While i'm gone...

I don't know how i stumbled into this place. When i think about it, i'm residing at a four or five star resort for the cost of moorage. About $15/day. Love the water taxis back and forth from town - and i marvel at how the people who grew up and live here probably think of them as "normal" (would they be surprised to find that they are not in every coastal town?). This place is temptingly comfortable, but i better not get used to it. Not that i've been totally lazy here. After all, i'm trying to eat my way thru my perishables. Besides that i pickled the watermaker, got a coat of wax on the topsides, mopped out the bilge, etc... Now to pack.

Looking back...
I haven’t told you about dragging anchor. Back in January, in Bahia Marquer on Carmen Island: we’re close to shore, obviously, if we’re anchored. How close depends on the size of the anchorage, and whether the bottom is steep to shore or flat. I read the guides, consider the weather and the tide, and run the engine in reverse to test how well the anchor holds. I set the depth alarm in case we find ourselves in shallower or deeper water than expected… Later the alarm goes off. We’re in less than 20’? The wind has turned around and is building. Fast. Why hasn’t the anchor reset? If i let out more chain, will it reset in time? No, we’re too close to shore. I don’t have time to ask these questions. I’ve got to focus solely on getting the anchor up and getting out of here. Where’s the engine key? Hanging on the throttle. 17’. Find the ignition. 15’. Engine starts (whew!). 13’. We need at least 6.5’. If i go pull the anchor up, we’ll be on the beach before i can get back to the helm and put the engine in gear. And it’s too much to ask the windlass to pull the boat against this wind and these waves. Put the engine in gear NOW. Turn the boat so it’s aiming in the direction the chain leads and engage the autopilot. 11’. That’s how deep it is where the depth sounder reads just forward of the keel. How deep is it aft at the rudder? I hear the surf on the beach close behind us. Don’t look. 10’. Still losing ground, give the engine a little more throttle, but don’t want to drive right over and past the anchor and get jerked back towards the beach. Okay, that much throttle is gonna have to work, time to leave the helm and go to the bow, which is bucking way up and down. The anchor windlass control is hanging on the lifeline where i leave it...so i won’t have to get it out or look for it…so it’s ready in a situation like this. Run the chain up 10’, remove the bridle from it. Bringing the chain in as fast as the windlass can run, maybe i gave the engine too much throttle? Too late now. I see the 120’ mark on the chain go by. “Pull, c’mon, pull!” A wave crashes over the bow and soaks me. I see the 90’ mark go by. This sudden wind is still building. The chain that is still in the water leads down now. 60’ mark goes by. Now the chain leads aft and to port, the windlass can’t keep up, chain comes tight, i stop the windlass, bow rises on the next wave, lifting the anchor off the bottom. Bow splashes back down. Is there such a thing as “more soaked?” Running the windlass again. But the anchor is not in yet. May have to let the chain and anchor scratch the hull on its way in. Looking up to see if the boat is aiming in the right direction to get out. Here comes another wave. And the anchor, slams home on its roller. Back at the helm, rev the motor, drive over to the other corner of the bay where there’s shelter, drop the anchor, digs in and holds on the first try, put the bridle back on the chain. Go back to the cockpit, turn the engine off, watch for a while to make sure we’re holding position. Back inside, dry off, adrenaline in my system. Damn! There wasn’t much margin for error there. Any one thing wrong would have landed Akimbo in the surf on the beach on her side. Lucky there was daylight left. It would have been worse in the dark and waking up from anything deeper than a nap.

This kind of thing can leave a person aware of being vulnerable. It can set up some internal storms that one’s confidence will have to weather.

And in early March? As long as i’m unburdening what i’ve withheld… Every fisherman’s panga i’ve seen has been white. Often with some red or blue striping crudely painted from bow to stern, and the boat name no less simply, tho i imagine more lovingly, painted on – Dulcinea, Lupita,… Hey, this is a work boat, it’s not here to be pretty. Yet it’s beautiful in its lack of decorum, as a tool especially suited to its task. Another universal thing about the pangueros (fishermen who use pagas) is that they always wave back to me. So, in little Puerto Don Juan, where we anchored for a day to hide from the next big blow, some instinct went off in me when the only other boat there was a panga pulled up on shore. No big deal, i was used to being the only boat or nearly so. But this panga was gray, had no name, and of the four crew, no one waved back to me, one was doing push-ups? Hmmm. I ‘ve felt entirely socially safe in Mexico but that day...? Didn’t paddle over, practice my Spanish and ask if they had any langosta (lobster) to sell.

