Ten Days Out

Clearly, this blog is shaping up to be a few snapshots, rather than a running narrative of our adventures. But having just returned from another run a little way up the sea and back, I thought it might be fun to share just this little snippet. Beyond the sailing, we've had tons of fun here. La Paz feels (in some ways troublingly) familiar and homey. We've made some great connections, mostly with other cruisers, but with a few local folks as well. Quinn has become a bit of a local celebrity, garnering a special award during the La Paz Bay Fest for "Best Costume" in his "Quinn the Pirate Who Eats Pears" getup and subsequently being named "King of the Magote," at Magote Fest. Here's a shot from the Coronation.

But the business at hand is, of course, to go a-sailing, right? So we've had a few trips out --using La Paz as the "home port--" once just with the family, and most recently with some "buddy boats." Our dear friends, Dan and Lisa, are quickly moving toward ready to join us, but for the time being are cranking out the enormous amounts of work required to ready a boat and crew for an extended trip. We suspect the amount of work they've done makes us look like slackers. Their blog surely does. For a great read, with lots of crossover between the two boats' doings, check out www.lilrumi.blogspot.com. I'm particularly fond of the Blue Men of La Paz entry, but it's probably just the toxins in the bottom paint clouding my literary judgment.

So when the invitation came to join a few other boats for a trip out to the islands north of here, we jumped. After packing away plenty of Pacifico beer and a few cans of beans, we left La Paz under gorgeous cool dawn skies on Wednesday 06:30. We were rewarded for our rare early start with great winds to sail all but the first few minutes out of the anchorage -- some thirty miles or so. Our friend Will on his pretty little boat Monsoon chased us most the way north to a beautiful and rarely-crowded crescent of sand on the East side of Espiritu Santo Island called Playa Bonanza. Here's a shot we took a couple days later of Monsoon at anchor.

Will is a tremendous guy, a Brit who lives in Grass Valley, CA, and who will be taking off mid-June in his little boat, bound for Hawaii. He has made this passage before, along with an impressive list of others. His descriptions of the South Pacific are infectious enough that our boatyard-weary souls are again sniffing the south wind. Will is also bouncing back from a horrible bout with Lime Disease and a tough breakup with a cold woman. A great "big brother" to us, and "uncle" to Quinn, Will is another of the great connections we made through the volleyball games (if you're interested, check out lilrumi's page...). We suspect he wasn't pushing his boat as hard as he might have, considering he left us out front all the way to the island.

That evening, both Theophilus and Sugata also came in. Both are truly gorgeous boats. Here's Theophilus.
Pretty cool, heh? I suspect even those who've never thought about sailboats will recognize the funky grooviness of the junk-rigged steel schooner. Ron, the Captain, sailed her down a couple years ago from Vancouver with no one but his goofy bird dog Sissy. Life has improved, though, since his lovely wife Sherry and lovable teenage son (a phrase you won't hear too often, right?but he really is a kid you look forward to seeing), Josh, have joined him aboard. Though only 36 feet long, the boat has plenty of room for the crews of four boats drinking margaritas on the quarter deck, and she's easily the most distinctive boat anywhere she goes.


Here's Ron in training for the rigors of sailing her. Note the traditional sailor's cap and protein-based power drink. After thirty years running tug boats in British Columbia, Ron has retired to the boat and has become our de facto coach for the volleyball squad. When I grow up, I want to be Ron.


Todd, Susan and Sequoia were last into the anchorage on Sugata. If Kacey ever hits the lottery, she's a serious threat to dump me and Isis, grab Quinn, and buy a Hans Christian 38, which is Sugata's make. It'd be hard to blame her, as everything about the boat oozes toughness and style. Teak everywhere, classic double-ended design, truly a sweetheart. And the same could well be said for her crew. Todd and Susan are younger than us by a couple years, and their traveling partner is Susan's daughter, Sequoia -- an 11-year-old naturalist, with encyclopedic knowledge of the fish, birds, plants and sea mammals of the Sea of Cortez. A great person to have around when you are wondering things like Is that fish edible? or What kind of whale was that? And a terrific role model for the ol' Quinnster to spend time with.

