What will i remember of Costa Rica...so far?

Monkeys in the trees at Playa del Coco! Duly and repeatedly warned about thievery, locking my kayak ashore and stashing my paddle. Catching the bus to Liberia, admiring tile art at the bus station.

A locally engineered sidewalk over a stream.

Nice little waterfall at Guacamaya. Rolly anchorages! (or else its alternative: ridiculously expensive morrage). As we made the final approach to the anchorage in Tamarindo, the windlass control shorted and dumped the anchor over the side unbeknownst to me. Confusion! “Why won’t Akimbo keep going, won’t motor anywhere, has the prop fallen off, no i see prop wash…better drop anchor until i can figure this out.” Thank heavens the bitter end of the rode is secured to Akimbo – an anchor is a terrible thing to lose (ask the Spanish armada). And the windlass circuit breaker did its job and turned the windlass off. “Backups” i don’t plan to ever rely on, but there they were when we needed them. The next evening a gringo on shore hailing us on the vhf radio as we approached Samara – “Casa Noche.” Nice southern twang welcome. Fun! If i hadn’t been repairing the windlass control i would have invited them out. Ah! And don’t forget the wily Costa Rican fish. I’ve had a strike every day but none stayed on the hook. Hmmmm. The rainy season in Costa Rica exposes leaks! To finally fix one instead of catching what it drops? It's a relief all out of proportion. Whew! The rain also flushes the rivers out - we've been dodging whole trees floating by, you'd think we were back in the Northwest. The next day started off with rainbows! And finished with whales launching out of the water some distance off (they’re so big they don’t “jump,” they “launch”) – true to their appearance, the bay we anchored in that night was Bahia Ballena (Whale Bay). Finally a bay protected from the ocean swell, promising a quiet night’s sleep.

Almost. It’s about 4 in the morning and i am up. A storm has blown thru with some 20+ knot gusts and LOTS of rain and we are dragging anchor. We anchored in 23’ of water. When i got up and checked the depth sounder we were in 28’. That was okay, the tide was a little higher. But shortly it said 42’?! Go on deck, go forward and put out all 220’ of anchor rode. (for you non-boaters, think about it like this – the closer we are to the anchor the more we are pulling it up and out of the bottom and it won’t hold on down there, while the farther we are from the anchor the more we are trying to drag it thru the bottom and the better it holds). As i do so my flashlight reveals what looks like current flowing by the chain. It dawns on me (near pun! at this point in the morning) that this is a muddy bay for a reason – there’s a river and three streams emptying in here. We anchored pretty close to the river. When i check the knotmeter, sure enuf there is almost 2 knots of current flowing by. When i check the gps, we’ve drug .4 miles from where we started. Glad i got up when i did. Anchor seems to be holding now. If i have to, next i could turn on the engine, put it in gear and push back against the current – to help the anchor hold. Breakfast anyone?

Okay, gotta find the ship’s doctor. I go by the galley and ask the cook and bottle washer if they’ve seen him. Nope. Grab a banana and head aft. Goin’ by the engine room, the mechanic hasn’t seen him either. At the nav station, Sparky (every radio operator is known as Sparky) and the navigator say no too. The bosun is in the pantry inventorying supplies, but hasn’t seen Doc. Up on deck, the sailing master is scratchin’ his head lookin’ at the next sail repair. “Seen Doc?” Nope. Chips (as it is with radio operators, so it is with ship’s carpenters – when they sign on they give up their real names) is always barkin’ a knuckle on something, needing a bandaid…he’s workin’ on a leaky hatch. Thinks he’s seen Doc up forward. On my way one of the deckhands asks if i’m gonna help polish the stainless after i see Doc - rumor travels fast. As i get back below decks, Doc is there and asks, “What’s up? You’re not bleeding are you?”
“No. It’s an earache. I dove on the boat and cleaned her bottom this morning. A lot of stuff scraped off into the water and something must have gotten in my ear.”
“Hmm. Got no ear drops, but i bet we can fake it.” I follow him down the passageway to his pharmacy. On the way he starts his lecture. “Maybe you ought to use ear plugs next time. I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet, but between you, me, the skipper and the first mate, none of us are young anymore. Y’gotta pay attention. Injury is not an option here.”
“Hey, the worst i’ve done is slice a knuckle on the cheese grater when i was helpin’ Cookie" (as it is with radio operators and ship’s carpenters, so it is with cooks – and Docs too, come to think of it - only the cook is more important than everyone else and likes it that way).
“Keep it that way.” He finds some q-tips and hydrogen peroxide. Has me lay my head sideways so the hurting ear is up. Drips some peroxide in my ear and keeps talkin’.
“Doc, i can’t hear you. You just put stuff in my ear.” He looks a little miffed, like it’s my fault or something. For a little while, i listen to the bubbling in my ear. He motions for me to straighten back up. Catches what comes out with a paper towel and swabs my ear.
“I was askin’ how are your feet?”
“They hurt. Unless i wear shoes or at least sandals, something that gives me a good footbed. And they look like they’re growin’ a sixth toe out the side by their pinkies. That’s new.”

