Day: May 2, 2025

May 16 – 27, 2024

Crossing the line.

More typically a reference to something inappropriate I have just said or done. 

However, in this case, crossing the line represented a significant accomplishment of honorable achievement. A monumental leap in our sailing evolution…Neptune’s recognition of our ascension from the ranks of lowly “Pollywog” to noble “Shellback”, having just successfully sailed across the Equator.

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There is a certain feeling of complete isolation aboard a (relatively speaking) tiny boat in the middle of a (by pretty much any standard) damn big ocean.

I was stunned when it occurred to me that the closest people to us were on the International Space Station.  It seemed unfathomable as the thought bounced around inside my head; but then again, there’s a lot of space in there as well. Amazing? Well, maybe not really… it sounds quite impressive; but then I found out the Space Station is actually orbiting only about 250 miles above us. Hmmm.

A hundred years ago we would have been in a boat without even electricity, much less the advanced technologies we enjoy. Forced to glean weather information only from what could be seen on the horizon. Dependent solely upon one’s internal expertise and accuracy in celestial navigation and reading archaic paper charts to find your way across a vast ocean while, simultaneously avoiding become one of thousands of shipwrecks, dashed hopelessly upon uncharted reefs, barely submerged rocks, or unseen islands scattered haphazardly in your path.

Here in the twenty first century, on the other hand, we have the luxury of GPS, electronic charts which display our current position in real time, electronic navigation equipment, even autopilot. Different times for sure.

And n0w there is Starlink. Surprisingly, at an altitude of about three hundred fifty miles, the Starlink satellites orbit almost an extra hundred miles above even the International Space Station, supporting what has turned out to be one of the most important technologies we have aboard Exit. Yes, Elon Musk is a disgusting human being and complete piece of shit. He has single-handedly brought back a higher stigma to being a rich, white South African than has existed for forty years and I absolutely despise contributing to his ever-increasing wealth which seems to expand at a rate faster than an exploding supernova. Yet, for us Starlink has been an absolute game changer. It’s not simply about the convenience of getting online anywhere we are on the planet. Ultimately, it’s more about how this technology has exponentially increased our safety.

Even a thousand miles from the nearest anchorage, with Starlink we are able to instantly access numerous sources of weather data and forecasts which are updated multiple times each day. These can be forecasts of wind direction and wind speed, both sustained and gusts; forecasted ocean currents; forecasted rain and lightning; forecasted wave height and interval; tidal times and heights; NOAA weather warnings and hurricane/cyclone tracking; even real-time satellite imagery of clouds and precipitation (which distinctly reveal squalls and storms that forecasts may have missed).

The limitations of having this information only at our current location, which our on-board sensors and instruments provide (or twenty four miles out in the case of our radar aboard), are obvious. On the other hand, more complete, more accurate, and more current information over an unlimited range of distance not only make us undeniably safer, but also lead to higher levels of confidence and success in our decision making ability.

This makes an enormous difference in being able to judge and strategize departures and arrivals at certain locations, avoid squalls while underway, make adjustments to our trajectory to accommodate changes in weather along the way, as well as just sleeping better having made better decisions with more complete information.

Communicating with friends and family; chatting with other boats in real time; surfing the Internet for news – all icing on the cake. Of course, there always has to be an awareness regarding power consumption…underway we limit how often we turn it on.

In the end, the truth remains that despite possessing the best and most scientifically determined forecasting information in the world, it is still exactly that – a forecast. Not a schedule or itinerary. Sometimes Mother Nature just says “Fuck you, your forecast is flat wrong”.

And though, your departures, arrivals, and chosen headings (especially for shorter distances) may have been optimized, when you’re in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles from anything, days or weeks into a passage with days or weeks to go before you have any other option than keeping going, the fact is you just get what you get and deal with it. There’s no time outs, do-overs, or restarts.

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Approaching the Equator we had been more than lucky in avoiding all but a few squalls which had knocked us about a bit, but had turned out much less significant than they could have been.

For nearly two weeks straight, after losing sight of the Mexican coast behind us, we had propelled ourselves forward utilizing nothing more than the power of the wind in our sails. Only six hours of motoring and three hundred thirty hours of sailing. One thousand four hundred nautical miles. We were pretty proud of that.

But as we approached the ITCZ (Intertropical Convergence Zone), things had changed drastically. We had few options. Sitting around in calm water patiently awaiting a breeze that would inevitably fill our sails once again had sounded good during the planning stages. After all, we were on no time schedule.

However, sitting uncomfortably in a rolling swell hoping ominous black clouds that announced the potential arrival of torrential downpours and fierce gusting winds would keep a respectful distance was seeming less and less like a smart strategy. Furthermore, the very real possibility that those clouds also could harbor and unleash terrifying barrages of lightning seeking out electrical conduits to transfer their millions of volts of electricity to the Earth made the idea seem even dumber, especially with our sixty foot metal mast being the only thing higher than the waves for hundreds of miles in any direction.

With that reality firmly taking hold in our psyches, we had realized compromise was in order…screw the ideological purity of zero fuel consumption and get the fuck across the Equator.

For four days in a row, over the course of five hundred nautical miles, we motorsailed forty three of the one hundred hours.

But now we were on the verge of reaching the Equator. Not long after midnight on May 16, we had crossed the first parallel north, placing us sixty nautical miles above the Equator Line. So close.

