July 25 – 29, 2022

Bahia de La Ventana. Baja California Sur. Our first steps in the sand of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula after arriving aboard Exit.

We still needed to get further north before our hurricane def-con status could more fully relax.

Nearly every weather system that had developed on the Pacific side since the onset of hurricane season was following a consistent general pattern. After forming off the coast of Panama, it would work north skirting along the Pacific coast until eventually dissolving or drifting back offshore as it approached the Baja peninsula.

And yet, historically, relatively very few hurricanes had actually entered the Sea of Cortez.

There had been no doubt whatsoever; the Pacific coast between Panama and the Gulf of California was Hurricane Highway…which meant we were currently on the off ramp.

Much safer. But not still without some risk of passing traffic.

Regardless, we were momentarily going to pause, exhale, and relax.

For us, passage making aboard a sailboat shares a balance – the highs that accompany the sensory overload of magical experiences coupled with the inevitable exhaustion that results from prolonged heightened vigilance and coping with whatever gets thrown at you.

That escapade, occasionally more of a roller coaster than hoped for but always an adventure, often comes with an emotional hangover attached.

Sometimes doing nothing is the something you really need to clear that fog.

After a couple of days enjoying the sunny beach at Punta Arena de La Ventana, we sailed a relaxing two hours away to Isla Cerralvo, also known as Jacques Cousteau Island.

Not sure of the politics involved in renaming an island. I understand paying tribute to the French oceanographer, honoring him with an island in his name and all. According to infinitely knowledgable Wikipedia, he did call the Sea of Cortez the world’s aquarium which must have resulted in some pretty good press [on an ironic sidenote: it would appear the Sea of Cortez was also an imposed renaming of Gulfo de California but, in this case, I believe Cortez was more of an asshole]. Still, word had it that at least some of the locals were far less appreciative of the island’s renaming than the Cousteau family was. Fair enough.

Despite its apparent exposure, we couldn’t see why the bay we dropped anchor in was not listed as a viable anchorage on any of the charts. In the right conditions, it seemed perfect.

The holding was good. The beach was easily accessible. The uninhabited island was a fascinating study in geological and volcanic formations, mercilessly arid and covered with a feature strangely unique to the mangrove, tropical, and rainforest landscapes we had grown used to – cacti. The water was clear…eighty degrees. Coral. Marine life. Wow.

Outside of the occasional power boat briefly dropping a fishing line nearby, for three days we had the spot to ourselves.

Not having found a cell phone or internet connection for a week, we had been almost completely off the grid since leaving La Cruz de Huanacaxtle. Because our navigation equipment only requires GPS, that made our Iridium Go! the only tie with the outside world. The Iridium is great for uploading weather forecasts and tracking our current position, but can’t handle anything beyond a basic text email for data transfer…nothing more than an emergency contact.

That online detachment can be a giant pain in the butt when you want or need a link to the outside world. However, it can also be a key factor in separating from all the world’s daily background noise; background noise that interferes with one’s ability to focus on the important things that really matter.

There are times when that isolation bubble can help generate moments of pure carefree bliss. However, like everything, it is a pendulum of balance that always has a backswing. Those blissful moments can be very short lived when the isolation bubble gets popped and the outside world comes flooding back in.

July 7 – 25, 2022

As had largely been the case since leaving Costa Rica, our final push for Puerto Vallarta and the Sea of Cortez was a blur of foregoing potential stops in favor of continual forward progress.

Recently, we had begun to notice that the certainty of turtle traffic was giving way to the certainty of cargo ship traffic.

At one point, despite being in three thousand feet of water fifteen miles offshore, we found ourselves surrounded by no less than seven cargo ships, all parking in the middle of the ocean while they awaited their turn loading or unloading ashore.

We had been motoring for five hours after setting out from Marina Ixtapa. Kris was at the helm. Below deck, I was startled as Kris yelled out and threw Exit into an emergency full stop.

Stretched across our path was a fishing longline. Kris had spotted the floating plastic bottle that the line was attached to just as we were on top of it. Standing on deck, I could just see the florescent orange monofilament line running under our hull. We had not crossed completely over it, which would have inevitably resulted in the line getting tangled in our spinning prop.

Exit has a line cutter attached on the propeller which more than likely would have sliced right through it, but then potentially you have a very angry fisherman on your hands. We had heard stories of irate fishermen demanding money for damages – even a first hand account from a family who inadvertently became entangled in a fishing net while underway in their sailboat. They had actually been boarded by the fisherman during the ensuing altercation.

We didn’t see any fishing boats at the moment, but one has to assume they are not far away.

Slowly backing up, our worries were confirmed. Though we had avoided fouling the prop, the longline was hung up on something underneath Exit.

Thankfully, at that moment conditions couldn’t have been much calmer… because I was going for a swim.

A quick inspection revealed that it wasn’t the florescent orange long line that was hung up. Attached to that line were endless smaller clear monofilament lines, each that had numerous hooks attached. One of the hooks had gotten caught somewhere in the centerboard mechanism. I couldn’t get it free.

Easy enough to cut the smaller line. The main line would remain undamaged, and there would only be a handful of small hooks lost. No foul. The effort would probably even be appreciated by the fisherman.

What was concerning was the amount of tension currently on the main longline attached to the hooked lines attached to us. I was quite fearful that, when I cut the hook free from Exit’s centerboard, I could be snagged by one of the other hooks as the longline snapped back. Literally hooked like a fish, I would be still be attached to the longline as it pulled away from Exit.

It did not paint a positive picture as far as potential outcomes. But neither did being boarded by angry men in rubber boots smelling of fish.

With a knife, I sliced through the clear fishing line hooked to our centerboard, holding my body in such a way as to try to create as small of target as possible. The tensioned line shot away with an audible twang. Mercifully, as the undamaged longline disappeared into the blue, I was not hooked to it.

A short time later we were back underway. In the distance, we could now just see the small fishing boat. We were glad we had sorted out our shit and could continue without fear of fallout.

---

An otherwise uneventful two hundred twenty nautical mile passage brought us to Barra de Navidad at 3:30am, prompting us to drop anchor in Melaque on the far side of the bay, awaiting the light of day to enter the Barra de Navidad lagoon.

By mid-afternoon, we were sitting inside the lagoon with lake-like conditions all around us, blue skies above us, and iced Kraken rum in front of us.

While we more confidently awaited what we hoped would be a bit of sailing wind to continue north, we got some projects done and tried to relax a bit.

However, an intended day of sun, food, drink and relaxation at a nearby resort turned into a stressful and depressing fiasco after a combination of communication failures and differences in interpretation of resort policies between a very pleasant and unconcerned desk clerk and one of his colleagues, an authoritarian and ill-mannered prick who took his pool policing duties ridiculously seriously.

Though one resort Nazi is hardly reason to pick up anchor and leave, a constant awareness in the backs of our minds that, weather-wise, we were sitting on borrowed time the longer we hung out here was, on the other hand, quite motivating.

Five days later, another overnight passage carried us the hundred and fifty miles we needed to travel to reach La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, which shared a bay with Puerto Vallarta.

We expected no wind at all, but by mid-afternoon found ourselves moving along at five knots of speed under power of sails alone with a full genoa and mainsail.

As the light of the day began to fade, the horizon implied that the evening’s sunset could be rather mundane. But sometimes it’s not only the colors that contribute to an unforgettable sunset.

With no earlier hint of its presence, a single dolphin leapt clean out of the water just off Exit’s starboard side.

Immediately after that, we began to see small dots appearing in the distance in every direction. Before we knew it, we were surrounded.

Another magical dolphin experience.

This time, a huge pod that seemed to converge upon us from all different directions…spinner dolphins and they provided quite a show.   Not a super-pod.  Still, we had never been surrounded by so many at once.  Incredible!

Sunrise the following morning was spectacular.

Puerto Vallarta / Cruz de Huanacaxtle:

We were finally at the doorstep of where we needed to be.  And though we felt we could breathe a bit easier now, our comfort level would increase dramatically more after we had crossed the threshold and actually entered the Sea of Cortez, or Gulf of California.

And then, within twenty four hours of our arrival, we had our first hostile incident with locals. Returning from a dinghy trip ashore to town, we found three locals sitting aboard Exit.

They quickly left as we scrambled aboard.

Fortunately, it appeared they had not taken anything. However, it also appeared that they had left something. Giant runny splatters of pelican shit! On deck. On the solar panels. On the windlass and anchor chain. Everywhere…

That day, our love for pelicans was truly tested. How rude!

Aside from the unprecedented pelican squatting incident, and a few nervous weather moments, we found Cruz de Huanacaxtle to be a perfect location for us to relax a bit.

Fabulous food…

Wandering about and people watching…

And an incredible view…

Still, we kept reminding ourselves this was only a rest stop.

---

One week later, we lifted anchor and set out.  From La Cruz Huanacaxtle, the door to the Gulf of California was wide open. We left three primary options on the table. 

Mazatlan, 175 miles or thirty four hours away; Cabo San Lucas, 285 miles or two and a half days away; La Paz, 365 miles or a bit over three days away.

For slightly less than three days we continued pressing forward, experiencing everything from completely becalmed seas and clear skies to a midnight deluge complete with thirty-three knot winds accompanied by deafening thunder and lightning.

Offshore storms at night can be particularly terrifying. A torrent of rain being pushed sideways into the cockpit by over thirty knot winds in pitch blackness, occasionally punctuated by a distant flash or, even worse, nearby explosion of electricity, combined with the unpredictable and sometimes violent motions of storm seas can make for some rather interesting evenings.

On the other hand, those same seas and skies create unforgettably magical experiences as well.

Sunsets under sail. Alone for as far as you can see in every direction. There’s something indescribable about being the only witnesses to such an unbelievable display of colors in nature. A private show for those fortunate enough to be at that particular location during those fleeting moments.

Sometimes you only think that you’re alone.

Offshore, when you do receive visitors, they are usually unanticipated guests arriving unannounced, but they are almost always welcome.

When we eventually dropped anchor nearly three days later it was 1:25 in the morning. We had just completed a three hundred fifty five nautical mile jaunt across the mouth of the Sea of Cortez, or more properly, the Gulf of California.

We had arrived at the Baja peninsula, not quite a hundred miles north of Cabo San Lucas and less than fifty miles from La Paz.

It had been exactly one month ago, to the day, that we had departed Marina Chiapas, Mexico. In that time, we had travelled one thousand three hundred fifty miles aboard Exit.

Since passing through the Panama Canal six months ago, Exit had made good on nearly three thousand miles of Pacific coastline.

Inside the Gulf of California…finally.

We had made it!

And, though it seemed as though we had found paradise once again, experience told us – things are never simple on a boat…

July 1 – 7, 2022

After our six hundred mile passage, the anchorage at Potosi Petatlan offered a fair weather safe haven to rest but no safe access to land. 

Sitting in the cockpit with morning coffee in hand, we watched with amazement as local captains displayed an impressive set of skills, timing, and balls repeatedly landing their power boats on beaches.  We would not be attempting any dinghy landings here.

Zihuatanejo, ten miles away, offered the hope of a brief though fun land excursion into town; something we felt we had earned.  We picked up anchor and headed there.

Sunsets underway can be surreal, but sunsets at anchor hold their own attraction. More latitude for true relaxation.

In our endeavor to maximize our progress up the Mexican coast and minimize our exposure to potential hurricanes, we had fed over fifty gallons of diesel to our Perkins engine.  

For two reasons, we typically try to keep our two hundred gallon fuel tank as close to full as possible.  One, it fits into our overall supply for the Apocalypse strategy.  Two, with our aluminum tank, an emptier tank equals more condensation, resulting in potential fuel contamination from water and other bio growth (a lesson we learned from a crusty diesel mechanic in Cape Canaveral during a filter clogging / fuel polishing ordeal we experienced after first departing the Chesapeake aboard Exit).

Ninety-nine percent of the time, when fueling up is required, we opt for transport via dinghy with five gallon plastic jugs, fifteen gallons each trip.  We rarely are tied to a dock.  It increases the workload, but decreases the complication and stress involved in docking the mothership.  How we get fuel to the dinghy is almost always an adventure unique to each location.

Our last fuel up had been while Exit was tied to the dock at Marina Chiapas.  Ironically enough, we had still needed the dinghy there.  Turned out, instead of trying to arrange a taxi that was willing to transport fuel containers and pay for multiple trips to and from the nearest vehicle gas station —- it was much easier taking our dinghy a short distance through the channel to access a set of cement steps making the exact same gas station fuel pumps only a fifty foot walk.

