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Chapter 3 - Underway at Last

There was not a breath of wind at 0830 on the 20th of February 2004. At least none in sight from the mountains on one hand to nearby Danzante Island. That is a common situation here and means absolutely nothing about the wind for the afternoon, which might be just as calm, but more likely will come up with a breeze from somewhere at this time of the year, most likely from the Northern quadrants. Rather than my bright sunny skies, the morning gave us a high thin hazy overcast and it was noticeably cool, but then, I was in shorts and a tee shirt.

I started the little outboard and let her run at a high idle, just nudging the boat out of the harbor and over toward the North end of Danzante. Honeymoon Cove on Isla Danzante was our first anchorage in Mexico two years ago, and I wasn't about to pass by without at least looking in, so I let the motor purr quietly and spent a lazy hour at the crossing. There were kayakers around. If your shoulders haven't given out yet a kayak would be a lovely way to travel along this coast. There are many beaches a kayak can easily haul out on that offer no protection at all for an anchored sailboat. It would usually be an early morning game though I imagine, with the frequent rough conditions in the afternoons, I at least would want to be ashore hiking rather than wrestling with the wind and wave offshore. I could see 4 boats on a beach just North of Puerto Escondido's high hill entrance guard, just finishing loading for the day and another small fleet, more ambitious, already at sea and crossing from Danzante toward the mainland further North. At Honeymoon cove an hour later I found three other cruising sailboats, including a Flicka, the nearest thing to a small boat I would see on the trip, but I was not ready to anchor yet to join them. I'd come for sailing and planned to have some yet this first day. For the time being I shut down the motor just in the middle of the little bay and let her lie there, just sitting in the calm, while I tidied the cabin, checked various arrangements and changed things around til the cockpit, cabin, rigging and all were just as I wanted. There was even a little time to wipe some more of the road grime off the boat before the breeze came in at 11:35, light and from the Southeast, but a breeze. I got her underway then with the main and the bigger jib, the "lapper" and shaped a course North past the tip of Danzante toward Isla Carmen, one of the largest islands in the Sea and quite close by across a narrow channel. Isla Carmen is about 17 miles long end to end, sort of an irregular elongate triangle with the broader and mountainous higher end at the North, directly off the town of Loreto, extending Southward in a long descending sweep of glorious rock to end in a long sand spit South and East of the North end of Isla Danzante. There are several good anchorages around the island, but also miles of steep to cliffs and unprotected beaches. Once the water warms a bit more the snorkeling is said to be wonderful. On the first voyage in these waters we had passed along the Southern end of the island but had not explored at all. This time I was determined to circumnavigate and after a bit of dithering over whether to accept the fair wind North bound for Puerto Balandra on the Northwest corner of the island or take it as a head wind and beat around the Southern tip before turning North toward Salinas Bay and Punta Perico on the Islands Eastern side I soon decided that a fair reaching breeze to carry me Northward was not to be ignored, so laid the course easily paralleling the rugged shoreline about a mile and a half offshore.

The first WHOOSH!! of a whale's breathing always catches me by surprise and this was all the better since the fellow had come up right alongside the boat, perhaps only 50 feet away. Small and shiny and black, almost a miniature of the great whales, fins, seis, and especially the fantastic blues, this could only be a minke whale. Small. . .well, these things are relative of course, he was perhaps 30 or 35 feet long, sort of hard to tell, many many times heavier and a lot faster than "Gaviota". He circled the boat completely, breathing and blowing several times, quite close by. The breeze had dropped off for a bit and no doubt he found our speed uninteresting and moved on Northward on his own business, straining lunch out of the clear water. Later in the day he, or another just like him would pass again Southbound, but a little farther away. I'd really hoped to see whales on this trip and this made a fine if "small" start. A little later on I noticed quite a commotion on the surface of the water and a black and white manta ray perhaps 3' across leapt clear out of the water, obviously part of a large and busy school. They often jump like that, frequently turning backflips in the air, but I love best to see them swimming by under the boat, flying on rippling wings really, exquisite creatures. The wind came back after a short rest and built up nicely to 8 or 10 knots. I think we must have had a half or 3/4ths of a knot of fair current too. The boat was making no great fuss on a broad reach, but the shoreline fairly flew by and the new GPS showed 5.2 to 5.7 knots steadily.

