Chapter 20: Mexico

 

Costa Rica to Acapulco

900 miles in eight days

Suka had been under way less than 15 minutes when her full complement of sails suddenly backwinded. Her two-person crew scurried about dousing canvas in an ever increasing blow, only to find themselves in the teeth of the season's first Papagayo. So much for local knowledge. Under deeply reefed canvas the brig reached close hauled across increasingly white capped seas, with spray flashing from her bow, and a white, foamy wake trailing far astern. The thought of turning back for nearby shelter was out of the question; this was our first genuine wind since leaving the Caribbean and we were not about to squander it. The sailing was exhilarating.

And as if this new found climatic exuberance had failed to provide sufficient excitement, the fishing line jerked taut. With one foot braced on the weather rail, now intermittently awash, Jenny struggled to haul aboard a dorado that measured 52 inches in length - our largest catch yet.

The flap was mild, as Papagayos go, never blowing much over perhaps 40 knots. And as the day wore on, and as the brig progressed past the gale's source - a capacious valley between mountain ranges - the wind slowly veered abaft the starboard beam. During the night the blast swung further aft, and this markedly increased the yacht's comfort factor. Then in another 24 hours the wind diminished, and allowed us to hoist the big genoa and to shake out the mainsail. And by the third day the gale had blown itself out.

After three days of eating fish for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I was reluctant to restock our seafood larder by tossing out the trolling line. But compulsive fishing is a malady known to affect mariners plying these waters, and the temptation was strong. Out went the lure, and a few minutes later it had snagged another jumbo dorado.

To prevent the left-over fish from spoiling, Jenny marinated thin slivers of it in soy and Worcestershire sauce, and spread these on a pan atop the cabin. One day's exposure to the tropical sun dehydrated the pieces into fish jerky, a favorite snack aboard the brig.

In turn, we sat in the cockpit at our three-hourly tricks at night watch, bathing in astral luminescence and watching wide-eyed the brilliant phosphorescence sweeping, careening, and dancing ethereal fandangos deep within the water. In light and variable airs Suka motored along flat seas, at a speed markedly improved after de-scaling the engine's heat exchanger.

Dawn revealed the mountains of El Salvador stretching across the starboard horizon. The navigator showed her head from the hatchway to announce that we were presently crossing the border between El Salvador and Guatemala, and some 35 miles off-shore.

Mexican waters

“From the journal:

“November 20, 1985: We have been motoring continuously for 50 hours, and are about eight miles off-shore. The wind is light, the seas are flat, and the weather is beautiful. The sun has risen and Jenny is in the galley preparing a batch of pancakes for breakfast - despite the fish fillets that we need to eat. We landed yet another big dorado yesterday, when once again I couldn't resist the temptation to toss out the lure. After breakfast, Jenny will take over, and I will retire below for a morning siesta.”

“Sitting in the cockpit nearing the end of my watch, I am being regaled by a school of perhaps a dozen dolphins, which has closed with the ketch. We've seen many of these affable creatures on this leg of the journey; presumably their food supply is plentiful in this region, as indicated by the productive fishing we have experienced. The dolphins love to cavort at Suka's bow, and in so doing they provide us with high-grade entertainment. Yesterday, half a dozen of them put on a show lasting nearly two hours. Their repertoire of stunts included swimming in close formation, enacting an underwater ballet of twirling and graceful twisting, darting away at jet speed then racing back toward the pack with a finale of a high leap out of the water and a dive back into the group at the bow. And one of their favorites was swimming barely ahead of the cutwater. In this position, they hardly needed to move their tails. It is rather like surfing to them, as they ride the boat's underwater pressure wave. Sometimes the dolphins will leap clear of the water, and from our bowsprit vantage we see them eye-to-large-black-eye, at a distance of only five feet or so. And our excited cheering and clapping seems to encourage them to no end.”