We barely knew Todd and Susan before this trip, but they feel like folks we could easily become great friends with. Todd's an excellent harmonica player, so he and I have had several terrific ('least they seemed so to me...) jam sessions. They are impressively "squared away" in terms of running their boat, but they seem always to be having a fantastic time. We were particularly taken by their willingness, after our own hearts, to sail even when the wind and conditions aren't "just right." It has amazed us how often we see sailboats with their sails all rolled up, motoring from anchorage to anchorage. Sugata is one of those crews who are willing to bob around in the sheer beauty of the place and just wait for the wind to come. We love that. Below is them at a funny moment about a week into the trip, when (after a slow start and four or five hours of great sailing) we had finally caught up with them and the wind just stopped...


We were, after 20 miles of sailing, close enough to talk between the boats, so we spent an hour or so chatting and laughing with them. The wind finally filled in again, this time from the opposite direction, and we made anchorage an hour or so before sundown. The sailing Gods rewarded us for our patience with a second whale sighting of the day (more later), possibly of a couple Fin whales, but in any case, HUGE critters pretty close to the boats.

Back to Playa Bonanza, we spent the next three nights on the hook there. It is a tough place to beat, probably 2 or 3 miles of stunning white sand beach, ringing crystal clear turquoise water and backed by volcanic and sandstone striated hills rising several hundred feet, shot through with bright green olivine (thanks, Sequoia). Daily activities included cleaning the bottom of our boat for the first time in three months (yuck) (no, really, yuck...there are these little shrimp critters that set up camp in the grassy stuff on the hull...oh, never mind); spearfishing with Captain Ron (cool, if a little harder than it looks...); a couple great hikes to the peaks around the anchorage; and the obligatory beach volleyball game (won by Team Canada, we think...).
Here's the gang looking out across the San Lorenzo Channel.














We finally broke away from the anchorage and sailed around the other side of the island.
On the way, we stopped to snorkel down to a wreck site, taking turns using Theophilus' hookah, which is a nifty little device that pumps air under water and lets you get considerably deeper than with snorkel alone. Sort of low-tech Scuba. Visibility was not great, but it was refreshing and fun. Kacey and I took the opportunity at the lunch anchorage to clean the chain, which after three weeks anchored in La Paz, smelled like Neptune's crotch. Nothing half an hour with a scrub brush won't fix...

Our next destination was Isla San Francisco, another 30 miles or so north, and another 07:00 departure for the groggy crew of Isis. We were, though, again rewarded with a perfect morning of sailing (there's a pattern here I'm trying to ignore...). Noon, though, brought 100 degrees and flat calm, so we packed it in about two miles off and motored into the anchorage (our friend Eric calls motoring "supporting the troops..." sick, right?). Nice hike and off to bed for the worst, rolliest, howlingly windiest night we've ever had. Kacey at some point in the sleepless night said it: "I want a hotel room." And I was so with her. Quinn, though, woke up and (did I mention it was freakin' CHAOS in the boat all night?) declared HIS room was still, and he slept like a, well, you know.

The most optimistic thing we could come up with the next morning was "they owe us a good day," and as luck would have it, we got one. Will had been obsessively ranting for days about the BEST CLAMMING IN THE WORLD, and so we followed him past the reefy, shallow waters between Isla San Francisco and Isla San Jose, past the unlikeliest little village to the Mother Lode of Clams. Check out this village on Isla Coyote. We didn't stop, but we hope to later. The folks are reputed to be super friendly, and they apparently have fish and neat shell jewelry for sale.
The town is on the left side of the little island, and is full-blown block construction. A tough thing to convey in this shot, but they are in the middle of nowhere...










Next stop was the clamming beds. Here's Will taking us up the little channel through the Mangrove swamp. Looks like a guy with a secret, doesn't he?














And I'm really not allowed to tell you where it is...but two hours later we were packing a good 6 dozen clams. Razors, something Will calls "Goldfish clams," the local favorite Chocolates, and too many little white butter clams to count. All from a pristine little mangrove swamp miles from civilization. We ate 'em raw; we ate 'em steamed; we ate 'em with a little touch of Absinthe on Will's boat (mmmm); and we ate 'em in a superb Sugata clam chowder to celebrate (?) my birthday the next day for lunch. Here's one of the razor clams. We ate those abo-style (squirming on the half-shell) standing in the water where we had just dug 'em up. Damn, were they good.
















