It's That Time of Year Again

Black Magic Whacko?
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

About this time every year, boats start flocking like migrating birds down the west coast of the United States towards the beautiful harbors and bays of San Diego. By early October, almost everyone has made it at least as far as San Francisco, most are past Long Beach perhaps detouring out to the islands or lingering on Catalina for a week. But ultimately, the siren call of San Diego and the Baja Ha-Ha pulls them all south to the border.

The Baja Ha Ha is a rally of cruising boats -- mostly sail -- that leave San Diego at the end of October for a ten day run down the coast of Baja California to Cabo San Lucas. It's part party, part support group, part race, part rally, part event. It is a way to meet the other boats with whom you are likely to cruise the winter months on coastal Mexico or jump across the Pacific in spring.

There are purists sailors who poo poo the ha ha. "Too many boats with too few real sailors." "Just a party." "Dangerous with all those newbies." "Who wants to sail with a crowd like that." DrC and I, however, are strong proponents of the Ha Ha with nothing but good to say. Sure, you have to be careful as a lot of the boats lack experience -- best to always anchor upwind of the Ha Ha fleet and run at least 60 miles off shore to avoid the madding crowd. Yet, we met many of our favorite people during Ha-Ha 2008. Victory Cat, Sea Level, Third Day, Bay Wolf... these are all people whose lives made our own so much better and so much richer. And naysayers be damned, our girls absolutely adore Richard (the Grand Pooh Bah) and his lovely wife, and one of our happiest memories was a day the girls spent cruising at 18 knots on Profiligate during the Sea of Cortez Sailing Week then coming into the harbor dancing on the bimini cover to the blasting notes of "Walk Like an Egyptian." Had we not Ha-Ha'd, we wouldn't have had that opportunity... we might have known that such an opportunity even existed.

But I do have a few recommendations for prospective Ha-Ha'ers or, in fact, any boat migrating south to Mexico this winter.

Do NOT pack large amounts of rice, beans, and canned goods. Mexicans eat well, and food prices are on the whole considerably cheaper. The produce is often outstanding, and meat and poultry are healthier albeit considerably leaner.

DO fill the lockers with your favorite sauces, spices, and exotica. Mexican supermercados are well stocked, but you often can't find specific brands or particular condiments you love. This is true of New Zealand as well... probably of any country. Your favorite curry mix or salad dressing may only be available in your homeland.

Do NOT buy out the West Marine across from the Ha Ha kick off party, getting every possible part, nautical trinket, boat jewelry, or electronic gadget.

DO buy out the West Marine across from the Ha Ha kick off party. What the hell. It's the last time you'll see any of this stuff, your last time to indulge in American-style consumerism. From now on, it'll take a trip to fifeteen separate ferrerterias to accomplish anything. Actually, buy out the Home Depot while you are at it.

Do NOT get a new dodger, steel frame for your solar panels, dinghy cover or any other canvass work. All this can be done cheaper and better in Mexico.

DO buy Sunbrella if you plan to have said covers made. The stuff costs twice as much in Mexico and that is assuming you can find it.

Do NOT pack fancy clothes, cutlery, or makeup. You will not actually go out to a fancy dinner. Anywhere. For years.

DO pick up some wine glasses (if available) embossed with the Ha Ha logo. We have reason to be thankful for these (Ha-Ha Solves Robbery in Auckland).

Do NOT spend oodles purchasing every chart and cruising guide you can find on Mexico. Charts south of the border are notoriously inaccurate and essentially a profound waste of space and money.

DO buy whatever electronic chip you need for your nav system and the oldest copy of Yachtsman's you can find on eBay, Craigslist or your used nautical shop. Also, you must buy a copy of Sea of Cortez -- and if it's for sale this season -- get Blue Latitude's sequel on Pacific Mexico. Shawn and Heather's book(s) are more accurate than Mexican charts and a complete replacement of Charlie's and Raines. Even their draft of Pacific Mexico was a better aid to navigation when we were down in Bahia Banderas than our "legal" charts.

Do NOT take the Ha Ha lightly. It is not a downwind pleasure cruise comparable to taking a day sail in San Francisco Bay. Just look at the stories from last year -- even though you are leaving in late October, the weather can be awful and disaster can and will strike even highly prepared boats.


DO be prepared. I love the West Coast of the United States as a way of easing into the cruising life. First, you can learn the intracies of intercoastal travel and anchoring. Then you can dip your toe in short hop ocean cruising. The trip from San Diego to Cabo is your next big welcome-to-the-next-level moment where the smart bet is to take the boat completely off shore. You'll be doing round the clock watches for two to four days, sailing at night, and playing footsie with commercial, cruise boats out on the rhumb line. Head Latitude 38's warning that the Ha Ha is not a trip for beginner sailors -- beginner cruisers maybe but not beginner sailors. It is definitely not a trip for unprepared boats.

Do NOT overload your boat with stuff. Mexico is not a third country. It is a wonderful place with plenty of shopping opportunities. You can find pretty much anything you need -- clothes, household goods, food stuffs, tools, and most parts -- in the big cities.

DO contact Club Cruceros and see if anyone needs something brought south. It will usually be small and either hard to find boat parts or gifts from family. In fact, if you're willing to pick up a wind generator for me in San Diego...

Do NOT be afraid. You are considerably more likely to get hit by lightening than you are to be attacked by Mexican drug runners during your trip south.

