September 12, 2023 – March 1, 2024
When we did arrive at Puerto Peñasco, after our final overnight sail, Exit’s reverse gear had all but died completely. It had been fading for some time. Now, if you engaged reverse and it hadn’t gone into gear after ten seconds, it wasn’t going to happen on this try. Not ideal. Coming through the breakwater into a tightly squeezed port bristling with shrimp boats? Eek! Getting into the boat yard lifting bay? About as stressful as trying to park a truck without a reverse gear or any brakes (oh ya…on a boat…no reverse…no stop!). Absolutely brilliant skills by our coolheaded helmsperson. And yes, the transmission was already on the list of shit to deal with.
Suddenly, we were sitting in a dusty boat yard holding pages and pages of lists of things needing to get done with a clock ticking in the background. Time to get to work.
This was our fourth haul out. We expected two months because we had more to do than ever before and that was longer than we had ever hauled out.
Ha! Good luck with that.
As it turned out…
“Mexican Meat Loaf!” became our go-to phrase. As questionable as it sounds without any context, what it referred to was our six month Peñasco and Cabrales Boatyard experience that seemed to revolve around a theme that: no matter what we were talking about, no matter what resources were employed, no matter how much time was spent, no matter how much money was spent, no matter how much care was taken, no matter…anything, no matter…basically two-thirds completion was the best y0u could hope for. And if, somehow through sheer tenacity or dumb fucking luck, something reached completion, it would probably only be two-thirds right. It was a reality that simply continued to exact a relentless price in frustration, stress, and near madness until it was accepted.
You don’t have to like it, but you do have to realize it. To keep our minds intact, we joked don’t be sad, cause two outta three ain’t bad...Mexican Meat Loaf.
The haul out itself…expensive…demoralizing…mentally traumatizing. In so many ways, a brutal and exhausting mindfuck that we should probably seek therapy for. In an equal number of ways, a necessary “put up or shut up”moment that, anywhere else, would have either been ridiculously more expensive or absolutely impossible to accomplish in full.
Working through frustrations and tempering expectations…boat life.
On the hard…starting the process—
Digging in on the transmission repair – which turned into a transmission replacement, which turned into all four motor mounts being replaced, which turned into a transmission dampener replacement, which turned into a transmission flexible coupler replacement, which turned into a dripless prop shaft seal replacement, which turned into a prop shaft tube repair…which almost resulted in a mental breakdown. Sorting out a cracked block in the dinghy outboard. Getting the chain and anchor re-galvanized. Diassembling and doing maintenance on winches and the windlass. On and on and on…
Of course, we attempted to do absolutely as much of everything as was humanly possible. However, there sometimes comes a difficult point where one must come to grips with the fact that some things are simply beyond the scope of one’s ability. Painfully, there also can come difficult points where one must come to grips with the fact that some things are simply beyond the scope of the abilities of the person you have hired.
Trying to distinguish whether someone you barely know has actual expertise or merely misled confidence can be a frustrating, expensive and even dangerous if they do things wrong. If you’re lucky, you realize before things are too deep that, as little as you know, you know that they sure as fuck don’t know. If you’re not so lucky, you may not find out until well later that the professional mechanic failed to adequately tighten the motor mounts or the rigger put standing rigging that holds up the mast back together incorrectly. Then shit can really get interesting.
Sand blasting our aluminum hull had been on the wish list for years but, for various reasons, we had been unable to pull it off. Finally, we had the opportunity to get it done for a reasonable price and we committed. Our hope was to remove the stripes which had become corrosion eyesores and get everything cleaned up nicely on the sides. Our hope was also to minimize the exposure of everything else on the boat to the perverse and rather indiscriminate level of obliteration that can happen on parts you are trying to preserve. We tried to cover and seal up as much as possible in the naive hope that we would not be finding sand in every crevice of Exit for the following year.
Of course, that concept was quickly replaced by reality as soon as the sandblasting compressor was fired up…
A messy undertaking that turned out to be a two day, two phase project…requiring the “A Team” we had originally requested be brought in.
Far from magic…far from smooth…far from simple…but, in the end, fully worth the effort.
And, as impressive as the end result was, the aftermath took even longer to sort out than the sandblasting prep and project itself.
When Exit had first moved into the sandblasting lot, an American who had been working on his powerboat in the lot for quite some time had come up to us and declared, “Welcome to Baghdad!”
This now seemed particularly fitting.
As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks became months, we began to feel that we were drowning in never-ending projects. Projects that seemed to take forever to complete, and yet didn’t seem to get us any closer to overall completion.
The multiple faces and roles of getting shit done:
So much of what we were undertaking was uncharted territory. Things we had never delved into. Replacing sea-cocks…sewing a new sail cover or repairing the dinghy chaps.