After the feasting, we headed over to the other side of Isla San Francisco, to another of those anchorages that looks like it came out of the brochure -- this one's called "the Hook," and I bet you can google it. Will was good enough the next day to take Quinn for a couple hours of beach-combing, while Captain and Crew got to celebrate the birthday with a little grownup time (43 is shaping up to be a fine year so far).

Another highlight of the day was our first oil change on the diesel, which, freshly rebuilt, needs a little extra love during the break-in period. (If you are suffering from jealousy at your vision of our little getaway, picture for a moment the birthday boy hanging his entire upper body into the bilge to clean up the half-quart of black oil he has just dropped while spinning off the old filter.)

The next day was a nice slow start, waiting for the south winds to shift to a direction we could better use to head back toward civilization. We motored for a hoaf hour or so out of the anchorage, then the wind filled for a rippin' sail back to Isla Partida. We were again in sight of Sugata most the way, who got on the radio at one point to share a whale sighting. And sure enough, about a mile or two off our starboard beam was the most phenomenal breaching show you can imagine. Probably just a couple whales, Sequoia says humpbacks, but they must have breached, often totally out of the water, 50 or 100 times over the next half hour. We opted not to divert over to get closer, but even from that distance, the show was incredible. Sadly, the pix don't do it justice, but here's one where you can see a little mammalian presence on the horizon.

Or maybe not. Sad, really, how little the camera can capture. In any case, this was the highlight of the day's sail, with Quinn standing up against the rail hollering "Oh Yeah!" over and over.


We also had some dolphins in the bow wave for a little while, which is always good for a hoot on the good ship Isis:














Another sweet anchorage that night, in which we had Sequoia over for a movie and popcorn, then we were home to La Paz. We managed to sail tantalizingly close to the anchorage, but again just before dark the wind dropped out completely, and we had to motor the last couple miles along the malecon and into town.

In all, a spectacular trip. As you can gather, it was as much fun because of the buddy boats as the sailing itself. We had no idea that this would be the case, picturing from back in Colorado a much more solitary experience, you know, "3 Against the Sea..." and there will be some of that, too. But for now, it's been tremendously rewarding to get to know the community of fellow boaters. In general, the folks who've decided to jump into this business tend to be pretty darn interesting.

For Quinn, it's been nothing but fun. Here he is up in the Vberth (his domain on the boat) with his little girlfriend Vianne...her folks showed up the morning of our last anchorage with fresh coffee cake.














Please accept my apologies, all, for the puny communications. I'll try to do better. Fact is, we're just having so much fun, and keeping so busy, that sitting at the computer rarely calls to us. Know that this time away from friends and family has sweetened our appreciation for folks back home. We occasionally get downright maudlin with homesickness, but we're keeping our hands very busy.

Our "plans" (a word we studiously avoid) are shaping up, I think, as follows: Keep working the boat (apart from the usual maintenance, which takes a couple hours a day, there remains a good long list of things neglected that need attention before we do any serious offshore work...) while getting out more and more frequently. For the Summer, I think we're going to cruise north into the sea, where we will keep an ear toward the weather and try to stay out of the heat of the days. The north part of the sea is statistically safer for hurricane season, and by late summer we'll stay within a day or two of hurricane holes all the time. We're told it's hot but lovely further up; the fishing and snorkeling are reputed to be extraordinary, and there's no better zone to continue to get our sea legs under us. Stay tuned to our steady dispatches (!).


The boat is well found; the crew is healthy; the boy is thriving.

Hi folks,

In an effort to just get a little news out, I thought I'd start with a bit of recap. I can't begin to do justice to the grand adventure we've had already. And now that Isis is in the water and we are approaching the beginning of our actual sailing adventures, I know I'll never really catch up. So here are a few randomly-collected thoughts...

October 31, 2008 -- That's her in the middle.

The boats on either side are gone, doubtless doing the thing boats are intended to do, but Isis still sits on her stands, enjoying (we think) the attention she's finally receiving. It's been a long time since anyone felt the affection we feel for her, and if you listen closely, you can hear her purring.

