My little girl is not so little any more. Of course, everyone told me this, but I chose to ignore them. Just because she's beautiful, mature, and a snappy dresser, you think she's a big girl? No way. Just because she turned 13 and insists on being called a teenager? Just because she finally started taking school seriously and is blasting through her seventh grade materials at double speed in an effort to catch up the lost time for the “rogue years.” Do these things add up to a grown up young lady?
Just say NO. No no no!
But um... now I'm going to have to admit that Jaime might be growing up in spite of my state of motherly denial. Captain Uncle Glenn of s/v Beach Access, our buddy boat and fellow Lagoon 380, invited Jaime to crew on the Baja Bash. This is a big deal. The Baja Bash is a hard sail during the best of times. Doing it in mid-June compounds the difficulty with steady northwest winds on the nose and generally mixed, unpleasant seas. Doing it on a fairly tight schedule because Glenn needs to get back to the States to work increases the order of difficulty yet more. And Jaime was not only willing, she was eager to volunteer.
Jaime may or may not grow up to be a merchant marine captain. However, right now she seems quite serious about her desire to grow up and get a captain's license. In mid-June, she packed up a small duffel bag of clothes, her iPod, her Algebra book, and her HAM radio license work book. I'm probably the only one that cried a bit as she climbed on the bus with her father, headed for La Paz and Beach Access. Maybe she sniffled. Maybe it was hay fever. It was hard watching her go.
For two weeks, we received daily reports of their progress. They left La Paz in a bit of a tearing fit hurry in advance of Tropical Cyclone Andres. Their first days were a whirlwind of steady, speedy progress, down the tip of Baja and around to Cabo. At Cabo, they got a nasty taste of the Pacific in the form of four miserable attempts to round Cabo Falso. It was hard waiting for the periodic messages sent via SSB SailMail. At first optimistic, Glenn's messages described a steady series of challenges and set backs. Then after finally rounding the cape, they faced nasty winds for the entire 700 nautical mile trip north.
Jaime's first experience of the Bash was everything that we hear that is horrid about taking your boat north up the outside of the Baja peninsula. The wind was nearly always in their face, the seas were nearly always the consistency of a washing machine, the temperatures were cold and the progress slow, draining and almost entirely motor or motor sailing. They didn't get to stop when they wanted to do so, then they had to stop when they didn't want to, they nearly collapsed on getting to Turtle Bay and again on arriving in Ensenada.
I am sure my daughter wasn't perfect; I have yet to hear many of the details. Yet, Glenn's reports give me reason to hope that my girl acquitted herself well on the journey. She clearly was taking watches, helping with sail trim, and trying to contribute where she could. I was particularly proud when I heard that her first impulse on finally arriving in Ensenada was to invite the captain and other crew member out for a nice steak dinner. Such class and manners were not something we told her to do, nor did we provide the money. Jaime rose to the occasion entirely without our guidance or support. She just did it.
I try not to tell everyone about this... or not too many times. I try to contain myself. With as much fighting and animosity as we share, it hardly seems fair for me to take credit for Jaime doing something so damn awesome. Someone else – mostly likely Jaime herself – should get all the kudos and accolades for her fairing so well, so young, and so capably. Her courage, her smarts, her willingness to work, her ability to generate sufficient trust in Glenn that he would take her.
But I can't help it. MY daughter is all that and a bag of chips. MY daughter just completed an offshore passage that would daunt many seasoned cruisers. MY wonderful, capable young woman made good choices, impressed the hell out of everyone, and did a favor for a good friend.
MY daughter is Jaime.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
I Told You So
Remember when I wrote recently about how we cruisers have nothing to fear except fear itself... and perhaps swimming pools? You have no idea how prescient that article feels in retrospect.
It all started with a simple idea. Let's take the van for a trial camping run down to El Burro to meet up with other cruisers to celebrate the July 4 holiday. For many years, cruising boats have rallied in El Burro to share food, friendship, and fireworks on that most American of holidays. The trip would enable us to test our gear, work on adapting kitty to van life, and provide a nice relief to the monotony of dock life in Santa Rosalia.
Our first life threatening experience came on the trip down. We bought a van in La Paz, and DrC spent a few days during his last week with us shlepping down there on a bus and driving it back. He warned me that sometimes, “When you're at idle at a stop sign, the engine dies.” He didn't seem to feel it was a big problem, and neither of us thought too much about it. You can always just start the engine again when the light changes. Right?
Wrong. What if you're not at a stop light when the light changes? What if you're coasting down a very narrow, twisty mountain road with a 200 foot drop to the beach below and a large, gas freight truck behind you? What if when the engine dies, you discover that the reason they call it Power steering and Power brakes is that you need Power to make these crucial features work? Standing on the brake pedal and wrenching the wheel over a half inch, I was able to drift out of the way of the truck and onto a very thin shoulder on the opposite side of the road. The girls prairie dogged up from their books to ask me what was wrong as I hyperventilated by the side of the road, wondering if 42 was too young for a brain aneurysm triggered by a grand mal heart attack. “Nothing girls, no worries.” The van just tried to kill us. It's okay. Nothing to see here.
For the remaining 10 miles to El Burro, I slowed at the top of every hill, popped the van into neutral, and revved the engine all the way down while braking with my left foot. My heart rate was approximately 120 bbm for the duration, and I arrived in El Burro looking and feeling very much as though I'd seen back to back showings of Aliens and the Blair Witch project, every hair standing on end, covered in cold sweat, and knees liquid. But El Burro represented safety and cruiser brotherhood. I knew that somewhere in that fleet I would find succor in the form of tools, knowledge, and testosterone. And true enough, the next day Bob of s/v Panterra used some engine conditioner and a little elbow grease to get us functional.
Now when it comes to indicting land life, I don't it's fair to include the many mayo and egg based salads and pastas served at room temperature with artery inducing hot dogs at the party. I mean, that doesn't really count, right? That's just the standard American diet on July 4, and we can't hold that against the land world. Similarly, I will disqualify the heat – over 100 for two days with no air conditioner, fan, or pool. However, I think we can peg Land with the failed cooler, the dog pack, and the mosquitoes. Land also must take responsibility for the sand in my panties, the splinters in Aeron's feet, and the complete lack of potty facilities. However, it was the fireworks display that provided proof positive that Land is dangerous.
