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 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.

Cetacean sensation

By the end of our stay in Morro Bay we had fallen into a pretty comfortable routine. We were blessed with a short row to shore, as the gracious crew of Diane Susan let us tie up our dinghy on their dock so we didn't have to row to the public dock. Actually, they were more generous than that. After we ran into them again at the grocery store, they let us throw our provisions in the back of their truck so we didn't have to haul it back. And the night before we left, they provided some valuable local insight on the weather and the passage around Point Conception in addition to a tour of their awesome fishing trawler. As always, we were happy to make some friends and the folks in Morro Bay were incredibly warm. We'll certainly miss that place and all the sea otters floating about reminding us that it makes no sense to cut down trees to build tables when we have perfectly good tummies.

We pulled the hook at about 1100 on Thursday February 2^nd and motored out to a decent northerly breeze. The forecast was for 10 to 20 knots with gusts to 25 and an 8 to 11 foot swell at 15 seconds off Point Conception. We hoped to be past the point in the late evening when seas were supposed to dissipate. It went swimmingly. The swell was certainly a bit uncomfortable on that stretch with distinct sets coming from the northwest and the west sometimes combining for a bumpy ride. But we had great wind and made around 8 knots for much of the day.

Pelican friend. Reminds us of pal Zac.

That night, our first in Southern California, the wind died and, unbeknownst to us, our batteries followed suit. I tried to start the engine at about 0200 after we'd only made 2 to 3 knots for a couple hours. But no power meant no engine and we had to wait until the solar panels had a chance to give us some juice the next morning before we could get moving. I'm not sure on the exact numbers, but I think we made about 70 nm over the first twelve hours from Morro Bay and then about 20 nm over the next twelve hours. It was a bit annoying, but that's all.

The second day of the passage brought an easterly breeze and we slowly made our way between San Miguel and Santa Cruz islands. The setting among the Channel Islands is quite beautiful and the wildlife was nothing less than stunning. As I took over watch from Chittick at around 0800 we were accompanied by a large pod of dolphins (probably common bottlenose dolphins- Tursiops truncatus).

Bottlenose probably but I am guessing on the marine mammals...

Swarming sea lions

Then, a swarm of seal lions (Zalophus californianus)- literally dozens of them- were following our boat, breaching repeatedly at the top of the swell and diving into the trough. The commotion reminded me of salmon battling their way upstream to spawn, though I'm not sure what their behavior was about. As the morning went on, more dolphins moseyed on by (this time Risso's dolphins- Grampus griseus- I think) and more seals splashed all around Ardea. A pelican landed and swam next to our boat for a few hundred yards as well, staring at us perhaps used to rejoicing as fish guts were strewn from similar vessels. Still no fish for us though.

A pod of Risso's dolphins near San Miguel, Channel Islands.

Perhaps the most fantastic though slightly nerve-wracking wildlife encounter of the passage came just between the two aforementioned islands. I happened to be steering at the time, which is rare as the windvane does the vast majority of the steering, and Dana was just about to go forward to put a reef in the mainsail. Suddenly, maybe about two boat-lengths in front of us, two humpback whales surfaced and spouted. Normally this would be a majestic experience. One might stare in awe at the girth and grace of these creatures or note the intricate patterns of scars and barnacles that lace their bodies. But for us on this occasion, the initial reaction included an Ahab-like scream of “Whaaaaaale!” combined with a steering maneuver like the Titanic trying to avoid that infamous iceberg. Yeah, maybe it was a bit of an over-reaction. But they were so huge and so close that I threw the wheel all the way to port and rounded the boat up. We spent the next several minutes smacking the side of the boat so they might know we were around and trying to spot them before they re-surfaced. I guess we were loud enough though, as we didn't see that pair again.

I'm fascinated by the similarity that can be found in photos of
landscapes from disparate climates or regions. I imagine I'll end up
with lots like this. I'm pretty sure this is Santa Catalina, though.