DO leave American news-media induced fear, uncertainty and dread (FUD) behind. You are stepping into a whole new world now, and I don't mean Mexico. You are launching your career as a cruising sailor. This new life will be slower, quieter, and full of small wonderous moments. YOu may work harder physically than you have since high school sports, but the work is rewarding, satisyfing in ways that our daily works lives often are not.

And do look out for Don Quixote as you pass through La Paz. She's hard to miss as she's on an inner dock, right in front of the restaurant. She's dirty, lonely, and neglected. We've treated her badly. Give her a pat for me, and let her know we're coming home. We miss you all so much, cruising family. See you in February.

Morning Fleet
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Guest Post: Just A Minute Needs Parts

Boat Kids!"
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

INTRODUCTION: s/v Just A Minute is a sister ship Lagoon 380. In fact, she was built the same year, just two hulls down. We stumbled on s/v Just A Minute two winters ago in the Sea of Cortez at Isla San Francisco's seaside anchorage. After a pleasant breakfast, they pulled the hook and ran away. This either indicated that they were new to cruising or that s/v Don Quixote terrified them. Probably both. After over a year kicking around in Mexican waters, however, they've settled into an enviable cruising rhythm. In addition to sharing boat geekery and Lagoon 380 tips, we share cruising-with-kids notes as JaM is another kid boat. The girls speak very highly of 12 year old Jack who is growing like an absolute weed into a handsome young man. Recently, Cap'n Patrick contacted us regarding replacing a broken rudder cable. We told him what we knew and then he ventured off into the Mexican countryside to replace it. This is his story.

Jack and I went into FerreMar in Loreto, and they had a decent assortment of small cables. They told us to try another place down the dirt road pass the cow on the right just before the river. So we did.

After finding a semi trailer with an old Mercury sign hanging on it all locked up, I went around back through the goats, chickens and dogs and found a very nice lady doing her laundry. Have you ever noticed how some Mexicans don't speak English a lot worse than others? Well, we spent the next half hour convincing this nice lady doing laundry to let us into the trailer.

It was very hot inside the trailer but Jack and I found piles of cables to dig through. All too small. After another half hour and I was ready to give up when a Mexican man came in and started talking to the lady as if we were not there. He started digging through the cables as well. It was all very strange.

He finally looked at me and in perfect English said, "How long is it?".

I said, "28 feet."

He replied, "Oh, I have one of those." He then marched passed me out the door.

We followed him around back passed the goats and chickens into the mercury grave yard and then into a large shop with brand new shrink wrapped Mercury 200 outboards lying on pallets and lots of other boat stuff. He reached up on the wall and took down a gray cable and handed it to me. Volvo Penta 28' stamped on the side of it. Used, but for 200 pesos I couldn't pass it up!

You can literally get anything in Mexico. At the risk of repeating something I've said in this blog about a berzillion times, if you plan to cruise Mexico, then just get the boat seaworthy enough to get it down there. Then park in La Paz until your boat is cruiser ready. My overwhelming impression of La Paz after my brief 4 day whirlwind return is that Mexico is a wonderful place to provision, and Mexicans are fantastically helpful people.

Eaten Alive!

High View
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Isla San Francisco is a jewel in the chain of islands that line the Baja California Sur coastline from La Paz to Bahia de Los Angeles. A little bit of an island just east of San Evaristo, the island boasts three lovely anchorages, each offering protection from a different wind point. The views range from the wide open vista of the Sea of Cortez on the east side to an absolutely stunning panorama of the layered, sculpted Sierra de Gigantes. We always plan our trips through this region to include at least one - preferably several - days at Isla San Francisco where we hike, snorkel, and enjoy amazing sunrises and sunsets.

So it was with anticipation that we pulled into the southwest anchorage of Isla San Francisco. We had pulled anchor early in Los Gatos and motor sailed the 20 miles south in light, frustrating winds. The winds were so light at one point that we put the kids on harnesses and lines and threw them off the back to float along with us for a few miles as we transited the San Jose Channel. With dusk falling, we had a pleasant evening of rum drinks, rosemary beans, and fresh yeast rolls to look forward to as we tucked into the litter box, a shallow section of the anchorage on the very southern most tip just inside a natural breakwater.

The first few minutes went about as expected. A little kerfuffle skuffling over who does what as we settled in for the night. It’s Jaime’s night for dishes. No it’s not! It’s Mera’s. No it isn’t! I don’t CARE whose night it is, just get the dirty dishes off the d* table... You know. The usual.

Then they arrived. It was like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. A cloud of insects perked up, noticed six juicy tasty creatures had pulled up a mere dozen yards off the shoreline, and swooped down upon us. The bug tornado consisted of a few bobos, a fleet of mosquitos, and about seven berjillion no-see-ums.

Slap. “Ouch! Ooow... Ow! Bugs!”

The crew scrambled out, “Get the screens!” “Where are they?” “Behind the freezer in the office... hurry!” “Close Jaime’s porthole, she pitched the screen overboard last week!” “Got the shower hatch!” “Screens up!”

The mosquitos buzzed in impotent fury at the screens. They lined up, an army of proboscis-wielding blood suckers waiting for us to get stupid and slip out the door for a moment of fresh air. But we were smarter than that! We were ready! We had Screens! So we settled down to eat, smugly assured of our safety.