When you watch fireworks on a boat, they go off over there. Over the water over there. Not here, in other words. The fireworks in El Burro went off here. In fact, the firework-setter-offer-people reprised a classic Wily Coyote cartoon complete with an initially unimpressive few pops and whistles and bursts followed by a spectacular Acme-worthy display of lights, color and sound as a spark dropped into the fireworks box. There were rockets going off in every direction, igniting palapas, whizzing past peoples' legs and under chairs, shooting under the gas tanks of cars, and blasting into the crowd. People were running and screaming, dogs were howling, my cat disappeared. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Oddly, there were drunk cruisers asking, “Where's the rest of the fireworks?” after the mayhem was brought under control.
The drive back was comparatively uneventful. We dodged a bull found unexpectedly in the middle of the highway, stalled the car on the way through Mulege, and almost lost our rear view mirror to a Tecate truck above Santispac. The cat alternated between meowing in my ear and climbing on to the steering wheel and sticking her butt in my face. To prevent further stall outs, we left the air conditioning off, and it was a mere 102 on our arrival back at the boat.
In over a year, I've felt our lifestyle put us harm's way only once. In 48 hours on land I felt like my life and those of my cat and children were in serious, life threatening peril three times. We were consistently uncomfortable and always on edge. So please do not talk to me about how dangerous the cruising life is. No more stories about lost yachts, pirates, attacks on tourists, rolling waves of viral badness, or shark attacks.
My boat is safe. Land is dangerous. In fact, Land Sucks.
It all started with a simple idea. Let's take the van for a trial camping run down to El Burro to meet up with other cruisers to celebrate the July 4 holiday. For many years, cruising boats have rallied in El Burro to share food, friendship, and fireworks on that most American of holidays. The trip would enable us to test our gear, work on adapting kitty to van life, and provide a nice relief to the monotony of dock life in Santa Rosalia.
Our first life threatening experience came on the trip down. We bought a van in La Paz, and DrC spent a few days during his last week with us shlepping down there on a bus and driving it back. He warned me that sometimes, “When you're at idle at a stop sign, the engine dies.” He didn't seem to feel it was a big problem, and neither of us thought too much about it. You can always just start the engine again when the light changes. Right?
Wrong. What if you're not at a stop light when the light changes? What if you're coasting down a very narrow, twisty mountain road with a 200 foot drop to the beach below and a large, gas freight truck behind you? What if when the engine dies, you discover that the reason they call it Power steering and Power brakes is that you need Power to make these crucial features work? Standing on the brake pedal and wrenching the wheel over a half inch, I was able to drift out of the way of the truck and onto a very thin shoulder on the opposite side of the road. The girls prairie dogged up from their books to ask me what was wrong as I hyperventilated by the side of the road, wondering if 42 was too young for a brain aneurysm triggered by a grand mal heart attack. “Nothing girls, no worries.” The van just tried to kill us. It's okay. Nothing to see here.
For the remaining 10 miles to El Burro, I slowed at the top of every hill, popped the van into neutral, and revved the engine all the way down while braking with my left foot. My heart rate was approximately 120 bbm for the duration, and I arrived in El Burro looking and feeling very much as though I'd seen back to back showings of Aliens and the Blair Witch project, every hair standing on end, covered in cold sweat, and knees liquid. But El Burro represented safety and cruiser brotherhood. I knew that somewhere in that fleet I would find succor in the form of tools, knowledge, and testosterone. And true enough, the next day Bob of s/v Panterra used some engine conditioner and a little elbow grease to get us functional.
Now when it comes to indicting land life, I don't it's fair to include the many mayo and egg based salads and pastas served at room temperature with artery inducing hot dogs at the party. I mean, that doesn't really count, right? That's just the standard American diet on July 4, and we can't hold that against the land world. Similarly, I will disqualify the heat – over 100 for two days with no air conditioner, fan, or pool. However, I think we can peg Land with the failed cooler, the dog pack, and the mosquitoes. Land also must take responsibility for the sand in my panties, the splinters in Aeron's feet, and the complete lack of potty facilities. However, it was the fireworks display that provided proof positive that Land is dangerous.
When you watch fireworks on a boat, they go off over there. Over the water over there. Not here, in other words. The fireworks in El Burro went off here. In fact, the firework-setter-offer-people reprised a classic Wily Coyote cartoon complete with an initially unimpressive few pops and whistles and bursts followed by a spectacular Acme-worthy display of lights, color and sound as a spark dropped into the fireworks box. There were rockets going off in every direction, igniting palapas, whizzing past peoples' legs and under chairs, shooting under the gas tanks of cars, and blasting into the crowd. People were running and screaming, dogs were howling, my cat disappeared. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Oddly, there were drunk cruisers asking, “Where's the rest of the fireworks?” after the mayhem was brought under control.
The drive back was comparatively uneventful. We dodged a bull found unexpectedly in the middle of the highway, stalled the car on the way through Mulege, and almost lost our rear view mirror to a Tecate truck above Santispac. The cat alternated between meowing in my ear and climbing on to the steering wheel and sticking her butt in my face. To prevent further stall outs, we left the air conditioning off, and it was a mere 102 on our arrival back at the boat.
In over a year, I've felt our lifestyle put us harm's way only once. In 48 hours on land I felt like my life and those of my cat and children were in serious, life threatening peril three times. We were consistently uncomfortable and always on edge. So please do not talk to me about how dangerous the cruising life is. No more stories about lost yachts, pirates, attacks on tourists, rolling waves of viral badness, or shark attacks.
My boat is safe. Land is dangerous. In fact, Land Sucks.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
For Those Playing Along
Okay, we're leaving Santa Rosalia now. For those who want to either stalk the Congers or invite us over for dinner – and assuming those are not one and the same – you can follow our land travels in a number of ways:
Twitter – Whenever we are able to connect to the Internet, I will tweet our location. At least for the first week, I will not have access to a cell phone so the updates are likely to be sporadic. Once reconnected with DrC and Jaime, however, we should be able to tweet our location regularly via their cell phones. I'll set it so that @toastfloats tweets go directly to DrC's phone.