The following evening went much as the previous had gone. The wind became light and we tried and failed to start the engine due to low batteries. We made better progress than the prior night though, and the slightly better wind meant fewer sounds of flopping sails and crashing blocks. In the morning we sailed a southwest course with about 15 knots of pressure from the east. As we came upon Santa Catalina Island, the wind dropped and we began to motor toward Newport Beach Harbor. We spotted numerous fascinating jelly fish and a group of ocean sunfish flopping around on the surface near a kelp bed. It was otherwise uneventful on a gorgeous SoCal day until we were only about 7 nm from the harbor and ran out of fuel. The engine took a big gulp of air and we ended up having to bleed the system again, this time while underway. It only took about half an hour this time and we putted into Newport Harbor at about 2030 on Saturday February 4^th after using up another jerry can of diesel.

Ardea sits now at a pretty swanky dock in Newport Harbor where friends were kind enough to let us rest for a few days. We've got some boat work to take care of here, not least of which is figuring out if user error, wiring or declining batteries is the cause of our power failures over the last 2.5 day passage. But mainly we've got some hanging out to do. Rounding Point Conception was a landmark for us geographically, climatically and mentally all the same. We've already had a blast catching up with old friends of the south coast and I imagine we'll hang here for a few more days as the northerly is supposed to build later in the week.

Our next stop is Bahia de Tortugas, about another 2.5 days' sail from Newport. Quite soon we'll be in warm water, hopefully eating fish tacos. Lots of fish tacos.

A Couple Days in Morro Bay

We left Half Moon Bay a little bit nervous. But we were rested and well fed. The seas were smaller and there was a nice breeze from the north. We set a west-southwest course to gain some sea room and we all felt much better. None of us was nauseated and we were able to get into a good groove with our watch schedule (three hour shifts during the day, two hours at night). Those who weren't on watch could actually settle in and relax. It was a different experience entirely from two days prior.

The windvane steered beautifully even in light breeze. The swell and wind direction made it easiest to set a course that led us pretty far offshore, but that was welcome. It was more consistent and clear out there with nothing to run in to. Night watches were much more pleasant- the stars are pretty bright 50 nm off the coast. All in all, it was a great sail. We gybed and set a course for Morro Bay (near San Luis Obispo) when we were about 60 nm west of Carmel.

Sunset offshore.

Sheri's no-knead bread. Going to be a staple, I think.

The second day of our passage to Morro Bay brought very light winds and small seas. Thankfully, the engine started cleanly and ran very well for about 20 hours straight. Though noisy, it was a great day. It was warm out and the seas were so small that we could move about and cook very easily. We've managed to bake some honey dinner rolls, some flat bread and a loaf Sheri's no-knead bread since we left Half Moon Bay. We played chess, read books and hung out during that long motor. It was really pretty nice to be able to relax. And sleeping came pretty easy to all of us.

At about 0430 on Monday 1/30/12, we dropped the hook in Morro Bay. When we got up in the morning, we moved the boat to a better spot in the harbor and, after eating and cleaning a bit, we went ashore and wandered around town doing errands. We managed to do some laundry, play some basketball, get some wire for a project and buy groceries. The town of Morro Bay is quiet and incredibly walkable.

On Tuesday morning, Taylor and I went for a surf. We spent the afternoon taking care of some projects (broken toilet gasket, inverter wiring, etc.). I snapped a few pictures of this Brandt's cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) struggling to toss back a flatfish bigger than its face.

Originally we were going to leave Tuesday night, but the forecast is now looking better later in the week. It's looking like we'll depart Thursday morning early enough to take a safe angle and knock out the 50 nm or so to Point Conception before nightfall. From there we'll head for Newport Beach Harbor with a possible stop at Santa Cruz or Catalina Island if needed. We'll spend a few days around Newport hanging out with friends, picking up some parts and maybe finding some surf. Then it's off to Mexico. We'll make a quick stop at Bahia de Tortugas to check in on Jeff's juggernaut cruiser, Elsewhere, and then make haste for Cabo and the warmer waters of the Sea of Cortez.