“Yesterday we encountered numerous large sea turtles. In the distance we would see a bird standing seemingly on the water's unrippled surface. And as we approached, we would find that the bird was actually standing on a sleeping turtle. One bird meant a turtle; a line of birds, though, meant a log. With the first such encounter we pulled a tight 360 degree turn around the turtle before switching the autopilot back on, and continuing onward on our original heading. The turtle meanwhile remained fast asleep and apparently oblivious to our presence. This seemed odd considering the noise of Suka's engine.”

Somewhere off the coast of Guatemala we were approached by two small open boats that traveled at astounding speed. For the first time ever, I unlatched our semi-auto rifle from its secret compartment and laid it in the cockpit. The two boats sped past and disappeared over the horizon. With relief we surmised that perhaps they were only hunting turtles.

Last night, as we motored placidly across the boundary into Mexican waters, a trawler-sized vessel approached from astern, and paced us at a distance of a few hundred feet, while shining a blinding light in our direction for several minutes. We cowered down below, steering Suka by autopilot. Eventually the bright light extinguished, and the vessel departed. We later learned that the Mexican coast guard watches their border closely, and commonly investigates passersby in such an odd fashion.

Our next possible stopover was Puerto Madero, but south-bound yachtsmen had warned us that the harbor master there routinely padded his pockets at the expense of any hapless skipper that steamed into his domain. So with propitious weather and ample supplies we carried on.

At one point we began seeing mackerel in the water all around. They averaged about 18 inches in length, and were passing us at perhaps double our speed. Occasionally they would splash at the surface in unison. This confusion covered the face of the sea for as far as the eye could see in practically all directions. Astonishingly, the colossal school spent eight hours passing us by.

Gulf of Tehuantepec

We were approaching the infamous Gulf of Tehuantepec (too-whan'-ta-peck), an area of frequent and ferocious off-shore gales, caused by winds funneling unhindered across the lowlands. Because this off-shore gale reputedly builds a deadly chop - even a short distance out - the safest way to navigate here is said to be hugging the shoreline: to "keep one foot on the beach," as the saying went.

Our first indication of difficulties was an increasing swell coming from directly ahead. This is the condition that Suka finds most problematic; for in the oncoming crests and troughs she pitches wildly, her hobby-horsing causes her clipper bow to slam down onto the next wave, and if the swells are sufficiently large, and coming at a particular frequency, her bowsprit catwalk pile-drives into the water with such force that the vessel shudders stem to stern. Perkins is not sufficiently powerful to force the vessel ahead in such conditions, so my only recourse was to bear away. However, in these conditions a brisk wind in the sails will drive Suka quite nicely. And wind we soon received, although far more than we had bargained for.

The farther we went the stronger the wind, which veered more off-shore. So we flew along, holding close to shore, generally following the five fathom contour as indicated on our echo sounder. Well after dark the wind increased beyond the capability of even our smallest sails, save the storm try, which we did not feel inclined to hoist. So we pulled down the sails and motored along bare-poled, heeling well over with the wind bawling through the rigging. Close ashore the chop was minimal, and this allowed us to move with surprising speed.

All went well until we encountered the mouth of an estuary where the six fathom line headed a mile offshore. We followed this curve until we had bypassed the effluent, then we motored full ahead into the gale, clawing our way with agonizing slowness back toward land. By then we had endured more than enough. I motored toward shore, and soon noticed that someone ashore was shining a light, presumably to help guide us in. We gave this person a blast of thanks on our horn. Being careful not to stand in too close because of what sounded like mountainous, crashing surf, we unshipped the anchor and lowered it into 30 feet. Assured that a tehuantepecer will blow continually offshore, without changing its direction, in the raging gale we retired comfortably belowdecks and spent a restful night.

Early the next morning we were working topsides in vicious winds, preparing for departure, when as if with a flick of a switch the wind ceased. Standing there in a dead calm we looked at one another incredulously. Then feeling as though we had died and gone to Heaven, we motored pleasantly along the coastline, basking in the warm sunshine.