Puerto Balandra on the Northwest flank of Isla Carmen is a nearly circular bay, guarding, in some part of its considerable acreage, against almost every wind that blows hereabouts. Late in the afternoon we found ourselves beating into the anchorage against our friendly Southeast breeze, turned into a headwind by the funneling effect of the hills around the bay and our determination to anchor off the "lenticular" cliff with its sandy beach at the Southern end of the bay. Just before entering I was startled again by the blowing of a whale nearby, but this was no minke. An enormous long dark grey back arched out of the water in a stately roll, perhaps a quarter mile away. He blew several times as we worked up into the bay between the rocky entrance points and past 7 other boats already at anchor. In fact, another boat was clearly visible motoring up against the last of the breeze from the Northeast. Balandra is a large bay and there was lots of room for more, even with all the other boats anchored up in the Northern bight of the bay. Finally, with the breeze dying off I hove her to perhaps 150 feet from the beach, stepped up to the bow and tripped the little Bruce anchor overboard. With 30 feet of chain out the anchor found sand bottom and we gradually settled back on the rode til she lay quietly. We were at anchor in Mexico again after so long. The sails came down in a rush. I bundled the jib away in its green stuff sack on the fore deck, put the blue coat on the main, snapped the fat yellow bungee cord onto the boom end to hold it off to one side of the cockpit (makes getting in and out of the cabin much nicer) and got the anchor light out of its hiding hole in the locker in the galley. Secured for the night, I turned to the faithful white inflatable canoe bobbing lightly astern. The paddle came out from under the starboard side deck and went together, I clambered over the side and aboard the canoe and we went whaling. No harpoon mind you (in an INFLATABLE canoe??), actually, not even a camera. . .we just paddled boldly out to find the big fellow who had been standing offshore to welcome us to the harbor. He'd moved off a little ways and was now blowing and breaching perhaps half a mile off shore and we never got very close. The funny white sausage boat really isn't much of a paddling vessel anyway, but it was good exercise and I was thrilled to see his broad back arching again and again out of the sea, listening to the sharp exhalation and seeing the silvery spout of his breath in the early evening. Then it was back to the boat for the last dinner of fresh meat for this trip, a bit of writing in the journal, and finally to bed in a flat mirror calm. During the night a light N'ly breeze came up and brought a little swell and chop into my Southern end of the bay, enough to wake me up with the slapping and rolling, but not enough to cause alarm. The first night at anchor I'm often restless anyway, so was content to lie in my bunk after first being sure we weren't dragging onto the little beach, which now amounted to a lee shore only a hundred feet or so away. . .in a very gentle sort of way of course.

Our first morning out, now the 21st of February, dawned flat calm hazy and cloudy but comfortable in the cockpit in my cruising clothes. The sea was a pewter platter as far as I could see and a whale was spouting a mile or so offshore, perhaps the same big fellow I'd seen the night before. By the time the breakfast mess was put away and the anchor on board again there was just a bit of breeze to work with, from the Northwest this time and we began tacking out of the harbor and up toward the Western tip of Cholla Island. Cholla lies, flat and featureless except for its navigation light, just off the Northwest corner of Isla Carmen. In fact, there's reported to be a shoal joining the two that only dinghies can pass over and there is a very long shallow reef extending on offshore beyond the above water part of the island. It was slow sailing up wind, though perhaps with a bit of fair current, and I brought the boat quite close to the reef before admitting I'd cut it too fine and would have to tack away to the West one more time. Finally we rounded the point, island and reef all clear and filled away across the Northern shoreline of the island. At times the sky was positively drab as the clouds thickened a bit, but then they'd thin and the sun, nearly burning through, made the whole sky a pearl overhead.

