Uprooting the family and throwing us in a van for a month had the perhaps unsurprising but somewhat unsettling effect of sending all of us down the “what's next” rat hole. It's almost impossible to think ahead; The variables are too many, the options almost unlimited. Nevertheless, weeks of long drives and longer hikes with nothing to do but think and flap our lips at one another have yielded familial consensus on a number of points.
More Boat -- We all agree that we are not done yet with s/v Don Quixote. No one wants to sell her. No one wants to step on to land without at least another season cruising. We disagree on how much longer, but we all agree on “longer.”
Not Back -- A little surprising to me is the degree of consensus on the proposition: This family is not returning to Seattle. While we all love the city, none of us – not even a single one – wants to return to our house or anything like our old routine. It might be more symbolic of a rejection of that lifestyle rather than a specific repudiation of Seattle itself. Any return to Seattle would by necessity require a complete change of lifestyle which might be harder to do within sight of our old life. It may lack courage, but it is probably easier to simply go someplace else.
Another Adventure -- It's not just boating any more. The girls ask about living in other countries. DrC talks about hiking the Appalachian Trail or back packing through Europe. I've mentioned long distance bike trips we could take in the United States and abroad. Many of these ideas have the benefit of fairly low cost. Some require Aeron and Mera to grow a bit more. Almost all require we sell the boat which smacks head on with the More Boat agreement. The exciting part for me is the eagerness and enthusiasm with which the entire family embraces these proposals. We are now a family for whom big adventures, physical hardships, and limited resources engender excitement and speculation rather than fear and dismay. We are ready to meet new challenges head on.
New Zealand -- Which is good because we are still working very hard to set up a year abroad. Our strongest lead at present is a job in Auckland, New Zealand for DrC. The year-long contract would start sometime after the first of the year. While DrC worked, the girls would attend the local schools, and I would... Okay, that's a problem. We don't know if I'd be allowed to work, or if I could find a job even if allowed by authorities to do so. It might be time to start my career as a romance novelist. We'll see. The flaw in this plan is again – what do we do with Don Quixote? In an ideal world, we'd lease her for a year to another cruising couple or family. If you're interested, please let me know. We'll give you a good rate on a fully outfitted cruising catamaran for a year in Mexico. We'd come back in a year and proceed to Plan B.
Plan B -- Bottom line is that we're going to run out of money in about another year of cruising. Even if we delay that with a side trip to New Zealand, we can't keep this up indefinitely. The girls and DrC hammered out an itinerary that would take us down to El Salvador, over to Hawaii, and then up to British Columbia. We'd end up back in Seattle in late fall where presumably we'd work all winter and sell the boat to finance the next phase of our lives.
Road Trip -- Another strong area of consensus is that we want to take another, much longer road trip in the United States before we pick a place to live in our home country. We've all learned a great deal on this trip about what type of community appeals to all members of the family. Not too small, not too big. Must have trees. Only college towns with a “funky vibe” need apply. Mera says, “Large library.” Jaime wants “high school age kids.” Aeron would like a community swimming pool while DrC wants someone from whom he can take guitar lessons. I want cheap broadband Internet and a really good grocery store. We're willing to rent or live in an RV or modular housing until we can find the right fixer upper.
Consensus was the first step. We now have a pretty good idea what the family is looking for, both individually and collectively. As I write these words, I realize that this article is probably the first in a series that gradually unravels and shuts down the Toast Floats blog. Just as I began writing when the idea of the sailing life first came to us, it seems appropriate that I close it when we let go of Don Quixote and move on to the next adventure.
Which means I suspect it's time for me to squat on a few new domains. toastrides? toasthikes? toastrollsaroundinanrv? Who knows? Maybe the biggest adventure would be to start using toastworks again. *shudder* Scary thought.
Showing posts with label road trip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label road trip. Show all posts
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
It's All Relative
“What's 80 kilometers in miles per hour?” I muse as we head north out of Santa Rosalia in the piece of junk 1983 Chevy Van we just christened Rucio. The van is American, the road is Mexican, the kids are international digital natives unaccustomed to the rhythms of land. I peer at the gauge, absolutely certain I'm barreling down the highway at a dangerously fast pace.
The gauge, however, says we're moving at about 25 miles per hour.