Though we really wanted to explore Zihuatanejo a bit, we ultimately knew our first priority now had to be sorting out what logistics would be involved in getting diesel here.  We didn’t know the specifics yet; but experience had taught us it was rarely simple.

A bit of research revealed that, less than five miles away, Marina Ixtapa had a fuel dock that appeared to have pretty straightforward access.  We cringed at the idea of a fuel dock ordeal every time; still, this really seemed to make the most sense.

It was less than an hour away, so we decided to suck it up.

When we arrived just outside the channel we immediately noticed a very industrial looking vessel occupying the channel, appearing both to effectively be blocking the channel as well as not moving at all.

We temporarily dropped anchor in fifty feet of water and hailed Marina Ixtapa on the VHF.  They informed us that the channel was currently being dredged and access through was limited to before 7am, after 7pm, or between noon and 1pm.  The fuel dock was open from 8am-5pm.

It was currently 12:25.  

We had just over thirty minutes to lift anchor, navigate through the channel past the dredging boat to the marina fuel dock, tie up, fill up our tank with diesel, pay, cast off the dock, get turned around, and retrace our path back out of the channel past the dredging boat before it resumed work and blocked our escape.

Shit.

The idea flickered that we could pull it off and then immediately dissolved with the reality of what a silly notion that actually was.

There was no way we would pull that off. We would either be trapped on the fuel dock until after dark, or infuriate the working people on the dredging boat with the delay we would inevitably cause, or initiate some other unforeseen drama in our haste.

The smart decision was to accept the situation, anchor at Isla Ixtapa four miles from where we were (which would allow us to check out that anchorage as well), and return the following day with a full hour to work with at noon.

We learned two important things swinging on the hook that night at Isla Ixtapa.

First was that viable protected anchorages along this section of the coast were going to be a big concern. Despite completely calm conditions, we experienced an excruciating amount of side to side rolling all night long from a relentless swell. In crappy weather, this whole coast would be smashed.

Second, was that another hurricane was hot on our heels. Our Windy forecast predicted it would be about two hundred miles offshore when it passed by Acapulco tomorrow, only fifty miles south of us.

We needed an alternative to anchoring in a bay that was, at best, questionable in the most mild conditions.

There was no way we could be sure of making Puerto Vallarta, which seemed like the best bet for protection ahead of the weather. It was over three hundred miles to the northeast.

First things first. One thing at a time.

In the morning, we returned to where we had anchored outside Marina Ixtapa the day before and waited. At 11:59am Exit was already approaching the channel entrance at three knots. The dredging boat was a bit off to the side, and we easily surfed atop a small roller past it and through the channel.

We tied off to the fuel dock without incident and quickly topped up our diesel. With thirty minutes still to spare before our deadline to be out of the channel, we were able to breathe a sigh of relief after speaking to the marina staff, having learned that there was a slip available for us to sit in during the next couple of days while the latest weather developed. Currently, the hurricane was threatening to pass within one hundred fifty miles of our location.

The available slip was tucked in a very back corner, of course. It was tight, but manageable. Fortunately, we had minimal wind and just a bit of current to cope with. Even more fortunately, Kris was at the helm.

The situation wasn’t perfect. We were back in a marina paying for a slip. But we were now in a much more protected and secure location. This was only going to be for a couple of days…

…we hoped.

Sometimes the best choices aren’t the preferable ones. And sometimes imperfect choices come with unanticipated benefits.

Time to check out some of the incredible wall art in town.

Beers on the beach…

Given the alternative — sitting in some exposed anchorage, rolling back and forth in brutal swell, desperately hoping the hurricane eating its way up the Mexican coast isn’t going to land square on top of you — this was Heaven.

Still…

…there seemed to be something about everything going down that just reminded us of something….

…though we couldn’t quite put our fingers on it.

---

We only spent four days at Marina Ixtapa. It was even more quiet than Marina Chiapas had been. More pedestrian walk-by traffic than occupied boats. But it had served its purpose well.

And yet…

There seemed to be challenge after challenge to getting out.

Explosive weather just outside the marina could prevent us from even wanting to consider departing.

Even if the weather outside decided to cooperate, merely possessing a desire to leave the marina, in and of itself, may not be enough.

The port captain could choose not to open the port due to current conditions in the channel. A red flag flying at the entrance indicates port is closed. No traffic going out. Not your call to make.

In addition, daily tides meant potential currents and waves at the mouth of the channel could limit times at which the channel was navigable…maybe not for a big sport fishing boat, but for our boat things could be very different.

And then there was the dredging schedule. Daily dredging meant the channel was closed to traffic for all but one hour between sunrise and sunset. We knew that before we came in.

Oh ya…and I almost forgot. Crocodiles! Patrolling up and down the alleyways of the marina. Big…and bold.

And then it dawned on us…as one of the whopper-sized crocs floated past Exit. That big, twelve foot long bastard wasn’t just passing by.

It was the night-man.

And it sure seemed…

…as he glanced over at us…

…we may have heard faintly on the breeze…

…“you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

---

If it required the relative stealth of a breakout, so be it.

The latest hurricane had passed and was headed offshore.  The forecasts all predicted, at the most, light and variable winds for a few days.  The tide was high and the channel separating us from the ocean was almost flat.

As the first light of day began to pull back the shroud of last night’s darkness, we untied from the dock and departed Marina Ixtapa, silently passing by the dredging boat in the channel.  It was 6:58am.

Our final sprint for the Sea of Cortez had begun.

Exit…Stage Left.  Fuck the Eagles.

May 25 – June 30, 2022

A…B…C…D…

The alphabet song? No, just naming hurricanes in the Pacific.

After passing through the Panama Canal in January, it had taken us exactly four months to travel just over one thousand nautical miles from Panama City to Playa del Coco. We had certainly taken our time.

But time was no longer in surplus.

As an awareness of the upcoming hurricane season starkly transitioned into the reality of an actual hurricane potentially bearing down on us only days into the “official” start of the season on May 15, our mindset changed almost instantly.

Consequently, we had covered the nearly six hundred mile distance from Playa del Coco to Chiapas, Mexico in just over four days!

When there is a Hellhound on your trail, you find out just how fast you can really run.

The forecast models we were continually monitoring from Marina Chiapas revealed a terrifying leviathan with the potential of smashing everything around us.

We held our breath as Agatha approached, following nearly the exact same path we had taken only a few days earlier.

Fortunately, the center of Agatha remained two hundred or so miles off the coast of Mexico as it passed by Chiapas. We appeared to just be just outside the reach of even its outermost bands and, as it slowly passed by us, we saw sunshine and calm weather.

Still, when that hurricane is over two hundred miles in diameter, by our standards, it was a pretty fucking close call. A near miss that our blood pressure could certainly do without.

Unfortunately, it appeared to be merely the first of a never-ending parade that seemed to again and again have us in particular directly in the cross-hairs.

Our intention had been to duck into the exceptionally protected Marina Chiapas and wait until Agatha passed by; then continue working our way up the coast towards the Sea of Cortez.

After four weeks, that brief pit stop had morphed into an excruciating thirty day prison sentence.

Every few days another disturbance began to form to the south of us.  Even those that didn’t actually build into something significant still caused enough momentary paralysis to prevent us from having adequate time to get underway.  

To get out of the marina, we needed to organize another inspection with the military and their police dog as well as clear out of the marina and obtain another national zarpe, which took a day or two (unless it was Saturday, Sunday, or Monday which needed to be organized on Friday).  All time consuming.  In the time it took to complete this, another storm would already be threatening us to the south again, causing us to hesitate and rethink whether it was smart to leave.

As if that wasn’t enough, we also had to seriously consider the risk of making the two day run across the Golfo de Tehuantepec.  Departing Playa del Coco previously, we had lucked out avoiding the dreaded Papagayo winds entirely, but the Tehuantepec winds could be exponentially more of a concern.

With the Papagayos, we had been able to sprint across the danger zone in a number of hours.  It would now take us two days to clear the Tehuantepecs.  Longer distance, farther offshore, potentially even bigger seas and far more volatility.  Sitting in Marina Chiapas, we had heard sailors recount stories of being hit with Tehuantepec winds that kicked up from ten to forty knots in a matter of minutes, wrecking all kinds of havoc, stress, and damage.

At a minimum, we needed a two day window to cross the Golfo de Tehuantepec and reach the relative safety of Huatulco, but that would only get us a fraction of the distance we needed to go, and we would start the whole process over again to keep moving.

Day after day; forecast after forecast. Either already messy from something that had just passed by… or the latest ominous weather coming up from the South…or the Tehuantepecs kicking up from the North…or both.

---

A – Agatha… B – Blas… B – Bonnie… C- Celia… D – Darby…

Oh sure. It wasn’t enough to have one “B” hurricane in the Pacific. For only the second time since 2000 a second “B” hurricane existed in the same season in the Pacific. Bonnie materialized and was named in the Caribbean before moving across land and re-forming in the Pacific. They were now crossing masses of land to find us.

We watched and waited. Day after day.

Tiny marina. Isolated from anything. One restaurant. Swimming pool fit for happy hour jam sessions if you could endure the mosquitoes (the infamous Broken G-strings in the Hurricane Hole Jam Sessions). Toad in the toilet. Yah, that was a strange one.

After three weeks we were at our wits end.

Even the toad in the toilet had moved on.

We had long ago given up on favorable sailing conditions as a threshold for departure. We had long ago given up on waiting for conditions that might allow us a long, comfortable passage up the coast. We needed the parade of hurricanes to pause long enough so we could make some fucking progress. Not much more.

Finally we could take it no more. We had to get out of the marina.

We took a taxi…which took us to a bus…which took us up into the highlands…

…where we found San Cristobal de las Casas.

Our accommodations…

Steps and churches…

An afternoon of wine, tapas, music, and people watching at La Viña de Bacco…

Kris braves the challenges of complicated communications and limited language with a haircut…

A bit of time away from the relentless pressure of weather analysis and stressing out about that we had zero control over was just what was needed.

Three days later, as we were walking down the dock of Marina Chiapas approaching Exit, we saw the woman who had first recommended that we visit San Cristóbal. We smiled and said how much we had enjoyed it. She replied, “that’s good; you missed your weather window.”

I honestly believe I heard Kris think the words fuck you.

---

With refreshed sense of both purpose and patience we returned to studying weather forecasts.   

Mother Nature simply hadn’t been cooperating.  It was either substantial contrary winds, hurricanes forming, Tehuantepec winds, or a combination of two or all three.  The window of opportunity had been locked tight for a month.

And then suddenly, it opened…just a bit.

Our response was zero hesitation.

We set the official wheels in motion and prepared to leave in two days.  At a bare minimum, we needed to get to Huatulco two hundred nautical miles to our northeast on the far side of the Golfo de Tehuantepec and just beyond the grasp of its winds.

Really, we needed to push farther; more like to Acapulco or Zihuatanejo to make a significant dent.  That would get us beyond the halfway point of the thousand nautical miles we still needed to travel before arriving at the Sea of Cortez.

After a month at the marina, a provisioning run before leaving Chiapas was going to be necessary.  Fortunately, our current status as marina residents meant we would be trading our typical dinghy commute for a taxi.  Even better, no beach or potential surf would be part of the shopping equation; this time we had to go no further than the dock.  Possibly best of all…we learned that here in Mexico, Kraken rum was back on the menu.

The final step on the morning of our departure was being boarded by the miltary canine unit – two men in military fatigues with their very cute, if not extremely high-strung, German Shepherd (understandable considering it sniffed out cocaine and gunpowder for a living). After passing the brief weapons and drug inspection, we were given the go-ahead to depart the marina.

Leaving Chiapas the weather looked as promising as we could hope for.  We settled for no wind instead of potentially way too much…a compromise.  Nevertheless, the clear skies and calm seas were both a stunning blue.

That day – a bit of blue, a bit of gray.  No wind, but also no rain – despite threats on our radar display.  That night – dark, wet, and choppy with very little wind was the log entry. Across the Golfo de Tehuantepec we encountered no problems.  Still, even with less than five knots of wind, the mild swell and chop was at times confused and schizophrenic.  The skies were constantly hinting at something that could develop.  It was disconcerting; easy to see how things could get nasty very quickly.   A sense of ominous and foreboding potential hung in the air.  But just a sense.  Nothing more.

In a couple of days, with things kicking back up again, it would be a very different story. Not the area where we wanted to be hanging out.

Despite the realization that after twenty four hours, we had sailed for a mere seventy five minutes and motored for one thousand three hundred and sixty five minutes, we were chalking that one up in the victory column. Progress. We’ll take it.