“My theory is you’ve been wearin’ shoes for too long. You’re not used to balancing on the balls of your feet on a moving deck. Barefoot on shore is one thing. But out here you’re givin’ ‘em a work out. You got two balls under each foot, just behind the toes, one by the big toe and the other out by the small toes. After 30 some years mostly wearing shoes and not balancing like this, i think those outer balls of your feet are weak. You didn’t ease ‘em into this idea. They’re spreadin’ out and talkin’ back to you. So stop goin’ barefoot.”
“Sounds like a good theory. If i don’t use ‘em for balance so much they don’t hurt so much. But in this heat and the rainy season, after a while i get a rash between the sandals and my skin.”
“Then take ‘em off whenever you’re not on your feet. On and off, on and off.”
“Will they ever stop swellin’ out the side?”
“Don’t know. You’re not a young man, y’know.”
“Don’t get started. I thank my body every time i ask it for more. Thanks for all the sympathy.”
Anybody out there got any other theories or suggestions? About my feet. (nothin’ else please).
Never knew there were so many crew here (all named jon and all busy) and the boat so big, did you?

Costa Rica or bust?

Sail away from sight of land, even for a short time, and your next sighting of it will be significant to you. Face it. We are not water animals. If in the water, we can’t lay down and take a nap to recharge. The water will not support us. We’ve gotta swim. On the land’s surface we can relax without sinking, it cannot rob us of our next breath (i remember as a kid being horrified at the idea of quicksand!). I describe this connection we have to the ground, realizing that had i more experience with planting and growing things, i would have far more to say of it. Would that i could sing such higher praise. Even without it, no matter how much of a sailor i am, my appreciation for the earth part of Mother Earth deepens every time i return to it. Yesterday, it was mid-morning when i scanned the horizon and my eyes tripped on a distant rising contour of the Nicaraguan coast. “Ah, there you are. Still there. Thank you.” As if all land might have sunk or evaporated while i was gone.

The day’s weather was a repeat of the pattern i grew to expect from the previous five days: some morning wind, calm in the afternoon while cathedrals of cloud build on the (previoiusly too far away to be seen) coast. At dusk these remarkable, turbulent, shifting shapes would head…our way. Gulp. Suddenly their fantastic displays, which happened to include lightning, became far more than entertaining to us. “Please don’t strike us,” i prayed upon the approach of each night’s storms. It feels…at least foolish to be the waving the mast (the tallest and most conductive thing) around in the face of a storm. Likely i’m forgetting how small we are.

“Girding for battle,” with the help of the day’s last light, i deeply reefed the mainsail (made it smaller). The only headsail i flew at night was the jib since it is smaller, easier to handle, drives Akimbo with good speed, yet doesn’t overpower us. Think of it this way – if the perfect wind to make Akimbo go is 15 knots, and the approaching storm will start with 20 to 30 knot gusts (potentially 40 to 50 knot), we only want enuf sail up to catch 15 and let the rest go. Anything else i can think of to do or re-do to get ready, the smallest detail - the stove is gimbaled, the drawers and cabinets are latched, the flashlight batteries are recharged, the solar panels are folded in, the companionway (where we go in and out of the cabin) doors are unstowed, put in place and closed…the flag is wrapped up so it won’t be noisy or distracting, water bottles are full… - i do.