There's another point called "Punta Lobos" on Carmen, "Sealion Point" in English. There are many points, rocks and islets in the Sea named "Lobos" and usually you'll find sea lions singing in loud if dubious harmony all around them. Nearing this particular Punta Lobos I noted in the log that there were only pelicans, no lobos at all. . .but was forced to retract the entry once we rounded the point. They simply preferred the Eastern tidal shelf that day and their chorus accompanied us for at least a mile on down the shoreline. The wind came and went and we made most of our mileage that day in sudden short bursts of energy when we'd move along at 4 or 5 knots for fifteen minutes or half an hour at a time. Mostly it was a drifter, barely keeping steerage on the boat all day. At 4:30 in the afternoon having reached but not really rounded Punta Perico, the Easternmost corner of Isla Carmen and the basis of the sheltered anchorage we planned on using for the night, I decided it was time to find the anchorage and get on with supper. The motor fired right up and brought us on round the corner to where the small sand beach waited as advertised in the guide book. Once the hook was well set and all secured for the evening a pleasant breeze returned from the North that would of course have finished the day's work for us without a problem. Oh sigh. By 7:15 the sun was gone, the sky clearing and filling completely with brilliant stars. By 8:00 the little bit of a moon had set as well and the stars had the night to themselves. What incredible skies this place has. Tonight the sea was echoing the sky as well, flashing with phosphorescence even without my dipping a hand overside. I propped my chin on the cockpit rail and stared deep into the black water, flashing everywhere with pinpoints of light and now and then bursting out in a trail of cold fire when a small fish swam by under us. It was a living black opal to float on. Still, sleep came, at least for a while.

The anchorage under Punta Perico is a Winter anchorage, protected superbly from any swell or wind from the North, whence come most of the Winter's storms. In Summer, when Southeast weather might be expected, there's an alternative anchorage on the other side of the point. I'd passed it by. This night a small wind came up from the South of Southwest and drove a surprisingly nasty chop right into the bay. Gaviota rolled as she never has in my knowing of her, a violent bobbing roll, accompanied by occasional hard splashes of a wave against the bow. Once again the sheltering beach of night fall had become a lee shore while I slept. I spent more time perched in the hatchway, checking the anchor and watching for any sign of dragging. It was far from a storm, just an irritation from the wrong side. Finally I slid back into the port quarterberth I call my own and dared her to toss me out of it. Off and on I slept til the gray overcast dawn finally brought dull light to the world.