Now I'm a Californian, born and bred. We don't go a mere 25 miles per hour even when we're backing our SUVs down the drive way to get the mail from the box on the street. Stop and go traffic is when you're moving at 75 down an L.A. freeway 3 feet behind the bumper of the car ahead of you. We invented the Hollywood Stop. Our legislators are single handedly responsible for raising the federal maximum speed limit from 55 up to a reasonable number somewhere just short of light speed. For gods sake people, I've ridden my bicycle faster than 25 on the American River trail.
But Mera hits the nail squarely with her polite query, “Mom? Are you speeding? I think you may be going too fast...” Her voice trails off with gentle solicitude. Mera doesn't want to be critical, mind you. On the other hand, if I'm behaving irresponsibly, her life might be in danger. She'd like to know I'm aware of the situation.
My brow furrows in concentration as I spare another glance at the obviously flawed speedometer. There were other things wrong with this hunk o'junk van. It desperately needed a tune up, for example. Prior to the tune up, it tried to kill us. The windows don't roll up, and the handle on the starboard passenger door fell off yesterday. It could just be the speedometer doesn't work. It persists in reporting that the van is moving at pace appropriate for a school crossing zone when clearly you can see the landscape whizzing by at supersonic speed. I slow down, “Mera... I don't think so but...”
Dulcinea weighs in on the topic. She leaps up to my lap, paws on the steering wheel and takes over for a few minutes. “Meeerrooow!” Apparently she agrees with Mera. We're going too fast. She jumps down and hides underneath the seat. Dulci isn't one to fool around. When the boat's really moving, she finds the safest, snuggest spot.
In the meantime, a pile up of cars has now decided I'm out of my flippin' mind. One by one, they accelerate and zoom around Rucio. As they pass, the drivers and passengers peer in at me trying to ascertain what mad idiot with California plates is doing 20 miles per hour on the highway. Perhaps it's a fat old white guy having a coronary or maybe a slim, slick hipster catatonic from caffeine withdrawal after attempting to get a fix at the non-existent Starbuck's in Rosalia. But no. It's just one frazzled-looking soccer mom with a deep tan and a panicked expression.
The gauge must be right. It must be. Against all instinct, I press firmly on the accelerator. We're going to go faster. We must go faster.
Mera asks again, “Are you sure?...”
“I'm pretty sure we're not even going the speed limit,” I say defensively. “We're just not used to this speed.”
This is a light bulb blowing up in my brain. None of us has traveled at faster than eight miles per hour in over a year. Most of the time we've averaged five. Now we are rushing along at four times that speed. It's utterly terrifying. I courageously push harder on the pedal in an attempt to achieve the posted speed of 100 kmh all the while delivering a pep talk to induce the old familiar state of lead foot. “We can do this, Mera. I'm a great driver. We can do it!”
My cheer leading is met with Mera's profoundly disapproving silence. It's going to be a long trip to Albuquerque.
The gauge, however, says we're moving at about 25 miles per hour.
Now I'm a Californian, born and bred. We don't go a mere 25 miles per hour even when we're backing our SUVs down the drive way to get the mail from the box on the street. Stop and go traffic is when you're moving at 75 down an L.A. freeway 3 feet behind the bumper of the car ahead of you. We invented the Hollywood Stop. Our legislators are single handedly responsible for raising the federal maximum speed limit from 55 up to a reasonable number somewhere just short of light speed. For gods sake people, I've ridden my bicycle faster than 25 on the American River trail.
But Mera hits the nail squarely with her polite query, “Mom? Are you speeding? I think you may be going too fast...” Her voice trails off with gentle solicitude. Mera doesn't want to be critical, mind you. On the other hand, if I'm behaving irresponsibly, her life might be in danger. She'd like to know I'm aware of the situation.
My brow furrows in concentration as I spare another glance at the obviously flawed speedometer. There were other things wrong with this hunk o'junk van. It desperately needed a tune up, for example. Prior to the tune up, it tried to kill us. The windows don't roll up, and the handle on the starboard passenger door fell off yesterday. It could just be the speedometer doesn't work. It persists in reporting that the van is moving at pace appropriate for a school crossing zone when clearly you can see the landscape whizzing by at supersonic speed. I slow down, “Mera... I don't think so but...”
Dulcinea weighs in on the topic. She leaps up to my lap, paws on the steering wheel and takes over for a few minutes. “Meeerrooow!” Apparently she agrees with Mera. We're going too fast. She jumps down and hides underneath the seat. Dulci isn't one to fool around. When the boat's really moving, she finds the safest, snuggest spot.
