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."

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.

Sunshine - Moonlight

It is amazing how quickly the body will adjust to the cruising lifestyle. Our days our entirely dictated by our good friend, the sun. Sunrise is stunning on the ocean, the wind has generally been lightest this time of day and the ocean therefore more peaceful. A few days ago I found myself torn between watching the sun rise above the horizon or watching a pod of dolphins playing in the bow wake as we pushed south at a steady 4 knots. As the giant flaming ball in the sky traverses west, life on the boat is full of music (both stereo and band practice), reading (I think Dana leads with most books read but we are all near if not at double digits), and cooking (baking bread and rolling sushi). As the sun reaches the western horizon we gratefully give it a “Farewell good friend, see you on the other-side” and retire into the cabin.

Night watch has been 2 hours on, 4 hours off, an hour shorter than day watch, however, tonight we will are trying 3 hour night watches. The reasoning is that getting 4 hours of sleep during a 4 hour rest is rather hard, with the warmer weather longer night watches will not be as tough. Anyways, once a new day starts in Asia the theme tends to be reading, eating, reading, and sleeping...in that order. Quality of sleep is completely dependent on wind direction in relation with swell direction and size. We have all seen a healthy boost in beauty sleep once we crossed over the border to Mexico, the wind has been consistently N-NW and swell direction has been a solid NW ranging from 4 to 12 feet. I tend sleep best when wind speed is double wave height and both are from the same direction.

We are now hanging on the hook in Cabo San Lucas, with some cruise ships.

Aloha

Barriga Llena, Corozone Contento

“Connor--- I need help---”

I could hear Dana's cries from the v-berth as I stood in the galley washing dishes. Though clearly bemoaning something or another, his tone didn't contain the compelling urgency that would accompany a true alarm. I began walking forward toward the v-berth, using steps carefully timed with the swell so as to minimize the effort, when he clarified:

“I can't get my shirt off...”

followed by groans. He came into view and I laughed at the scene. He was lying on port with head aft, as is typical for the forward berth, and had begun to remove his plaid over-shirt from over the chest, as opposed to at the sleeves. Halfway through, the shirt folded back on itself and wrapped his shoulders while his elbows pinned the lower half in such a way as he couldn't loosen either side. I grabbed the colllar and pulled it back while Dana sighed in relief and fell to the mattress. Poor fellow was all tuckered out. Indeed our first day out of Bahia Tortugas had been a long and exciting one...

We left at about 1000 with beautiful, warm weather. We motored out for the first hour or so before we picked up the ocean breeze- 10 to 15 knots from the northeast. Ankle high rollers washed Ardea toward the southeast as we set full sail and killed the engine.

We admired a few passing pods of whales, though they were far off and, while it may seem blasphemous to say so, whale sightings do begin to lose their luster. A close encounter with the great mammals may never diminish in glory, I think because it is so bewildering as an animal to be near to something so large and powerful, that might have its way with us and our vessel without much afterthought, and yet that is so convincingly peaceful. It might be more fascinating to watch a human that's watching a whale than to stare directly at the latter. Our miniscule eyes reflecting the understanding that this big fellow won't use his powers against us; our expressions grateful, unused to relying on the mercy of distant ancestors that stayed in, or perhaps returned to, the sea. Yet no one ever watches a whale with suspicion. Sharks one always regards with suspicion. Rays, too. I'm not too proud to admit that while swimming in the sea I've regarded even some rather small fish, which experience and rational thought assured me were harmless, with constant over-vigilance. Whales, though, are most trustworthy creatures; even the face of the nubile observer will show this. They're huge. Why don't they scare us? But, in any case, distant spouts and the silhouette of massive tail-fins arcing into the gaseous realm do over time begin to warrant only a passing glance.