S.P.O.T. – I'm going to take the S.P.O.T. with me for safety reasons. I'll try to keep tracking turned on when we're moving or at least remember to mark where we stop.
The plan is for Mera, Aeron and I to spend about a week driving from Santa Rosalia to a wedding just north of Sante Fe, New Mexico. We're taking our time to give Dulcinea a chance to adapt as well as to take it easy on my back. I don't really want to drive more than a few hours per day. We'll be crossing the border in Tecate so San Diego folks will have to wait. We plan to by-pass Phoenix as well unless someone can give me a really compelling reason to go that way.
After the wedding, we pick up Grandma Sue and start hopping all over the southwest. We'd like to visit the Grand Canyon, Bryce, Zion, Navajo National Monument, Yosemite, and Mammoth before heading up to Sacramento. We'll also visit college towns about the size of Chico and Humboldt State so if folks know of nice college towns on our basic route, please send me the information. “College Town Life” might be phase 15 of the long term Dean and Toast Life Trajectory.
I'm a little fuzzy what happens after that. I'll let you know. Planning that far ahead gives me a headache. We do eventually have to make our way back to Mexico which will no doubt involving swinging through San Francisco, Long Beach, Los Angeles and San Diego sometime in September. Again, we're always looking for places to mooch a back yard for our tent and a flush toilet. If you're volunteering, please let me know.
Twitter – Whenever we are able to connect to the Internet, I will tweet our location. At least for the first week, I will not have access to a cell phone so the updates are likely to be sporadic. Once reconnected with DrC and Jaime, however, we should be able to tweet our location regularly via their cell phones. I'll set it so that @toastfloats tweets go directly to DrC's phone.
S.P.O.T. – I'm going to take the S.P.O.T. with me for safety reasons. I'll try to keep tracking turned on when we're moving or at least remember to mark where we stop.
The plan is for Mera, Aeron and I to spend about a week driving from Santa Rosalia to a wedding just north of Sante Fe, New Mexico. We're taking our time to give Dulcinea a chance to adapt as well as to take it easy on my back. I don't really want to drive more than a few hours per day. We'll be crossing the border in Tecate so San Diego folks will have to wait. We plan to by-pass Phoenix as well unless someone can give me a really compelling reason to go that way.
After the wedding, we pick up Grandma Sue and start hopping all over the southwest. We'd like to visit the Grand Canyon, Bryce, Zion, Navajo National Monument, Yosemite, and Mammoth before heading up to Sacramento. We'll also visit college towns about the size of Chico and Humboldt State so if folks know of nice college towns on our basic route, please send me the information. “College Town Life” might be phase 15 of the long term Dean and Toast Life Trajectory.
I'm a little fuzzy what happens after that. I'll let you know. Planning that far ahead gives me a headache. We do eventually have to make our way back to Mexico which will no doubt involving swinging through San Francisco, Long Beach, Los Angeles and San Diego sometime in September. Again, we're always looking for places to mooch a back yard for our tent and a flush toilet. If you're volunteering, please let me know.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Decommissioning Don Quixote for the Summer
We're leaving the boat for at least six weeks in Santa Rosalia. During that time there is a small but finite chance she'll have to ride out a small hurricane without us. Even if she doesn't, Don Quixote is going to sit for many weeks in the blazing sun all by herself. No family. No cat. No friendly mechanic to pat her diesels and soothe her ruffled rigging. She is going to be alone, lonely, solo.
In preparation, DrC and I put together a list of Things to Do Before You Leave the Boat, a.k.a. The Decommissioning List. Okay, technically it was two lists. DrC is big on grabbing the nearest pulp product – whether it be used envelope, napkin, paper towel or cruising magazine – and having at it with a handwriting style which combines the frenetic pace of a homicidal, crack-addled race driver and the manual dexterity of a toddler. I, on the other hand, discuss the issues at length, type the notes into iGTD, organize the tasks into contexts and projects, prioritize and date each unit of work, assign resources, and create online links to related materials. After which I print the results and they rot in the same bacteria-laden, sodden pile in the corner of the salon in which you'll find DrC's notes scrawled. It's a Thing We Do.
Before DrC left, he preemptively translated the majority of his own list into action. We took down the jib and all the running rigging, washing them in Woolite before storing them off the boat in a room onshore. He conditioned the diesels with biocide and prepped the outboard for a long stretch of quiet. While he was here, we cleared the bulky items out of the lockers, took care of the electrical, and completed all the heinous annual maintenance required on both holding tanks. Then he left.
Ever since, the much reduced crew of Don Quixote consisting of good ole me and two moderately unreliable little girls have attempted to complete our Decommissioning List. All this work seemed daunting when the waves were gently rocking the boat and the cool breeze was spinning us gently into new vistas every hour or so. Now at times the list feels insurmountable. I can hardly contemplate buttering toast, let alone scrubbing out the bilges.
We have been considerably hampered by the weather. The temperature has ranged from a hot 98 to a heinous 106 during the day and has only once gone below 85 at night, usually hovering in the low 90s. The humidity dips to 45% when the wind blows from the west but spends most of its time in the 65 to 75% range. The Santa Rosalia weather site cheerfully reported this morning that was only 36C but “it feels like 43C.” That's 109 people. That's insane. Several mornings I've sat naked in the salon in front of a fan using a bag of frozen fruit to cool my head while I watched the fog roll in. I hate fog at 90 degrees.
Nevertheless, we manage to chip piece by piece at the incredibly comprehensive list I created while sitting in lazy splendor sipping rum punch in Animas Slot. With only a week or so left before V-Day (the day we put our lives into the van and head north), we are close to the point where the only tasks left are those that must be done on just about the last day: cleaning and shutting down the refrigerator and taking down the bimini, for example. I can see the light at the end of this long, effort-driven tunnel.
After living on the boat for two years, it is simply astounding how much grunge we have accumulated. As we empty out each locker, scrub it down, wipe it out, spray it with vinegar water, and reload, we daily watch the water line rise. For an awkward few weeks, the bows were six inches up and driving the transoms down as we started from the front of the boat and worked our way back. As we near completion, Don Quixote is beginning to resume her trim. I think that by the time we're done, DrC and Jaime will return astonished to our lean, mean, trim sailing machine. Whereupon we will promptly fill her with dirt, cat hair, kid crap, cheap plastic shit, and Costco bulk food items.