Breakfast was a quick affair, oats, prunes and raisins, soon gone and sooner cleaned up after. There was a smallish single handed trimaran in the anchorage overnight as well, hailing from Gig Harbor, Washington, not so far from my home. We got our anchors aboard together and said hellos and farewells as we crossed tacks in leaving, he bound North and we now bound South for La Paz. Wind was a light but steady Southerly that just almost let us lay the course for the very South end of Carmen on one tack. That meant we'd not look up into Salinas in person, but I spent a long time with the binoculars looking at the old abandoned salt making town. Clearly it was a Company town, one big commercial looking structure and a small row of workmen's houses. There was a shade structure down by the beach but no pangas pulled up or anchored off. The place truly is abandoned now. I kept the boat moving steadily South through the morning. By mid day we were closing the Southernmost tip of Carmen at last, "Punta Baja", the long low sweep of bluffs ending in a sand spit trailing off to the Southeast. We were making good about 3 knots in the little breeze and were only 15 miles from the reported beach-side hot springs at San Cosme to the South. With 7 hours of daylight left I began planning to make a try for that exposed anchorage. If wind fell off or it got dark too early, then there is almost enough sea room to believe you'd be safe heaving too with just the little jib and waiting for light to make the last of the run. One way or another, and probably for the best, the weather put paid to that idea shortly after lunch. The wind shifted 45 degrees and gusted up hard from straight ahead. No way to make the 15 miles at that point, but it made the stretch back to Honeymoon cove on Danzante a good romping sail. So off we went, reaching one way or another across the wind and suddenly lumpy sea. It wasn't until we actually nosed into the bay that I realized what a funnel that cove makes of such a wind. The gusts come prying at the ridges of the mountain spine of the island and twist around until they blow straight into each of the bights equally well. . .or badly in our case. There was no shelter at all there and the afternoon was getting on, so the decision was easy, turn away and scoot over to Puerto Escondido, close hauled again. With the boat settled to her work, thumping into the small chop, I saw a truly SILVER whale, not a dull grey or black. When his back broke the surface and he spouted the shining smooth skin was a bright silver color. I only saw him on that one visit to the surface, a few deep breaths and he was gone again. We carried on close hauled in under the guardian cliffs at Escondido until we opened the entrance and could bear off, bringing the wind comfortably into the sails from astern and carrying us easily into the outer bay or "Waiting Room" as it's called. I'd never anchored in the Waiting Room before. . .they call it that since it's a good place to wait while the tide runs foul in the entrance to the inner bay, but it's widely reported to be a fine anchorage in its own right, sheltered from essentially any wind, though a bit deep, 60 feet or so, right up to the mangroves that grow down at the water's edge (they thrive on salt water where the bottom suits them). A small aluminum fishing boat with four large Mexican gentlemen sitting carefully aboard was obviously having motor trouble. It would scoot forward a ways under power then the skipper would bend over the motor's cowling, fiddle with settings and pull the starter cord while 2 of his crew took to paddles and kept the boat moving along remarkably well. I called to ask if they wanted a tow to the boat ramp but they waved me on. We made a careful inspection of the boats at anchor in the broad arc of the Waiting Room and looked over the possible spots to slip Gaviota in amongst them, but finally decided to bear off and go on in to the inner harbor for the night. Just then I noticed the boatload of fishermen waving me back. They'd enough of paddling it seemed and the motor was finished for the day. I hardened up on the wind and brought them close alongside in one tack (feeling very much the sailor man of course) and made a complete mess of tossing them my tow line. The whole thing went from two tidy coils in my hands to a tangled knot ten feet from our stern in one quick movement. We all laughed and I tried again, they tied on and again we bore off for the entrance, this time, sail rescuing steam. Ah the sweetness eh? But the wind faltered in the entrance and out came their paddles again when I didn't at once start the motor. The towline stayed tight for a bit, then they began to get a little slack in it. I gave in, started the motor and towed them promptly the last half mile to the launch ramp. Oh well, it was still a grand gesture and the thank-you's and see-you-later's in English and Spanish were bright and cheerful. I went to anchor in 25 feet just a hundred yards or so from the launch ramp, not minding the prospect of early morning fishermen to wake me. If this wind held it'd be a fine wind to carry us South in the morning. Thus early to bed in the most perfectly secure boat harbor on the West coast of Mexico. No ripple disturbed my sleep no matter the breeze.

In fact, that night it rained and blew quite a bit, but the Potter's cabin is a fine place to sleep on a night like that and morning came in with just enough breeze to get us out of the harbor and out onto the bay before it fell quite light. Actually, this was our first day of sun and wind on the trip, though the night's rain clouds hung on around the peaks just to the West most of the morning, making glorious scenery in the rugged rocks. This part of the coast is almost like sailing with one wall of the Grand Canyon just off to one side and the tatters of cloud mixed with the towering rocks made a dramatic skyscape.