In the meantime, a pile up of cars has now decided I'm out of my flippin' mind. One by one, they accelerate and zoom around Rucio. As they pass, the drivers and passengers peer in at me trying to ascertain what mad idiot with California plates is doing 20 miles per hour on the highway. Perhaps it's a fat old white guy having a coronary or maybe a slim, slick hipster catatonic from caffeine withdrawal after attempting to get a fix at the non-existent Starbuck's in Rosalia. But no. It's just one frazzled-looking soccer mom with a deep tan and a panicked expression.
The gauge must be right. It must be. Against all instinct, I press firmly on the accelerator. We're going to go faster. We must go faster.
Mera asks again, “Are you sure?...”
“I'm pretty sure we're not even going the speed limit,” I say defensively. “We're just not used to this speed.”
This is a light bulb blowing up in my brain. None of us has traveled at faster than eight miles per hour in over a year. Most of the time we've averaged five. Now we are rushing along at four times that speed. It's utterly terrifying. I courageously push harder on the pedal in an attempt to achieve the posted speed of 100 kmh all the while delivering a pep talk to induce the old familiar state of lead foot. “We can do this, Mera. I'm a great driver. We can do it!”
My cheer leading is met with Mera's profoundly disapproving silence. It's going to be a long trip to Albuquerque.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Wildlife Viewing Area
“It's a deer,” my mother blurts out. She sounds excited. This encounter with wild life in a national park is a treat to be savored, a special part of the camping experience.
Aeron barely looks up to note calmly, “Mule deer.”
“What?” Mom glances over her shoulder. She stands posed at the edge of our camp site, straining to see better without taking the National Park Service forbidden step towards the ambling herbivore. She can barely contain herself, fingers itching to take a picture or touch the hide.
“Mule deer,” repeats my youngest, her head back in her coloring book. She explains without looking up again, “See the long ears and the markings on the coat?”
Mom checks the deer and sounds somewhat awed as she breathes, “Mule deer.” I'm not sure if it's the 8 year old naturalist or the two beautiful animals now striding slowly in our direction followed by a hyperventilating photographer from the Netherlands who clearly hasn't read the park rules.
Probably both. Aeron and Mera are now officially sworn Junior Park Rangers in nine national parks: Petrified Forest, Bandalier, Aztec Ruins, Navajo National Monument, Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Zion, Devil's Post Pile, and Yosemite. They can recite chapter and verse regarding park protection and maintenance procedure, distinguish between a sparrow and a white breasted nut hatch, report on the history and cultural significance of the ancestral Pueblan peoples, and talk intelligently about the geological formation of the Colorado River Plateau. The one-two punch of a year on a cruising sailboat followed by a month in our nation's best and perhaps most important cultural export has producd accomplished amateur naturalists with a respectful but rather casual view towards wild life. It's fair to say that if there is a polar opposite to nature deficit disorder, my girls are the poster children.
I'm proud of Mera and Aeron for all their work on their ranger patches. We started the program initially as an alternative to doing school on the road. However, the accrual of badges, patches, and parks soon took on a life of its own. They now actively seek out the Junior Ranger programs in each park and complete the activities without fuss or argument. My mother promised to make them Ranger vests on which they can sew all their awards and stick all their buttons. Both girls have expressed an interest in becoming rangers themselves when they grow up. They could surely do worse as a career.
I highly recommend to all parents that you look into the educational programs available through our nation's parks and forests. Even when you can't visit a park, there are usually many learning opportunities online. My only suggestion to the folks at the National Park Service is that they develop a comparable curriculum for the high school age groups. Jaime was, unfortunately, somewhat left out of the fun this summer. And unlike her mother, she's too old to just roll with it and do the “little kid work” to young to not lose her dignity in coloring animal pairs.
“And what's that?” Grandma Sue asks pointing at the black shape flitting through the dusk darkened boughs of Zion's campground.
“Bat, of course,” Aeron informs my mother. “They see by echo-location and eat mosquitoes so you have to like them.”
Okay, Junior Ranger Aeron. We have to like them.
Aeron barely looks up to note calmly, “Mule deer.”
“What?” Mom glances over her shoulder. She stands posed at the edge of our camp site, straining to see better without taking the National Park Service forbidden step towards the ambling herbivore. She can barely contain herself, fingers itching to take a picture or touch the hide.
“Mule deer,” repeats my youngest, her head back in her coloring book. She explains without looking up again, “See the long ears and the markings on the coat?”