There's an awful lot to do.

"Cleaning out the boat," for example, turns out to be easier said than done. Isis (Seastar when we met her -- a tale for another day) showed the scunge and decay you'd expect for a boat that hadn't really been used for the better part of a decade. Her nooks and crannies were all filled with, you know, stuff -- some useful, some decidedly not, most somewhere on the difficult line in between. Cleaning her up took the first two weeks of our little Mexican holiday.

Her bones are in great shape, but every old boat needs a lot of work. Our early time here was all about the adventure of the boatyard. It was an odd time, somewhere between groovy adventure and hateful grunt work.

When does a voyage begin?

The obvious and correct answer is, of course, "when you toss off yer lines and go sailing somewhere," but Kacey has convinced me that the key to a half-enjoyable time is to consider leaving the Wetspot (our beloved little home back in the hills of Colorady) the Beginning of the Trip. So here's the quickie:

The drive down was spectacular, cruel and long. Overladen, we were moving slowly, nursing Little Red, our trusty old 4 Runner, down the damnedest stretch of road I've ever seen. It's really not possible to fairly convey the experience of driving the Baja highway. It is beautiful and hideous. It is long. In a newer car, without the trailer or the stress of having everything we own jammed into the rig, it would have been pure fun. But that's not the first phrase that pops to mind after our trip.

The heat was unreal, even though we were traveling after the "hot season." You'd stick your hand out the window to cool off, but it felt like a convection oven. The kind of weather that kills mammals. Reptile country.



Memorable moments included snapping the axle from the trailer in the middle of a military checkpoint; inching down the phenomenal hill into Santa Rosalia (add it to your list of beautiful places you should visit); homemade, caught-that-morning sierra ceviche at Bill and Julie's wild little fish camp; and 400 separate and individually memorable topes. (Mexican speedbumps. But not just any speedbumps. Effective, impressive speedbumps. Often with shops selling suspension parts nearby.)

"Second Mate" Quinn held up well. Imagine being three, in the back of a truck with no A/C, riding six straight days to a little-understood destination, through desert so, well, desert that its puny vegetation reminds you of the scratchy stubble on the skull of your (obviously deranged) father's skull. Wouldn't you whine? Not the Quinnster. Given his relatively blissful demeanor, it appears he picked up the traveling gene. He truly seemed to be enjoying the trip, playing tour guide most the way. ("Ooh, look! Cactus!" or "THE OCEAN!")

The time from November to January was all work and little play.

There were some great highlights, mostly consisting of friends and family coming down to visit. My mom and her husband, my dad and his wife, our oldest buddy Bryan and his girlfriend Veronica, and of course Dan and Lisa (more to come about them, since they were so taken by the whole sordid scene that they bought their own boat and will be down in a few weeks...), but in general it's been a bunch of time in the old boatyard. Take a moment and savor the phrase "Mexican boatyard." Whatever images might come to mind are probably pretty close to the grim reality, and yet we will always remember those three months fondly. There's something oddly satisfying about tackling a bunch of jobs you don't quite know how to do, and figuring it out with your partner.



Quinn, again, was stunning. He spent countless hours unsupervised, playing with legos and watching videos donated to the cause by Kacey's sister, Kelley (Between the Lions, a PBS reading and spelling video, has been his favorite.) Now that we're in the water, the environment is far less hazardous and we all get to work together. And man, does Quinn love to "help."

The list of jobs we completed on the boat is somewhat boggling. We pulled and replaced three thru-hulls (the holes through the boat where hoses in and out are attached, or where the depth sounder gets its info); we repaired dozens of scratches and dings in preparation for painting; we removed the rudder and repaired its mounts; we replaced both "stuffing boxes --" the places where the rudder and propeller exit the hull; and we painted the hull and bottom. The paint job on the hull was four coats, with a complete hand-sanding between all the coats -- time to complete? Six weeks. That's four weeks "fairing" the hull (removing, as much as possible, every divot, scratch and imperfection in the old paint) and two weeks painting and sanding between coats.

Here's what she looked like a couple days before the launch:



Now that we're done, the entire boat is basically new from the deck down.