Mera, Aeron, and I are just about done in, though. We're ready to spend days driving here and there. We are definitely ready to be off the dock and away from Santa Rosalia. I don't know how long we'll spend in the States; We've been hearing horror stories from cruisers who proceeded us up there into the Real World which suggest it's not such a fun and happy place.
At least we'll know that when we get back, our boat will be ready to go. At least we know that just about anywhere we go in the States will be cooler and more comfortable than here.
In preparation, DrC and I put together a list of Things to Do Before You Leave the Boat, a.k.a. The Decommissioning List. Okay, technically it was two lists. DrC is big on grabbing the nearest pulp product – whether it be used envelope, napkin, paper towel or cruising magazine – and having at it with a handwriting style which combines the frenetic pace of a homicidal, crack-addled race driver and the manual dexterity of a toddler. I, on the other hand, discuss the issues at length, type the notes into iGTD, organize the tasks into contexts and projects, prioritize and date each unit of work, assign resources, and create online links to related materials. After which I print the results and they rot in the same bacteria-laden, sodden pile in the corner of the salon in which you'll find DrC's notes scrawled. It's a Thing We Do.
Before DrC left, he preemptively translated the majority of his own list into action. We took down the jib and all the running rigging, washing them in Woolite before storing them off the boat in a room onshore. He conditioned the diesels with biocide and prepped the outboard for a long stretch of quiet. While he was here, we cleared the bulky items out of the lockers, took care of the electrical, and completed all the heinous annual maintenance required on both holding tanks. Then he left.
Ever since, the much reduced crew of Don Quixote consisting of good ole me and two moderately unreliable little girls have attempted to complete our Decommissioning List. All this work seemed daunting when the waves were gently rocking the boat and the cool breeze was spinning us gently into new vistas every hour or so. Now at times the list feels insurmountable. I can hardly contemplate buttering toast, let alone scrubbing out the bilges.
We have been considerably hampered by the weather. The temperature has ranged from a hot 98 to a heinous 106 during the day and has only once gone below 85 at night, usually hovering in the low 90s. The humidity dips to 45% when the wind blows from the west but spends most of its time in the 65 to 75% range. The Santa Rosalia weather site cheerfully reported this morning that was only 36C but “it feels like 43C.” That's 109 people. That's insane. Several mornings I've sat naked in the salon in front of a fan using a bag of frozen fruit to cool my head while I watched the fog roll in. I hate fog at 90 degrees.
Nevertheless, we manage to chip piece by piece at the incredibly comprehensive list I created while sitting in lazy splendor sipping rum punch in Animas Slot. With only a week or so left before V-Day (the day we put our lives into the van and head north), we are close to the point where the only tasks left are those that must be done on just about the last day: cleaning and shutting down the refrigerator and taking down the bimini, for example. I can see the light at the end of this long, effort-driven tunnel.
After living on the boat for two years, it is simply astounding how much grunge we have accumulated. As we empty out each locker, scrub it down, wipe it out, spray it with vinegar water, and reload, we daily watch the water line rise. For an awkward few weeks, the bows were six inches up and driving the transoms down as we started from the front of the boat and worked our way back. As we near completion, Don Quixote is beginning to resume her trim. I think that by the time we're done, DrC and Jaime will return astonished to our lean, mean, trim sailing machine. Whereupon we will promptly fill her with dirt, cat hair, kid crap, cheap plastic shit, and Costco bulk food items.
Mera, Aeron, and I are just about done in, though. We're ready to spend days driving here and there. We are definitely ready to be off the dock and away from Santa Rosalia. I don't know how long we'll spend in the States; We've been hearing horror stories from cruisers who proceeded us up there into the Real World which suggest it's not such a fun and happy place.
At least we'll know that when we get back, our boat will be ready to go. At least we know that just about anywhere we go in the States will be cooler and more comfortable than here.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Cat On a Hot Plastic Dock
I hear a piercing scream from the port hull. Mera sounds terrified, frantic. There are loud thuds and bangs, a howl, and more screaming. Within a flash, I'm up and have launched myself out of bed, up the companion way and across the salon.
“Mera! Mera!! What is it? Are you okay? What happened?” The torrent of motherly catch phrases pours out of my mouth even before my brain has fully wakened out of a sound sleep to the situation. “Are you hurt?”
Dulcinea gives a triumphant growl and a sickening crunch is heard from Mera's room. The cat streaks between my legs and out the cockpit, a blur of feline aggression. Mera sounds like she's hyperventilating, “Mom... mom...”
But I know what's happened now. I know with a dread certainty that my pleasant dreams of young men with coconut oil are gone for at least an hour while I straighten out this mess and calm the family down. “Another grasshopper?” I guess.
“Yes. She she... she put it on my stomach.”
I try to imagine this. You're sound asleep, pleasantly dreaming of something less pornographic than what's going on in the rather twisted mind of your parent in the opposite hull – something age appropriate, mind you, probably featuring Robert Pattinson and ice cream cones -- when a 3 inch grasshopper is victoriously placed on your chest. A live 3 inch grasshopper with no legs. And if that isn't enough, at the same time a happy, loving cat is meowing an announcement of her gift in your ear. The grasshopper flaps and flutters. The cat purrs and merrows. And suddenly the thing flits up off your chest to land, say... on your face.
I move into her cabin and soothe Mera, “It's okay, hun. It's okay.” Not the grasshopper. We both know the grasshopper is not okay. We both know that if we turn on the light we're going to see legs on the floor. We both know that Mera is not okay either. Her heart is racing and she's fast approaching a pathological, long term horror of crickets. What's okay is the scream. She had a perfect right to scream and wake up the whole family. Aeron and I are in complete accord with Mera. This was worth an ear-piercing, heart thudding, terror inducing howl.