Slap. Smack! “Ouch! Oooow.... Ow! Omigod what is that thing?”

The crew tumbled out of the salon seats, smacking our exposed arms and legs with a collective cry of “What the hell?” The air of the salon was alive with microscopic, fast moving, flying vampires each armed with a ray of sting-death. They would alight on an arm or leg and dig in for the duration, plumping up and leaving behind a small red dot which itched worse than a 10-day-old road rash scab.

There was nothing else we could do. We shut every window, dogged down all the hatches. This served to trap a metric buttload of no-see-ums inside the boat, but no new ones could sneak in. Then the entire family began to slap, smack, and smear. Smearing was for the nasty bastards who had already eaten. They would settle on the white ceiling, fat black spots full of juicy gooey blood, slow and lethargic as they indulged in a post-feast siesta. These evil minions of bloody doom were the easy ones to kill with a well placed thumb. We spent the night huddled under sheets with the windows shut and the fans on, dying from a combination of slow blood loss and incredible, suffocating heat.

At the first glimmer of dawn, we ran away. We pointed the boat into the wind, fired up both engines, and tried to blow the remaining bugs out of the boat. It didn’t work. The entire day was spent eliminating black terror dots. The most effective method was to go to a no-see-um hideout... say the cockpit... and bare two fat juicy calves then wait. Wait for it. Wait for it. Slap! Another one down. We eliminated thousands using this method until our calves and forearms were a solid smear of jejenay guts. The only creatures with a stronger blood lust than no-see-ums are apparently my husband and children when exacting revenge.

Layered Morning
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Even so, the battle was a draw leaving everyone on the boat looking very much as though we had caught a particularly virulent strain of the measles. We were exhausted from lack of sleep, tension, and itchiness. Dean slapped cortisone on everyone, poured two rums down each of the adults, and sent everyone to bed early. We’re told it will only take a week or so for the red spots and itchiness to fade. I suspect it will take longer for my high-strung family to relax enough to not smack every black dot they see.

Learning Spanish

Focus!
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Cruisers can live in Mexico for years and never learn a word of Spanish. Finger pointing and other gestures combined with grunts and a surprisingly wide-spread knowledge of English even amongst your average street vendor combine to make it pretty easy to let your Spanish lessons lapse. You could hang out exclusively with other Americans and Canadians, shop at the large commercial supermarkets, and use a friend to help you with the occasional mechanic and never learn more Spanish than hola and adios.

However, I’m going to recommend that you make the effort to learn Spanish anyway. Learn at least the most useful few hundred words and phrases that differentiate the Ugly American from a savvy experienced traveler making the most of an experience abroad. You don’t have to speak it well. You don’t even have to understand what you are saying. What you must do is look like you’re trying.

In my professional life, I frequently consult for companies who are writing English language documentation destined for either an international, English as a Second Language (ESL) audience or for translation into multiple languages. In both cases, a key to reducing cost and improving usability is to restrict the source documentation to a simple, stripped down version of the English language. Instead of drawing upon the upwards of 30,000 words in our native tongue, I help clients identify the roughly 2,000 words they need to communicate every important concept, feature and task required of their product. For each industry, this core simplified English dictionary varies somewhat with roughly a third being industry specific and ten percent unique to the client or product.


But think about that. A mere 2,000 words is all that is needed to convey the most sophisticated of concepts in industries as diverse as airplane manufacture, medicine, or network security. When it comes to “simplified cruiser Spanish,” you could master everything you need to know by adding 20 words or phrases to your vocabulary every week for two years.

This is how the crew of Don Quixote is learning Spanish. We tried Rosetta Stone and school books. We did online programs, coloring books, little signs on everything on the boat. Nothing really stuck with either the girls or myself. Finally, I got smart. The very trick I have successfully implemented in company after company would work here. For us. In Mexico. We needed 2,000 words of cruiser Spanish, and we needed to learn them a little bit every week as the words became important to us. This would help us “mine” our lives for the appropriate palette of words and give us many opportunities to use the new words each week.

We began with a week of food. Followed by another week of restaurant. Then we did a week of more food. This family moves on its stomach. We pulled into Santa Rosalia for the first time and realized we needed a week of dock terms, then another week of town terms, and right before we left in the van, a week of traveling words. We returned to suck down two weeks of words in three days relating to wind, weather, hurricanes, forecasting, and tides. Then we drifted on our laurels for a few weeks slowly taking in boat parts, clothing, colors, and birthday words. Last week DrC insisted it was time I learned 20 words relating to sex, and so I felt compelled to give the girls their own list of non-related phrases having to do with holidays and cleaning tools. With relatives headed down in the coming weeks, we’ll tackle relationships, travel on planes, and words needed in thank you letters to grandparents.

The Emergency Office Has an Emergency
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

This slow accretion of words and phrases is working. My accent is absolutely awful, but daily I find myself using my Spanish more, with increased comfort and confidence. The Mexicans laugh with me when I say bird beak (pronounced pee-ko) rather than small (poh-koh), but they appreciate the effort. Each day, a vendor teaches me a new word such as poblano (chile used for chile rellenos) or tornillo de ferrous inoxidable (stainless steel screws). Each day, my grasp of cruiser Spanish grows, and I am more comfortable moving around in Mexican markets and ferreterias (hardware stores).