The moon long since buried above clouds, by midnight it is really dark out. Our challenger has sent several harbinger’s of its approach. Rather than rely on only what illumination the lightning gives us, i watch the shapes of the approaching rain on the radar. “When it’s two miles away,” i tell myself, “close five hatches and portholes, count them to be sure i haven’t missed one.” At one mile off, i put my foul weather jacket on and put my lifejacket/harness back on over it. Reviewing, did i forget anything? Go below, look around for any detail. Is what i might want where i can reach it? Drink some water. Check the radar screen one more time – no other boats “in sight.” Check our position on the chart on the laptop and close it, Back in the cockpit, check our compass heading. I sniff the air for the ozone that comes with too much lightning. Not there. Good. Still repeat the prayer, “please don’t strike us.” The rain starts slowly, i clip my harness lanyard to the boat, and wait to respond to whatever is going to happen next. Which is usually a change in wind speed and direction, a wall of rain, and then settling in to a new, noisy, energetic and fast reality. It’ll settle down in an hour or two, and i’ll nap then.

Not so this last night. These consolidated fronts that overtook us offshore apparently start out as separate smaller storms on shore. They don’t get together, organized and fired up until they get out to sea. Here we were, 20 miles from shore, we’ve come in to them instead of them comin’ out to us, and lo, they flew right over the top of us. They didn’t start huffing and puffing and flashing and roaring until they were well out beyond us. And their blasts of wind? Nothin’. In fact, we had to motor in the last 8 hours. I had hoped to avoid another night’s challenge but at least out there we wouldn’t have had to motor. Not complaining, mind you. Now the challenge was…to not fall asleep. Especially now that shore was close enuf to bump into. Taking my groggy, not-sharp self into account, i needed to navigate safely into a new anchorage in the dark. I had to literally “stand” watch the whole way, could NOT let myself sit down or would have fallen asleep.

So, remember the significance of the land? It started when i caught sight of it in the morning. Now that it was dark, my next sense of it was of its AROMA. Like an impact, we reached its odor. It had a moist flavor of decay in it, almost smoky but more composty. Thick, lush, jungly. It was a calm night. Visibility from a shrouded half moon wasn’t bad but didn’t reach far. In the water’s reflection next to Akimbo, and the steady throb of her engine, i could see the shadow of her bow wave in place next to her, smoothly peeling away. We felt as much as navigated our way in to Bahia Santa Elena, once again to find ourselves the only boat here. Dropped the anchor and finally turned the engine off. Now it was my hearing that met Costa Rica – some bird sounds, the splash of a few fish jumping, and the breathing sound of water lapping shore, all in front of a solid background of whirring insect noise. Like so many camping trips when i got off work, jumped in the car, drove to a trailhead, arrived in the dark, and went to sleep, antic…in the morning light, my sight would predominate again and i would see what wondrous place i had gotten myself into. For now tho, safe at anchor, i could not sleep hard enuf.

This morning, it is indeed a new and different place. “We aren’t in Kansas anymore, Akimbo.” No signs of the Mexican desert. Dense green. But it’s “just” another place. Like i am “just” another person, like this day is “just” another moment. Each unique unto itself. Whole yet part of more, regardless of whatever else there is, was or will be. I am glad to behold this place, to take it in as much as i can, to let its newness and difference change me, this piece of Mother Earth. I’ve heard that African vistas reveal her pulse, i imagine Himalayan reveal her spirit. Perhaps lush landscapes like this reveal her breath.

This seven day/seven hundred mile leg is the longest i’ve sailed alone, so far. Even at only seven days, i find it “working on me,” as if granting me some authority. Not sure what i mean by that. If ever you want to test your sanity, go sailing offshore alone. Of course, if you find yourself sailing offshore alone, the conclusion may well be foregone anyway. No need to test. Out here my connection and love with many of you, and Tyler most, feels so obviously like what literally saves me. Have i said that too much? And saves me from what? But it’s huge for me. If it were a debt, i would owe my life to it/you/us. I find myself wanting for sanity sorely at times, “fighting my ghosts,” and trying not to fight still more tears (they are NOT as salty as the sea). Those lyrics – “is wisdom wasted on the past.” Well, sure. But hopefully the past isn’t wasted on wisdom. May i please let the past be past, and harvest from it a present that is intact, forgiving and at peace. Like the rest of us, it deserves its time and is sacred. Let me give to and live into it more gracefully than i have. Grace counts.