As if to confirm my words, Aeron says, “S'all right Mera. She left two in my room, but they were on the floor,” tacit acknowledgement that there is a limit to our patience, with ourselves, with our cat. If the grasshoppers are on the floor, you don't get to wake everyone up any more. Stepping on a dismembered wing is so common an occurrence as to not rank sufficiently horrific for even so much as a whimper. But a chest deposit? Okay, fair enough. Scream to your heart's content, Mera.
I soothe Mera with a hug and the deft removal of grasshopper parts from her hair. “It's okay, baby. Go back to sleep.” We both glance out the hatch at the distinctive sound of Dulcinea thudding down the dock, collar chiming, voice calling, “perrrupppppp, chirp, perrumeoooowppp” as she returns to her hunting grounds. Absently, I rub Mera's back, “There can't be that many more out there...”
“Mera! Mera!! What is it? Are you okay? What happened?” The torrent of motherly catch phrases pours out of my mouth even before my brain has fully wakened out of a sound sleep to the situation. “Are you hurt?”
Dulcinea gives a triumphant growl and a sickening crunch is heard from Mera's room. The cat streaks between my legs and out the cockpit, a blur of feline aggression. Mera sounds like she's hyperventilating, “Mom... mom...”
But I know what's happened now. I know with a dread certainty that my pleasant dreams of young men with coconut oil are gone for at least an hour while I straighten out this mess and calm the family down. “Another grasshopper?” I guess.
“Yes. She she... she put it on my stomach.”
I try to imagine this. You're sound asleep, pleasantly dreaming of something less pornographic than what's going on in the rather twisted mind of your parent in the opposite hull – something age appropriate, mind you, probably featuring Robert Pattinson and ice cream cones -- when a 3 inch grasshopper is victoriously placed on your chest. A live 3 inch grasshopper with no legs. And if that isn't enough, at the same time a happy, loving cat is meowing an announcement of her gift in your ear. The grasshopper flaps and flutters. The cat purrs and merrows. And suddenly the thing flits up off your chest to land, say... on your face.
I move into her cabin and soothe Mera, “It's okay, hun. It's okay.” Not the grasshopper. We both know the grasshopper is not okay. We both know that if we turn on the light we're going to see legs on the floor. We both know that Mera is not okay either. Her heart is racing and she's fast approaching a pathological, long term horror of crickets. What's okay is the scream. She had a perfect right to scream and wake up the whole family. Aeron and I are in complete accord with Mera. This was worth an ear-piercing, heart thudding, terror inducing howl.
As if to confirm my words, Aeron says, “S'all right Mera. She left two in my room, but they were on the floor,” tacit acknowledgement that there is a limit to our patience, with ourselves, with our cat. If the grasshoppers are on the floor, you don't get to wake everyone up any more. Stepping on a dismembered wing is so common an occurrence as to not rank sufficiently horrific for even so much as a whimper. But a chest deposit? Okay, fair enough. Scream to your heart's content, Mera.
I soothe Mera with a hug and the deft removal of grasshopper parts from her hair. “It's okay, baby. Go back to sleep.” We both glance out the hatch at the distinctive sound of Dulcinea thudding down the dock, collar chiming, voice calling, “perrrupppppp, chirp, perrumeoooowppp” as she returns to her hunting grounds. Absently, I rub Mera's back, “There can't be that many more out there...”
Thursday, July 09, 2009
He Woke Up With This Idea
[Editor's Note: This blog entry contains MATURE CONTENT. Usually my stuff is readable by the children as long as you're not too strict with the issue of profanity. This one, however, is about sex. Some folks are a little touchy about this issue...]
My friend Meri of s/v Windfall noted with no small amount of exasperation, “He woke up with this idea, and it followed him all day.”
I nodded in agreement. “Men.” Men. Argh.
Okay, let's just take it as a given that no matter how much you love a man, the Imbalance of Sex thing is a problem. Women are romantic and would like to savor the experience on special occasions. Men would like to fornicate like bunnies every morning and every night. It is true: women are from Venus while men are from some planet on which sex is the only important functional task required of sentient life.
And don't think under normal circumstances that I'm not appreciative. I'm a forty something mother of three. I have stretch marks and flabby boobs and at least 15 pounds more than I should. I never wear make up, and I cut my hair like clock work every 6 months. I'm incredibly, unbelievably, amazingly lucky to have a sexy hot hunk of burning man like DrC interested in my battered and poorly kempt frame. He thinks I'm sexy. He wants my body! He finds me incredibly stimulating!! Woo hoo!!!
But, for crissakes, it's 90 degrees and overcast. I'm so hot that sweat is rolling down my neck and pooling under my breasts. My face looks like I took a wash cloth, soaked it in olive oil, and anointed myself. I smell bad, I feel sticky, two minutes out of the shower I feel like I've been dipped in pig shit. And if that isn't enough, my nose is running, my eyes itch, and my head hurts.
So pardon me if my first reaction to a firm bump in the rear portions by an interested male while my hands are buried deep in dirty dish water is to elbow him in the groin. I find the thought of sex in this climate about as unappealing as an after dinner snack of chocolate covered deep fried maggots. But nothing I say seems to discourage him. I can't slap his hands off my boobs without covering myself in suds and soap scum. Even growling does no good since in the strange language peculiar to men in heat, he interprets this as a come on.
So I completely sympathize with Meri. Men just wake up with this idea, and it's all you can do to get the idiots to come to their senses. Every woman reading to this point will not doubt sympathetically agree with Meri and I, “What the hell are they thinking?” While every man is probably asking himself, “Umm.... what's the problem? You're already hot, dirty and sweaty.”
Ugh.
Before we left, my husband and I wondered mightily what would happen to our sex life when we moved aboard the boat and sailed away with our children. On the one side, we were always more relaxed, uninhibited and – shall we say – active on vacation. More time, more energy. On the other hand, a boat is a really small echo chamber making noisy, uninhibited passion a bit awkward to say the least. Sound carries on water, by the way, so unless you want all your neighbors to also share in the moment... While there you go. On balance, I probably thought that we'd do it with approximately the same frequency but enjoy it more. DrC, of course, assumed we would simply do it more. Our vision of our sexual future was a direct by-product of our respective gender expectations and wistful hope rather than a pragmatic analysis of possible outcomes.