Knowing the language in the country through which you travel makes good sense. You are safer. You are stronger. You are more courteous. Your depth of understanding of the people and culture you are encountering is considerably greater. Just because you can travel in Mexico without learning the language, doesn’t mean you should. If you are planning a trip to French Polynesia or Latin America, start now. Two thousand is just not a very large number.

Jimena (Thursday, 9 AM): After the Storm

Going Down
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

After a few hours of exhausted sleep, we emerged this morning to a wet overcast world. Only the truly bold are leaving the marina. When I go to the upper story and look out, the streets are a sea of mud as far as the eye can see. The surf is still pounding on a shore transformed with debris, driftwood, and boulders mounded 15 feet high and 20 feet deep. The bus station next to us is awash in mud, vehicles smashed into one another.

But all the boats are still here. In fact, with few exceptions, the boats sustained no major damage. The marina itself is clean, washed by over a foot of rainfall of even its usual patina of dust and bird shit. We feel like a clean island in a sea of sticky dark mud.

Don Quixote is untouched. I can hardly believe it. I’ve checked each line, each fender. I’ve looked in the bilge and started the engines. No damage. It almost seems selfish to feel so gleeful, but we’re here. We’re afloat. We’re okay. Well, we’re wet. All three cabin hatches leaked, and we had water pouring in through the port winch as well as in the port front hatch. I caught a good fraction of it in bowls or buckets and the rest is drying rapidly. We should be able to move back on tonight, sleep in our own beds for the first time in nearly two months.

Ironically, the worst damage we sustained during the storm was self-inflicted. Leaving Dulci on the boat the first few hours of the storm was a mistake. She was pissed. She elected to graphically display her displeasure by enacting out the word ‘piss’ on my bed -- an act this cat absolutely never engages in so there is no question of chalking it up to an accident or poor training. I can see her peeing and then dancing on it in a vengeful rage to ensure it would soak all the way through to the mattress. Two blankets, two sheets, two mattress pads thoroughly soaked in cat urine, and a promise from the harbor master that there is no water to the docks for at least 4 weeks, no laundry for the same. In desperation, I went out and caught two large buckets of rain water, filled one with soap and bleach, and started the process of detoxifying the vile mess. For the first rinse, I laid the bedding out flat on the marina patio and let the rain just soak on it for an hour.

Alex of Maitairoa and his wife walked into town this morning. Their pictures convinced me that the girls and I will not do so. Mud everywhere, houses and cars buried, favorite spots, tiendas, and stands simply gone. We understand that hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, have lost their homes. It is hard to know how these people will recover, though the evidence of their capacity for doing so surrounds us. A crowd of men descended on the marina parking lot this morning, many half covered in mud from their walk through town. They clambered up on to the earth moving equipment parked here the night before the storm and headed out. It’s only mid-day, and Highway 1 through Rosalia is already clear enough for large equipment and 4-wheel drive, emergency vehicles.

I took the children for a short walk one block to the south. It is too dangerous and the mud far too deep to take them north into town. The drifts of mud are roughly six feet high in that direction. To the south, however, a decorative berm rises high enough above the highway to be clear of mud. We used the walk to talk about hurricanes: what they do to the landscape, how wave action undermines buildings, the sources of landslides, how fast objects can move in a 90 mile per hour wind, how a beach ecosystem changes due to hurricanes and how the shoreline is modifying permanently. We examined pieces of metal thrown from buildings at high speed and embedded in trees, walls and mud. At this point, the kids started looking a bit ashamed of themselves -- and rightfully so. I can’t tell you how many times Joanna had to yell at the kids when they tried to slip outside to ‘look at the storm.’ We also made lists of things required for disaster preparedness: water, food, shovels, gloves, money, wood.

The children were very creative, very thoughtful in their answers. The five of them have been through an amazing experience. It is clear their understanding of how to prepare themselves for a similar event has grown exponentially and in ways that even the littlest -- Aeron and Skylar -- will not likely forget. These are not children who will fail to have an earthquake bag or an emergency medical kit.They have a profound respect for the power of wind and rain now and are probably the only children in Santa Rosalia not dancing in their bare feet in the mud. You only need see one piece of rusted metal poking out of the mud to know that bare feet are a bad idea in this environment.

Breakfast After the Hurricane
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

I am watching them very carefully, however. There was no crying, no wailing, no fear during the storm. My three girls spent their time reading, playing, and watching movies. Only at the peak when Steve and I were at our personal nadir did the storm seem to touch a core fear. But it’s in their eyes. Mera isn’t smiling. Her new composition -- Lull-A-Bye for A Hurricane -- is haunting, slow and sad and eerie. She plays it almost obsessively which drives Aeron out out out of the house in her own expression of frustration and fear. I can’t get Aeron to stop moving. Not to eat, not to change into clean clothes, not to watch a movie or read a book. The child whirls around the marina like a small, blonde tornado. Right now she is squeegy-ing the plaza, pushing water from the cold room all the way to to breakwater and shouting with pleasure as it pours down the wall. At some point, the crash will come. It will hit them.

I haven’t cried yet either. It will hit me, too. Not yet, however, and until it does, I have a lot of work to do. I think I’ll go find another sqeegy.

Jimena (Tuesday): Arrived in Santa Rosalia

We interrupt this normally totally time shifted blog for an important emergency broadcast.

Yes, Toast and the girls are in Santa Rosalia and a Cat 5 hurricane is bearing down on top of us. No, we are not too happy about it.