When the wind did come back, half an hour later, it was bright and perky and straight out of the West, coming down over the mountains straight from the Pacific, perhaps 80 miles away. By the time we were halfway down the length of Danzante I was ready for the first reef, but we were jammed a little too tight up against the island to want to heave to and tie it in, so we flew a "fisherman's reef" that is, just luffed the main a bit to keep the boat on her feet and scooted quickly the length of the island. As soon as it looked good and clear of the reef at the South end of the island I tacked the boat over and hove her to to reef down, already thinking in terms of both reefs at once and maybe a change to the small jib. As soon as the boat shed her way and began that relaxed tussle between tiller and jib that holds her steady while I work forward, the un-tended canoe astern flipped over in the wind and spat out her inflatable seat. Dang. She's not worth much without it and it was being driven straight down into the rocks and reefs at the end of the island. Not a good outlook. I was really pretty busy managing the boat and not liking exactly where I'd decided to do all this work, Gaviota was making quite a bit of way back toward the reef herself, even hove to and was mighty lively, with me working up on the foredeck. I quickly got the main double reefed and then down on deck and pulled the large jib down off the stay. The little jib is quick to hank on, it's so short on the hoist there are not many clips to snap! Then I took time to look the situation over. The same scene in rain and cloud would have been terrifying, but with the bright sunlight showing the colors of deep water and the exact extent of the reef and rocks, I could see that there might be time for just one pass to pick up the straying canoe seat before it went ashore in an impossible spot. It wasn't a time to fool with seamanship. I started the motor with the sails all in heaps where they lay, the reefed main dropped in a pile on the cabin top and the jib with one lashing round the pulpit to keep it aboard. No doubt we were a splendid sight. The short shaft motor did NOT like the chop and even leaning way aft I didn't add enough weight to keep the prop buried all the time, but the boat swung round and ran off under good control. We made a perfect approach just to leeward of the seat and I touched it with fingertips with my chin tangled in the back stay and couldn't hold on. We drove on past with me commenting loudly on the skill and planning of the bumbling captain and crew. There really was room for one more pass. We did a 180 between the rocks and the chuckling seat, certain of his escape now, lined up more thoughtfully, took the stay and placed it safely to one side and made a determined grab, got the thing and pitched it rudely down in the basement. The nearest rock was still 100 feet away and we were going the right way to pull clear. I let the motor carry her on another minute or two then shut her down before she could blow up from running in air, jumped forward, freed the jib and hoisted away. We were well under way and sailing nicely clear in less than a minute. . .nothing hung up. Actually, that's one of my standard rules. . .always take the seat out of the canoe before starting for the day. I just forgot this morning. Life is a school, where the lessons are repeated until clearly understood. . .sigh. Shortly we were well clear and the double reefed main was carrying the boat along about as fast as she'll go on a beam reach.

This run, from Puerto Escondido to Agua Verde is one of the longer stretches without a really good alternate anchorage in rougher weather. Once committed, you're pretty well in the soup until you can pull into one of the two good coves at the end of the run. The West wind was a fine beam reach until it began gusting up to more than the boat would bear with the double reefed main and the tiny jib. Then it became a bit problematical. I'd never tried a beam reach course under just the jib before, but in one large gust the boat was hove well down, lee rail nearly in the water, with the main just flapping loose and talking about tearing her batten pockets out by the roots. The decision was easy to make. As soon as the gust eased a bit I jumped up to the mast and pulled the main down on deck. I'd had my harness on and clipped off to the tag line for the past hour or more, since the first effort at reefing down, so there was no time lost getting ready to work. The boat immediately sat up and came under easy control. I went aft a minute to adjust the helm (the "Huntingford Helm Impeder" is still my only autopilot on this boat and does a wonderful job of holding her under most conditions). The whole color of the day had changed from just a bit threatening to calm and easy, if a bit violent and quite loud. It was just a minute or two securing the main to the boom tidily, coiling down and straightening up forward, then I settled back into the cockpit to watch. The GPS said the boat was making between 3.5 and 4.5 knots almost perfectly on the course for Agua Verde with just that tiny jib up front and nothing set aft of the mast at all. The helm was down just a little bit, pointing the boat up into the wind perhaps 10 or 15 degrees, but the net effect was just about a perfectly square beam reach across the bottom. . .exactly where we wanted to go. The sun was hot but the spray was cold when it swept over the cabin top and landed on my bare legs. . .I was getting sun burned and chilly at the same time. I suddenly realized I hadn't had to touch the tiller in ten minutes, I had 100 miles of sea room under my lee with only one prominent island to dodge if need be and there was no reason to stay on deck. I went downstairs and plumped down in the uphill cabin seat, gradually relaxed, even got out a book to read. There was a sudden break in mid afternoon that tempted me to raise the main again for ten minutes, but then a gust slammed into us again and the wind was back. The breeze continued like that all afternoon, not terribly strong in the lulls, but swinging around erratically and gusting up to where the boat would just skitter along through the water, the whole time holding the course for Agua Verde without more than a touch on the tiller every half hour or so and only that little jib for a sail. Once, standing up in the companionway to have a look around I was startled and worried by a huge commotion on the surface of the water perhaps 300 yards downwind. There was a solid line of violent splashing and flying spray, quite unlike the regular sea that had built up. I positively knew there was no reef in this stretch of ocean, I'd been over the same ground before and there was no word about a reef in any of my charts or guide books. Then I saw the first dolphin leap. First one leapt high in the air out of the welter, then a bit later two others off to one side. The line of splashing came closer and I was amazed at its extent. It's very hard to be precise and I hate to tell tall tales, but that line of commotion was probably a quarter mile wide, stretched out over the sea from North to South and moving directly toward me, to the West, straight into the wind. As they came slowly closer it was obvious they were splashing on purpose and I began to understand that the dolphins were in a row perhaps four or five animals deep and only separated from each other by a few feet at most, practically swimming shoulder to shoulder. Now and then one or more would leap clear of the water and fall back headfirst into the sea. I had never before even imagined there could be such an enormous tribe of dolphins assembled. I pulled the little water tight camera out of its holder but waited for the wall of animals to come close enough to show something in a photo. They never did. Perhaps 100 yards away they suddenly turned about as a line and proceded back the way they had come. In ten minutes it was over. I went back down in the basement with my book out of the wind and spray but couldn't read while I dreamed of so much life and grace and beauty all in one spot.