The sea life (or is that “see” life?) continues to include lots of porpoise and honus (hawaian for sea turtles, pronounced “ho” long “o,” “nus” long “u.” Of “graceful bulk,” as Heather says). I’m afraid there is an awfully steady stream of plastic junk floating by too. Third day dawned and a big whale swam close by our port side for five breaths. I snapped one photo when he/she surfaced, then another of his/her fin before it disappeared. One whale, one breath, two (not very good) photos of it. A majestic visit, and then gone.


The last day, between dropping a sail when the wind went away and starting the motor, i spent most of an hour communing with 8 to 10 porpoise. Akimbo slowly drifted along while they danced under her bow. I lay there, holding the camera over the side, taking their photos. I listened to their squeaks and squeals. One turned on his/her side to eyeball me as he/she swam by pass after pass. I wish i could have touched one. I don’t know how to describe them and the company i feel from them.




I’ve given up on waking myself up every half hour when underway at night. That works for one night out but by the second and third night i am too tired. So i sleep in the cockpit if it’s not raining, and whenever i wake up i look around, check the radar, Akimbo’s trim, and go back to sleep. If it’s raining, chances are we’re in a squall and there’s wind at last, sometimes more than we want, but we’ll take it…so i am up and down to sail. Strictly speaking, by going to sleep (thus not maintaining an active lookout) we are underway illegally. Sorry. I am relying on my radar reflector being visible to the other boats out here maintaining their watch. And i am learning to tune my radar alarm so it doesn’t give so many false alarms. This has some risk, but fatigue has more. 40 to 50 miles off the Guatemalan coast, i was surprised to see two pangas that far out rigged for long line fishing (black flags on poles at each end of their line). Have to watch for them too? But i never saw more of them. Maybe it was their last set for the day. One of them offered to sell me a dorado, but i had caught a fish the day before and i don’t go fishing for more as long as i have some in the freezer, plus i would rather catch my own and i’m feeling increasingly cheap anyway. They did ask if i had any matches, so i gave them some.

When we departed Ixtapa, i started something new – i e-mail my noon position to Bud and Rhoda every day while Bud copies and pastes to me a weather report i can’t get out here. We add a few personal notes, i usually copy Tyler in. It’s turned into a high point of each day for me. Leaving Huatulco, the other new thing was stowing the kayak inside. I’ve really appreciated having the decks clear for sailing and not worrying about the kayak.

The Panama Canal is about 600 nautical miles away now. Can i actually poke my way along to it? I guess i started that leg today, by staying at anchor and catching up with sleep and tho’ts. These from a letter to a dear friend – “I'm tired, no make that TIRED of being alone. In that way, this trip is not what i imagined or want. Still i appreciate it deeply and am glad i'm getting to explore it/me. It'd be so different if i was doing this with someone. Then i think i would keep going. But i'm doing it alone and frankly i'm getting this adventuring thing out of my system. Or at least, adventuring alone. I can only take so much of myself. And i've a month or three left to find out how much (poet David Whyte suggests that arranging to get tired of yourself leads you to the change you seek.)… After this or the next chapter i'm comin' back into community! With or without Akimbo. For me, the best adventures are not solitary, they’re with loved ones.”

Hasta luego, Mexico

Like Steinbeck, “i love countries and hate governments.” Mexico has been good to me over the last nine months. Like any place, it has its average scenery and people, and its beauties are stunning to behold. Some generalizations – i’ve been surprised by the obviously large investment taking place in the country’s infrastructure. Mexico is not poor. Construction is going on big time all over the place.

But it has also been common to see any number of private projects abandoned, even near completion. Like they suddenly exceeded their building permit? Or realized too late that they were bad ideas after all? Each public facility (i.e. the marinas) had its own definition of “finished,” none of which i would think truly were. They were functional, but not really finished, detailed. By the way, can anyone tell me what part tiled domes play in the architecture of well to do Mexican homes? They are a definite presence.