In the end, it's neither, both, and other. I'd have to describe us as healthier, our marriage stronger now than at any time in the 20 years we've been together. Part of that strength is an improved and healthier sex life. A really good reason to never go back to working full time is that when you're clocking 60 to 80 hours a week, there is not a particle of physical or emotional energy left for sex. Boat life does make for creative timing, interesting variations of doing it in utter silence, and no real necessity to ever have the “sex talk” with the children since I'm afraid all boat kids are inevitably exposed to a bit more of the practical complications of sexual activity than your average youngster. But I've spoken with enough boat couples on the subject to know, you too can have a good sex life out here cruising.
However, there is absolutely NOTHING on earth – no possible improvement or modification of our sexual habits – which will induce a sane woman to mate with an otherwise sane male under the conditions we face here in Santa Rosalia. It's too hot. We're too smelly and dirty. There's too little privacy. It's sticky and stuffy and everything smells funny. It just isn't going to happen. These captains are complete frickin' male morons and we're not going to be putting out until mid-October when the temperature drops 20 degrees.
Really.
No, I mean it.
“Okay, but just this once and only if you promise to stop grabbing my tits for 24 hours as a sign of your appreciation of my sacrifice."
My friend Meri of s/v Windfall noted with no small amount of exasperation, “He woke up with this idea, and it followed him all day.”
I nodded in agreement. “Men.” Men. Argh.
Okay, let's just take it as a given that no matter how much you love a man, the Imbalance of Sex thing is a problem. Women are romantic and would like to savor the experience on special occasions. Men would like to fornicate like bunnies every morning and every night. It is true: women are from Venus while men are from some planet on which sex is the only important functional task required of sentient life.
And don't think under normal circumstances that I'm not appreciative. I'm a forty something mother of three. I have stretch marks and flabby boobs and at least 15 pounds more than I should. I never wear make up, and I cut my hair like clock work every 6 months. I'm incredibly, unbelievably, amazingly lucky to have a sexy hot hunk of burning man like DrC interested in my battered and poorly kempt frame. He thinks I'm sexy. He wants my body! He finds me incredibly stimulating!! Woo hoo!!!
But, for crissakes, it's 90 degrees and overcast. I'm so hot that sweat is rolling down my neck and pooling under my breasts. My face looks like I took a wash cloth, soaked it in olive oil, and anointed myself. I smell bad, I feel sticky, two minutes out of the shower I feel like I've been dipped in pig shit. And if that isn't enough, my nose is running, my eyes itch, and my head hurts.
So pardon me if my first reaction to a firm bump in the rear portions by an interested male while my hands are buried deep in dirty dish water is to elbow him in the groin. I find the thought of sex in this climate about as unappealing as an after dinner snack of chocolate covered deep fried maggots. But nothing I say seems to discourage him. I can't slap his hands off my boobs without covering myself in suds and soap scum. Even growling does no good since in the strange language peculiar to men in heat, he interprets this as a come on.
So I completely sympathize with Meri. Men just wake up with this idea, and it's all you can do to get the idiots to come to their senses. Every woman reading to this point will not doubt sympathetically agree with Meri and I, “What the hell are they thinking?” While every man is probably asking himself, “Umm.... what's the problem? You're already hot, dirty and sweaty.”
Ugh.
Before we left, my husband and I wondered mightily what would happen to our sex life when we moved aboard the boat and sailed away with our children. On the one side, we were always more relaxed, uninhibited and – shall we say – active on vacation. More time, more energy. On the other hand, a boat is a really small echo chamber making noisy, uninhibited passion a bit awkward to say the least. Sound carries on water, by the way, so unless you want all your neighbors to also share in the moment... While there you go. On balance, I probably thought that we'd do it with approximately the same frequency but enjoy it more. DrC, of course, assumed we would simply do it more. Our vision of our sexual future was a direct by-product of our respective gender expectations and wistful hope rather than a pragmatic analysis of possible outcomes.
In the end, it's neither, both, and other. I'd have to describe us as healthier, our marriage stronger now than at any time in the 20 years we've been together. Part of that strength is an improved and healthier sex life. A really good reason to never go back to working full time is that when you're clocking 60 to 80 hours a week, there is not a particle of physical or emotional energy left for sex. Boat life does make for creative timing, interesting variations of doing it in utter silence, and no real necessity to ever have the “sex talk” with the children since I'm afraid all boat kids are inevitably exposed to a bit more of the practical complications of sexual activity than your average youngster. But I've spoken with enough boat couples on the subject to know, you too can have a good sex life out here cruising.
However, there is absolutely NOTHING on earth – no possible improvement or modification of our sexual habits – which will induce a sane woman to mate with an otherwise sane male under the conditions we face here in Santa Rosalia. It's too hot. We're too smelly and dirty. There's too little privacy. It's sticky and stuffy and everything smells funny. It just isn't going to happen. These captains are complete frickin' male morons and we're not going to be putting out until mid-October when the temperature drops 20 degrees.
Really.
No, I mean it.
“Okay, but just this once and only if you promise to stop grabbing my tits for 24 hours as a sign of your appreciation of my sacrifice."
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Dipped In Snot
I stand posed in the salon, feet braced wide, arms outstretched for balance. Waiting.
The girls are delighted. With an explosion I sneeze, rocking back on my heels. Mera shouts, “One!”
This is not good. This is so not good. I practically hyperventilate as the next one builds. The girls urge me on, “Come on Mom... you can do it!”
Wait for it. Wait for it.... “Aaachooooo!!” followed immediately by a chorus of, “Two!”
Oddly, three, four and five come blasting out in quick staccato succession. “Choo choo choo” like a train getting going, small and sharp. “Three! Four!! Five!!!” Aeron calls, peeling with laughter and glee.
But then it stops. It's like that last bit of co co ca choo did the trick and abruptly my nose stops itching, my eyes stop watering, and I can breathe. I take a deep breath and smile. My happiness is Aeron's grief, however. Five is not impressive. It doesn't even come close to the record.