Mom checks the deer and sounds somewhat awed as she breathes, “Mule deer.” I'm not sure if it's the 8 year old naturalist or the two beautiful animals now striding slowly in our direction followed by a hyperventilating photographer from the Netherlands who clearly hasn't read the park rules.
Probably both. Aeron and Mera are now officially sworn Junior Park Rangers in nine national parks: Petrified Forest, Bandalier, Aztec Ruins, Navajo National Monument, Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Zion, Devil's Post Pile, and Yosemite. They can recite chapter and verse regarding park protection and maintenance procedure, distinguish between a sparrow and a white breasted nut hatch, report on the history and cultural significance of the ancestral Pueblan peoples, and talk intelligently about the geological formation of the Colorado River Plateau. The one-two punch of a year on a cruising sailboat followed by a month in our nation's best and perhaps most important cultural export has producd accomplished amateur naturalists with a respectful but rather casual view towards wild life. It's fair to say that if there is a polar opposite to nature deficit disorder, my girls are the poster children.
I'm proud of Mera and Aeron for all their work on their ranger patches. We started the program initially as an alternative to doing school on the road. However, the accrual of badges, patches, and parks soon took on a life of its own. They now actively seek out the Junior Ranger programs in each park and complete the activities without fuss or argument. My mother promised to make them Ranger vests on which they can sew all their awards and stick all their buttons. Both girls have expressed an interest in becoming rangers themselves when they grow up. They could surely do worse as a career.
I highly recommend to all parents that you look into the educational programs available through our nation's parks and forests. Even when you can't visit a park, there are usually many learning opportunities online. My only suggestion to the folks at the National Park Service is that they develop a comparable curriculum for the high school age groups. Jaime was, unfortunately, somewhat left out of the fun this summer. And unlike her mother, she's too old to just roll with it and do the “little kid work” to young to not lose her dignity in coloring animal pairs.
“And what's that?” Grandma Sue asks pointing at the black shape flitting through the dusk darkened boughs of Zion's campground.
“Bat, of course,” Aeron informs my mother. “They see by echo-location and eat mosquitoes so you have to like them.”
Okay, Junior Ranger Aeron. We have to like them.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Hit the Road Jack
Now contrary to the casual, relaxed look and feel of this blog, generally I'm a thoughtful, forward thinking blogger and put articles in the queue when I plan to travel away from good bandwidth for any significant length of time. This road trip, however, is proving the exception that proves the rule. This road trip started with weeks of decommissioning the boat in heinous heat, proceeded with the van from hell on the road to nowhere, and now continues in the back of friggin' beyond where "free wifi" consists of a router attached to a dial-up connection.
So no pictures. No well thought out funny stories. No electricity, no showers, no running water, and lukewarm beer.
We traded the sleek sailing catamaran Don Quixote for the lumbering van Rucio on July 22 and headed north. Mera, Aeron and I made our way with alacrity from Santa Rosalia to the border, pausing overnight in El Rosario and Ensenada. Traveling with a car instead of a boat inspired me to write at length about speed. See future post for that subject. Dulcinea adjusted rapidly and readily to van life. The girls spread out into every crack and crevice of the van. We had crap piled to the ceiling which made it difficult to see out the back.
We crossed the border in Tecate. The American Border Control folks are very very scary. The Mexicans very very polite. We then drove through southern Arizona, stopping briefly to take in the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert before heading into New Mexico to meet up with DrC and Jaime. Then up to Abiqui, NM for a lovely wedding at the Ghost Ranch. Horrid campground. Absolutely the driest most horrible campground I have ever stayed in. Back down to Albuquerque to pick up Grandma Sue this time.
Now this is where things went to shit. First, I got the date wrong and sent DrC to the airport to pick up Grandma Sue a day early. Better than a day late, right? DrC wasn't impressed with that logic. Second, DrC got clever with the hood of the van so it decided to flip up and smash the front windshield. Another story or maybe just an appendix for my treatise on the many ways in which Land Sucks. We couldn't initially get it fixed since the van is so damn old that the safety glass folks wouldn't replace it. But! We found a Mexican -would- fix it. I love Mexicans. I love Mexico. I want to go home.
Then the cat ran away.
Okay, technically Dulcinea didn't run away. Technically, she went exploring across a gulch which the New Mexico water control folks decided to fill while she was on the other side. Unfortunately, Dulci doesn't carry a cell phone and couldn't let us know where she was so we thought she'd been eaten, carried away by aliens, or found a more comfortable van to stay in. Let's be clear, every van in the western states is a more comfortable van so it wouldn't have been a great challenge. After waiting a full day, we went to bed completely and utterly depressed, certain we'd leave the next day cat-less. At about 3 AM the wind shifted, carrying her rather annoyed meows and bell ringing back to us in our tents across the high, rushing river of a gulch. DrC went swimming and mud-wrangling and got her back on our side.