But our reprieve proved short-lived, for later that morning we began encountering the characteristic head-on swell again. And soon this brought with it headwinds. This gale was not as intense, though, and by afternoon we were racing along, Suka flying a deep reefed main and jib. Our close hauling to weather required that I hand-steer all afternoon, but considering the calm water, the warm sunshine, and our comparatively high rate of speed, we found the sailing exhilarating.

After dark we sailed past the brightly lit harbor of Salina Cruz. Then rounding the corner, and now well out of reach of the tehuantepecers, we moved about eight miles out, to be certain of clearing any off-lying rocks.

The next morning we moved back inshore and motored into light headwinds while following the beautifully vegetated headlands. These were attractively seascaped in rocky escarpments indented with small, white-beached bays. We passed by the anchorages of Puerto Angel and Hualtulco because we did not wish to subject ourselves to the clearance procedures, as required by any Mexican port that had officials in residence.

Puerto Escondido

At 11 p.m. we arrived at Puerto Escondido, a small refuge where officials were said to be absent. This was a Friday night, and apparently the local fishermen were home, as evidenced by numerous punts, called pongas, which occupied the entirety of the small basin, leaving us nowhere to anchor. Powerful and tempting aromas of cooking food wafted from the small village, and increased our appetites a hundred times over. However, members of a band were hacking away on their electrically over-amplified instruments, playing Elvis Presley tunes at the upper decibels, and this, even more than the lack of anchorage, discouraged us from staying. We were staggeringly sleepy; all we wanted to do was to set the anchor and collapse in the bunks. Summoning our reserves, however, we made sail for the open sea, and left Puerto Escondido astern.

The wind was light and the sea calm, so we motored along while steering by autopilot. But a deep fatigue required that we take turns at ultra-short dog watches, and even then, the watchkeeper slept, albeit fitfully.

I was resting belowdecks when Jenny called urgently. I jumped up and looked out, and there in the black of night stood land - dead ahead. Jenny had been dozing, but had awakened in time to prevent sure disaster. We swung Suka around, headed back out to sea, and reset the autopilot - wondering how this could have happened. Something had affected Suka's auto pilot, and turned Suka ninety degrees toward land. The fluxgate compass that feeds heading information to the auto pilot had been affected by some sort of electric or magnetic perturbation, most likely man-made. Had a submarine passed beneath and tested its secret technology on us? Other than conjecture, I had no real explanation.

In a similarly abstruse vein, the Australians Richard and Diane Molony had reported an unexplained happening while sailing Nikki past the Amazon River, 80 miles off-shore. "We were in water 1,112 fathoms deep on a clear night with a gentle breeze," Richard reported, "when the sound of breaking water brought us both to the deck in a flash. Nothing was in sight, but all around the sea boiled and swirled, slewing Nikki one way and then the other. It sounded like tidal overfalls. Then we were clear of the area and back to smooth sailing. The disturbance was probably caused by an upwelling of Amazonian water. Strangely, though, that same night our radar detector went insane, bonging its heart out for 5 minutes, even though there were no ships or planes in sight. At the same time our Sat-nav lost all memory. We have no explanation."

Dragging a large bonito aboard, I tossed the line back into the water in order to straighten it, before reeling it back onto the spool. However, this proved a mistake, because another large bonito voraciously struck the lure. "Oh, come on," I protested, "not another bonito. OK fish, let's do this the easy way. Just swim near and I'll remove the hook and set...you...free." But no, the fish had to struggle and thrash mightily for 15 minutes until I could muscle it close enough to reach over the rail and grab the hook with a pair of pliers. One shake freed the creature, and this time I did not feed the line back into the water in order to straighten it before winding it back onto the spool.

These fresh bonito afforded a delicious sushimi. Jenny would fillet the fish, then dice the flesh into bite sized pieces. We dipped these raw morsels into a strong horseradish sauce called Wasabe, then we ate them as is. While reading in the cockpit, I happened to glance to the deck where my beloved was preparing the fillets. Without dipping them into the Wasabe sauce she was nibbling the raw flesh.