I can guess the role of the stickers on the car - fun.

Other observations include many Mexican women for whom tight jeans are a distinct fashion mistake. Oh well. It’s obvious that this population, per Catholic mandate, is growing. There’s a lot of pregnancy in Mexico. So there are lots of kids, As Barbara Kingsolver describes in other countries, most Mexicans treasure the kids – their own and others’ – above all else. And the kids know it. Beautiful to see. “Family” is Mexico’s founding social structure. If a town doesn’t have a boardwalk (malecon), then the town square is the hotspot to gather – nightly, it seems.

Huatulco seems youngish to me, tho ancient civilization has been here too. The state of Oaxaca is known for its weavers – i bought a pair of pants and shirt from this store/factory where they still wove on looms by hand.

(About the “we” – sailors have forever tho’t of their vessels as near alive as an inanimate creation can be. They usually refer to a boat as ‘she’ instead of ‘it.’ A modern sailboat has a sort of lineage back thru history, she seems a hallowed part of exploring distant horizons. It feels like i honor Akimbo’s essential role in this trip when i include her in my reference.)

Okay, assuming the giants appear to still sleep according to tomorrow’s weather report, we’ll depart for Costa Rica and i’ll write to you from there in seven to ten days. May we celebrate when next we meet.

Back out there

I already regret a little that we bypassed Acapulco with her cliff divers and bull fighting ring. But fear based decisions usually lead to regret. Fear? The guidebooks and everyone i bump into on and around the docks and at anchor warn against or shake their heads when i tell them i am continuing south. Into hurricane territory. But i see no way around it, only thru it, and the giants seem to be sleeping for the moment. So i mean to take advantage of their slumber and scamper south of them. After the delay in Ixtapa, i am even later than the plan everyone shook their heads at! Thus we skipped past Acapulco. I’ve learned from experience (and from Tyler’s Morocco story) that we jump to fear too easily. Let fear serve as a counter-balance to recklessness, but it’s not a good fulcrum. A truth is that i cannot see everything, and Costa Rica will have too many sights as well.

About hot weather: I’ve gotten used to being bathed in sweat at the smallest expenditure of effort. So i keep a washcloth or small towel nearby to mop myself off rather than leave puddles everywhere i go. Twice a day or more i take a cold shower. If i keep air moving over the bed with a fan at night i don’t soak the sheets. The compressor for the fridge and freezer will also chill each stateroom with air conditioning, but i am saving that as a last resort or occasional treat. Hydrating has taken on new dimension here, inside and out.

Was testing systems in prep for departing Ixtapa. It was a bit of a wrestle to get the generator going again but it’s hummin’ now. Now that i have the fridge/freezer back on line, Akimbo’s electrical needs have increased – and it appears the inverter isn’t picking up the shorepower to recharge the batteries? Hmm. I’ll troubleshoot it when i’m tied up to a dock, it’s irrelevant underway. As many chores as i’ve been doing, everything should be more ready than ever. Now that we’re underway, there hasn’t been much wind at all. I’ve even lowered my “sanity barrier” to two knots minimum sailing speed, still three quarters of the time we’ve been motoring – ugh. The stop button doesn’t work on the engine, of a sudden. So i’ve rigged a string to the stop solenoid to stop the engine manually. “The list” never ends.

Our first night out i must have used something gone bad in the dinner i cooked up. I hate to waste food, even when it’s older. But i spent most of the next day sick. Weak, dizzy, achy, etc… Drank a lot of water and waited for it to pass (pun!). Modest meals and more rest, i’m back to feelin’ fine the next day. Between motoring and attempts to sail, what to do with this calm sea? Shed my clothes and dive in!

There was a smallish whale that accompanied us late the second day out, quite close by, for about half an hour! (look for his/her back in the upper part of the photo that looks like it’s of water only). Our other companions are sea turtles and porpoise - launching themselves high on occasion (the porpoise, not the turtles – hard to tell in the photo). When daylight comes on, i often find a small squid or flying fish that landed on deck in the night and breathed its last. It seems too that there is more junk floatin’ by – plastic bottles, etc…

This stretch of the Mexican coast faces south. It looks very appealing, lots of beaches tucked in here and there tho they are pretty exposed. We ran over some sort of fishing line or net on a long string of floats. Somehow it didn’t catch on Akimbo’s rudder or propellor and floated free aft of us, stealing only my fishing lure. Over the rest of the day we dodged the next six or so such nets. They seem to run offshore as much as seven miles, so if you were staying ten miles off you should miss them with some margin.