The final approach to Agua Verde was much as I'd remembered. I'd kept the boat working as far up into the wind as she'd go with the odd rig and we'd saved up perhaps a mile in hand upwind of Roca Solitaria, the "whale's tooth" rock that sits out in front of the bay, sharp pointed and painted entirely white by eons of sea birds roosting on it. It must be the finest sign post for any harbor in these parts, visible from miles away coming down from the North and perfectly marking the center of the entrance. I had not wanted to take any chance of blowing on past and was absolutely tickled with the boat's performance and position as we closed the last mile or so. Coming closer to the beach it seemed the wind was falling off a bit and the GPS only indicated 2.7 knots. We would have to maneuver inside the bay to come to the anchorage, in fact, to choose between the two anchorages that make up the harbor, so once again I gave her back the double reefed main and we fairly flew across the chop into the bay. I suppose I was showing off my boat. There was one cruiser anchored in the Southern bight and five or six in the Northern. We came storming up between the mountains in the gusts heeling well over and making tremendous speed for what we are. In the tight quarters between the bluffs and reefs on each side we tacked over and back again constantly as the gusts shifted and headed us or we came too close to something hard and sharp. Both bights looked secure in the Westerly that was blowing, but the Southern one would be a death trap if it came to blow out of the North, which seemed a reasonable possibility. I knew the trail into the village from the Northern anchorage and felt it was almost perfectly secure in any wind. That settled the matter, even given the crowd that was already anchored inside. There was still lots of room for us. It wouldn't have been prudent though to have gone storming in there short tacking among all those anchored boats. We hove to just at the mouth of the bight, dropped the sails and loosely gasketed them as we blew off down wind. . .got the motor going and went in to anchor in the farthest corner of the bay up by the pangas on the beach. The anchor found a good hold on the second set and we were home.

When things were all put away, covers on sails, anchor light rigged and all the loose bits down below put back where they belonged, I went ashore for a short hike up the ridge line above the anchorage, looking back along the coast we'd scooted past during the day, my first time ashore in several days and my feet were getting itchy. I'd make up for it here. On our first trip through this country two years ago I was very inclined to linger here in Agua Verde but felt pressed to continue on to pick up a crew in La Paz. I'd had it in mind to do better this trip.