Acapulco

The next day, the 25th of November, at 3 a.m in the dark of night - We entered the extravaganza of a port that is Acapulco. The huge bay was surrounded by steep hills covered with brightly lit high-rise luxury hotels and other buildings. The lights of these were so bright that we could easily see to navigate. Along the waterfront, cruise ships lay bedecked in colored lights stems to sterns, which added to the enchantment. The early morning stillness was broken only by the low rumble of Perkins as we headed for the Acapulco Yacht Club, and by greetings we exchanged with passing fishermen.

At the club we threaded our way through myriad vessels large and small, and borrowed an unoccupied mooring. The ship's sumlog indicated that in the eight days since leaving Costa Rica we had traveled a little over 900 miles.

Jenny:

From within the harbor a faint solar glow to the east silhouetted the hills. What a long night it had been. The incessant motoring, the vigilance of coastal navigating, and the ponga dodging had fatigued us deeply. We were ready for a long rest. When Ray shut off Perkins, the silence rang in my ears. With Suka tied to a buoy, our world was now still and secure; at last we could sleep soundly. Even so, I awoke a few hours later feeling not much rested but too excited about being in Acapulco to sleep any longer. Outside, the sun was not yet over the hilltops and the city was bathed in an early morning pastel light. The nearby beach was already bustling with activity as a few industrious Mexicans, intent on earning American dollars, prepared to hustle fishing excursions to tourists. Business seemed to be prospering. The rattle of tired diesel engines and honking horns wafted our way from what appeared the downtown area.

I brewed coffee and when Ray awoke I suggested we go ashore. We dinghied to the docks of the prestigious Acapulco Yacht Club, and found it surprisingly accommodating to visitors. The grounds were clean and quiet and the tranquil ambiance appealing. Anxious to see some of the city, and hungry for genuine huevos rancheros, we set off on foot from the yacht club in the direction of town. The day had already grown hot by the time we reached the waterfront, where fishing boat owners were broadcasting their bargain excursions. "No thank you," I thought sardonically, "another boat trip is the last thing I want right now."

After dining on zesty Mexican food, we browsed and window shopped, and leisurely returned to the yacht club. To enter the club from the street was to enter a cool, lush, and quiet park in the middle of a hot and fumy city. At the club's front desk we learned that use of a buoy was not expensive. When we paid for it we were issued membership cards, and granted guest privileges. The facilities were lavish and accommodating, and I felt conspicuous wearing tattered tennis shoes and faded shorts and shirt, yet no one seemed to notice. We sat in the shade by the swimming pool, and ordered cold drinks. What a life! The pool looked inviting, so I made a quick dinghy trip out to Suka to fetch our bathing suits and more appropriate clothing. After a prolonged stint of lounging pool side, we used the club's showers, then strolled around the docks, gazing at monster power yachts kept spotless by many hired hands.

Early the next morning we moved Suka to the fuel and water dock, where we scrubbed the topsides while waiting for the señor to arrive. Sooty exhaust had blackened the transom, so working in the dinghy with soap, scrub brush, the trickling hose, and a generous application of elbow grease, I worked until Suka's stern was once again sparkling white and her varnished name boards glistening. Then I scrubbed at the stubborn algae growing at the waterline, and removed the tell-tale signs of our bountiful fishing, dried to the hull.

The señor finally arrived, and at a mere 25 cents per gallon we topped Suka's diesel fuel tanks, filled the jerry jugs, and wished we had the capacity to carry more.

For me, happiness was walking into Camacho Supermercado with a supply of pesos and a long shopping list. In a welcome contrast from Costa Rica's high prices and limited supplies, Acapulco's many and modern supermarkets were well stocked with inexpensive domestic and American merchandise. The colorful display of fresh, healthy produce was a sight for vitamin-deficient eyes. Leaving me comparing varieties of avocados, Ray wandered off toward the books and magazine section. During our voyage I had learned to appreciate such a mundane chore as grocery shopping. Knowing that many weeks could pass before I would find the opportunity to stock up again, and that the produce would have to keep for many days unrefrigerated, I meticulously scrutinized each onion, potato, tomato and so on for blemishes. And I chose fruits and vegetables in varying stages of greenness, to be used as they ripened.