75 hours after departing Ixtapa, we motored in to Marina Chahue. I hope to rest up, poke around, get our exit papers, fill fuel and get ready for crossing the infamous Gulf of Tehuantepec. Given its reputation, I drug the storm jib up to the top of the sail locker. I’m hoping i can stow the kayak inside to clear the decks – if i nest the bow of it onto the forward berth and fashion a sling to support where it passes thru the doorway, six and a half feet of it will protrude into the salon. I’ll have to crawl under it to go forward but hopefully won’t need to do much of that. Shall see.

As a cruiser i don’t tend to hang out in one place for long. And i use the motor more than i intend to. I guess i am too goal oriented. But i’ve found the same thing in climbing, hiking, skiing and bicycling – the speed of any endeavor decreases as the number of people in it increases. Traveling alone i don’t have to ask someone else what they want to do, where they want to go, etc…(which i am happy to do when company comes). That makes my own pace easy to find with little risk of mutiny or even grumbling. What a luxury! But there’s no one to turn to either and say, “look at that!” Am i getting my fill of alone, or am i getting used to it? It makes this adventure different from what i long ago dreamed it would be. While i deeply appreciate being able to manifest this trip, from that difference i begin to realize i will be done with this chapter sooner instead of later, tho i don’t know when. I wonder when i look back upon it what i will see. What do i want to see? How can i make it so?

In its way this trip is an extreme. Also in its way, falling in love, marrying, raising a son, buying a house, creating a home, supporting a family, having a career, becoming part of a community…step by step can also be an extreme, even if it is a cultural norm. I’ve traveled them both now. I’m free to not wonder about them. Free to live somewhere between them. So, what will i do instead? When neither commands my energy, will i feel extra energy? Where will i direct it? I hope to some kind of service. What could that be?

Dimension:
In a music appreciation class long ago, i remember a professor drawing a triangle on the blackboard. He gave each point of the triangle a name. “Composer.” “Performer/s.” “Audience.” He was saying something to the effect that each needed the other two. That there was no hope of creating or achieving a work of art without all three. I don’t know if i agree. But i think of those three points without lines between them. I imagine one of those points to be me. A single dimension. I imagine one of those points to be the earth and the life upon it which i witness. So i draw a line between these two points. Okay, we’ve moved into two dimensions now. That’s about the limit my experience can reach alone. Now, imagine the third point to be you. A witness with whom this experience can become shared. Without actually being here, and as friends more than as intimates, let’s imagine these dear added lines to be dashed (rather than solid and more than dotted). Voila! We have this “creative triangle” again. Still this wonder takes place in only two dimensions. Each point, the lines and the flat page itself that they are upon to be revered and appreciated. But now add a fourth point in mid-air above the triangle, creating an experience of three dimensions. Whoa! What would you name that fourth point?

Part of the adventure too

I should know better than to become frustrated…it’s just another version of “poor me.” I can look at this as having been ‘stuck’ waiting for parts (which are here at last! Yahoo!), or i can see it as the spontaneous part of this adventure (like where the wind comes from) and enjoy a new place and people. “Zihuatanejo.” “Ixtapa.” What exotic names! But really each is “just” another place, they’re just names. We may “connect” with a place, but more we connect with people. That takes more than a few days. I’ve had a few weeks.

Many boats here have got caretakers who come chamois off the rain, wax and polish, etc… EVERY day (then there are other boats that have been abandoned to their slip for who knows how long, thick with mold, docking lines nearly chafed thru, fenders flat…please may i never do that to Akimbo). Hector is the caretaker for the boat across the dock from us: a 45ish SeaRay that is 9 years old but looks like new. Being neighbors, we’ve struck up an acquaintance. I like that he barely speaks English and so helps me with my Spanish. He introduced me to a local specialty when we went to Zihua for lunch: tiritas – a raw white fish with rice and red onion that one can spice to taste, eaten with tortilla chips used like spoons. Yum!