We didn't mean to do this. We first heard about it from a call to Glenn yesterday as he drove us to the Tijuana bus station. At that point, there was no going back, no going forward faster. We just got here when we could. Hurricane Jimena has been drifting around like a drunken sailor so no one knows really where it's going to hit. For awhile, it looked like it it would run directly over Santa Rosalia. Now it looks like it's veering farther west and north. We'll see.

In any case, we're getting ready. Fortunately, Don Quixote was damn close to hurricane ready before we left. We arrived after our 16 hours on the bus to a flurry of activity to set the last lines on everything. DQ is now cross tied to the breakwater and on the pylons. We're pulled off the dock far enough to make it a challenge to clamber on and off. We have food for nearly two weeks, water for that long if we're frugal (and we can make more), enough diesel to motor us anywhere in the Sea that isn't smashed flat if we need to get out of here.

It's way too late to run. In fact, there are over 20 boats here because no one seems to really know where this damn thing is going. Puerto Don Juan is chockablock full of boats, Guaymas is still in the target zone... hell even Escondido isn't considered a safe harbor. The whole sea is just bracing for the worst. I'm almost reluctant to look at the storm tracks.

Tomorrow night is what the consensus appears to be on when we'll see the worst of it. We have arrangements with the harbor master to move all the children (and the kitties) to the harbor master's office on shore when the weather starts getting really ugly. They've started putting wood on the windows to protect the kids. There isn't enough room for all the adults so I suspect it'll either get super duper crowded or a lot of people are going to try to sit it out on their boats. I'm not one of them. We'll tie her down as best we can, I'll go out with a partner captain to check lines every few hours, and otherwise I'll stay with the girls.

Please send us all the positive karma you can.

Alone Again

[Editor's Note: Written as we returned from Bahia de Los Angeles to Santa Rosalia in mid June.]

Rock Finds
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

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.”

Don Quixote in Animas Slot
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Lions and Tigers and Bears! OhMY!!

Clever Girl
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Emails and the comment threads both here and on my Facebook account have recently been full of questions regarding the “bad news” flowing out of Mexico. I'd like to take this quick moment to respond to the questions, concerns, and wonderful warm messages of support and worry.

Are you worried about the flu? What are you doing about the flu?
We're paying attention to the flu news, but we've pretty much decided this is a tempest in a 24 hour news cycle tea pot. Basically, sane folk need to keep our eyes on what happens to the flu over the next six months as it heads into winter in the southern hemisphere. Flu doesn't really like warm weather, so it's not a reasonable thing to get bent right now if you're living in a 100 degree climate. We'll monitor whether the flu strengthens or mutates during the southern winter months and pay attention to where it goes and what it does in the fall.

Can you get across the border?
Who knows? Right now, we can travel without restriction. By the time DrC or the girls and I try to travel north, the flu issue could be completely gone or the federales on both sides could have their knickers in a twist. We'll go with whatever the fates hand us. At this point, we're just not going to worry about it.

What about the drug lords and murderers?
There is a drug war going on in Mexico right now, particularly up north near the border. I liken this to the mob wars that took place during Prohibition. There is a lot of money, a lot of corruption, and a lot of violence. However, the violence is largely confined to the community involved in the trade. Like mob families, these folks are killing each other and leaving the rest of the world to toodle along without interference. Occasionally, there are civilian collateral casualties, each of which is a tragedy. Again, this is not something that the crew of Don Quixote needs to worry about. We're nowhere near the areas of violence.

Now Toast.. we've heard about violence against tourists...
Heh. Maybe you have. We haven't. The cruiser community is the most gossipy group of biddies you'll find anyplace. We're like a small town smeared from Zihua to the Sea of Cortez and news travels very fast. It's reasonable to conclude that we know of every incident of theft, violence, or property damage that took place against cruisers this entire season. You can count the issues on one hand, and we haven't heard of any injuries this year. Gracias a Dios, as they say here.

Frankly, cruisers just aren't much of a target in Mexico. In fact, most coastal communities go out of their way to ensure the safety of their yachtistas who support local businesses, contribute to local charities, and encourage the positive interest of the Federales in the region in the form of Singlar and Fonatur developments. In one notable incident this season of cruisers getting stopped by a thief and taken for their pesos, the local policia had the guy arrested, tried, sentenced and incarcerated within 48 hours. Do not – I repeat DO NOT – get on the wrong side of Mexican law and community consensus on policia priorities.

But Toast...
I know it probably seems like we're being too casual, too unconcerned, oblivious, or naïve. Instead, I think what happens is that when you escape the clutch of mainstream media, you start developing a more practical understanding of the dangers which surround you. We can't read about a murder every day, so we start to worry less about getting murdered. We don't read about the swine flu every day, so when we do, a few thousand cases world-wide seems a considerably smaller danger than a coromuel with a bad anchor set. Drug lords don't hang out in marinas, cruisers are not getting attacked, boats this season have largely avoided even petty theft.

Does that mean bad shit can't happen to us? Of course it can. Jaime slipped on a wet floor a few weeks ago, and knocked herself out. We spent two days monitoring her mild concussion and worrying worrying worrying. To make it more entertaining, she slipped again in Escondido requiring a trip to the hospital to get a neck X-ray. So no, we don't think we're invulnerable.