During the voyage we had delighted in sampling unique, regional foods: fragrant cilantro from the markets of Central America, colorful plantains from the French Polynesian islands, guinea fowl eggs from the supermercado of Fortaleza, abundant papayas from Tonga, even fresh conch meat sold in the market on Bonaire. Not only were the unfamiliar foods intriguing, but the currency was often unusual; even the shopkeepers faces were engaging. Market day was an opportunity to see a land's abundant yield, and the inhabitants who labored for and depended on it. That day, Ray and I walked out of the Camacho Supermercado with four sacks of groceries each, and still I had a pocketful of pesos. Food and commodities were inexpensive.

During our last two days in Acapulco we prepared Suka for the next leg to Manzanillo. We changed the engine oil and replaced the oil filter, we went to the grocery store two more times, and I packed the aft cabin wall to wall with fresh food.

Despite the incredulous comments of our new acquaintances at the yacht club, that we could not leave on Thanksgiving Day, we said goodbye, and wished them well on their southward journeys. With the sun laying low in the evening sky we motored out of the bay, feeling more than a tinge of sadness to be leaving Acapulco so soon.

During the two day voyage to Las Hadas we enjoyed fine weather. I noted that there seemed to be a characteristic meteorological pattern within a few miles of shore. The late afternoon winds would veer and head us, until before dark we would be tacking. Around 10 or 11 p.m. the wind would have veered enough to allow Suka to reach along close-hauled on the starboard tack, and for the remainder of the night she would enjoy easy motorsailing at an agreeable pace in light airs. Mid morning the wind would begin blowing off-shore, and as the day wore on it would continue veering. Presumably this cyclic effect is the result of convective on-shore and off-shore breezes precipitated by the differential solar heating and cooling of land and sea. This time of year anyway, this convection seemed strong enough to counter the prevailing off-shore north-westerlies, for typically we experienced the swell coming from that direction, despite what our local breezes were doing. On a few occasions we experimented by moving several miles farther out, but found only stronger headwinds and headseas.

Manzanillo

Anchoring in the otherwise empty bay fronting the extravagant Las Hadas Resort Hotel, we ventured ashore to idle away a few hours posing as guests seated at the pool and nursing iced drinks. The next day we rode a taxi into Manzanillo and were successful at checking-in and out with the maritime officials, although this proved something of an ordeal in its duration and complication. Back at the hotel we learned that its marina was low on diesel fuel, so the following day we relocated Suka to Manzanillo Harbor and anchored in front of town. We paddled ashore, then Jenny returned aboard to watch Suka while I rode a taxi to an outlying station far out of town, to fill our four large diesel jugs. After returning aboard and emptying the containers into Suka's tanks, we repeated the process a second time.

Late afternoon we sailed away a few miles to a beautiful, secluded anchorage by the name of Ensenada Carrizal. The place was scenic and tranquil, but its isolation imparted the sensation of having placed ourselves in an ideal setting for a scuttling. The danger was probably imagined; yet I was not inclined to test the odds, and rather than endure the night reacting to every noise, I decided to depart.

We continued throughout the night, and at noon the following day we entered Bahia Chamela. A swell working into the bay disturbed this anchorage considerably, so after a three hour nap we returned to sea, and motorsailed onward, holding the shoreline close abeam.

During our travels along the Central American coast we were witnessing a gradual but dramatic change in scenery. The lush, impenetrable jungles of Panama and Costa Rica had given way with the passing of latitude to the barren and seemingly lifeless land of Northern Mexico. Farther on, we were to see the shores of the Baja peninsula like a moonscape, nearly void of greenery at this time of year.