Sometimes, however, even true moments of victory can be bittersweet.

During the subsequent twenty four hours, we managed to sail far more than we had the previous twenty four hours. And still, after all the diesel we’d conserved…after rigging up our preventer…and sorting out the solent sail…and setting a second reef in the mainsail…in that very moment of triumph…

…thunk — my head bumps one of the shrouds as I turn on deck, followed by an excruciatingly long moment of slow motion silence as I watch my favorite pair of prescription reading glasses leap from my head, easily clearing the deck and both lifelines, and…ker-plunk! With a splash they hit the water and disappear into two thousand feet of water.

Shit.

The question remained: should we stop at Hualtuco or press on?

The answer seemed clearer than anything I could currently try to read with my reading glasses at the bottom of the ocean.

We had been motoring far too much for our liking; but weather was holding and the last thing we wanted to do was stop and risk getting stuck again. Instead of a middle of the night arrival at Hualtuco, we quickly chose to keep moving.

We had already made good on around two hundred nautical miles, which left about three hundred fifty miles to Acapulco, or Zihuatanejo fifty miles beyond that. Zihuatanejo sounded like a more interesting place to visit, but we would consider Acapulco as the first bail-out option.

That night, storms kicked up and made us start to rethink whether our decision had been wise.

However, the same storms that raised our blood pressure, provided the winds that allowed us to raise our sails, shut off the overworked Perkins engine, and fly along at a screaming pace.

By morning, the Golfo de Tehuantepec and Huatulco were behind us, and the wind has passed ahead of us.  

For the next two days, weather was mixed. We rode back and forth atop a pendulum between dead calm with beautiful weather and intermittent threats of nastiness.  All part of the excitement.

And, though we were forced to do far more motor-sailing than we wanted, we were actually making incredible progress up the coast.

For days, other boat traffic was almost nonexistent. On the other hand, turtle traffic was incredibly congested. Every few minutes we would spot a turtle floating at the surface. Ironically enough, they were among the most inattentive mariners we have ever dealt with. It seemed as though every last one that we came across was either sleeping or fucking!

Every visit from dolphins has the potential to be a mind-blowing, unforgettable, and magical experience. A dozen or more persistently curious and very playful dolphins in crystal clear water is a perfect formula for one of those experiences.

Two days later, at almost the exact same time of day, we were shocked to see a giant dorsal fin penetrate the water’s surface in the distance. Though not nearly as up close and personal as the dolphin encounter, we had the rare privilege of a passing glimpse of what appeared to be a family of four orcas. Amazing.

---

8:12pm. Wednesday, June 29. Another incredible sunset begins to commence with a dazzling show of color shifting. We have chosen to forego stopping at Acapulco and it is five hours behind us.

Acapulco held no magnetic draw for us.  It had simply been a potential location to rest or bail out if the weather turned on us.  Our progress had been continuous and the weather was good so Zihuatanejo became the new destination. Unfortunately, as the last speck of sun was blinking out on the horizon, Zihuatanejo was still five hours away.

After fully taking in the spectacular gift of a sunset underway, we compromise on a destination of Potosi Petatlan fifteen miles from our current location. An easy approach, wide open anchorage, and likely lack of traffic or potential navigational hazards justify the comfort level with which we waive our no entering new anchorages at night rule.

In all, we had only been able to sail without any engine assistance for about a quarter of the time.  Still, the diesel was less expensive than a marina slip and our trusty Perkins engine was simply another tool that had to be utilized at times.

Reflecting back over anchor beers a short time later, the immediate transformation seemed striking. Less than five days prior we were tied to a marina dock at the southern border of Mexico, not having made any forward progress in a month, still looking at a thousand miles between us and the relative safety of the Sea of Cortez. A rather bleak situation. Now, in less than five days, we had chewed through sixty percent of that distance.

Of the one thousand five hundred miles between Panama City and Chiapas, the first nine hundred miles had taken us almost five months. The last six hundred miles to Chiapas took just over four days. During this passage, nearly a mirror image of the previous, we had made good on nearly six hundred additional miles in only four and a half days!

Cheers to that!

…wait a minute…

…was that the alphabet song I just heard in the breeze?

May 21-25, 2022

Every time I get a bit complacent, Exit gently (or sometimes not so gently) kicks me in the huevos and reminds me why that is unwise.

We had been making water for almost three hours.  

The one true upside of having to run the Perkins engine is that it gives us plenty of charging amps to power the water maker, which otherwise puts a heavy drain on the solar charging system that we typically rely on to top up our battery bank. 

After nearly three hours, we had made about thirty five gallons of fresh water from the ocean.  Sweet.  Or literally, sweet water.  

As I sat gloating in this little tidbit of self-satisfaction, a tingle rose in the back of my head.  Not the Neanderthal fight or flight tingle.  Rather, the oh shit I just realized something tingle.  I had forgotten to check the water at the output.  

There is a manifold with three levers on the output side of the water maker – on/off valves for the left and right water tanks and a third with an open hose on it.  Almost religiously, I check the output water with a cup at the end of that hose, just to taste it as well as to make sure the solenoid that diverts the water from discharge overboard has actually switched and the good water is really going to Exit’s tanks.

The tingle was me knowing before I saw.  When I lifted the floorboard and opened the valve, nothing came out.  Shit!  The third time this has happened in four years.  

Statistically unlikely in the overall number of running hours…high probability when I don’t check it.  In all the times I have checked the output water, I have caught it not opening once.  In the few times of not checking it, I know it has happened twice.  Damn.  This time, we donated thirty five gallons of fresh water back to Poseidon.  Hmmmm.  Bigger penalties have been paid for complacency.  I got off lucky this time; just sore balls.  Thanks for the reminder Exit.

Shortly afterwards a small family of dolphins stopped by briefly to have a chuckle at us.

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We knew we couldn’t have it all.  But then again —- if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.

Regardless, while we would have preferred ten knots on the beam, we were happy to take almost no wind at all in the right direction over potentially horribly uncomfortable seas, undue stress, and a much higher potential for broken shit.

The give and take was that as May turned to June, the Papagayo and Tuantapec winds would begin to die down; however, the hurricanes would begin to pick up.  Not really reassuring.  We were fearful that may be exactly what was unfolding before us.

There was still only one of the weather models we were monitoring currently forecasting the disturbance to the south of us would develop into a hurricane, but the others were gravitating in that direction.  And the National Hurricane Center had begun looking closely at it as well.

Thirty six hours into our passage we opted to divert to Golfo de Fonseca, a massive bay almost halfway between Playa Del Coco and Chiapas.  The eastern side is Nicaragua; the western side is El Salvador; and the island in the center is Honduras.  Golfo de Fonseca offered the only alternative shelter along the entire coast before Chiapas for bad weather.  Our thinking was that in twenty four or forty eight hours we would have more confidence in the likely trajectory of the system to the south.  If Chiapas looked like the higher risk, we would sit tight.  Otherwise, we would press on.  

We had no desire to sit through a hurricane in a marina (nor anywhere else for that matter), but the fact was Marina Chiapas’ very isolated location almost a mile inland from the beach would be the best protection we would find anywhere.

We chose Punta El Pateon as our anchorage, on the El Salvador side.  Easiest access, as well as less likely that we would be regarded suspiciously and boarded by a navy boat, which we heard may be the case in Nicaragua.  

Entering Bahia de Fonseca, Exit had already been moving under engine power for hours.  Any hope of sailing had been cast aside with the realization that we needed to get to our destination before nightfall, which turned out to be a sound strategy we would more fully appreciate upon our departure.  Aside from passing through the worst red tide we had ever come across in which the water surrounding us looked like coffee and smelled horrendous, we arrived and anchored without incident at Punta El Pateon well before sunset.

Though we didn’t go ashore, it seemed like a lovely little community.  And, despite what had to have been a lack of any tourists at all, they certainly maintained their own community vigor regarding late night sing-alongs and cranked up stereos.  Still, much more endearing than listening to a lobster-red gringo drooling semi-coherent lyrics to Hotel California in a tourist bar…anytime.

The following morning we found the weather forecasts still quite ambiguous. The system still hadn’t been officially upgraded to a named hurricane yet, but it seemed inevitable now. The bigger question for us was where it was going. All indications were that it would overtake our position and continue north within two hundred miles or so of the coast all the way into Mexico.

The Bay of Fonseca, our current location, had a handful of anchorage options, but they all still seemed too exposed.  The fact that they occupied different countries made things even more complicated.  After a great deal of discussion, we concurred that Chiapas was still our best bet.   We could wait until the following morning, depart with favorable winds to sail by, still arrive at Marina Chiapas two days ahead of any nasty weather and be a mile inland from the surf and surge when things kicked up.

With the decision made, our anxieties seemed to lessen temporarily…until the boat carrying El Salvador authorities arrived at Exit.

As best we could, we attempted to explain that we were a boat in transit to Mexico, and had just taken shelter temporarily while we assessed offshore weather conditions. We did not intend to clear into El Salvador nor did we intend to leave the boat; only stay one more night and then continue on to Mexico.

They politely but firmly proceeded to explain in Spanish that, having already been at anchor for nearly twenty-four hours, our options were twofold.  Option one:  come ashore and clear into El Salvador at the immigration office which would be closing in one hour.  Option two: pick up anchor within the hour and keep moving.  

We told them thank you very much for having already allowed us the overnight stay and we’d be leaving immediately.  Casting a bit of a suspicious look our way, the guy who had been doing the talking clarified that meant leaving El Salvador waters…not just moving to a different location where they couldn’t see us and dropping anchor again.  

Yes, we absolutely understood.  We were leaving Bahia de Fonseca before sundown. 

Shortly afterward, we raised anchor and headed out.  Not a big deal.  We wouldn’t have as favorable sailing conditions, but we were already good to go.  However, the one thing we failed to consider was, as dusk approached, a number of fishermen had already set out nets and fishing lines.

We were already well familiar with the unpleasant task of dodging fishing gear.  In the best of circumstances, it might be a small panga with a guy inside hanging a line over the side.  Easy to see and relatively easy to dodge.  

However, more typically there would be no one in the vicinity.  Only a net or long line stretched out underwater, invisible to the eye, except for a small flag made from a black plastic bag attached to the top a two meter tall pole floating in the water.  If we were lucky, the other side would also be attached to a flag, or even better yet, a panga which would give us a sense of where the net or long line extended to.  Maybe a series of clear plastic bottles at the surface trailing along the length of the whole thing which, once again, at least gave a visual reference.  As often as not, there would be nothing more than a single flag.  Some people said the nets were far enough below the surface that your boat could pass over the top; more people had stories about getting caught up on them.  If that happened, you now had big problems – maybe having to get in the water to untangle; maybe damaging your engine if the prop fouled badly enough; certainly pissing off a fisherman if you damaged their gear or cut their lines.

Fishing nets typically weren’t more than a few hundred feet long and, if seen, could be navigated around fairly easily.  Some of the long lines extended much farther, even a mile.

At night, the only hope of seeing anything was if the flag had a light or strobe attached…and it worked.  This was, by no means, an absolute.

Leaving Bahia de Fonseca, we had the misfortune of passing through the fishing zone at dusk.  Exactly the time when black plastic flags and clear plastic bottles were almost impossible to spot, and before the time any that actually had lights would be illuminated – they seemed to be switched on and off by light sensors.  At one point we spotted a flag in the distance just before passing over a net, forcing us to detour back and forth before determining the exact position of a long line that extended over a mile across our path.

Fun times.

Dodging fishing nets at dusk…

Ya… but do you see that one? Really…it’s out there.

Eventually, after three hours of dodging black plastic flags and floating water bottles, with our  nerves frayed and eyes strained, it appeared that we had cleared the last of the gauntlet of fishing gear.  It was dark and we were finally in the open water heading well offshore trying to avoid any more fishing net drama…hopefully.   We could see tiny flashes of strobe lights scattered behind us, illuminating the maze of lines and nets we just passed through; however,  no flashing lights appeared in front of us, meaning we were either home free, or blind to the dangers surrounding us.  

We would later hear first hand from a friend who had become entangled in an unmarked, unlit long line over thirty nautical miles offshore just outside Chiapas in the middle of the night.  They had to dive in pitch black conditions to free their prop.  We would later have a similar, though less dramatic encounter ourselves.  But that’s a different story…

As it turned out, though we didn’t encounter any more nets that evening, there would be no escaping the excitement.