So off we go with Grandma Sue, DrC, the cat, three children, two tents, six sleeping bags, and enough food, electronics, and miscellaneous sundries to stock a small WalMart. We've managed to successfully visit the following (in basically chronological order): Albuquerque Natural History Museum, Los Alamos Science Museum, Don Quixote Distillery, Bandalier National Park (NP), Navajo Lake State Park, Aztec Ruins NP, Navajo National Monument NP, and the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. We stayed at the Desert View Campground on the South Rim and did an endless series of ranger led activities. We've been hiking everywhere. Jaime, DrC and I even dropped halfway down into the canyon on the South Kaibab trail. Jaime tried to lose me, but I'm stronger than I look.
We're now hunkered down at a KOA Campground near Bryce/Zion trying to scrape off a week of accumulated dirt and stink. I'm surprised they let us in. I'm not surprised they stuck us on a tent site 10 feet from about a 1000 pounds of horse shit.
So no pictures. No well thought out funny stories. No electricity, no showers, no running water, and lukewarm beer.
We traded the sleek sailing catamaran Don Quixote for the lumbering van Rucio on July 22 and headed north. Mera, Aeron and I made our way with alacrity from Santa Rosalia to the border, pausing overnight in El Rosario and Ensenada. Traveling with a car instead of a boat inspired me to write at length about speed. See future post for that subject. Dulcinea adjusted rapidly and readily to van life. The girls spread out into every crack and crevice of the van. We had crap piled to the ceiling which made it difficult to see out the back.
We crossed the border in Tecate. The American Border Control folks are very very scary. The Mexicans very very polite. We then drove through southern Arizona, stopping briefly to take in the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert before heading into New Mexico to meet up with DrC and Jaime. Then up to Abiqui, NM for a lovely wedding at the Ghost Ranch. Horrid campground. Absolutely the driest most horrible campground I have ever stayed in. Back down to Albuquerque to pick up Grandma Sue this time.
Now this is where things went to shit. First, I got the date wrong and sent DrC to the airport to pick up Grandma Sue a day early. Better than a day late, right? DrC wasn't impressed with that logic. Second, DrC got clever with the hood of the van so it decided to flip up and smash the front windshield. Another story or maybe just an appendix for my treatise on the many ways in which Land Sucks. We couldn't initially get it fixed since the van is so damn old that the safety glass folks wouldn't replace it. But! We found a Mexican -would- fix it. I love Mexicans. I love Mexico. I want to go home.
Then the cat ran away.
Okay, technically Dulcinea didn't run away. Technically, she went exploring across a gulch which the New Mexico water control folks decided to fill while she was on the other side. Unfortunately, Dulci doesn't carry a cell phone and couldn't let us know where she was so we thought she'd been eaten, carried away by aliens, or found a more comfortable van to stay in. Let's be clear, every van in the western states is a more comfortable van so it wouldn't have been a great challenge. After waiting a full day, we went to bed completely and utterly depressed, certain we'd leave the next day cat-less. At about 3 AM the wind shifted, carrying her rather annoyed meows and bell ringing back to us in our tents across the high, rushing river of a gulch. DrC went swimming and mud-wrangling and got her back on our side.
So off we go with Grandma Sue, DrC, the cat, three children, two tents, six sleeping bags, and enough food, electronics, and miscellaneous sundries to stock a small WalMart. We've managed to successfully visit the following (in basically chronological order): Albuquerque Natural History Museum, Los Alamos Science Museum, Don Quixote Distillery, Bandalier National Park (NP), Navajo Lake State Park, Aztec Ruins NP, Navajo National Monument NP, and the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. We stayed at the Desert View Campground on the South Rim and did an endless series of ranger led activities. We've been hiking everywhere. Jaime, DrC and I even dropped halfway down into the canyon on the South Kaibab trail. Jaime tried to lose me, but I'm stronger than I look.
We're now hunkered down at a KOA Campground near Bryce/Zion trying to scrape off a week of accumulated dirt and stink. I'm surprised they let us in. I'm not surprised they stuck us on a tent site 10 feet from about a 1000 pounds of horse shit.
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.
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