Ipala

The following afternoon, after a wild and bumpy night of progressing slowly, we ducked into the last possible anchorage before addressing the open-water passage across the Sea of Cortez. This was Ipala, and we found it empty save for a few local fishing prams. Even though Suka was the only yacht, unlike at Carrizal I felt little danger of foul play here, largely because of the proximity of the nearby village. Jenny dove overboard with carpet and putty knife in hand, and scrubbed the hull below the waterline. She reported that the lush green scenery was not the only variable of change with our passing of latitudes; the water was growing decidedly frigid. Scrubbing Suka's bottom was normally the skipper's job, but at the time I was racking through yet another enervating 12-hour relapse of malaria.

We departed early and followed the coast to Cabo Corrientes, then struck out across the Sea of Cortez, hoping we had gone far enough north in order to keep the gulf-spewed wind off of Suka's nose. The seas were remarkably calm - to within about half way across the gap, then during our second day they roughened. Close hauled to a zephyr broad over the starboard bow, we progressed favorably. At one point we hauled in a big dorado, larger than any we had caught, but on wrestling it near, we saw the dorado's mate, perhaps, as large and swimming at its side. The sight was so touching that we both agreed we did not need the fish. So with a pair of pliers I reached over the gunwale, grabbed the thrashing hook lodged in the fish's mouth, and wrenched it free.

Cabo San Lucas

Early the morning of our third day at sea, our destination hove into sight and before long we had entered the inner anchorage at Cabo San Lucas. The annual migration of yachts from California was on, and sail and power yachts of every size and description were here in phenomenal numbers. We had not seen anything like it.

We lightered ashore our supply of diesel jugs to take care of our first priority. North-bound against wind and current, we would be needing plenty of fuel. The walk to the pumps proved miles in length, and in the process we found that our sea legs were not strong legs. So for the return trip we hailed a taxi, then rowed out and emptied the four 5-gallon fuel jugs into Suka's tanks before returning on a second fuel run.

We spent two days relaxing aboard, wending the dusty streets of Cabo while inspecting the gaudy wares of the merchants, and frequenting the little taco stands. One afternoon we suffered, as my journal whimsically states, a brush with the mighty Mexican margaritas. Innocently enough we had sauntered into a small but lively cantina, and thirstily ordered the drinks. It seems that the Cabo San Lucans were fiercely proud of their unsparingly virile margaritas, and as we later staggered the short distance back to the dinghy, the world reeled. Jenny is something of an abstainer by nature, and she was now so sick that I had to use my utmost strength and fortitude to cavalier her back aboard. The next day we were beside ourselves; so much so, in fact, that we abnegated alcohol from our lives once and for all. (To this day we don't drink booze.)

Feeling rather uninspired of the world at large, and this time not from the malaria, I slipped overboard and scrubbed the prop. Then we departed.

Departing Cabo, we had steamed about half a mile and were approaching the famous rocky outcroppings known as Baja's "Land's End," when we noticed a patrol boat following us. Our presence here was illegal, having neither cleared in nor out, and it looked like we were being pursued. Unable to think of a better course of action, I steered back toward the moorings. Thankfully the patrol boat continued on, but even so, we felt that the patrolmen might apprehend us if we tried to leave without the proper credentials. So we collected the bridle of one of the moorings and then went into town to check-in (and out) with the officials. No doubt due to the heavy influx of yachts, the officials here seemed to have a firm grip on their clearance procedures, for we found the process relatively easy, albeit time-consuming walking to and actually locating the various offices spread seemingly half way to Timbuktu.

Dinghying back out to the moorings, we were aghast to discover that someone had shifted Suka to an adjacent buoy, and one closer to shore and in markedly shallower water at that. Suka now had less than 24 inches of water between her keel and the bottom. Nothing aboard had been disturbed, and we could only surmise that whoever had done this, was the same person that also managed the moorings. We questioned the neighbors, and as might have been expected they had seen nothing. Back aboard, we unshipped this new mooring, and re-anchored at our original slot within the inner harbor.