When we got to projects we had done during previous haul-outs, we could smile. Not because they were fun, but at least we had some sense of what in the hell we were doing. Sanding off old anti-fouling bottom paint only to put on new anti-fouling bottom paint. Never a pleasant project…but at least a familiar one.
On the other hand, our rigging replacement – a mandatory prerequisite for our Pacific Ocean crossing that quickly climbed into a five figure cost – became the one thing that almost broke our spirits and permanently damaged our souls. Complete replacement of all the standing and running rigging, which ended up including refitting our solent stay to be furling, replacing our traveller, sail repairs, boom vang repairs, boom repairs, un-stepping and re-stepping the mast, replacing the VHF/AIS antenna, replacing the steaming light, installing spreader lights, and an endless list of things that went along with the whole process lead to a relationship of necessity with two individuals we hope to never have to interact with again.
But finally, in the end, everything on the rigging list was completed that had to be. It absolutely sucks when you find yourselves in a situation where you have to depend on complete fucking assholes…enough said.
Another perfect encapsulation of our Peñasco existence: our proximity to the border was a prime benefit of our haul out location based upon ease of procuring things from across the border. Imagine how thrilled we were when the U.S. decided to deal with immigration problems by closing the border through most of December…but of course.
Eventually, once the border re-opened, we were able to make more than one road trip to pick up packages of parts, materials, equipment and endless stuff that we needed. More adventures.
Fortunately, the massive task of replacing our entire power distribution panel had been undertaken in La Paz, so that was one of the few jobs already checked off the list before we had even arrived at Peñasco.
Likewise, the isinglass panels on our dodger, which had become so opaque it was hard to see through them anymore, had also been replaced in La Paz months before.
By the time we had reached Puerto Peñasco, the canvas on the dodger was starting to tear out. Our wish to completely replace the dodger with an aluminum structure simply wasn’t going to happen during this haul out. We had already surpassed our budget limit and we were not prepared to risk having to stay even longer at the boatyard trying to sort out such a major undertaking. In the end, we had to settle for replacing the canvas and leaving the aluminum dodger upgrade on the wish list.
Again and again, we had to weigh possible options against the reality of finite time and budget limitations. How important was something? How expensive? How long would it take? How realistic was the project given our current location?
The surreal balance of everything became part of the daily routine of “what the fuck will we experience today?”
Occasional side tracks and diversions occurred…like therapeutic trips to the beach, wanders through the town, minor surgeries with a doctor who spoke no English, dumpster fires outside the boatyard, Christmas in a Mexican desert…
And delays…
And, of course, headaches…
The crane, which we had needed repeatedly to un-step and re-step our mast, became a never ending saga of drama. The diesel engine barely ran. If it did start, the driver had to use a string attached to the linkage to prevent it from accelerating uncontrollably. The transmission barely worked. The tires were worn to the point of exposed internal steel belts and bulges indicating imminent failure. Eventually I became so frustrated with that damn crane that one afternoon, when no one was around, I grabbed some electrical tape and modified the factory name on the front. Two months later when we departed, the improvised “L” that I had added was still there.
Progress… an excruciatingly slow endeavor. Especially at Cabralles Boatyard. As the list of completed tasks finally became longer than the to-do list, we felt the weight of the world begin to incrementally ease up from what seemed to have been slowly crushing us. We were getting close (sandblasting done, bottom painted, mast back up) just as our sanity seemed to be reaching a questionable point of near-breaking…
One of the saving graces of our stay – to be honest, probably the only thing that kept us from killing ourselves, each other, or someone else during the hundred and fifty some days that we were hauled out – was the decision we had made to rent an inexpensive apartment during our stay in Peñasco. Though it increased our overall expenses, it provided a much needed sanctuary to escape the boatyard so we could actually separate from the jobs we had been immersed in all day long. Not only that, it also provided an additional work space that we could spread out in when needed, allowed us to not have to clean up our work space on the boat at the end of every day, gave us a comfortable space to stretch out and relax during our off time…plus it had air con. Whether the temperatures topped a hundred degrees, or it was pouring rain, or another sand blasting had just commenced in the sand blasting lot, the apartment allowed a place of refuge to decompress. The twenty minute walk to and from the apartment each day was generally even a rather pleasant undertaking (except, of course, for the day Kris inadvertently locked herself out of the apartment while hanging up laundry on the balcony and ended up having to walk all the way to the boat yard in bare feet…shit).
Had we been able to get everything done in four to six weeks, it may have been possible to grit it out; but four months was another story. We moved back onto Exit during our fifth month in the boatyard which, if anything, further motivated us to get everything finished.
Amazingly, during the four months we lived in the apartment, we apparently didn’t take a single photo of it.
The only photo was from the balcony taken of some random dude walking down the middle of the road playing his acoustic guitar. Classic. Like Antonio Banderas in Desperado.
Finally, Exit’s move from “Baghdad” back to the main lot was our cue that we were getting close. We packed up everything in the apartment and moved back aboard the boat.