Surrounded by rain…

Our ongoing wishes for any wind at all turned against us that night; and the pendulum swung during Kris’ watch.   The night was jet black, the winds kicked up to twenty five knots, rain smashed down, and ridiculously close lightning exploded all around us.  Sometimes the majesty and power of the ocean and sky can be awe inspiring.  Other times it just scares the shit out of you.  Dawn couldn’t come soon enough.

And, while the arrival of the sun and blue skies were a relief, the drama continued when an  alarm screamed out first thing in the morning indicating the autopilot had failed. Jeeves, the name we adopted for our computer driven chauffeur, had decided to once again go on strike.  Thankfully, we were able to quickly rig up Schumaker, our ancient backup autopilot which can only be described as having far less computer intelligence but a more reliable work ethic, and our automatic steering was restored.  Sometimes simple is just better.

A welcome sunny day the next morning underway to Chiapas…

That day we experienced yet another amazing dolphin encounter while underway.  Under power of sails only, barely moving in five to six knots of wind, we were approached by a pod of  dolphins.  Typically, only brief encounters were on the menu, as the dolphins would quickly grow bored riding our bow wake at such a slow pace.  For some reason, this time they opted to stick around for quite some time.  

Much to the chagrin of Kris, who foresaw a potential catastrophe unfolding, I decided to attempt submerging our GoPro on its extendible pole into to water while we were underway trying to capture footage of the dolphins moving alongside us.  Even though the GoPro was inside an underwater housing and we were only moving at a couple of knots of speed, I admit I was flirting with disaster.  The resistance caused by the water made it much more difficult than I thought to keep ahold of the pole.  If the pole snapped or I dropped the GoPro, it would be  gone forever…we were in three hundred feet of water.   I would be keel-hauled by Kris and it would be well deserved 

Carefully, I lowered it over the edge of the deck to about a foot under the surface and maintained an iron grip.  I could only do this for ten or twenty seconds at a time.  Initially, it was pretty sketchy but I quickly got a feel for it.  Eventually, I moved to the transom where I could get down right next to the water.  One of the dolphins was unbelievably curious; I actually thought it was trying to grab the camera a number of times and I ended up quickly snatching the GoPro out of the water as it came right up to me.  After a half hour or so, the dolphins disappeared into the blue.

I just kept recording snippets, without seeing any of the footage until after it was loaded onto the laptop.  Later, we were stunned watching the video we had managed to capture; it turned out incredible.  Our Space X-it endeavor with the drone may have just evolved and expanded to include a Wet X-it branch into its program. 

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Unlike the previous evening, the night passed with minimal excitement.  Sporadic lights in the distance revealed the presence of fishing boats that had to be navigated well around; but the unforeseen reward of a nighttime passage came in occasional visits from dolphins.  Speeding towards us and alongside Exit just under the surface, they took on the appearance of  torpedos as the water surrounding them was illuminated in a crazy and eerie green glow due to the bioluminescence.

Approaching Chiapas the following morning, our stress levels increased exponentially.  It appeared there were floats marking fishing nets everywhere around us.  Fortunately for us but not the planet, it turned out everything we were seeing in the water – plastic water bottles, pieces of styrofoam, empty jugs, as well as flip flops, plastic bags, and everything else you can imagine – were all just floating garbage deposited by assholes instead of fishermen.  Had the choice been ours, we would have preferred that it been fishing markers we had to dodge instead of simply a pathetic and depressing reflection of our species.

We never prefer staying at marinas; in fact, we avoid them like The Plague. (Or The ‘Rona)  However, Chiapas has no alternative anchorage as an option. The swell outside is relentless and the port captain prohibits anchoring in the small bay just inside the breakwater due to boat traffic passing through.  Furthermore, the tropical depression which was two days behind us, had just been upgraded to a hurricane.  Officially, it was the first of the season – Agatha.

In our eyes, there was no choice.  We just had to suck it up.

Finally, after nearly three days and just over three hundred fifty nautical miles we were safely in a slip at Marina Chiapas. Ahead of us remained over a two hundred mile crossing of the tempestuous Golfo de Tehauntepec, for which the Papagayo winds had been merely a warm up, followed by a daunting eleven hundred nautical miles more to the relative safety of the Sea of Cortez – our ultimate destination to sit through the hurricane season.

Aboard Exit we had already traveled more than fifteen hundred nautical miles since passing through the final lock of the Panama Canal and entering the Pacific Ocean just over four months ago. By our calculations, this put us barely beyond the halfway point.  Theoretically possible to complete the remaining distance in ten days, but realistically likely to be closer to a month.  No small feat, to be sure, yet we were making progress.

We were still adjusting our lines on the dock when we were boarded by the port captain, who politely took us through all the paperwork to clear in, while two men in military camouflage fatigues leading a nervous German Shepherd performed a quick search belowdecks to make sure we weren’t smuggling drugs or weapons.  

At least we now felt safe from the hurricane that had seemed to be tracking us.  The marina was located at the end of two small bays and three channels a mile inland from the shoreline.  Landlocked.  Agatha was projected to slide up the coast right past us without making landfall, but it would be close enough that we needed to be where we were.

Little did we know at the time, we would have a much easier time getting into Marina Chiapas than out of it…

April 12 – May 21, 2022

After departing Bahia Drake, we split the sixty nautical miles we needed to travel north to Quepos in two by stopping for a night at Punta Dominical – another spot along the Costa Rica coast popular with surfers. We were learning very quickly that beaches ripe for surfing were often horrible beaches for dinghy landings. No going ashore, but still a nice anchorage to chill out at for a night.

The following day we made for an anchorage near Manuel Antonio, three miles south of Quepos, which we had to visit on order to be issued a new national zarpe.

Though the international clearing in / clearing out procedures were not necessarily that much more complicated or expensive than other places we had visited, Costa Rica introduced us to national zarpes.  International zarpes, by comparison, we had dealt with.  This official document issued by the country you are departing declares your next port of call.  It is often asked for when you first arrive in a new country.  If an  authority of a country you are entering doesn’t ask for your zarpe it’s no big deal.  But if they ask for one you don’t have, all kinds of problems can arise.

National zarpes seemed effectively the same but were required when moving between states or regions within the country.

They didn’t necessarily charge for these, but the process to get them could take the better part of a day to sort out or may require taxi rides to various official offices that often were not conveniently in close proximity to one another. A trip ashore was required to get the zarpe before departing, it had to be during limited office hours or business days, and sometimes included time restrictions. A destination had to be put on the zarpe. Copies of our own documentation had to be provided. Only certain places could issue them or be listed on them. Furthermore, the procedures, processes, and locations had to be sorted out each time. Overall, a giant pain in the ass for us with no clear benefit or necessity that we could fathom.

We had declared Quepos as our destination departing Golfito. We were told it was commonly used. To us, this meant a procedure the Quepos authorities would be more familiar with, thereby making it simpler. Especially with language limitations, trying to complete an obscure government procedure at a location that is not already very familiar with that procedure can be a nightmare.

Obviously, the marina just outside Quepos had decided to take full advantage of anyone not staying at the marina who needed to use their dinghy dock.  Thirty five bucks just to tie up!  Bastards.  They took even more advantage of those choosing to stay at the marina charging boats a daily rate of two dollars and fifty cents a foot – for us that would have been over a hundred dollars a night.

Since the only alternative was a beach landing at the anchorage followed by a round trip taxi ride that would cost close to fifty dollars, we chose a bouncy dinghy ride the three miles to the marina and tied up for the day, adding a provisioning run in town and filling our jerry cans with diesel to try to help offset the marina charge for tying up our dinghy to their dock.

The town of Quepos was pleasant enough to visit, and the process of receiving a new national zarpe there turned out more inconvenient than painful.

However, at the end of the day, the three mile dinghy ride back to the anchorage was choppy, uncomfortable, and wet.  The wind had kicked up, causing the waves to respond in kind.  Loaded down with jerry cans now full of diesel and bags of provisions, we had no prayer of getting the dinghy up on a plane.  Not pleasant at all.  Downright fucking sloppy even.

The anchorage itself, though nice enough, was subject to a lot of panga traffic with an endless supply of tourists during the day, as well as seeming to unfortunately be a popular spot for mega-twats (mega yachts) to anchor at.  However, the swell was what eventually drove us onward.  One night, we endured the most ridiculous swell movement we had ever experienced, and a lack of any wind at all made using a swell bridle ineffective.  It appears we may have to sort out a flopper stopper to cope with this in the not too distant future as we’re apparently still quite gun-shy about using a stern anchor after our first fiasco.

All in all, it had taken us five days to sort out everything we needed to before we could move on. Once we were ready, we were gone first thing the following morning.

A number of anchorages later we found ourselves at Isla San Lucas, Costa Rica’s version of Alcatraz. From the late 1800’s until 1991, this less than two square mile island housed a high security prison globally notorious for the torture and inhumane treatment its prisoners endured; or more often, failed to endure. Their crimes ranged from violent multiple murders to political dissidence.

The water surrounding the prison, like Alcatraz, added an extra security ring.  However, in addition to strong currents, there was the added Costa Rican flair of hammerhead sharks and crocodiles.  Didn’t see hammerheads…did see a croc.  Didn’t go swimming…did go ashore.

Only a couple of years ago, it was upgraded from Wildlife Refuge to National Park status. Currently restoration efforts include a church, medical facility, and holding cells which can be walked through.

A nominal fee helps to support the ongoing restoration efforts for the prison facilities as well as numerous archeology excavations of thousand year old Indigenous sites. It also grants you access to wandering around the island for a day. Since we hadn’t arranged a guided tour, we just had to wing it.

The walls of the cells are covered with graffiti. The musings of a hundred years of misery. Sketched, painted, and carved onto and into the walls, they run the gamut of what you would expect to be on the minds of tortured prisoners— salvation, damnation, freedom, and sex.

The cement disc apparently had something to do with a water storage tank and/or a particularly nasty solitary confinement area for trouble makers.

Random wandering photos…

More than a dozen trails offer the potential for hours and hours of hikes around the island – a welcome counterbalance to the darkly morbid specter of the prison. However, the reality is that skyrocketing afternoon temperatures from an absolutely blistering sun typically quash the plans of all but the hardiest on walkabout.

With only a couple of cruising boats and a couple of day tour pangas in the bay for only a short time during our entire four day stay, we essentially had the entire calm and protected anchorage to ourselves.  The visit to Isla San Lucas was well worth the stop.

To be honest, it’s the only way one wants to visit a prison… as a tourist.

Now, fresh outta prison – it’s a story often heard. It was time to drift back into orbit with our old Junkie friends.

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Junkie Reunion

Long before our arrival in Costa Rica, we knew one of our top priorities would be a Junkie reunion.  Cindy and Juan, two of our Divemaster students over ten years ago from our days working at Scuba Junkie in Borneo, now lived in Santa Teresa – a small surfing and tourist destination along the coast.  We would be sailing right by.

While many of our previous students had gone on to work in the scuba diving industry, Cindy and Juan were the only ones we were aware of who had gone on to own their own dive shop.  This was a Junkie reunion that couldn’t be missed.

The beach off of Santa Teresa is a really popular surfing spot.  Big waves = no dinghy option.  And the whole coast was completely unprotected as an anchorage which meant there was no way we could safely leave our boat unoccupied at anchor.  We found a small fishing village, Tambor, in a very protected bay called Bahia Ballena on the opposite side of the peninsula, within about a one hour drive from Santa Teresa.

Another sailboat was anchored there as well; and we befriended them enough to feel comfortable leaving Exit at anchor for a few days with eyes upon her and a WhatsApp contact if trouble arose.  After a dinghy ride to the cement dock used by the local fishermen (far too scary for us to tie up to) and a brief conversation with one of the fishermen on the dock, we were able arrange a ride with one of the fishermen between our boat and the dock.

The logistics weren’t easy but, in the end, we were ecstatic to have figured it out. Cindy and Juan were fabulous hosts. It was as though ten days had passed since we saw them rather than ten years.

In addition, we had the opportunity to meet their two incredible kids, Marina and Bruno, for the first time, as well as two other diving friends of theirs, Tim and Barbara.

We were astonished to learn they had managed to arrange for us all to stay at a property which provided a base of operations unlike anywhere we could have imagined. Fortunately, the thousand dollar per night rate was waved! The place was decadent; the view was wondrous.

Sometimes it pays to know someone who knows someone…

The nearby beach, at the bottom of the treacherous hill our house was perched upon, provided an afternoon’s entertainment of socializing and even attempted surfing.

And, of course, when your ex-students own a dive shop, how can you not go diving?

The day of diving with old friends was incredible. Conditions were pretty challenging with significant swell and shocking visibility (damn red tide). Still, it was the phenomenal people we got to spend time blowing bubbles with that made all the difference.