As we all three sat below discussing the books we were reading and those we had recently finished, Ardea made haste. She had carried us along at nearly eight knots for a couple of hours when, at about 1300, we had a strike on the trolling rig. The same mackerel swimming plug was out again and after logging only 4 or 5 hours in the water total, it had fooled its third sea monster. I had fought the previous two and it was now Dana's turn. And fight he did. It took nearly forty minutes, complete with fish leaping clear out of the sea followed by dives followed by surface runs. At last the wily fellow was at the transom. I leaned out with the gaff and, after missing once and putting a dink in the gelcoat, the fish was hooked through the shoulder and brought on board. It was a gorgeous yellowfin tuna weighing at least twenty pounds and measuring about four feet long.

There was great excitement about. While Dana was fighting, Chittick and I had already begun preparing the side dishes- beans for tacos and sticky rice for sashimi- that we would soon inhale with the freshest meat. With the fish on board, there was a great rush to finish him. It is heartbreaking to watch a fish suffer with a gaff through its back and a hook in its mouth after a long and unsuccessful battle for its life; it's also dangerous to have such a big fish flopping about our small boat while still making way downwind (though we had furled the jib during the battle to slow ourselves down). While I held the gaff with my right hand, Dana took the one inch diameter lead pipe we use as a club and wound up. Our prey had no intention of watching idly as it was beaten to death and as it squirmed under the first of several blows, Dana's marksmanship was a step behind. A first errant pass busted the dominant lure and a second landed squarely across the back of my hand, over the third and fourth metacarpals.

“Yeeeeeoooowwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!”

I yelled in pain, though there wasn't a chance I was going to drop that fish. I passed the gaff to Dana and he lay the final blows to the generous endotherm while apologizing profusely as I danced about the cockpit, yelping and grasping my stricken paw. No stranger to injuries of a mechanical nature, I set about inspecting myself as Dana was busy stinging the tunny's spinal chord- a process by which a wedge is cut above the eye of the beast, much like one were wedging a tree to be felled, where the midpoint of the trunk lay just deeper than the spinal chord. A length of stainless steel leader wire is then inserted down the spinal chord, during which time the very dead fish will flop across the full range of its natural motion. This paralyzes further movement, which reduces the unwanted build-up of the byproducts of neuro-muscular activity, thus providing a more tender and more delicious prize. He then cut the appropriate slits in the flesh, tied the fish by the tail and dragged her behind the boat to bleed out.

Fortunately, it was clear that the bones in my hand had not been broken. I tested the range of motion in my fingers and could tell from the discomfort in my upper forearm that the tendons were somewhat traumatized. An area around the epicenter of the blow became quickly inflamed. I took some ibuprofen and applied a cold-pack and compression sleeve to the wound. Walking around with my paw raised above my heart, I was no less excited about the feast that lay ahead. Needless to say, the clubber will next time also hold the gaff.

We unfurled the jib and re-set the windvane as Dana began the long process of cleaning the tunny. We were still making over seven knots down the coast in a wonderful breeze, the likes of which we had been told of by bright-eyed cruisers of these fortuitous waters. Our incredible speed and a comfortable motion were reason enough for merriment on a warm, sunny afternoon. Now to have such a beautiful catch was an overwhelming treat. We pulled in our other lines, done fishing for a while once again, after only three hours with lures in the water since leaving anchor.

The process of cleaning and processing the tunny took about three hours and all of us at work. It was only our third fish, but, aside from the aforementioned collateral damage, we were operating like a well-oiled machine. The first order of business was to sample a bit. Dana cut thin slices and we each tried a piece without cooking or accoutrement. It was delicious and tasted of the sea in the most endearing way. Rice prepared, we got sheets of seaweed out, cut carrot and made sushi rolls with the raw tuna. Dipped in soy sauce, these were our supper as we continued to process and prepare. Conferring merrily about the fate of each fillet, we sliced a good deal- a third of the meat or more-very thin to be salted. We cut the six or seven large steaks of the finest quality and placed them in two separate bags with marinades for the following two days. The tougher meat we set aside in a separate bag to be made into soup on the third day. The remainder was filleted thin for more sashimi and to be seared for tacos at dinnertime.