Early the next morning we departed Cabo again, and rounded Land's End without incident. Eight miles out, however, while approaching Cabo Falso we were beset by powerful headwinds and fearfully bashing seas. We motor-sailed into the tempest a ways, but with increasingly less headway. Poor Suka was taking a pounding. We knew that once well clear of Cabo Falso progress would be easier, but the sky was greasing-over so ominously that the conditions seemed less than ideal for traveling north. So reluctantly we turned tail and flew back to Cabo and our previous anchorage. There we spent what remained of an otherwise pleasant day working on various projects aboard, interspersed with forays ashore to frequent the taco stands.

According to most accounts, the trip north-west along Baja's coastline is arduous at best. The seas are normally swept with 25-knot headwinds and a bone jarring oncoming chop. We had long been concerned about this passage, and our morning's experience had only confirmed our worst fears: that this final run promised to be rough and wildly unpleasant.

The following morning we were not as eager. We waited until 10 a.m. to determine whether the morning wind would eventuate. It did not, and the sky appeared far more promising, so we decided to try again. This time the conditions at sea were not so awful, and we rounded Cabo Falso. And as we proceeded, the wind came more off-shore and the seas quieted. Suka bounded along gleefully, and her crew counted their blessings with the passing of every precious mile.

By the next day the wind and seas had diminished altogether, leaving us motoring steadily onward throughout the afternoon and night. On our third day, the oncoming seas grew lumpy and we feared the worst was to come, but the conditions calmed again during the night.

As we neared Turtle Bay, four days out from Cabo San Lucas, the wind began blowing increasingly harder off-shore. Progressively, we reefed Suka to the hilt, and even then she heeled far over, slashing a streak of white across the flustered seas. Finally the stress proved too much for our old jib, which had helped propel us nearly around the world. Like the shot from a cannon the sail exploded and rent into two separate pieces. The sheets, the clew, and several yards of material slumped to the deck, and the remainder fluttered at the headstay like a mighty, tattered flag. We doffed the rags, and hanked our spare - and as yet unused - working jib, then sailed on.

Bahia Tortugas

Reaching the entrance to Turtle Bay that afternoon, we tacked into the anchorage against a gnarly off-shore blast. A dozen yachts lay straining to their bowers, and we settled near them. While Perkins was warm we changed its engine oil, then we ventured ashore in pursuit of a pair of the famed Turtle Bay lobster dinners. Ambling along the dirt roads of the village, we met and talked with a few sailboat people fresh-from-the-big-city. They seemed friendly enough, once we had attracted their attention, yet they seemed also somewhat insular and self-absorbed.

That evening, as we sat in a little restaurant sipping cafés and awaiting the cook to bring our order, a group of five sailboat people entered, chose a table adjacent ours, and proceeded to ignore us. After pondering this odd behavior awhile, we elicited their attention then managed to pass the dinner hour while talking with - rather, listening to - them. Yachtees we had met the-world-over generally displayed certain distinguishing qualities. Generalizing, they were interesting to listen to, and they, in turn, were interested in listening to us. Yet here at Turtle Bay we found these people somehow alien, and the contrast between them and our cruising friends of yore emphasized how much our round the world voyage had changed us. No doubt we had been rather like these folks at the onset of our voyage. We certainly did not feel superior; rather, we felt nostalgic for the folks we had met "out there", the folks who, through trials, tribulations, and ineffable joy rather matching our own, had shed some of their pretentiousness, and had opened their hearts to fellow travelers.

More importantly, at this point Suka had logged some 32,000 miles and was now only 325 miles from American soil. With the end at hand we were growing excited, but only inasmuch as we were culminating a three year voyage, and fulfilling a most sanguine dream. In reality, drawing close to the end meant we were about to terminate the adventure of a lifetime. Indeed, seafaring had become our way of life, and in encountering these cultured greenhorns, people like us when we first set out, we felt intimidated of the world we were about to re-enter.