The record was achieved the day before in a half hour of unmitigated misery. Aeron and Mera are still arguing whether or not it was one long procession of 22 sneezes or actually – as Mera argues – three separate batches. The problem is one of definition. How long is Mommy allowed to breathe and recover between sneezes for the sneeze to count as part of a series? Like skipping rocks, my sneezes are now a children's game to delight and amuse. Like any children's game, the game is not sufficiently amusing unless it also generates endless bickering over the rules.
Dante truly lacked sufficient imagination, because surely this must be another heretofore undescribed circle of hell. My head is stuffy, nose and eyes running, face itchy, eyes red. And at the same time, it is 88 degrees this morning, 72% humidity, and a fog bank is rolling in through the harbor. I'd like to say it's beautiful, but my sweat is sweating and I feel like I've been dipped in snot.
DrC diagnosed the malady as Hay Fever. Of course, there is no hay for at least 750 miles. Besides, I'm not allergic to hay. I'm allergic to sheep, oak trees and grass. There are no sheep, oak trees or grass within 750 miles either. So it's not fair. I stomp my feet twice and tell you it is not fair. Make it stop. Make it stop yesterday.
The girls watch me closely. Their internal clock is apparently still ticking. I'm not out of The Zone in which another sneeze would accrue to the prior series. I glare across the salon at my spawn, not in a particularly accommodating mode. They ate all the yogurt and granola leaving me nothing but corn flakes and a limp banana for breakfast. This eagerness to see me suffer is simply adding insult to injury. To hell with my kids.
And as if the thought blew in on a karmic wind, I'm suddenly gripped by fate, muscles abruptly tense, a shudder blasting through my body, “AAAAAchoooooy!”
The girls are delighted. With an explosion I sneeze, rocking back on my heels. Mera shouts, “One!”
This is not good. This is so not good. I practically hyperventilate as the next one builds. The girls urge me on, “Come on Mom... you can do it!”
Wait for it. Wait for it.... “Aaachooooo!!” followed immediately by a chorus of, “Two!”
Oddly, three, four and five come blasting out in quick staccato succession. “Choo choo choo” like a train getting going, small and sharp. “Three! Four!! Five!!!” Aeron calls, peeling with laughter and glee.
But then it stops. It's like that last bit of co co ca choo did the trick and abruptly my nose stops itching, my eyes stop watering, and I can breathe. I take a deep breath and smile. My happiness is Aeron's grief, however. Five is not impressive. It doesn't even come close to the record.
The record was achieved the day before in a half hour of unmitigated misery. Aeron and Mera are still arguing whether or not it was one long procession of 22 sneezes or actually – as Mera argues – three separate batches. The problem is one of definition. How long is Mommy allowed to breathe and recover between sneezes for the sneeze to count as part of a series? Like skipping rocks, my sneezes are now a children's game to delight and amuse. Like any children's game, the game is not sufficiently amusing unless it also generates endless bickering over the rules.
Dante truly lacked sufficient imagination, because surely this must be another heretofore undescribed circle of hell. My head is stuffy, nose and eyes running, face itchy, eyes red. And at the same time, it is 88 degrees this morning, 72% humidity, and a fog bank is rolling in through the harbor. I'd like to say it's beautiful, but my sweat is sweating and I feel like I've been dipped in snot.
DrC diagnosed the malady as Hay Fever. Of course, there is no hay for at least 750 miles. Besides, I'm not allergic to hay. I'm allergic to sheep, oak trees and grass. There are no sheep, oak trees or grass within 750 miles either. So it's not fair. I stomp my feet twice and tell you it is not fair. Make it stop. Make it stop yesterday.
The girls watch me closely. Their internal clock is apparently still ticking. I'm not out of The Zone in which another sneeze would accrue to the prior series. I glare across the salon at my spawn, not in a particularly accommodating mode. They ate all the yogurt and granola leaving me nothing but corn flakes and a limp banana for breakfast. This eagerness to see me suffer is simply adding insult to injury. To hell with my kids.
And as if the thought blew in on a karmic wind, I'm suddenly gripped by fate, muscles abruptly tense, a shudder blasting through my body, “AAAAAchoooooy!”
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Alone Again
[Editor's Note: Written as we returned from Bahia de Los Angeles to Santa Rosalia in mid June.]
Something about timing precludes the Conger Clan from exploring new territory at the same time as every other boat in the cruising fleet. We headed north for the Vancouver Island inside passage about two months before everyone else. When it came time to head south to Zihau, we got down there at least three weeks before the rest of the troops. Now heading into Bahia de Los Angeles area north of Santa Rosalia, we leave the summer Sea of Cortez fleet in our wake and head into the wilderness toot sool. At least we're consistent.
For three weeks, we haven't seen another living cruiser. We've seen living souls, though few enough even of those. A couple of pangas, some sport fishers, a pair of tourists escorted out of one of the resorts. We even saw a quartet of hikers on the way up Volcano Coronado. These exceptions to prove the solitary rule, however, just make things a bit more interesting while leaving the cruising grounds isolated and beautiful.
Unexpectedly, the Sea of Cortez has literally flattened the family with its harsh, desolate beauty. This area makes Espiratu Santos look positively lush. There are no trees; In fact, in some places you would be hard pressed to find even so much as a blade of grass. Humans can barely shoe-horn an existence in the few tiny pocket arroyos and lagoons. Animals find the lifestyle nearly as challenging.
We often sail at roughly 2 knots. That's hardly a sail, I realize, but with no swell or wave action, we can float quietly and peacefully while DrC plays his guitar and the girls and I study. We don't have any where in particular to go so we just waft along, moving, I suspect, almost entirely on the tide. It's amazing how far you can go at 2 knots if there are no waves to slap you around.
Our patience is frequently rewarded by encounters with the abundant sea life. While the landscape is almost alien with its rocky, volcanic geology, the Sea of Cortez itself is so full of life we can hardly move the boat without running into something. What we believe to be fin whales are everywhere we go. We can see and hear them blowing all around us as we passage from one small anchorage to another. On several occasions, the big guys have come near the boat. Once, we all ran to the bow to watch three lurch past. There is no question the creatures were considerably longer than our boat. The tail fins alone looked nearly 10 feet from tip to tip if not wider. Two passed along side us just under the surface while a third decided to go straight under the boat. We gasped, ooh'd, ah'd, and panicked as the huge fin slid slowly through the tramps at about 20 feet below us. OMIGODWTF. I love whales, but I really think that they are creatures better seen from a distance. It's hard to be calm when a creature half again the length of your house gets a bit curious.
