Clif products. Our ditch bag is well stocked with Clif bars of many kinds- a very compact source of calories in the event of an emergency- but, our favorite of these things has been the drink powder. I would never have thought how quickly we would pour through the Clif shot electrolyte mix, but having a flavorful drink is highly appreciated and it's surprising how useful the electrolytes have been. We've all by now read Kon-Tiki by Thor Heyerdahl- a fantastic story of six men who sail a traditional balsa raft from Peru to French Polynesia half a century ago- and recall how in the book they talk about mixing a bit of sea water in their drinking water to better quench their thirst. To them, too, it was hard to believe that their bodies needed more salt given the crusty layer covering their skin. Of course, we're quite on the fancy side of the spectrum, with a prime mix of various salts with a glorious berry flavoring- a welcome change from water and coffee. It works quite nicely. We have lemonade flavor, too, which is pretty good, but we prefer the “Razzmatazz”. We decided that by naming it lemonade and thus setting up the mind to expect something that tastes like lemonade, it's hard not to be a bit disappointed. Whereas Razzmatazz tastes exactly like razzmatazzberries. Even so, Yellow Drink and Purple Drink are the preferred nomenclature on Ardea.

Sporting sweet new shades and, finally legal in
 Mexican waters, flying Old Glory proud.

I must also thank my brother, Tyler, for the sunglasses. I broke my old Kaenons under a haphazardly placed bootstep last spring in the desert and it was heartbreaking. They had given me many years of good service and I wore them constantly. Alas, just before we left, he gifted two new pairs of the top dollar sunglasses. I really cannot describe how critical they are. I suppose it has been a long time since I wore any other brand, but the polarization on Kaenons is amazing. It makes a huge difference on the water. Dana and I were practicing the art of calling puffs (gusts of wind...) from the cabintop and it was ridiculous how superior the view of the wind on the water was with the glare taken out by those lenses. I will take very good care of these. Thanks, Tyler!

The next thing that we all have found indispensable is our salt-water pump. We do all of our cleaning and at least some of our cooking with sea water, so to be able to pump it out at the galley sink is incredibly useful. That said, this is one of the several features of sailboat cruising that defies Chittick and my upbringing. Call us dinghy sailors, but starboard tack has always been the more emotionally comfortable. Now, though, the virtues of both tacks on Ardea have become more clear.

It is a conflicting set of trade-offs. On port, the thru-hull that picks up salt water for our sink and for the toilet stays more consistently submerged, which makes it much easier to pump. On the other hand, the galley is on port, so a starboard tack means leeward cupboards. Even the most organized cruiser must know the joys of the leeward cupboard. It's also a bit easier to cook when the galley is downhill and things are much more likely to remain inside our port-side closet. But then, back on port tack, the view from the companionway is less obstructed by sails, making those late-night watches, when crawling about the cockpit is undesirable, that much easier. The head is quite a bit more comfortable on a port tack as well. There are many such quirks and subtleties to cruising that have identified themselves this last month. Of course, in the end, those regarding the particular direction of heel are of little consequence, since we aren't going to gybe for their sake. Nevertheless, we've got ample time to note and debate these mutually exclusive virtues, and it's been novel to be sure.

Another interesting adjustment to the cruising life has been learning to identify things in red. At night the cabin is typically very dark. More and more we turn in with the sun and the person on watch uses red light to keep his eyes adjusted to darkness. It can be surprisingly hard to see objects in the cabin when doused in red light- especially in our two gear hammocks, which are veritable black-holes of equipment, food and personal effects. Perhaps the most comical instance of confusion doused in rouge came a few weeks back when I was on a crepuscular watch: I wrote in the log book in red pen at dusk and, after dark, adorned with red head-lamp, I wrote over the previous log in black pen because the red pen was then indistinguishable on the page. None of us noticed until the next day, when it was worth a good laugh.

On a similar note, the day-sailor is much less likely to take note of the various creeks and bangs of their craft. But, with the inherent difficulties of sleeping while pitch and yaw continually impress upon us their complete ranges, it behooves us to seek and destroy as many errant noises as possible. We keep a bottle of WD40 handy (thanks, Dad!) for just such a purpose and more than once have I been roused from inadequate slumber to venture on deck in my britches armed with that sprayer attacking goosenecks and blocks. Spare bungie chords (thanks, Grammy!) are essential to this purpose as well.

It is of paramount importance to reduce chafing and rubbing, not just for the comfort of our auditory environment, but because even the smallest such interactions become amplified under such constant use. The moving parts of our vessel have been exercised since our departure far more than they had in the entire year prior, and I sailed in the Bay as much as I could! At this stage, we have bungies holding sheet blocks up so they don't slap the deck in lulls, lines tied to reduce chafing on cabintop, steering housing and sails.

A few more of our favorites: the pressure cooker has been indispensable. We use it all the time and not only does it save us propane, but its locking lid makes for safer, cleaner cooking. Ah, and of course, our self-steering systems. At long last they have names. The first to be adorned was the electric wheel pilot, Quasimodo. He was so-named mainly because he only quasi-steers, and, while we must use him when under motor power, he bares the brunt of a great deal of criticism. The windvane, keeping with the Hunchback of Notre Dame theme, is called Esmerelda, for she is a great beauty. I'm afraid though, Esmerelda can be a bit vain and must be treated well. Unlike Quasi, Ezzy does not respond well to abusive language, and can throw fits if blamed for what she considers the fault of a lack of breeze or an unruly swell. She also prefers not to work with Quasi out of his storage box, for it upsets her peculiar sensibilities. In the end, we all get along quite nicely though and Ardea, being the wiser and more mild-mannered of the whole of her crew, maintains her course very well in spite of it all.

Land's End at Cabo San Lucas- now a few cruisers
are a bit more seasoned.

As expected, we've traded in our old set of challenges for entirely new ones. We've adjusted surprisingly quickly, though, and are all quite comfortable with our passages at this point. Of course, our longest passage to date has only been about four days, but, with a number of these under our belts, we're gaining that experience slowly but surely. In the coming months, we will no doubt continue to learn and grow as cruisers. After all, if we are to make our goal of reaching New Zealand, we've got about another seven thousand nautical miles over which to practice.

Ardea at anchor in Bahia San Lucas, constantly barraged by wakes,
but only a stone's throw from the ridiculous party that is Cabo San Lucas.