We lingered for two days, waiting for the fierce winds to abate. Then while listening to the VHF radio we learned that, remarkably, crews of south-bound yachts were experiencing little wind. This seemed remarkable, considering that Suka's cable was stretched taut to a fierce blow. Taking this information into account, the following morning we ignored the local feisty conditions, and departed early. During the initial five miles we experienced heavy off-shore gusts, interspersed with increasingly calm sections. And before long we found ourselves motoring into light headwinds playing across flat seas. And incredibly, we were to travel the remainder of the distance to San Diego upon calm seas.

We enjoyed a remarkably easy passage from Cabo San Lucas, and in fact, from Panama. But nearing California we encountered a final complicating factor: fog. For two days and nights Suka motored steadily upon a tranquil, unrippled sea, with views confined to a scant few hundred feet, if that. Motoring ahead into the vast unseen was a somewhat unnerving, especially considering that numbers of cruising yachts were heading in the opposite direction. Every few hours the fog lifted enough to allow an expanded field of vision. Even so, though, we felt we were playing the odds somewhat.

Jenny:

The sea had been glassy all day; not a whisper of wind disturbed the surface, but the dense fog had kept us vigilant. We listened intently for the sound of any nearby ships, and on a couple occasions we heard the throbbing rumble of a passing vessel, and discerned a dark form passing through the gray mist. Also, we had to dodge clusters of floating kelp, while hoping they wouldn't foul the propeller. Jumping into these numbing cold Northern Pacific waters to clear the prop would have been most unappealing.

South Coronado Island

The Coronados Islands lie in Mexican waters a scant twelve miles south of San Diego, and with great relief we finally sighted them looming ahead. As we approached South Coronado the fog dispersed, and the sun's warmth seemed to welcome us to the quiet anchorage. As I readied the chain and anchor on the foredeck I realized that, as we were so near to civilization, this might be the last occasion on our circumnavigation that we would be setting anchor.

As a result of recent moisture, a soft green overcoat clad the island's steep and rocky shoreline. A few seagulls perched serenely on their white-spattered rocks, and a pair of sea lions lolled nearby. The place seemed familiar.

We set the anchor onto a patch of white sand contrasting with the mostly rocky bottom, then when Perkins had quieted we switched on the VHF and listened to the chatter of radio talk: marine operators and ship-to-shore conversations. Two days before Christmas, the channel was busy with holiday well-wishers.

"Let's try calling our parents;" Ray grinned, "they'll be surprised when they learn where we are."

We surprised our parents, and also our friend Joe. "I figured you must be getting pretty close by now," Joe remarked. "You guys have really been moving!"

I climbed back outside to watch the last of the sunlight painting the island. Ray joined me in the cockpit, and as we sat enjoying the ambiance I remembered why this place looked familiar. Before the hectic final months prior to our departure from San Diego, we had motor-sailed here to anchor overnight. That had been my first short voyage aboard Suka. Ray and I agreed that anchoring here once again was a grand finale to our circumnavigation. And with that, the immensity of our voyage flooded me. I felt a renewed admiration and love for our seaworthy ship and also for her captain. Ray's dream had become my dream, and I could only marvel at what the two of us had accomplished.

Ray:

Well before daylight we departed Coronado Sur, and motored across calm waters toward the bright lights of civilization. We intended avoiding San Diego, and were headed for ports farther north, hoping to find suitable berthing at one of them. Nevertheless, as we crossed the Mexican-US Border, and as I radioed the US Coast Guard to report our arrival in American waters, the officer instructed us to proceed to the Shelter Island Police Dock, as a matter of routine.

Clearly, one aspect that had changed dramatically as we had sailed farther north was the decline in air temperature. The cold felt penetrating. This was our farthest from the equator since leaving South Africa, which lies in the southern hemisphere at about this distance from the equator. So while motoring into the pre-dawn darkness we were wearing nearly our every garment. Additionally, I sat at the helm with a sleeping bag draped about my shoulders. San Diego was not uncommonly cold; rather, we had acclimated to the tropics.

Crossing our outbound track, and approaching the famous harbor, we were unable to discern the flashing fairway buoys against the brilliant lights of the city standing in the background. So like novices we groped about, confused, until eventually a fishing boat came along and made its way in. We followed it.