Iguana Divers. Well done Cindy and Juan. Kudos to you as fabulous divers, businesspeople, parents, and friends!

They told me long ago, on the road…once a Junkie, always a Junkie.

The town of Santa Teresa itself was quite unique.  With all the look of a tiny surf town set into the lush Costa Rican landscape, it was hard to juxtaposition the tiny shops and businesses lining a single, mostly potholed dirt road with the completely unexpected caliber of international cuisine available and volume of multi-million dollar houses perched on the hillside.  Even more surprising was learning that no less than five billionaires, as well as mega-stars including the likes of Mel Gibson and Tom Brady, have homes in Santa Teresa.

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Deja Vú / Full Circle…

Flash back almost exactly two months.

‘GO COUGS!’

Shouted by a passing tourist who had spotted our hailing port of Pullman, WA on our transom, they had strangely enough been the first words we had heard approaching Costa Rica, less than five miles from Golfito, the port of call where we would clear into the country.  

Now, fifteen anchorages later and four hundred nautical miles further up the coast, less than five miles from the town of Playa del Coco where we would clear out of Costa Rica, we were looking through our binoculars at a crimson flag clearly flying the WSU Cougar logo on the beach of Playa Hermosa.

Deja vú.

Shortly after Kris posted the photo she received a reply from the original flag owner. Apparently a WSU alum visiting Costa Rica on holiday had previously gifted the flag to a fascinated local, with the instructions to return any greeting with ‘GO COUGS!’

Small world.

It seemed to be a perfectly fitting full circle moment.

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Costa Rica Challenges

In spite of all of the stunning landscapes and remarkable experiences, our time in Costa Rica will be remembered with mixed feelings.

From the perspective of a couple of sea gypsies, Costa Rica was well more challenging than we had ever perceived it would be.

Although the sixteen foot tides which had stunned us initially as we emerged from the Panama Canal in January seemed nearly five feet less in Costa Rica, at times it seemed impossible to escape the Pacific Ocean’s relentless southwestern swell that seemed to wrap around every land mass we tried to take refuge behind.

Anchorages seemed farther and fewer in between. Choices in those that existed were more limited. Smaller bays. Moorings to contend with. Steeper banks which forced you either precariously close to shore or deeper than forty feet to anchor. It’s hard to set your scope when you swing between twenty five and seventy feet in depth.

And the strategy of just throwing out more chain only works when you know you have a clear space to swing.  Knowing you have that clear space relies on good water visibility and/or reliable charts, both of which we found to be in short order here in Costa Rica.  It is very disconcerting to increase the diameter of the circle you swing in when you know there may be rocks just under the surface of a low tide that you can pass over during high tide.

Weather forecasts, when consistent and accurate, provide critical information needed to make good decisions. Are conditions conducive to sailing or will we be forced to motor? Is an anchorage safe based upon wind direction? Are there storms developing? When should we move? In Costa Rica, that consistency and accuracy didn’t exist. Consequently, we struggled constantly with higher stress levels, frustration, and a general sense that we were always simply guessing instead of making informed decisions.

 Dinghy landings, more often than not, were excruciatingly difficult. Breaking waves of three feet can easily capsize the dinghy… a catastrophic event that poses both a safety risk and the very real possibility of destroying the outboard engine. Many beaches could only be reasonably landed on or launched from during the most benign cycle of the tide – high or low slack tide. With only two of each in a twenty four hour period, this made for a very small window…and it also meant unless the trip ashore was not more than an hour, either the landing or the launch would fall outside that safe zone. Hmmmm…a messy landing which subsequently forced you to walk around in wet clothes was never a pleasant prospect; however, getting swamped by a breaking wave launching the dinghy after loading three hundred dollars of provisions we had just purchased was even less appealing. Sometimes simply not going ashore seemed the wiser approach.  Oftentimes that turned out to be the conclusion.

Compared to other countries in Central America, Costa Rica proved to be one of the most expensive we visited. 

The whole national zarpe requirements just added additional complications.

And then there was the damn red tide.

The morning we arrived in Costa Rica, as we passed through the bay approaching Golfito, we first noticed discolored patches in the water. We attributed these to runoff from the rivers which can sometimes collect with tides and currents.

The patches continued off and on for a month before someone enlightened us that what we were looking at was red tide.

Apparently, these out of control algae blooms typically only last two or three weeks.  After three months, we learned that this particular tide was stretching all along the Pacific Coast and was the worst people had ever seen..or smelled.  And smell it does.  Like the combination of stagnant tropical salt water and rotting plant material that it actually is.  Yuck!

Hard to describe and harder to bear.

Sometimes it was possible to see the tendrils of algae in rather clear water pass by the hull. Other times the entire body of water surrounding us became as dark as coffee.

The difference between a mild and severe day…

Had we known just how severe a red tide we would encounter, we certainly wouldn’t have changed our water maker membrane in January.

We learned very quickly how important it was, if we were making water, to shut down the system at the first signs a bloom was approaching.  It would clog the pre-filters with amazing speed.  Better yet, we would try to make water further offshore; though sometimes we could still find the red tide blooms had carried miles out on a falling tide or coastal current.

The pre-filters in the photo illustrate how problematic things can be. Both have just been cleaned. The one on the left has about fifty hours of water making time under fair conditions. The one on the right has only one hour of use but looks far worse because of the red tide water that was drawn through it.

On the occasions we got far enough offshore to seemingly at least temporarily break free of the red tide’s chokehold, the difference in water quality was stunning.

Nevertheless, despite the tides, and the weather, and the chart shortcomings, and the lack of protected or viable anchorages, and the swell, and the beach surf, and the cost, and the national zarpes, and the stinking red tide…

…regardless of all the challenges, Costa Rica was well worth the visit.  

At times, traveling by land instead of by sea would have made things far easier, and we would have encountered less situations where we had to pass on an adventure because of the logistical impossibilities.  

Still, it was worth the visit.

But we had now been in Costa Rica for almost exactly two months. We still had over fifteen hundred miles to travel before reaching the relative safety of the Sea of Cortez… and it was almost June — officially two weeks into the start of the Pacific’s hurricane season.

Our choices would soon be quite limited. Either we had to get our asses up to the Sea of Cortez immediately or we would be stuck having to sit through the hurricane season in El Salvador, Honduras, or Nicaragua with few options outside of a handful of marinas and questionable anchorages. This was not a good place to plan on hanging out on the hook for the next six months.

If we opted to just keep going until we reached Mexico, Chiapas was our first port of call that we could clear into. Five hundred miles. And that still left another thousand to go after that to the Sea of Cortez.

As a sobering reminder of both the risk of sitting and the uncertainties of moving, as well as the very real dangers of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, our decision was being made even more difficult by inconsistent and contradicting weather forecasts.

Yet one forecast stood out prominently, shouting loudly above all the others. It was still over a week away but it certainly had our attention.

If the forecast was accurate, this would be the first named storm of the 2022 hurricane season…Agatha.  It would also likely follow a trajectory mimicking our current path, passing  right next to Chiapas.  But a week out is forever and a day when it comes to forecasting weather.  And this was the only model that was currently flashing ‘danger’.

Others showed a completely different picture for the future.

Erratic weather forecasts and a potential hurricane were only two of many considerations we were having to process.  We had already arrived in Playa del Coco, where we could clear out of Costa Rica.  However, once we had cleared out, we were committed to go.  The clearing out process would more than likely take a full day; and once that undertaking was completed, the Costa Rican authorities would allow us twenty four hours, at the most, to pick up anchor and physically leave Costa Rican waters.  In other words, a major process with a very short window that had to be initiated with incomplete information in hand.

The process of getting everything ready on Exit for a substantial offshore passage; the process of making a big decision regarding a safe weather window that hopefully didn’t force us to motor the whole way; the process of getting cleared out…

Not for the feint of heart.

As if there wasn’t enough to have to keep track of already, there were also the Papagayo winds that had to be considered.

Departing Playa del Coco, there is a stretch of coastline just to the north that marks one of the narrowest points between the Atlantic and Pacific across the Central American isthmus.  It is very susceptible to influence by winds that can come rushing down from the highlands after crossing massive Lake Nicaragua and deliver storm force and, at times, even hurricane force winds reaching far out from the coast.  These winds, running contrary to the direction of the Pacific swell, can cause a massive buildup of tall waves with very short intervals between – potentially an extremely dangerous situation for boats.  Mariners have to carefully monitor not only the normal weather driven winds, but also the forecasted Papagayo winds which can sometime strengthen or at other times even contradict what should be happening.

It is only about fifty nautical miles across the area of concern, but for us that represents a ten hour stretch of exposure.  On more than one occasion, we had been advised the Papagayo winds (and even more so the Tuantapec winds just beyond Chiapas, Mexico) are not to be taken lightly unless you fancy having your ass handed to you.

We continuously looked at forecasts and analyzed things. Eventually, we made the call. We go.

The clearing out process was, as expected, lengthy and complicated, but achievable thanks to Kris’ tenacious online research which uncovered a step by step procedure to follow provided by another sailor who had documented their experience, complete with photos of the building fronts to look for…well done.

We had officially cleared out of Costa Rica; and the clock was ticking.

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4:20 a.m. May 21, 2022…

First light.

Looks like gray skies. A camouflage day for us. We blend right in.

As we pick up anchor, the skies look ominous but not as threatening as the most current weather forecast we have just downloaded on our iPad. Still only one of the four weather models predicts a hurricane will develop…but that model still says it will pass right by our destination of Chiapas, Mexico.

We are a week ahead of it. Best get moving.

March 17 – April 12, 2022

Golfito, Costa Rica, once one of the local casualties of a changing banana industry, certainly appeared to have finally found its stride. What had apparently become quite a sketchy location to be not so long ago, now appeared to us a very welcoming and friendly place to clear into.

Every country has its own clear in procedure. Always an adventure to navigate.

Entering the country in a maritime setting automatically means the port captain is involved, requiring paperwork and possible fees. We, like any other traveller, have to get our immigration papers sorted, requiring paperwork and possible fees. Exit requires clearing through customs, requiring paperwork and possible fees.

Every port is a bit, or a lot, different.

At the time we cleared in, Costa Rica required every tourist entering the country by boat to use an agent to complete the process of clearing in and out. Depending on the country, this service may incur a reasonable or unreasonable fee. Furthermore, depending on the competence of the agent and/or the difficulty of the process, this can be money either well spent or money wasted.

In hindsight, as our exchange with our agent was a positive one, we were much less irritated to learn that the requirement for utilizing agents was dissolved the month after we arrived.

Costa Rica also required a quarantine officer to actually come aboard Exit in order to verify we weren’t bringing any pork products into the country. This included filling out a declaration of all meat we had aboard followed by an actual inspection of the refrigerator and freezer.

Fortunately for us, being sent to a Costa Rican prison for international pig smuggling will not be on the itinerary.

The noteworthy generosity and kindness of Gabriella, manager of Banana Bay Marina, was amazing. Yes, she was being paid as an agent to clear us into Costa Rica. Still, we weren’t staying at the marina. So allowing us free access to the dock to tie our dinghy, ability to dispose of rubbish and recyclables, unlimited water if we needed, even actually taking us to the port captain and immigration authorities in a taxi she paid for – were all gestures well above and beyond. Her energy and enthusiasm were contagious. Her endless knowledge of the area cleared up any questions we had, and she offered assistance repeatedly.

It made it even easier to return to the marina for happy hours and decadent meals prepared by someone else.

Except…once we were cleared in, it was time for a major water maker maintenance project.

We had been waging an ongoing battle with the water maker since our arrival in Panama. Yet, it had never failed us by ceasing to make fresh water and we fully understood the importance of settling for functioning versus risking having it out of commission for any length of time. Consequently, we were constantly having to fuss with it while respecting the boundary of “don’t fuck too much with something that currently works.”

While trapped in Bocas del Toro during the Covid lockdowns, we had managed to get spare sensors, hoses, fittings, pumps, and even a membrane shipped to us; so we had parts for the Spectra. Yet, we couldn’t do anything that could even possibly jeopardize our ability to make water since it was one of the top critical systems on our boat to keep us off the grid.

The decision had been made long ago to hold off on any major water maker surgery until we were in the Pacific Ocean. Now that time had finally arrived.

Two sensors, a number of high pressure fittings, an intake hose, and the membrane itself all needed replacement. It required disassembly of nearly the entire water maker — a process during which I found myself experiencing numerous moments of doubt. If I fucked it up, we would be in a seriously bad way. But, in the end, everything was back together with no extra pieces still sitting on the table.