We have also seen several pods of feeding dolphins as well as whatever you call a bunch of very pleased-with-themselves seals. We hear coyotes on shore so there must be something somewhere to eat. When we anchor in turquoise waters off white sand beaches, the bottom 25 feet below us is so clear we can practically snorkel by sitting on the transom with a rum punch and peering over the side. And while our fishing luck continues to run towards nothing more exciting than sculpin and trigger fish, we could dine almost nightly on lobster and clams were we so inclined. The official going rate in these remote anchorages for lobster is five medium sized creatures for a box of orange juice and a 2 liter bottle of Fresca. Deep fish like tuna is a bit pricier, requiring us to hand over several tomatoes, a half dozen eggs, and a package of tortillas. The barter economy is live and well.
Without the distraction of buddy boats, fellow cruisers, or the temptations of town, we've settled into a steady routine. Morning is school and boat chores while underway or at anchor. A hot lunch, then we go our separate ways. If at an anchor, the children often take the dinghy and head off on their own adventures. The basic wildness of our girls grows daily, the freedom and safety and stunning natural beauty of the landscape bringing out the same in the spirits of our children. We snorkel and we hike. We study, watch movies, and practice our instruments. We read and read and read and read.
The regret and sadness is palpable on the boat as we make our way southwards back towards Santa Rosalia. Soon Daddy will leave for several months. Soon Don Quixote will be tied unnaturally to a dock in a harbor for months on end. Too soon we will be surrounded again in people, food, the Internet, and all sorts of tempting ways to spend our money. DrC is at the helm, Aeron in his lap. A world music mix plays Caribbean sounds as a background to swoosh of the beam sea and 15 knots of wind while the sun slowly sets on our last relaxed sail of the season. I lean into my husband's back with tears in my eyes and whisper in his ear, “We're not done yet.”
Something about timing precludes the Conger Clan from exploring new territory at the same time as every other boat in the cruising fleet. We headed north for the Vancouver Island inside passage about two months before everyone else. When it came time to head south to Zihau, we got down there at least three weeks before the rest of the troops. Now heading into Bahia de Los Angeles area north of Santa Rosalia, we leave the summer Sea of Cortez fleet in our wake and head into the wilderness toot sool. At least we're consistent.
For three weeks, we haven't seen another living cruiser. We've seen living souls, though few enough even of those. A couple of pangas, some sport fishers, a pair of tourists escorted out of one of the resorts. We even saw a quartet of hikers on the way up Volcano Coronado. These exceptions to prove the solitary rule, however, just make things a bit more interesting while leaving the cruising grounds isolated and beautiful.
Unexpectedly, the Sea of Cortez has literally flattened the family with its harsh, desolate beauty. This area makes Espiratu Santos look positively lush. There are no trees; In fact, in some places you would be hard pressed to find even so much as a blade of grass. Humans can barely shoe-horn an existence in the few tiny pocket arroyos and lagoons. Animals find the lifestyle nearly as challenging.
We often sail at roughly 2 knots. That's hardly a sail, I realize, but with no swell or wave action, we can float quietly and peacefully while DrC plays his guitar and the girls and I study. We don't have any where in particular to go so we just waft along, moving, I suspect, almost entirely on the tide. It's amazing how far you can go at 2 knots if there are no waves to slap you around.
Our patience is frequently rewarded by encounters with the abundant sea life. While the landscape is almost alien with its rocky, volcanic geology, the Sea of Cortez itself is so full of life we can hardly move the boat without running into something. What we believe to be fin whales are everywhere we go. We can see and hear them blowing all around us as we passage from one small anchorage to another. On several occasions, the big guys have come near the boat. Once, we all ran to the bow to watch three lurch past. There is no question the creatures were considerably longer than our boat. The tail fins alone looked nearly 10 feet from tip to tip if not wider. Two passed along side us just under the surface while a third decided to go straight under the boat. We gasped, ooh'd, ah'd, and panicked as the huge fin slid slowly through the tramps at about 20 feet below us. OMIGODWTF. I love whales, but I really think that they are creatures better seen from a distance. It's hard to be calm when a creature half again the length of your house gets a bit curious.
We have also seen several pods of feeding dolphins as well as whatever you call a bunch of very pleased-with-themselves seals. We hear coyotes on shore so there must be something somewhere to eat. When we anchor in turquoise waters off white sand beaches, the bottom 25 feet below us is so clear we can practically snorkel by sitting on the transom with a rum punch and peering over the side. And while our fishing luck continues to run towards nothing more exciting than sculpin and trigger fish, we could dine almost nightly on lobster and clams were we so inclined. The official going rate in these remote anchorages for lobster is five medium sized creatures for a box of orange juice and a 2 liter bottle of Fresca. Deep fish like tuna is a bit pricier, requiring us to hand over several tomatoes, a half dozen eggs, and a package of tortillas. The barter economy is live and well.
Without the distraction of buddy boats, fellow cruisers, or the temptations of town, we've settled into a steady routine. Morning is school and boat chores while underway or at anchor. A hot lunch, then we go our separate ways. If at an anchor, the children often take the dinghy and head off on their own adventures. The basic wildness of our girls grows daily, the freedom and safety and stunning natural beauty of the landscape bringing out the same in the spirits of our children. We snorkel and we hike. We study, watch movies, and practice our instruments. We read and read and read and read.
The regret and sadness is palpable on the boat as we make our way southwards back towards Santa Rosalia. Soon Daddy will leave for several months. Soon Don Quixote will be tied unnaturally to a dock in a harbor for months on end. Too soon we will be surrounded again in people, food, the Internet, and all sorts of tempting ways to spend our money. DrC is at the helm, Aeron in his lap. A world music mix plays Caribbean sounds as a background to swoosh of the beam sea and 15 knots of wind while the sun slowly sets on our last relaxed sail of the season. I lean into my husband's back with tears in my eyes and whisper in his ear, “We're not done yet.”
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