We still were trying to sort out whether to try restoring some version of our stripe, only this time with vinyl.
A local printer told us, “no problema”. The hundred dollar quote for the vinyl signage (both the Exit logo with background arrow and “Garcia” logo) including free installation made us duly skeptical.
And yet, we were impressed with how good it looked once they had finished everything.
Of course, within a couple of weeks – well before we had finished our other tasks – and long before Exit was subjected to any of the hostile elements of the ocean, the sticker began to peel off. Better now than just after we splashed.
Mexican Meat Loaf…
As with everything everything else here, it seemed that this would not be nearly as straightforward as we had initially hoped.
Endless hand sanding to prep the aluminum provided a better surface for the vinyl, which this time was obtained from a supplier in the States, to adhere to.
But even more importantly, the generous expertise of someone who actually really knew what the fuck they were doing provided the magical technique for ultimate success.
Occasional interludes of rest and relaxation punctuated with momentary culinary moments of pure bliss helped to provide some of the few opportunities in which we found ourselves temporarily able to forget all of the stresses and frustrations that we had been experiencing.
And suddenly we found ourselves actually reserving a date on the boat yard calendar for Exit to splash.
Of course, all of this means nothing if you’re dead…
One afternoon, as we were neared our splash date, while Kris was cleaning the dinghy alongside Exit and I was belowdecks, a sports car came racing into the boatyard and skidded to a stop less than ten yards from our boat. Seconds later a pickup truck labeled “POLICIA” on the side roared in behind it. Six guys in tactical gear carrying assault weapons jumped out of the bed of the police pickup and approached the car. The car revved its engine and, laying a trail of rubber with tires screeching, spun around and careened back out past the front gate. The six guys with assault weapons jumped back into the bed of the truck which also whipped around and sped after the fleeing car. Moments later we learned from the boatyard staff that what we had just witnessed was, in fact, the police chasing a cartel gangster who had inadvertently taken a turn into the boatyard not realizing it was a dead end. We had barely avoided being at ground zero of a gunfight that could easily have killed as many bystanders as shooters. The same thing you occasionally see on CNN before saying, “Damn, what shit luck…now that’s the definition of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
In this case, it may have just been dumb fucking good luck. Instead of bleeding to death on the cement from gunshot wounds sustained during a Mexican stand-off, we were both able to finish the final must do items on our to-do list…after our heart rates dropped back below that of a hummingbird.
Only a couple of days before our scheduled splash date the travel lift was taken out of commission temporarily. Its tires, bulging in places with tread worn down so far the steel belts were visible, were on the brink of exploding every time the travel lift was moved. Fortunately, the boat yard had sorted out replacement tires. Unfortunately, there was no way the lift could be brought to an actual tire shop that had the specialized equipment to remove the old tires from the rims and mount the new ones, not to mention the fact that this gigantic beast would have been far to big for the tire shop to deal with anyway.
So…how do you replace the tires on a massive travel lift that makes a twenty ton boat seem tiny without proper equipment?
With resourceful and capable staff, shit can actually sometimes get done. The solution was, in a nutshell, the essence of the entire Cabralles Boatyard operation: the reality of limited means vs. the possibilities of imagination. And this was obviously not their first rodeo. With a saws-all to cut the tire into pieces and a forklift to remove what remained from the rim, the crew actually managed to pull it off.
The stuff of liability lawsuits and OSHA fines if you are in the United States…and yet, just another day at work in Mexico (the guy in the red hoodie had a practice of crossing himself whenever these types of maneuvers were attempted).
You have to respect when perseverance and ingenuity get things done.
Though it seemed that the day that would never arrive, it finally did. The glorious morning came that had been long awaited. It was time for Exit to return to where she belonged – the water.
A handful of last minute checks were ticked off before splashing.
The travel lift’s diesel engine coughed, sputtered and after a heart-stopping moment fired up, belching a cloud of black smoke into the air. Lumbering into place, it lifted Exit off of the stands which had been supporting her, backed into the lifting bay, then lowered us slowly into the water. More checks were quickly made to make sure everything was good, including no water entering the boat, before we slowly motored out of the lifting bay.
For the first time in five months, it felt like we could both smile and breathe fully. We were still tied to the dock next to Cabralles Boatyard, but that was okay.
Finally, outside the Puerto Peñasco harbor, both at anchor and under sail, we could really appreciate our girl in all her glory.
A few days later we found ourselves at anchor enjoying a beautiful happy hour sunset with Exit finally back on the water where she belongs and the Puerto Peñasco haul out now nothing more than just a memory.
And, although we know we will owe a huge apology to our dear spiritual kindred and sailing inspirations James and Dena aboard S/V Cetacea, who may never forgive us, we have to declare…
…THE PINK FLOYD LIGHT SHOW LIVES!
sv-exit.com 