Now we just had to get out of the bay we were in and try everything out a few miles offshore where the water would be clearer. We could have gotten away with testing it where we were anchored, but we were adamant that we would be more selective about the water conditions we would consider making water in this time around…a philosophy which always seems to work better in theory than in practice.

A few miles out the water was not pristine, but we needed verification that everything was working at least. If we had to sacrifice a couple of filters, so be it. A few hours of making water seemed to concur the repair was a successful endeavor.

While we were testing the water maker, we were visited by a couple of very social dolphins. Normally dolphins only stick around the boat to ride the bow wake while we are underway and, even then, it rarely takes long before they grow bored of our sluggish pace. For some reason, these two really took an interest in us, and kept coming around to get a closer look. They were so persistent, eventually I slid into the water. They kept a bit of distance, but we were stunned how long the visit lasted.

It was one of two absolutely amazing experiences with dolphins here in this area.

A few days later while we were anchored in nearby Bahia Dulce, during a night of particularly intense and bright bioluminescence in the water, we had a visit from what may have even been the same two curious dolphins.

Upon hearing the unmistakable sound of their blowholes as they surfaced we came up on deck to a surreal sight. As the two dolphins swam around the boat, they were surrounded by an amazing glow of eerie green light. But even more unbelievable, the amount of bioluminescence was so intense that every detail of the dolphins were lit up also. A green, glowing line traced the entire outline of each dolphin, perfectly and distinctly, as well as every contour and detail of their bodies. It was almost like a sharp, glowing drawing which had been animated. Like the manta ray scene from the movie “Moana”.

Impossible to adequately describe. Impossible to capture with video or photos. Even more impossible to forget.

---

Hints that the dry season may be coming to an end…

We had not collected rain catch water since Christmas in San Blas. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to. The fact was we hadn’t had any rain fall on our deck since we had crossed through the Panama Canal in mid-January… definitively the dry season. Despite seeing rain in the distance occasionally, it would be three months and a different country before the first drops of rain once again began to flow into our water jugs — March in Costa Rica.

Still, Costa Rica’s rainy season was only beginning to kick off in April. Largely, we had impeccable weather.

Yet, the heat of the Costa Rican sun on our aluminum hull made for some frying pan days and reminded us that the rainy season had its advantages as well.

---

Only a couple hours outside Golfito, Bahia Dulce turned out to be a fabulous location to anchor. For much of the time, we were the only boat at anchor in a huge bay.

Costa Rican law prohibits any permanent structures from being built less than fifty meters from the high tide line. Consequently, almost every beach appears completely undeveloped, even if there are inhabitants just behind the tree line.

Such was the case with Dolphin Quest — a family run eco-lodge built on seven hundred acres of largely undisturbed land offering accommodations, tours, and jungle adventures. With a deeply seated philosophy of maintaining pristine wilderness, nurturing self-sustaining ecological practices, and rehabilitating environmental damage, they have managed to successfully cultivate a truly “green” business model.

In the few interactions we had with them, we found them to be very authentic. Touring their extensive yet very well thought out and unobtrusive garden proved to be both fascinating and educational. Afterwards we returned to Exit carrying a large bag of incredibly tasty, organically grown fruits and vegetables, as well as a plethora of various herbs and greens that found their way into our meals for a week after our visit.

After a couple of weeks bouncing back and forth between Golfito and Bahia Dulce it was time to get moving again.

---

Sixty five nautical miles further up the coast brought us to Bahia Drake, which provided a launching point for additional excursions.

Nearby, Isla Caño was only the second dive trip we paid to go on since we had moved aboard Exit nearly five years ago. While it would never be considered among the dives that top our list, it was a great day. Conditions sucked… the boat ride ten minutes off the island was rough, visibility underwater was horrible at times, it was the coldest water had dived in some time, and we felt remarkably guilty for the other eight guests on the boat (who were all snorkeling, some for only the second time above an invisible reef twenty feet below the surface). Still, our dive guide was very good and we managed to see a surprisingly impressive range of creatures — sharks, turtles, a sea horse, rays, eels, schools of jacks, and even harlequin shrimp (which we had last seen only in Indonesia almost ten years ago).

Also in close proximity was Parque Nacional Corcovado — a two hundred fifty square mile swath of untouched jungle established in Costa Rica as a protected reserve inside one of the most biodiverse regions on the planet.

With our remarkably knowledgable and eagle-eyed guide Carlos, we managed to catch glimpses of a dizzying array of wildlife which included: monkeys, crocodiles, scarlet macaws, tiny frogs, lizards (including the basilisk or “Jesus lizard” which actually runs on water), leaf cutter ants, and tapirs; all amongst the stunning backdrop of the dense Costa Rican rain forest.

You have five seconds to spot the croc before you become a spot on the croc…

Costa Rica — the coast is rich but beach landings are a bitch! Props go out to the Costa Rican captains, whose skills are astounding. We got to witness these skills again and again, which ultimately resulted in both an immense respect for the local captains as well as a constant and intense fear of capsizing our own dinghy in the beach surf.

---

We never remotely considered ourselves bird watchers before living aboard Exit. Even after five years, I would consider ourselves more sporadically interested and curious observers rather than avid bird watchers.

Pelicans? Always. The coolest of the cool.

And rare or exceptionally unique birds… sure.

But as often as not, I am more likely to cuss out a bird for taking a big messy dump as it passes overhead, or sits on our spreader, or worst of all – tries to sit at the top of our mast, jeopardizing an expensive wind indicator or antennae.

Occasionally, we are visited by a bird that leaves an indelible impression and happy memory rather than an obnoxious turd, as was the case with an extremely curious and inquisitive blue footed booby that visited us while we were at anchor at Bahia Drake. After watching us for quite some time from the relative safety of the dinghy, it grew more courageous and eventually hopped aboard and took a full tour around Exit’s deck.

One thing we never grew tired of during our stay was Costa Rica’s propensity for breathtaking displays of astonishing cloud formations. Variety and depth seemed to always be the theme.

To be continued…

March 18, 2020 – March 17, 2022

Seven hundred twenty nine days. We were counting.

It seemed impossible to really wrap our heads around…except for the fact that we had just lived it.

After arriving in Bocas Del Toro, Panama literally the night before the entire country locked down in reaction to a terrifying new phenomena that was sending shock waves around the globe and causing an identical worldwide reaction – Covid – we had no idea how things would unfold.

Days of uncertainty turned into weeks. Weeks became months. After a year we were moving about on Exit but still trapped in Bocas Del Toro. After eighteen months we had explored a large part of Panama’s Atlantic coast but it took twenty one months before we finally cleared the final lock of the Panama Canal and found ourselves in the Pacific Ocean.

Still in Panama.

We were counting down the days that would mark our two year anniversary in the country.

Now it looked as though we might actually get out of Panama before that day arrived. Unless, of course, we didn’t.

---

With our new alternator installed, Exit could once again charge her batteries while underway.  We were back in business.

Departing Santa Catalina, we made for Bahia Honda which was less than twenty five miles away.   For a couple of days the huge bay provided a protected and calm anchorage for us to relax in…mostly.  But it had been a compromise.  

Isla Coiba had been our first choice.  Coiba and its neighboring islands had a reputation as being the premier go-to location on the Pacific side of Panama for scuba diving, whale sharks and whale watching.  

However, a number of factors came into play which altered that trajectory.  The alternator had been the first.  Had it not gone tits up, we probably would have made straight for Coiba after waking up at Bahia Arenas following our overnight passage from Las Perlas. Now, once the alternator was up and running again, we would be backtracking to get to Coiba.

The second factor turned out to be a high likelihood that we would pay out the ass for access to the islands.  A ranger station on the north side of Coiba oversaw the national park and charged a fee for any boats anchoring within the park.  As divers and conservationists, we appreciated the effort Panama was making to preserve and protect the area.  However, we were having trouble swallowing the amount they were collecting on that behalf.   Sixty dollars for the boat plus twenty more per person… one hundred dollars PER DAY!  It occurred to us that the area was too big to realistically be patrolled by one boat and it was probably possible to sneak in at the southern most island of Jicaron, over thirty miles from the ranger station.  Yet we couldn’t get past both the ensuing guilt that would accompany that infraction as well as the fallout and cost if we were discovered.  

Over the past four years, we had learned diving from Exit without any outside support was not a simple undertaking.  Arriving in the Pacific Ocean, we found this became even more complicated due to the extreme tidal changes.  Since transiting the Panama Canal, we had suddenly found ourselves having to deal with ten to fifteen foot tidal swings twice a day, creating both depth and current challenges that had to factored.

Conditions at Coiba could be very sketchy for attempting scuba dives.  We might not even be able to dive at all.

As for the whales, it was possible we could see some, but it was out of season.  As for whale sharks, we had already cashed in a huge dividend at Isla San Jose in Las Perlas and it seemed unlikely to us that we would hit the jackpot again.  Odds were against us.

At potentially one hundred dollars a day, the gamble seemed like too much of a long shot.  We would pass on Coiba.

As we set out for Bahia Honda, we were a bit dejected we would miss out on Coiba but ultimately felt certain we had made the right choice. Three hours later that certainty was reinforced.

A lack of wind meant we had been forced to motor sail part of the way. The upside of that was, with our alternator fully functional, not only were we able to charge our battery bank but also make water without having to worry about the power draw.

After two hours of making water with the engine running the wind finally picked up. Not only were we able to sail, we decided the batteries were sufficiently charged that we could run the water maker for another hour to try to top off our water tanks. Thirty minutes later, the peace and quiet of our engine-free sail was shattered by a bang. It sounded a bit like a distant gunshot except that it came from inside Exit.

I hustled down the companionway and started looking around. When I removed the floorboard directly below the water maker I was shocked to see water draining into the bilge. And it was coming at quite a fast rate.

Immediately, we shut down the water maker and closed the seacock which fed sea water to it. The flow rapidly slowed to a trickle. A further inspection of the membrane and pump assembly, located in a locker underneath the bed of the aft berth where the water maker was located, revealed that the source of the sound we had heard and ensuing flood of raw water had been triggered by a high pressure fitting which had blown off.

Fortunately, the seacock was shut off before the water level became a problem. Also fortunate was the fact that we had gotten a rather extensive supply of spare parts for the Spectra water maker shipped to us while we were hauled out at Shelter Bay Marina in June. The specialized hose and high pressure fittings were among those parts… hallelujah. It turned out we needed them.

We arrived at Bahia Honda late in the afternoon and decided to tackle the water maker the following day.

After wrestling with the Spectra for most of the following day, it seemed like everything was once again good to go. We spent one more day in Bahia Honda and then continued on to Islas Secas, a small group of islands just outside the park boundaries of Isla Coiba.

It wasn’t Coiba, but it was near enough we hoped to get some of the same bang without the hundred bucks a day.

We found the furthest southwest island of Islas Secas, both unnamed and uninhabited, to be a stunning anchorage. Incredible shades of blue both above and below the water, an easily accessible and beautiful beach, great holding for the anchor and fair protection from the southern swell.

As had been the case in Las Perlas, there were almost no other sailboats in the area. Both fishing boats as well as boats bringing day trippers made for a lot more traffic at Islas Secas. However, generally we had the anchorage to ourselves by late afternoon.

We also got in our first dive since crossing the Panama Canal. We joked that we would have been unhappy paying a hundred and fifty dollars for a dive company to have taken us, but it was good to be blowing bubbles again. The coral was quite impressive in places, and the abundance of fish and marine critters surpassed anything we had seen for a long, long time.

Even a mediocre dive is better than a great day’s work.

The most frustrating thing we had encountered recently seemed to be our inability to access any kind of weather report we could rely on. The forecasts were available. They were just highly variable, even contradictory. And more often than not, most all of them were flat out wrong. Throwing chicken bones and reading tea leaves probably would have provided an improvement in accuracy. We were lucky that, with the current dry season, weather was almost entirely benign. Blue skies and very little wind over ten knots. The seemingly schizophrenic wind shifts turned out to be largely cyclical after a few days of observation – east in the morning, south during the day, clocking to west by sundown and north into the night. Not a problem for most of the week we spent there.

If things kicked up from the north we could always move to Isla Cavada nearby.

After ten days at Islas Secas we decided it was time to get motivated and keep moving. Boca Chica, twenty miles away on the mainland was our destination, not for its scenic beauty but, rather, a final provisioning excursion prior to clearing out of Panama.

While we were able to get fuel at a marina in Boca Chica, it became necessary to sort out transportation inland to David, Panama’s second largest city, for additional supplies. Fortunately, we were able to arrange a reliable driver that our friend Sharon, from Isla Joya back in Bocas Del Toro, used regularly. His English was impeccable and he was a lifelong resident of David, making it easy to locate the best places to find particular things.