Flying Leap
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

But the things we worry about are the issues that face us every day: the safety of our children and ourselves in a dangerous and challenging physical environment, falling overboard on night passages, running into rocks, getting stung by rays, slipping on hikes, eating a fish tainted with ciguerra or getting ice with a nasty intestinal bacteria. We worry constantly about dehydration and sun burn, slipping on wet tiles in our Crocs, and Mommy's back going out... again.

The swing flu, drug lords, and muggers are far far away. Let's just keep them that way.

I'm Melting

Peek a Boo
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

As I stowed our laundry this afternoon, I was struck by the peculiar sense of humor evidenced by the weather gods. Three weeks ago, we spent a brisk week with a fleet of boats enjoying the stunning anchorages of Islas Partida, Espiratu Santos, San Francisco and San Jose. Sea of Cortez Sailing Week 2009 was treated to a feast of fantastic sailing days with winds from just the right direction at 15 to 20 knots. We blew up during the first half of the week, and we blew even more briskly back to La Paz during the second half. The fleet enjoyed the days hiking on rocks, lolling on decks, and exploring salt flats and agate covered beaches, soaking up the twin pleasures of warm sunshine and cool breezes.

The evenings, however, were quite brisk. Sailors unearthed fleece, foul weather gear and sweat pants to rub elbows on the beaches with Richard, Donya, and the crew of s/v Profligate. Hot dishes didn't stay hot, cold dishes stayed cold. We jumped around a lot. The young un's playing volleyball half in and half out of the water came out blue, and we had to send them back to their boats for clean, dry clothes. None of us made it much past sunset. Teeth chattering is a party killer.

DrC broke out the milk frother for the first time in months for our morning coffees. I haven't seen it in months since we long since tacitly agreed that luke warm coffee on hot mornings is tastier. We hadn't quite moved to iced coffee, but I suspect that was not far in the future. However, with the temperature dropping to a bone chilling 60 degrees at night, sunrises munching pan dulce on the deck were improved with good old steamed milk topping our espresso.

At night, DrC and I battled over the down comforter. We used to have two: his and hers, if you will. But in Zihautanejo, DrC insisted he no longer needed one. His way of communicating this was to throw his off in a fit of overheated, masculine aggression. I would wake from a nightmare involving sweat, small biting insects, and a football team to find myself buried in a foot and a half of bird feathers and flannel. I finally got fed up and stowed his comforter, folded mine neatly at the foot of the bed, and set the bed up with a small fleece throw and a queen size sheet.

The deeply penetrating cold of April in the Sea of Cortez, however, had DrC ripping my cover off of me each night. It was the classic marital, grab-and-roll maneuver in which the larger partner in a long term relationship manages somehow to strip the smaller of all covers leaving them frozen and bare-assed while simultaneously and self-righteously denying the same since it all happens while the bigger one is profoundly asleep. After two nights of this nonsense, I dug into the cavernous locker under the master bed and found a second comforter, the telescope, and two reams of white paper.

Emails galore should wing off to the organizers of Sea of Cortez Sailing Week requesting that this event take place in late April instead of early April. Moving from the warmth of Puerto Vallarta and Manzanillo into the chill of La Paz is hard on marriages. But apparently, if you just wait three weeks, all is well since Easter signals the end of winter in La Paz and sends the temperature soaring.

High View
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Which brings us back to my laundry. It takes us weeks to get our laundry done. I'm standing in my cabin stowing fleece pullovers, heavy socks, two pairs of sweats, long sleeve shirts, and DrC's Cal sweatshirt. I'm hiding down here, because it's 98 on the deck, 95 in the cockpit and there isn't a breath of wind. As I push the fleece to the back of the locker, I muse on the fickleness of weather. And of husbands. No way do I want another down-induced, sweaty football team dream – as provocative as that might otherwise sound. With a vigorous shove and a grunt of preemptive satisfaction, I consign winter to fate and the second comforter to the wilderness of our main locker.

Fake Mexico

Playing the Pool
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

As we pull into the Las Hadas anchorage, the girls standing on the bow let out a delighted cry, “Fake Mexico!” Aeron comes running back to the cockpit, “Mommy! I think it's fake Mexico!”

Fake Mexico is a relief after months on the hook in Zihuatanejo and traveling for over a week through remote parts of real Mexico. What fake Mexico means to the girls is swimming pools, air conditioning, and white, slightly pouchy, North American kids on winter break with their parents. What it means to DrC and I is unlimited fresh water to wash the boat in the morning followed by drinks at a swhttp://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=38495401im up bar in the afternoon. Fake Mexico has green lawns, obsequious waiters who quietly tolerate obnoxious drunks, and no graffiti. The groceries stores go by names like C.C.C. (pronounced say-say-say) and Sorianas, and they all look precisely like WalMart. In fact, the stores are so familiar they even go by names all would recognize such as... yes... WalMart. And Costco, Domino's Pizza, and Burger King.

There are many reasons we do not spend a great deal of time in fake Mexico, though I'll admit that probably the most important is financial. Fake Mexico costs about the same as Real United States. We had heard about this phenomena even before leaving. Apparently, fake Mexico used to be considerably cheaper but – perhaps because of NAFTA, perhaps because the Mexicans have just figured it all out – goods in fake Mexico are basically the same price as your average bar, mall or hotel up North. Now if you are one of those folks who can afford to live at a hotel 24/7, then pricing in fake Mexico won't pose a problem. Cruisers on a budget, however, need to be more frugal with the cruising kitty and so spend more time in real Mexico where the food and fuel budget drop by at least half.