Other people include Tomas, Gregorio, and Alejandro - waiters at a restaurant where i usually get my internet access (and watched the world cup). And Oscar, the owner of the restaurant. Elsa, Erika, and Rosilla in the marina office have been patient and helpful. Bernie, one of the dockhands, always says hi. Israel is another dockhand, small guy with a big swagger, drives the panga out to the channel when i want to sound it with a lead line. There is the lady who keeps the bathrooms and showers clean, i’ve forgotten her name now. Orlando is a captain for the yachts a big hotel owns. These have become ‘my’ local community while i am here. From what i have shared with them, they tell me that i found the best bakery in town. But of course!


Random thoughts: I took the bicycle path thru a nature preserve and discovered the locals’ beach (Playa Linda) – not the gringo beach by the big hotels. That was fun. On the gringo beach you can lay on a massage table under a canopy and get an hour rub for $20. Might have to try that out. It’s curious to me that even laughter comes with an accent. I heard a woman laugh and knew that when she spoke i would hear an American. Sure enuf.

I’ve been writing some, and reading more. Some really very good books – “Night Train to Lisbon” by Pascal Mercier (incredibly crafted) and “Bel Canto” by Ann Patchett (she writes so perfectly simply…or simply perfectly). These things take me almost out of my body. I feel the world around me as if it is less real than the stories. I forget to eat. Stepping away from reading or writing and back into my surroundings is like stepping out of a theatre after a movie. I have to blink a few times, take a deep breath and re-orient. Where am i? (could be anywhere) Who am i? (could be anyone) What time is it? What year is this? Sometimes reality rushes back in with an impact. Sometimes it slips its fingers gently back between mine and we walk. This time? It will probably soak me when i get back out in it.

Night before last a big storm came thru. Not having seen one for a while, i am duly humbled. Maybe i feel especially vulnerable after weathering a wave of homesickness when my package “from home” arrived. The port captain has closed the harbors until things calm down. No boats in or out yesterday and today. This is why i planned to get out of here two weeks ago…but the fridge broke down. Weather windows may be harder to find now. So be it. Sure, the package took too long to get here, but it was MY decision to wait for it. Now i’m trying to get the mechanic here. A piano teacher once said, “It doesn’t matter what note you play so much as what note you play next.” Sounds like a good metaphor to me. What’s done is done, it’s history. Whether being so stubborn about this repair was a wrong note depends on what decisions i make next. Sailing safely is my moving target. I’ll be relieved when we get to Costa Rica. But first, Huatulco for our exit papers. I’ll treat Acapulco as an option – sail past if the sailing is going smoothly, or pull in if i need to regroup.

Note to self: NEVER USE DHL FOR SHIPPING!

To me, it’s worth its own entry, and repeating – NEVER use DHL for shipping. For $113 they’ve done as little as possible for me. Heck with getting the parts to me fast, i’m hoping i’ll get them at all. They got hung up at customs because there was a liquid in them. Why didn’t DHL in Seattle warn about that? The compressor oil is very specific. I didn’t think i could get it here. To get clearly past the language barrier, i had the marina manager describe this oil to the fridge mechanic. Trusting he is indeed familiar with it and can get it even under another name, i conceded the oil. On Friday. Did they then ship the rest to me? No, Monday or Tuesday they’ll get it out from Mexico City. Still not sure when it will get here. Meantime the marina bill here goes up, and the clock ticks on the weather windows… Plus the marina has warned about the channel depth and the upcoming tides. I'll sound it with a leadline again before we try to leave. So i catch up with more chores on the boat, i enjoy world cup soccer, and walks on the beach. I don't mean to complain, but i do mean to steer as much business away from them as i can.

Waitin' for parts...

True to the cold they are supposed to produce, the fridge parts are getting here at glacial speed. May it be an omen for the repair and their performance. What with the 4th of July holiday in the U.S., they could have arrived here three days earlier if they got out on Friday… And watching the weather, this would have been a good window to go south. What to do, except “be here now,” get to know the people and place better, and see more of the world cup? This is the first time on this voyage that i’ve been delayed by a mechanical problem – i get the feeling i should feel lucky for that. And hope it may be the last.