Satisfied that none would go to waste, we slowly finished the work. There was a great deal of blood aft of the cockpit and a fair amount in the cockpit itself as well. We cursed our former bucket, which had been thoroughly crushed on the passage to Bahia Tortugas, as we set about cleaning the soon-to-be putrid waste with salt water collected in a small tupperware. By the end, we were all quite exhausted. Dana in particular was worn out entirely from the fight- he had barely been able to lift his gallant foe for the requisite photographs because his arms were so warn out bringing it in.

It was nightfall before our attention had wavered from the catch. By then we were nearly ready to dine on fresh fish tacos, piled high with an ever-improving slaw of cabbage, carrots, celery, avocado, onion, apple-cider vinegar and, this time, a bit of chopped brussel sprouts. We had a massive pot of spiced beans and plenty of rice to boot.

After our meal and a dessert of cupcakes, belly full and heart happy, Dana predicted he would be asleep in under five minutes. Ardea continued to clip along at a speed unbetrayed by her smooth motion in the swell. It would be a comfortable night, a good one for sleeping, which is not always so on a boat at sea. As he came off of watch and began to fix a cocoon in the v-berth, Dana proposed casually:

“I don't want to be woken up tonight for watch.”

“Well you only have one night watch from 0230 to 0430...”

“Yeah but I want to sleep all night. If you guys take my watch, I'll buy your drinks for a night at the bar in Cabo.”

Chittick and I looked at each other briefly, knowingly. This would not be a difficult decision. Dana continued:

“But we're not going to some white man, seven dollar blue blender drink that's three feet tall place. We're going to a local bar.”

Done.

For those who know Dana, it won't come as a surprise. The man is not afraid to open up his wallet for a simple pleasure which he's conceived to be of great immediate importance. His brother would be proud. But now, his duties delegated, his plaid outer-garment laboriously unsheathed, the hulking, sated angler sank deep into the cushions. Just all tuckered out.

A few fathoms beneath the moon.

We left Newport Beach at about 1300 on Tuesday February 14 under partly cloudy skies. It seemed a nice afternoon and we were admittedly excited to get back to sailing. Even the Saturday prior we felt that we had been in port too long, so when our attempt to leave that day ended back at the dock with a continually vexing alternator, we were a bit disappointed. Our spirits had been lifted then by what we saw as a symbolic visit by a great blue heron (the namesake of our vessel), who landed on the dock only a few feet from Ardea shortly after we re-arrived.

Passing the time in glassy seas nearing Newport Beach.

On Monday, while a weak low pressure system tumbled down the coast bringing gale force winds to the greater Los Angeles area, we sat at the dock perplexed. After having given in to the alternator when our attempts to fix it failed, we tried to get a marine electrician to come down and help us out. It was a bit defeating to call in a pro, but we had tried everything in our minds to get juice out of the thing. We joked that it would likely take no time at all for an electrician to find the problem while waiting for a call-back from any of a number of these professionals we had tried to reach. To pass the time, we walked up the road for our second in as many days visit to the local basketball court. It was there we began to muse the problem over again. And it was then that we realized that the issue may have resulted from a combination of faults, instead of just a problem with the alternator's excitation wire, as we had expected and which should have been solved by some re-wiring earlier in the week. Maybe we had fixed that problem, but we still weren't getting proper voltage out of the thing because of another wiring issue. And which wire had we assumed was properly run the whole time? The ground.

Yup. That was it. It was a shitty ground. We put a new span of 8 gauge wire from the alternator ground terminal straight to the battery ground terminal (the battery grounds are paralleled, so we only needed it to hit one of them). Worked fine after that. But now there's a gale warning. So we did some more hanging out, which we're getting markedly better at.

Dana stands on the bow sprit as a dozen
or more dolphins ride the wake for half an
hour or so.