Another problem with fake Mexico is that it misses the entire point of traveling aboard. You can't really tell the difference between a bar in fake Mexico and one in San Diego or Miami. I say those cities deliberately because I sometimes think more Spanish is spoken in Miami or San Diego than in Nuevo Vallarta or Las Hadas. You could spend a week in Ixtapa and never go to a taco stand or mercado. You can pull up to the dock in Mazatlan, spend a month in El Cid, and never experience the zocolo, see the cow carcasses hanging from the rafters of a carneceria or browse through a fabric warehouse. Even the décor feels more like a Disneyland interpretation of ancient Mexico then anything you would find in the villages, towns, and incredibly busy cities of the real country.

One of the more surreal aspects of fake Mexico are the licensed street vendors selling tchotkies and mementos along the water front. If you spend any time in real Mexico, a quick browse of the wares at the hotels reveals both their very low quality and premium pricing. Real Mexican markets involve haggling, competition, and cacophony. Contrasted with sun burnt visitors quietly picking over the goods of one or two sellers, it feels as though all the energy and vitality has been bled out of the system leaving only a pale, hollow echo.

I want to shout at these travelers, “Get out of the hotel! Go to town!” A 5 peso bus ride and 20 minutes will put you in the heart of Manzanillo, Mazatlan, or Zihuatanejo. The goods you see here are pathetic, limited, and expensive. In town, you'll find literally hundreds of shops and vendors, the streets so full of commerce and a spirit of entrepreneurial energy, the money will just leap out of your pocket in exchange for incredibly fresh fruit, large glasses of cold jugo, vibrant shirts, plates, and rugs.

Real Mexico
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

But despite our scorn for fake Mexico, sometimes we flee into it as a vacation from our cruising life. Real Mexico is dirty, hot, and hard work. The streets are cobblestone or dirt, graffiti covers the walls, and it's hard to make ourselves understood. It's loud and smoky, busy and crowded, and it often smells. Probably most significantly, all the marinas are in fake Mexico. So if we want to dock up for water, provisioning, or simply a night of not moving, we have to step out of reality. We're forced to compromise, spend the money for a tie up, and slip into the creations of Singlar and Fontanur.

Terrible compromise that is... sometimes we just have to swim up to the bar if we want a beer.

Pick Your Pleasure

Sunrise in La Paz
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

“I think I like it here,” says DrC one evening over pina coladas. We're looking out over the Las Hadas anchorage, watching the white walls turn pink and purple in the setting sun.

I blink, “Really? What brought on this effusive display, husband mine?”

He looks around, sips thoughtfully at his drink, “The pineapple juice really improves it.”

I am reasonably certain he's changed the topic, but with DrC you never can tell. It is within the realm of possibility that his entire interpretation of his experience of Manzanillo Bay is filtered the golden tinted goggles of pina colada fog. I wait a beat, just in case, because the best possible course of action with my husband is to let him think for awhile.

My patience is rewarded with a casual wave of his tumbler at the anchorage, the bay, and the lights on the horizon, “I could live here.” Not the drink, then. “Not too big or busy, hardware stores, spread out, not as polluted.”

Our criteria for favorite place in Mexico varies with each member of the crew. DrC focuses on convenience and accessibility of hardware stores, bait and tackle shops, and large grocery outlets. He likes where the cabbies are indulgent with his many stops, and the local cruiser network is full of pithy advise on how to fix boat gear.

Jaime, on the other hand, focuses exclusively on friends. Hanging out with friends. La Paz, for example, is heaven because she spent the entire time with her friend Isobel. She's driving hard to get us back to Mazatlan solely to meet up with 4-P.A.C.K. and her good friend Casey. Mazatlan? For gods sake child, are you insane? Mazatlan of the stinky sewage anchorage, the smoky horizon and the daily visits by cruise ships?

Aeron selects destinations solely for their swimmability. Pool swimming is good, ocean swimming is great. Any swimming is critical. My little fish. Her partner in all things creative and playful, Mera, also seeks clean water – preferably fresh. However, of all of us Mera is most interested in the remote anchorage. She likes the water calm, the air and water clear, the evenings quiet and peaceful.

I would like to say that I care about the mercadas, clean water for swimming, and the company of fellow cruisers. But when I ask my family what they think is important to me, they tell me that the only really critical feature necessary for my sanity and happiness is a good Internet connection to the boat. I thought I'd broken that umbilical cord. I can stop any time I want to! Really! And they say, “Um... not so much Mom.” DrC just shakes his head.

Zihua Bay
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

It is hard to find a place where all of us are happy. Las Hadas has the pool, market, hardware stores, and cruisers, but there are no kid boats here for Jaime. Zihua's water was frequently disgusting, and we rarely got to swim in fresh; There were boat kids, but we didn't have quiet. In Santiago, it's quiet and clean and full of friendly cruisers, but the hardware stores are miles away. Tenacatita? No stores at all. Chamela? No Internet. Ipala? Oh please... just do not even bother dropping hook. La Cruz? Too rolly. Nuevo Vallarta? Too expensive. Mazatlan? You either die of the smell or you live in a boat parking lot. La Paz? Well...

Now La Paz might just do the trick. If we could find a swimming pool...