I guess today’s subject is safety...again. Why is this back on the page? I mention it because it is a big part of my environment. See, I’m about to sail out of my insurance coverage, so i’ve been trying to find other insurance. It’s not been easy. There’s a policy that will cover me but not for hurricane damage and not while single handing for more than 24 hours at a time…and triples in cost. Historically they can prove that what i am doing isn’t safe. I have to admit that they’re right. Safety is in the background when sailing anyway. Sailing alone pushes it into the foreground. I wear a chest harness whenever we’re underway (at night i add an inflatable lifejacket to my stylish ensemble). On each side deck a piece of tubular webbing is stretched from the bow cleat to the stern cleat – these are called jacklines. I try to create the habit of clipping my harness into them whenever i leave the cockpit. This attaches me to the boat. If i fall over, i’m on a short tether and hopefully can yank myself back aboard. Even on calm days, when i don’t need to, i clip in…usually. Whenever there’s any amount of weather, i clip in…almost all the time. Going to the swimstep to pee, i clip in to the backstay. I keep my wallet in my pocket with the nightmare that if i ever do fall over and watch Akimbo sail away…maybe it will help identify the body. I’d have a lot of resolving to do quickly before dying ‘cuz there’s more i want to do with this life (even if i don’t know what it is yet). With the boat at any speed over a knot or so and on autopilot, there wouldn’t be a second chance. I consider trailing a line behind us but it would pull me under even if i could hold on. When i get back to Seattle i plan to buy a personal epirb, one that will clip on my harness. It’s a beacon that transmits a mayday signal and location to aircraft and satellites overhead. We saw it work recently when the Mexican Navy came charging into an anchorage looking for the source of an epirb mayday...sure enuf, someone had accidentally tripped their epirb without knowing it. Maybe rescue could get to me quick enuf for a second chance? Taped on the bulkhead (that’s nautical for “wall”) in front of the nav desk are messages: “Boat owner is Jon Howe. In case of emergency call: Tyler Howe; Bud and Rhoda Tritschler; John and Cynthia McGrath” with their phone numbers…in case Akimbo shows up somewhere without me. There’s a website, boatsearchnet.org, that is all about finding overdue and missing vessels.

When i was young and “immortal” i wouldn’t have felt this reality so keenly. Sometimes something comes close that reminds me i can’t prevent every risk (jumping up to reel a fish in, put the autopilot on standby, let Akimbo round up into the wind, start reeling, NOT ducking when the boom comes across – but i am standing far enuf aft that this time it misses my head) – how many of these have i not been aware of? Had i done this when i was younger, my youthful arrogance might have gotten me killed. But then, maybe i wouldn’t have been alone. Now i count on my wizened age(?) to see me safely thru.

This visit to Seattle is timely. Frankly, this edge is tiring me out. That and anticipating the weather, being late in the season. If i think about it too much, i freeze in its headlights, won’t get off the anchor, put the boat up for sale, fly home and what? Hide? Worse would be not enjoying being here. And this is so enjoyable most of the time. This is so much closer to the firmament, the viscera, the unknown, than life in the city. Is the risk required? What will i remember? Incredible night skies, sunsets and rises, whales, phosphorescence – especially wrapped around porpoise swimming at night, people met, visiting crew, anchorages and harbors, Tarahumara Indians selling their wares, beautiful vistas, the riot of bright colors presented by Mexican homes on a hillside, fresh fish meals, good sailing…simple solitude and quiet, not a lot of "stuff" and all in its place, days sailing alongside a seemingly endless unbroken white sand beach, and always on to another horizon. Oh, another pleasure these last few nights – hearing the mosquitoes on the OUTside of the netting canopied over my bed. Thank you.