Not only were we able to bring back an entire car load of food, supplies, and alcohol; he also helped us track down more elusive things. Club soda and tonic water were among those, as was a precious impact wrench which had elevated to the top position on my most needed tools list following my recent battles with both our furler and alternator. Ironically, finally being in possession of an impact wrench all but assured that we would never have use for one again.

We even managed to obtain Covid booster shots at a pop-up clinic in a public park. First try and it took no more than fifteen minutes. Quite a different story from our previous shot which had taken more like ten tries over the course of days in multiple cities.

After stowing away all of the goodies we had procured in David and sorting the final logistical details of our impending departure, we even treated ourselves to our first fancy sit down dinner of 2022.

Our final task in Panama was the process of clearing out, for which we needed to go to Armuelles, the last port of call before Costa Rica. Six hours of motoring. At least we could make water along the way.

Over the course of our stay in Panama, our water maker acquired the name Larry. During water making sessions, Kris would ask how the Spectra was doing, and I would answer ‘seems happy as Larry.’ The name stuck.

It had been three weeks since the high pressure line had blown out. Happy as Larry for the past twenty five operating hours of water making. I had become complacent. I should have known better.

Kris asked how Larry was. Flippantly, I replied, happy as… I would guess. The floorboards aren’t floating.

Kris didn’t smile. Immediately, I realized the error of my ways. It was too late. The words had already tumbled out of my mouth. I didn’t even need to look. As I went below, I could hear an alarm on the Spectra, buzzing at a volume slightly less than audible from the cockpit with the engine running.

It had shut itself down. The bilge was filling with water. The high pressure fitting had blown out again. Fuck. Served me right. It hadn’t been fixed correctly. Larry had done left the house, and Jessie had just arrived [an inside joke best left inside].

This was going to require some serious attention, but our water tanks were almost full. It could wait.

Armuelles was the place to clear out of Panama; not to sort out more repair issues.

Despite having heard some nightmare stories about attempted dinghy beach landings in sketchy conditions at Armuelles, we experienced no drama. The clearing out process was easy enough. A man by the name of Omar from the port captain’s office met us on the beach and took us back to his office, completed a bundle of paperwork, and then walked us from office to office getting the appropriate stamps and signatures while seeming to berate each office for their inefficiency and slow responses.

With all of our paperwork in order, we were officially cleared out of Panama. Barring a beach ambush by a rabid pack of wild dogs upon returning to our dinghy, it seemed nothing could stop us from setting sail for Costa Rica the following day…

No. No rabid pack of dogs. Only a lone shade seeker.

We had a celebratory mix of Perfect Storm drinks that evening in the cockpit. The toast was to Panama. Panama had provided comfort, safety, and exploration. We couldn’t have asked for more. Now it was finally time to go.

Almost two years…but not quite. Seven hundred twenty nine days in Panama. Well over ten thousand hours on the water. Three hundred sixty five of those hours with the anchor up. Approximately nineteen hundred nautical miles traveled aboard Exit since our arrival in Panama.

And yet possibly the most ironic and surprising number? After all that, despite the fact we were now in a different ocean — as the crow flies, we ended up clearing out of Panama only seventy five miles away from the location where we had cleared in.

But who’s counting?

We raised anchor and departed Armuelles at sunrise the next morning.

For the second day in a row, our wind indicator provided digitally displayed confirmation of the depressing reality that we would be burning diesel to get anywhere.

The rising sun slowly burned away the morning mist, revealing a shadowy outline of Volcan Baru in the distance behind us. The active volcano’s ten thousand foot peak represents Panama’s highest point.

As we approached the southern tip of Burica Peninsula, looking through binoculars the beach we were seeing was Panama. However, just behind the line of trees was Costa Rica!

Nine hours and fifty or so nautical miles later we were almost there.

Ten or so miles outside Golfito, the first port of call in Costa Rica, the alarm for our autopilot sounded. The same autopilot we had brought back from the States and installed less than six months ago. Fuck. Another battle to be waged when we had mistakenly assumed the war was over. It would have to get in line.

You’d think the elation of arriving at a new country after all this time would be at the front and center of attention.

To the contrary, I was pretty bummed. In twenty four hours we had killed the water maker, nearly fifteen gallons of diesel, and now our auto pilot.

Welcome to Costa Rica.

Still, the moment turned when a panga full of tourists overtook us in the entrance channel. As the boat carrying a dozen or so pasty white passengers passed by us, a random guy wearing a straw hat held up his fist and yelled something at us that I couldn’t quite make out.

Kris said he obviously had seen the “Pullman, WA” on our transom.

Hmmm.

Occasionally it prompts the question, “Are you guys from Western Australia?”

Other times, like this, it prompts the response, “Go Cougs!”

I had to smile. We hadn’t cleared into Costa Rica yet, but I was already starting to feel at home.

February 22, 2022

To-day… Tue-sday… month zero-tw0, day two-two, year two-zero-two-two. Right day, wrong to-ol. Might as well be two-twenty-two in the afternoon.

Okay. That’s it. Enough of the tooooos.

Second repair in a row. An impact wrench is now officially on the list.

The impact wrench wouldn’t have sorted everything with the furler repair that we completed just before our Panama Canal transit, but it sure as hell would have helped.

This time it made all the difference.

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We departed from Las Perlas cautiously optimistic. Erratic weather forecasts left us completely guessing on what we would encounter once underway. Leaving early in the afternoon provided us with an option to bail out the following morning just after clearing Punta Mala (Bad Point…great name) if things were going against us, or continue if things were looking good.

After threading our way through an endless convoy of ships approaching and departing the Panama Canal, we had nothing but open ocean to let Exit run. Only the occasional fishing boat crossed our path, surprisingly small for how far away we were from anywhere.

The Predict Wind calculation of ten hours to get around Punta Mala seemed more than optimistic. It was the best of four forecast calculations ranging from ten to seventeen hours. Amazingly, it actually took us only nine hours [yes…for dirt dwellers doing the calculation, that averaged a snail’s pace of slightly more than twice walking speed, or not even that if you are a fast walker].

During the day we were treated to a visit by a pod of enthusiastic dolphins, quite different from those we had seen in the Atlantic.

For us, it was an epic, exhilarating sail from Las Perlas to Punta Mala, during which we averaged a screaming pace of over eight knots for the entire nine hours. Even once the darkness of night had set in, an incredible full moon illuminated the watery path before us. Eventually, after passing Punta Mala, we found ourselves having to finally turn on our engine when the wind completely died.

Despite our own reluctance to run the engine, our battery bank would be much more appreciative of the gesture.

Yet to our dismay, even with the Perkins diesel engine churning away, the number on the ammeter remained negative and the charge deficit continued to grow.

The alternator wasn’t charging at all.

Shit.

By sunrise, the charge deficit showing on the digital display was the highest it had been since we had replaced the entire house battery bank at the end of our haul out in June. At least now, as the sun climbed higher and higher, our solar panels were being fed and the batteries would begin to recover.

Twenty one hours and one hundred fifty nautical miles after departing Isla San Jose in Las Perlas, we set the hook in the expansive though calm bay of Bahia Arenas and immediately chose sleep over troubleshooting.

By sundown a number of tests had confirmed what we already suspected. The alternator was dead. No output at all.

It was, by no means, an immediate emergency.

The house batteries were only six months old and were getting nearly fully charged every day just with solar collection. Currently, Panama was in its dry season. We hadn’t collected a drop of rain catch since before Christmas.

Still, our location pretty much qualified as middle of no where and we really needed our alternator running.

Unfortunately, diagnosing the exact problem inside the alternator was a bit academic since we had no spare parts aboard that would facilitate a repair.

Fortunately, during our recent visit to the States, Kris managed to convince me that the overall benefits of having a spare alternator aboard Exit far outweighed the overall pain in the ass of carrying that alternator back to Exit.

No parts… but we actually had the entire brand new alternator. Sweet. The only problem was we only had one pulley. On the broken alternator. And it was not going to budge.

Hours became days.

I tried everything except the one thing I knew would work but didn’t have… an impact wench.

Half inch drive socket wrench.

Half inch drive socket wrench with a breaker bar.

Half inch drive socket wrench with an even bigger breaker bar.

The leverage didn’t matter because the damn pulley kept spinning.

Holding it with a towel didn’t help.

Wrapping a belt around the pulley slipped.

An oil filter wrench didn’t work.

Channel locks couldn’t stop the pulley.

The nut was too tight; the pulley wouldn’t stop turning; the alternator itself couldn’t be secured well enough.

It became an exercise in frustration.

Eventually, desperate and somewhat delirious, I concocted what I deemed would be a victorious apparatus of MacGyver proportions to get that damned pulley off — a V-belt with the teeth wrapped around the alternator fan to grip, twisted into a tourniquet and held by the handle of a hammer, supplemented with a pair of channel locks holding the pulley which had been wrapped with electrical tape for protection, all wedged against a deck cleat and held in place by one person while a second got on the 22mm nut with a socket attached to a two foot breaker bar.

Confident that this would be our moment of glory, I held tight and Kris leaned into the breaker bar.

It slipped immediately.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.

Cursing my lack of an impact wrench for the thousandth time, I crawled back into the engine compartment and completely reattached the damn alternator and tightened the belt.

Why? To remove it, of course.

The final option.

The thinking was: the alternator would be bolted to the engine block to keep it secure from movement; the belt would be tensioned back up as tight as possible to keep it gripping the pulley; the engine compression would hold it all in place against the torque. Why hadn’t we tried it earlier? Because it was a giant pain to reattach something that had to come right back off again.

Plus, it didn’t do shit. After all that, the pulley rotated backwards with almost no effort applied.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.

Like Charlie Brown and that damn football.

The alternator got pulled out once again.

Fuck.

We concluded that Santa Catalina, a bit less than forty miles away, was the only possibility for the near future. If we hoped to either get the broken alternator repaired or, at the least, have the pulley removed so the new alternator could be used, we’d need to get to a town of some sort.

Consequently, we enjoyed five hours of brilliant sailing followed by two solid hours of smashing headlong into three to five foot waves directly on our bow in winds surpassing thirty knots at times. Oh, the constantly swinging pendulum.

Varying conditions come with the territory, sure. But thirty degree wind shifts accompanied by nearly instantaneous fifteen knot increases in wind speed make for some pretty interesting moments.

With the anchor finally set outside a tiny town known more by surfers than typical tourists, we waited another thirty six hours for the wind to die down enough for us to brave a beach landing in our dinghy.

Sailboat repair, even in a local fishing village, would be a long shot. But car repairs would not. And our alternator was no different from a car alternator. As luck would have it, Santa Catalina appeared to have more cars than anyplace we had been since Panama City.

Kris had learned of a possible source of help from a couple on another boat at anchor who had already been ashore. A guy by the name of Senior Roberto who owned the first restaurant on the right.

When we got there, the restaurant was closed. A guy sitting at one of the outside tables informed us Senior Roberto was gone until afternoon. He tried to call but no one picked up.

As best we could, we tried to communicate our situation and need for a mechanic, machine shop, or car repair shop. We pulled the alternator out of the backpack to help clarify.

While the guy was looking through the contact list on his phone, trying to figure who he knew that could possibly help us, another man walked past the restaurant in the middle of the road. He looked over, saw the alternator, and asked, “Mechanico?”

“Si,” we nodded.

He smiled and tilted his head slightly, indicating further up the road, then gestured with his hand for us to follow.

A short walk brought us to a driveway that had a half dozen or so guys standing around watching two other guys work on the lower unit of an outboard engine.

They all seemed genuinely friendly and interested. After a bit of circuitous back and forth [saying something is broken is pretty straightforward, however, explaining what you need is not], we were told to come back with the other alternator as well. The guy was confident he could get us sorted out.

Back to the dinghy, which was now sitting on a sprawling beach about fifty yards from the water, thanks to a twelve foot lowering tide. This was one time we especially heralded the joy of having purchased a used $350 set of dinghy wheels for $40 in Bocas Del Toro over a year ago, anticipating this very need once we reached the mighty Pacific Ocean.

Back across a treacherous stretch of water rife with numerous dinghy puncturing rocks lurking just under the water’s surface. Back to Exit. Pick up the second alternator. Back in the dinghy. Back across the treacherous stretch of water rife with numerous dinghy puncturing rocks lurking just under the water’s surface. Another beach landing. Since the tide would be rising soon and we didn’t know how long we’d be, we had to haul the dinghy back to almost the same spot we had left it the first time. Back up the road, past the restaurant, to the driveway with the half dozen or so guys still working on the outboard bottom unit.