Encountering Authority

Author's Note: I had pictures. I had a whole roll. They "disappeared." Let's just pretend I've got pictures of big guys dressed in black with guns.
Getting stopped by the authorities at any time is a nerve jangling experience. We have all been there. The pleasant highway patrol dude pulls up behind us, our palms start to sweat, our breath hitches and a tightness forms in the pit of the belly. We haven’t done anything wrong -- and in fact at that particular moment, the speedometer reads a mere two miles above the speed limit. On the other hand, we know that at some point, some where, at some time in the not so distant past, we were bad. If you haven’t gone 40 in a 25 at some time in your life, you are not living life to its fullest.

Multiply this nervousness by four when stopped on the water, because inevitably the folks doing the stopping are armed to the teeth. The scariest guys by far on the seas we have traveled are the United States Coast Guard. USCG boats are highly efficient craft designed to play hoppy jumpy fun and rompy in the Potato Patch outside the Golden Gate. They come equipped with very large, automatic bazooka things mounted to the front. The men and women of the USCG take their job very seriously, the bull horns are loud, and they do not respond well to small talk. Last summer, we heard stories about the USCG stopping boats crossing over the US-Canada border that were spine tinglingly icky... enough so that the proprietors in harbors along the south coast of Vancouver Island said the USCG was scaring all their customers away.

Double the fear factor again when stopped by the floating military of another country -- though it appears unnecessarily so. Our first encounter with the flotilla of a foreign power was when we were waved down by the Canadian Coast Guard near Winter Harbor. While I’m frantically trying to find our paperwork, passports, and spare PFDs to demonstrate our legal permission to be drifting around in Canadian waters, DrC handled the formalities on the bridge:

“Hoy there! Y’all doing well?” asked the Canadian on the deck.

“Um... Yeah, yes, we’re doing well,” responded the ever glib and talkative DrC, “um... uh... and uh... you?”

“Oh yeah. Doin’ well here. You want some fish, eh?”

“Fish?” DrC was now utterly baffled.

The Coastie gave a friendly nod and held up two fish, “Oh yeah. We got ourselves a real nice catch here, and it needs eating. Your family would enjoy some rockies, eh?” During our Canadian Coast Guard boarding, we learned that the Canadian system of coastal service is a little confuzzling to the non-native as it combines their fisheries service with the more traditional defend and protect responsibilities customarily associated with flagged, armed boats. Apparently, these guys wanted to off load some by-catch of their research efforts before it went bad. Good eating, eh?

The Mexican Armada is considerably less glib albeit -- believe it or not -- even more polite than their Canadian counterparts. Just last night, we were politely hailed and then politely told we were going to be boarded for a “routine inspection... routine inspection, okay?” “Si. Okay,” because how else was Capitain Cone-her supposed to reply to a very large, extremely well armed military vessel. In very broken English, the radio operator invested a lot of effort in explaining to us precisely what was going to happen, when, how, and for what purpose. This gave us enough time to put on clean shirts and a skirt, stow dirty laundry, wipe off the salon table, and get water started for coffee. We couldn’t find the Coast Guard cookies so the girls made due with icing on graham crackers.

The sunlight was nearly gone when the larger vessel finally dropped a little patrol boat which sped towards us at high speed to conduct the “routine inspection.” Every single individual we interacted with -- from the patrol boat bristling with armature to the hand gun toting radio guy to his two rifle toting guards -- repeated this phrase “routine inspection.” It must say somewhere in the Mexican armada manual, “When approaching an American yachtista, do not scare the shit out of them.”

Or... it just occurred to me... maybe they were worried we would pull out our own guns. Because they asked.

You have any guns? No No. We do not have guns.

Do you have any drugs? Medicines, yes... drugs no.

Do you have papers? Yes. Can we see them? Of course.

How many people? How old is the captain? What was your last port? Where are you going? Can we do anything to help you?

Huh?

How can we help you?

Um. Well, yeah. We were -trying- to get to Maruata before dark, but now because you stopped us it is pitch black. Do you have better charts than this piece of crap we got from C-Map?

OF COURSE! Come on back to our really big boat with the scary weapons all over the front. We’ll just whip out several copies of the chart of the coastline. And don’t worry, we’ll escort you all the way to Maruata which is just around the corner. We’ll make sure the locals here don’t feel any notion to rob you. It’ll be just fine. It’s all okay. There are no scary armed men here. It’s all just a “routine inspection.” Okay? And by the way, would you please take this little survey about your satisfaction with your routine inspection experience. How did you find our service personnel? Was everyone courteous? Did it take a long time? Did you get all your questions answered? How can we improve our boarding operations in the future?

I am not kidding you. It was like having dinner at Applebee’s. They wouldn’t let us leave until we let them know we were fully satisfied with our boarding opportunity and released them from liability for any damage taken during the process. We even have papers to prove that we have already “had our boarding” and don’t need another one. It was a complete This Is Mexico (TIM) moment... also known as WTF?

I admit, there was something very comforting about the large military craft that dogged our heels all the way into our anchorage. We let them know when we had safely dropped anchor. They were most solicitous, asking about the quality and set of the anchor and whether there were any pangas disturbing us. It was like getting put to bed by an overly solicitous parent.The captain then wished us good night’s sleep and a successful voyage before he motored off to protect, defend, and conduct polite and satisfactory boardings of other vessels plying the Michoaloan coastline.