Back to the future. We left Newport Beach. It had been a dear and grand pleasure to see so many friends. We are very fortunate to know some really awesome folks in that area and their hospitality and generosity made for a really great time. But by the time we pushed off on Tuesday, we were ready to get a move on. Mexico beckoned. SoCal is warm and sunny, but not warm and sunny enough.

The first 15 hours or so of the passage were rather dull and annoying. There was not a drop of breeze and we were again forced to motor for long hours. A fairly large westerly swell made for a somewhat uncomfortable passage. We are charging through books though- reading is one of a few activities tolerable at just about any angle of heel. Once though, while I was on watch, a bit of real excitement came suddenly.

I sat reading near the open hatch in the evening hours when at long last the clicking whir of one of our trolling reels sang through the air. I sprang to the after portion of the boat, grabbed the reel and began the fight. A few hard yanks set the hook and I could feel the changes in pressure on the line as the prey alternately dove and surfaced. It was not at all easy- took about twenty minutes or so of good work- but I finally got the line in close enough to realize that what I had was a rather large kelp frond. I had hooked it right at hold-fast end, so it was particularly effective at creating drag while I battled it thinking I was a real angler and wondering how best to go about writing on the experience. Disappointed though exercised, I put the line back out and went back to my business.

Wednesday was a beautiful day, perhaps one of our best yet. We crossed the border at about midnight after Chittick (on watch) was hailed down by a tanker off of San Diego. They picked us up on their radar but couldn't see our running lights and were concerned. This concern dissolved rapidly when they found out we were a 31 foot sailing vessel- they couldn't believe it, since we were so clear on their radar (nice job, radar detector doodad). They were 15 nm or so away from us though, so it was no wonder they couldn't see our running lights. Impressively, they pinpointed our position, course and speed pretty much perfectly and advised Chittick to hold course and speed to cross their path in 2 nm.

Passing Ensenada as the low to the north reconciles
with the high to the southwest above our heads.

I took over watch at 0630 after a damned decent night's sleep and checked the chart. We were about 20 nm west of Encinada- the first potential port-of-entry in Mexico. We strongly considered dipping into Encinada to wait for wind, because we really did not want to continue motoring. The cost of diesel and the long engine hours and the loud noise make it pretty lame most of the time. In fact, we started heading a bit East for just that purpose. The wind started to build out of the south, so I put up the mizzen and the jib and shut down the Perkins at last. Ensinada still seemed like a better idea than slow-tacking a beat down the coast, but when the wind started clocking West, we didn't have trouble kissing the notion of an early stop goodbye. It was a good choice. We rode ahead of a low pressure system in the LA and San Diego area for the majority of the day and had great sailing, making around 6 knots with a comfortable motion. I made a breakfast of eggs-in-a-blanket and home fried potatoes with onions. The day went remarkably quickly.

We sat for a long time in great breeze beneath one of the few areas where the sun actually shined through the clouds. It was grand. I find I have often put pressure on myself to be doing something- reading, baking bread, cooking, trying to absorb something new- much of the time while we're at sea. I have to remind myself that it's perfectly alright to just be sailing. Hell, hand steer for a while, for old times' sake. 

Steering the ocean swell and trimming jib. We've found we
can make a more efficient course than the vane in lots of
conditions. Also, it's just nice to actually sail the boat.

Weather like we had that afternoon made it easy to remember why we were drawn to this particular mode of transportation. We all sat merrily in the cockpit, rapping about something or another for some time. Our pleasant afternoon was very suddenly and very, very loudly interrupted by two quick BOOMs. We thought we were taking cannon fire. It was insane and it was very very loud. But there was nobody in sight as far as the eye could see. After edgily peering about, ready to take cover from whatever onslaught was about to overtake us, we surmised it must have been a jet breaking the sound barrier. We never saw a jet, but we sort of heard one afterward, and it's the only thing that makes a lick of sense.