Whew.

It took him about two seconds.

The impact wrench was so fast he was able to hold the pulley with his bare hand.

Damn.

Without parts, the actual repair of our old alternator would have to wait. But the new one could now be installed.

It all went back together without a hitch. And just like that, once again, we had an alternator that could charge batteries.

VICTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYY!

An impact wrench is now officially at the top of my priority list for acquisition… before something else breaks.

Like pissing into the wind or taking a dump upside-down, using the wrong tool may ultimately get the job done, but its gonna make things a lot more complicated than necessary, a lot more messy than necessary, and inevitably come with unforeseen consequences.

So let that be a lesson to you kids – always use the right tool for the job… and only take care of business right side up with your back to the wind.

January 20 – February 15, 2022

First Day Bay (Ensenada Playa Grande on Isla San Jose) had indeed given us an epic first day.

Ohhhhhhh ya… I do sense another movie coming on…

Over the course of the week, we went out on the water again and again, both in the dinghy and on the SUP.  The show never stopped.  At times during the changing tides, traffic would seem to slow down, and then another group of rays would surface somewhere else in the bay.  Fortunately, one of the busier times seemed to be just before sunset, which provided a daily ritual of happy hours in the dinghy floating amongst schools of crazed devil rays and feeding whale sharks. 

Unbelievable.

First Day Bay.

During one trip to the beach looking for Macaws, which we saw only a few brief glimpses of, we found evidence that we were on the front doorstep of a crocodile’s abode.  The tracks left in the sand by its feet and tail were a dead giveaway.  Given the fact that this was just entering the beginning of their nesting season, we opted to not go wandering around the shoreline, barefoot and all.  Probably smart.

When we did eventually leave Isla San Jose and First Day Bay, it was not due to boredom.  We were running desperately low on fruits, veggies, and beverages; and it would take a trip to Isla Del Rey or even possibly farther to Isla Contadora to sort ourselves out.

Isla Del Rey

On the southern side of Isla Del Rey we anchored just off of Rio Cacique.  It was our first stop and introduced us to the brutal and relentless roll the swell from the south that would hound us on that island.  

Rio Cacique turned out to be a beautiful dinghy excursion up another one of the mangrove rivers which had become so familiar throughout Panama.  For us, the real uniqueness of this river was its entrance.  During low tide, the mouth of Rio Cacique was completely choked off by a sand bar.  Once the incoming tide rose high enough, the river was re-connected with the ocean, causing a messy and wave sticker point of contact.  Slack high tide was the only feasible time to enter the river.  Too long before or after resulted in a maelstrom of surf and three knot currents that surely would capsize the dinghy.  

This left a small one or two hour window during which the tide was high enough for the dinghy to not run aground and the surf was controlled enough to not be outright dangerous, where we could explore the river as it wound back and forth, continually growing narrower until we could barely even turn the dingy around.  Long before we had the opportunity to really check out many of the areas as the river branches or proceed too far inland, we had to remind ourselves to turn around and head back in time to get back outside the sand bar before all hell broke loose again.

We had read that coming around the southeast side of Isla el Rey, on tiny Isla San Telmo, one could find the wreck of a small submarine, which would reveal itself along the shoreline as the tide dropped.  The sub, apparently one of the earliest technologies of its kind which had been used for pearling, had mysteriously shown up over a hundred years ago.   We were able to locate it, and it actually was larger and more intact than I expected.  Cool, and worth a stop; but we moved on shortly afterward.

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AN ABUNDANCE OF CAUTION OR JUST A BUNCH OF DICKS

SÉCURITÉ… SÉCURITÉ… Attention all boats on the east side of Las Perlas.  Our sailboat was boarded and robbed yesterday.  Be sure you take appropriate precautions.

The announcement over the VHF radio stunned us as it was repeated.  The caller hadn’t identified themselves.

We were on the east side of Las Perlas.  More specifically, the east side of Isla Del Rey… almost as east as you could get in the archipelago.

Exactly where the voice on the radio had been talking about

Immediately after the announcement, a boat identifying itself as S/V Papillon replied asking for more information as they were also currently in the area.  Papillon’s herald went unanswered.  That was all we heard from either person.

Not just strange.  Bizarre.

A Sécurité announcement generally implies a warning or maritime safety situation.  Urgent but not an immediate life threatening emergency.  We had heard them issued over the radio before for things like large logs, or unattended vessels that had broken free of moorings, floating about freely which posed a risk of collision; or a disabled boat entering a high traffic channel asking for space to maneuver.  

Not a Mayday call.  

Which would be appropriate in the context of being boarded and robbed.

But yesterday?

Our radio had been on the day before.  We had heard nothing.

Not just strange.  Bizarre.

We had already planned to move to a different anchorage, still on Isla Del Rey.  Without more information, we saw no reason to alter that.   The night before had been miserable thanks to a wicked swell that had us rolling all night long.

We picked up anchor and worked our way north along Isla Del Rey’s eastern coast.  Our first option looked just as exposed to the swell as the anchorage we had just left, so we continued on.

The second option didn’t have any swell, but also didn’t jump out at us.  One sailboat was already there; the first one we had seen on this side of the island.  There was a guy on deck hanging laundry…obviously, not someone recovering from a robbery.

Again, we continued on.  We ended up anchoring in a bit of a channel between Isla Del Rey and an island called Isla Espiritu Santo. 

Shortly after we had set anchor, as Kris paddled away on her SUP, a catamaran sailed into the channel and anchored near us.  

About a half hour later, a small panga motored up to Exit with three local teens inside. 

After a few niceties, one of them lifted a jug sitting on the floor of their boat and said something I couldn’t make out.  I asked if it was water they wanted.  They said gasoline.  I said I had no extra.  They asked if I had chocolate.  I laughed and said all I had to offer was water.  

They decided that was better than nothing, so I handed over a few bottles of water we had left over from our Panama Canal transit, during which we were required to provide bottled water for the advisor and line handlers, and threw in a small pack of cookies for good measure.  They seemed to appreciate the cookies more than the water, offered what I thought was a sincere thank you, and motored away.

I watched as they headed toward the cat.  

Three people from the cat had headed to the nearby beach right after setting anchor, one on a SUP and two swimmers.  Now the guy on the SUP was paddling straight past the three teens in the panga, making fast for his cat.  The teens appeared to be speaking with the other two, who eventually swam back to the cat as well.  Then in an odd display, the teenagers buzzed a couple of circles around the cat and sped off.

Not long after that, Kris arrived back at Exit.  She had watched the last exchange play out with the people on the cat as well, and I relayed to her what had happened when the kids stopped at our boat.

Less than ten minutes later, we heard the rattling of chain and watched as the cat picked up anchor.  They slowed as they passed right up next to us.  According to the guy at the helm, the guy I had seen on the SUP, they had spoken with the person we had heard earlier on the radio with the Securite announcement.  He said it was the boat in the previous anchorage we had seen putting out laundry.  

Weird.

Also weird was the fact they seemed to have little more information than we did already.  

The boat had been boarded and robbed.  That was it.  It was incredibly lacking in specifics.

And now they just had what they described as a questionable encounter with very aggressive locals in the boat.  Very aggressive?  Really?

The guy said they were “quite nervous given the earlier robbery, and after asking what the kids wanted, had tried to establish that they were not people to be messed with.”   After that, the guys in the boat had “aggressively raced around them.”   So, “out of an abundance of caution”, they were now leaving for an undisclosed location.

And off they went.  Last we saw, the cat was still motoring off into what appeared to be who knows where.

We were unsettled.  But it also seemed largely like a crock of shit.

To me “boarded and robbed” were trigger words.  High octane vocabulary.  In my eyes, it implied an occupied boat being assaulted by armed assailants.  

The boat we saw earlier didn’t try to hail us directly on the radio as we passed; they hadn’t even left the anchorage; they were doing laundry!  It did not appear by any stretch of the imagination that they feared for their imminent safety or security.  All speculation without good information.

A situation in which someone had taken an unlocked jug of petrol off an unoccupied boat – technically still “boarded and robbed” – seemed much more likely, and a scenario I could live with.  Not cool, but digestible.

As for the cat’s “abundance of caution”, I was even more inclined to call bullshit.  I had just had an exchange of my own with the guys.  They were asking for petrol, but certainly not demanding it.  They left Exit with smiles on their faces after being offered water and cookies.  It sounded to me like the aggressive party was the group on the cat – paranoid about thieves, they postured as badasses not to be trifled with and were looked at by these kids who live here as a group of foreign assholes.

We ended up moving out of the channel we were anchored in, which served as the main thoroughfare for any passing boat traffic, and re-anchored less than a mile away, in the corner of a small bay, choosing to spend the night dark.  Nothing happened at all.  We’ll call it just to be on the safe side, because from here on I will associate the phrase abundance of caution as a term potentially to be used by a bunch of dicks.

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Initially, Isla Contadora held little appeal for us. The most populated town and a lot of moored boats in the bay. We skipped past it the first time, but were actually happy when we later returned and went ashore for some provisioning and a bit of a wander around. The town ended up being quite pleasant to visit, and provided our first restaurant in nearly a month, since we had left Shelter Bay Marina.

It had been a week since we departed Isla San Jose. Having both exhausted all the stops in Las Perlas that we had hoped for and adequately restocked our fruit, veggie, and beverage supplies, we returned to Isla San Jose one last time as a staging point for our departure to start heading in the direction of Sea of Cortez, our ultimate destination before summer arrived to Central America.  We hoped for one last finale at First Day Bay.

Between Isla Contadora and Isla San Jose, it appeared our mojo was still working.  We were approached by a family of what we initially thought were pilot whales.  There were more than a half dozen, both adults and calves.  Over the course of nearly half an hour, we watched with fascination.  Initially, they seemed very curious.  A couple of the adults came right up to Exit and gave us a rather intimate inspection.  Eventually, they continued about their business, allowing us the gift of a slightly more distant though still extraordinary encounter.  Later, a bit of research lead us to the conclusion that we had not been visited by pilot whales, but rather either false killer whales or melon headed whales – a detail which surprised us but made the whole experience no less stunning.

As we approached Isla San Jose for the second time, at nearly the same location we had previously seen our first whale shark two weeks prior, a large dorado (or mahi mahi) leapt out of the water.  A brilliant green and blue color, it was the first we had ever seen.  Again, our mojo seemed to be operating at full tilt boogie for our return to First Day Bay.

Alas, it was not to be.  Not entirely surprisingly, but sadly, no one was there.  First Day Bay seemed all but empty.  Our marine friends had left.  The devil rays and whale sharks had moved on with the food supply.   Ultimately, it made the entire experience even more special.   We had lucked out completely; our previous visit had perfectly coincided with the arrival of krill and small organisms – a smorgasbord for the filter feeding devil rays and whale sharks who had so amazed and entertained us.  Though fleeting, for us Isla San Jose will always be thought of as the island of whale sharks and leaping devil rays.

All that remained were the cows that had come to the beach nearly every day.  

Beach cows. 

First Day Bay.

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After nearly a month at Las Perlas, we sensed the time to move on was upon us.

Our stay had been brilliant.

Though we had not done any diving during our visit, the snorkeling had revealed just a smidge of the potential the Pacific Ocean held for us.  Stunning colors and clear water, healthy reefs, and far more fish than most everywhere we had been in the Caribbean.

Over time, it became apparent to us that Las Perlas is not considered nearly as much of a destination as other places in Panama such as Bocas Del Toro or San Blas.  The number of other boats we encountered there was surprisingly small.   Obviously, boats in the area are either headed for the Panama Canal or have just transited it, and Las Perlas is viewed as a brief stopover, if it even makes the cut.

During our visit, one of the few things even more scarce than other boats was rain –  none since our arrival to the Pacific Ocean.  We had not seen a drop since we entered the Canal in mid-January; even then, it was only a brief sprinkle just outside Shelter Bay.   Strangley, the last day we had actually collected any rain catch was the day after Christmas in San Blas.  In fact, it would be March before any rain would land on the deck of Exit.  Here on the Pacific side of Panama, when they say dry season, they mean it.  On the Atlantic side, the term seemed much less definitive, apparently applying sometimes to certain months on certain islands.  Go figure.

Regardless, it was time to put Las Perlas in our rear view mirror and press on. There was still twelve hundred miles between Exit and the Sea of Cortez; we needed to get moving.

Archipielago De Las Perlas…the perfect name. Archipelago Of The Pearls.