Photos here are from the anchorage at Las Hadas – stopped and explored Manzanillo a few days there on the way here (did i mention that?), photos of Ixtapa’s version of the Space Needle, one of the crocs here (no cleaning the boat bottom!) , Zihuatanejo’s anchorage, and a local fisher…boy on Zihuat’s pier (if he hooked a big one it might pull him in! Note the catch in the bucket in the background). Somehow i imagine Jacqui and Tony on Wind Strutter taking this place by storm, fitting right in. Seems right up their alley.

I’ve been reading Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley.” In 1960 he took a trip with his dog around the U.S. in a truck with camper on its back. I am finding his amusement at his adventure great fun. One observation he made went something like this: if a person is in a situation where he/she needs no words, after a while does it lead to no thoughts? Get it? The way we think is with words, if there are no words are there no thoughts? Is it a symbiotic relationship? With no one to talk to, i can sometimes go days without speaking. Sure, i have to think about navigating and sailing Akimbo. But otherwise my tho’ts might indeed dull. Doing so seems it would lead to dulling my senses and observations as well. Which i don’t want to happen. So what can i do about this, if it is the case? I read as much as i can, but those words are not my own. Rather they are something i experience. I can write. To spur the thoughts, the words can be written instead of spoken. This makes these entries, and our e-mail correspondence, hugely more important to me. If anything, i want to sharpen, not dull, my presence.

On Jerry’s last full day here (Tuesday), I got one of the marina employees, Israel, to take us out the marina channel while i sounded it with a lead line. I now know exactly where the shallow spot in the channel is, and that my depth sounder has to read more than 16’ deep here at the slip for us to leave. Two things were reassuring about this reconnaissance: 1. The shallow spot is well inside where the waves are big, it’s in a relatively calm spot – so i wouldn’t expect to pound hard there if we did touch bottom; 2. I was doing the sounding next to the marina’s dredge – so maybe the shallow spot will be deeper by the time we leave. One not so reassuring thing: the channel has been closed for the last two days due to the size of the swell coming in. Hopefully the motion of the ocean is getting the big stuff out of its system for now. What was cute was how thrilled Jerry was to be underway on the water – even in only the beat up old marina panga, even for only the few hundred yards, and even only inside the marina. I’m sorry i wasn’t willing to risk the channel and take him for a sail as i had hoped.


While here i’ve been watching my weather sources intently, trying to learn from them what a good weather window will look like when we’re ready to go. Now that hurricane’s Celia and Darby on the Pacific have evaporated, and Alex on the Gulf of Mexico has exhausted itself on shore…this looks like it would have been a good week. With luck the storm production has calmed a little. In any case there will be another window. Until then i’ll keep “going to school” on what i see. If you want to watch too, here are two links - http://www.weather.solmatesantiago.com/hurricane.html and http://www.weather.solmatesantiago.com/convection.html . I also request grib files from query@saildocs.com - in the subject line write “gribforecast” and in the body of the e-mail write this and ONLY this – “send grib:8N,20N,80W,107W” – note there is only one space in that. On top of these three sources i listen to the radio nets i can reach for their daily forecasts (i can usually reach one, sometimes two).

Sorry if this entry is a bit boring but maybe the words keep my tho’ts and therefore my senses going and inquiring. I’ll finish by quoting Steinbeck – “In the beginning of this record i tried to explore the nature of journeys, how they are things in themselves, each one an individual and no two alike. I speculated with a kind of wonder on the strength of the individuality of journeys and stopped on the postulate that people don’t take trips – trips take people. That discussion, however, did not go into the life span of journeys. This seems to be variable and unpredictable. Who has not known a journey to be over and dead before the traveler returns? The reverse is also true: many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased…”

It gives me pause to consider this trip. And our journeys, all of us, each his or hers. May we breathe life into them to their ends. And beyond (thank you Steinbeck, Gershwin, O'Keefe, Shakespeare, Bach, Dylan, Whyte…). And when we “return” may it be to open arms and hearts.