The low pressure and accompanying high clouds eventually caught up with us around late afternoon. I was back on watch after we spent the afternoon cleaning up the cabin, which had become quite a mess overnight. Dana, during his previous watch, had pulled in our fishing lines and replaced the pink squid lure and silver spinner we had out with a cedar plug and a mackerel colored thrasherbait. About an hour into my watch, we got our first hit. I had been sitting at the nav station reading nothing other than the Cruiser's Guide to Fishing. With expectations more restrained, I moved as quickly as I had during the great kelp battle and went about pulling in a Pacific mackerel (Thrombus japonicus). It was probably 3 pounds, maybe 18 inches long and a nice looking fish. I couldn't help but notice that it went for a lure that looked like it could have been next of kin. We figured out the species using a great identification book given to us by my buddy Nick, who is the reason we ended up with such a great dock set-up in Newport Beach as well. The lure that caught us our first monster was a gift from Nick, too... he's been too good to us.

A Pacific mackerel becomes dinner.

According to the book, this specimen was rather large for a Pacific mackerel and a good though oily fish to eat. So I promptly bludgeoned it on the top of the skull a few times, stabbed it in the brain and filleted it right there on the after deck. Truthfully, I take no joy in the process, and each time I take the life of an animal I am reminded that I mustn’t be wasteful. We got two nice fillets to supplement the frittata that Chittick had been working on in the galley. I tossed the guts and carcass into the water, save for a somewhat meaty portion of the “shoulder” (i.e., the dorsal portion just back of the gills), which I put on the large hook of the cedar plug before sending both trolling lines back out.

Needless to say, the first fish was an exciting experience. But greater battles lay ahead. Dana remarked, since the mackerel was not a large species compared to many that we are equipped to land, “It'll only be a matter of days before we're asking ourselves why in the hell we kept that little fish.” Turns out, it was only a matter of about 45 minutes.

After an unsuccessful battle with something huge, which hooked on the same lure as had the mackerel, I was back to reading the fishing book (now certainly more enthralled with its wisdom). Having lost a fish, I was determined to learn from my mistakes. I had fought it too hard, not let it take enough line. The hook had set well- it was on the line for a while. But it likely ripped out through the flesh of the beast as I tried to manhandle it toward the boat (it never got close enough to see). Only a few minutes after I had settled back to reading, the reel screamed again.

A bonito

It was a pretty long fight. I was slow and patient. I'd take some line in slow and steady but I knew I'd have to let my foe have some back if he went on a run. He did this several times and I let him go and then brought him back. He really fought. It took a lot of effort over at least 20 minutes for me to get him in toward the transom. When he was close, we were overjoyed at the size and beauty of this one. Dana reached over with the gaff hook. He made a light pass to hook the fish only to realize that there was quite a hard head on this fellow. The next flick of the wrist had the gusto need to pierce into the head. I set down the reel while Dana passed the gaff up to me. A 12 pound bonita (Sarda chiliensis). A beautiful fish and good to eat. We cut a few slits and tied a line around his tail and dragged him off the stern for five or ten minutes to bleed him out. By the time I finished filleting him, it was nearly dark and it had been more an hour since he struck the all-star mackerel lure from Nick. We got two huge fillets off of the bonita and now had an abundance. We pulled in the lures. Any more fish in the next 48 hours would be excess for sure.

Dinner was potato and beet frittata along with fried marinated mackerel over rice. It was delicious. We grilled one of the bonita steaks and baked the other, though by the time they were ready we were all duly satiated. Fortunately, we have the inverter wired and have been able to keep the fridge reasonably cold, so bonita can wait for breakfast tomorrow. And lunch. Probably dinner, too.

I sit now well fed with highly anticipated fresh fish, making very good headway down the coast of Mexico. It will be about two days yet before we make it to Bahia Tortugas, but we certainly aren't for want of breeze anymore. In fact, strong and gusty winds mean we're pretty heavily reefed tonight. The slow dissipation of that low pressure system and the advance of a new high will likely mean somewhat heavy breeze for us for the next day or so, but as long as we can maintain a steady course down the coast, that's fine by me.