We continued on our southern heading. As the sun broke above the horizon line heralding the dawn of another day, we had halved the distance…barely more than thirty minutes of latitude remained.

By 3pm, the GPS coordinates on our chart plotter were displaying “0” degrees and “0” minutes of Latitude North, ticking down the final hundredths of seconds towards zero. As we scanned the water in front of Exit, seeing no large sign nor visible line we joked that the Equator itself seemed quite ambiguous and wondered exactly how the moment would have been realized prior to the invention of GPS. Maybe there used to be a sign back then…

Crossing the Equator…the moment when Latitude North becomes Latitude South.

Maritime tradition dictates that sailing across the Equatorial line results in a sailor transforming from a “Polywog” to a “Shellback”…a sailing achievement of great significance. Though we did not go so far, which some do, as to don costumes and participate in a massive production including an initiation ceremony administered by other “Shellbacks” (alas, we are the only two people aboard our noble vessel), we did celebrate the event with a proclamation to King Neptune as well as an offering of precious Kraken rum.

This was followed by a baptism swim in the Pacific Ocean, where we each swam across the Equator, ten thousand feet of water below us, followed by a toast with our own shots of Kraken rum in celebration of our transformation from “Polywog” to “Shellback”.

Momentarily, for a split second, the latitude coordinates read “00°00′.000”.

Then, for the first time in three weeks, since we had picked up anchor at La Ventana in Mexico on April 25, the chart plotter coordinate numbers began to increase again. What made that even stranger was the fact that we were still on a southern heading. The difference was there was now a “S” after those latitude coordinates instead of a “N”.

Nothing else seemed different. But we felt different. We were now “Shellbacks”.

That evening King Neptune gifted us perfect sailing conditions and Mother Nature painted a brilliant sunset for us to enjoy as we continued our journey into the Southern Hemisphere.

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The following morning we had to fire up the Perkins engine yet again; however, it would constitute the final six hours we would need the diesel for propulsion until we were lowering our sails as we made landfall ten days later in French Polynesia.

That afternoon, on our twentieth day at sea, we sailed past the two thousand nautical mile mark during this voyage. Twenty hours later we had another brief celebration as we realized we had just surpassed nineteen thousand nautical miles traveled aboard Exit in total during the previous seven years.

Over the following days, we began to notice a significant change in the conditions. The ominous dark clouds which had threatened us continuously for the previous week began to give way to more and more blue skies. The currents, with which we had been relentlessly struggling, now seemed to be working in our favor. The overall sea state just felt more benign…more cooperative.

That’s not to say that Murphy didn’t have something to say about things. Eventually, he spoke up and reminded us of his law.

After twenty four days of nearly 24/7 operation, our electronic autopilot, who goes by the (usually) affectionate name of Jeeves, decided he had had enough and demanded a night off. This was at 21:12, at night of course, as it often is. The biggest problem with Jeeves is that he gives us no notice that he is taking time off. The first indication we get is a shrill panic-inducing alarm that announces no one is steering the boat any longer…holy shit! Even with someone in the cockpit, there is a moment of frenzy as the person on watch makes a desperate scramble for the wheel.

If conditions are bad, or we are both momentarily below-decks, this can be a near heart attack inducing event.

Fortunately, this time neither was the case and control was quickly restored without incident. For just such a contingency, we have Schumacher – our backup electronic autopilot. Not nearly as sophisticated as Jeeves, but a solid worker and generally more reliable. Within about five minutes, we had Schumacher rigged up and he was happily in control of the helm.

Shortly after sunrise the following morning we were treated to a double rainbow. Later, in the afternoon, Jeeves was back on duty.

Then, just as it looked like the day would go down in the books as a winner, a squall hit us hard. As we were starting to reef the genoa sail, the furling line somehow ended up slightly tangled against a sharp edge, and within seconds had chafed itself all the way through. Instantly, with no tension on that side, it unfurled out all the way and started flogging madly in the ferocious gusts that had picked up.

There was far too much wind to leave the massive 130% genoa sail out, which would have dangerously overpowered Exit, but there was only about ten feet of furling line remaining – not even close to enough to reach a winch which would be required to get the sail in under these conditions.

In a moment of blind luck, it occurred to me that the anchor windlass at the bow of the boat just might work. I grabbed the windlass remote and rushed to the bow. There was just enough line to wrap around the drum of the windlass. I pressed the remote button, the drum began turning and, lo and behold, the genoa sail began furling in. Whew…crisis averted.

Our heart rates had returned to normal by the time the squall subsided. Eventually, we were able to dig into the aft lazarette, retrieve the old furling line from among the lines we had kept as spares after replacing all the running rigging during our haul out, and re-run it in place of its short-lived replacement.

The following three days were much more uneventful. Just brilliant sailing conditions running at about 130° in mostly eleven to seventeen knot winds, with six to ten foot seas at a comfortable interval, averaging five to seven knots of speed. No squalls. And with the lunar cycle almost reaching a full moon, the nighttime visibility had become much more pleasant. What more could we ask for?

On our twenty-eighth day at sea, we noted in Exit’s log that we had begun to see many more birds over the past twenty four hours. It could mean only one thing…

“LAND HO!” was the cry late in the afternoon.

It was ‘Ua Huka. French Polynesia. One of the islands that makes up the Marquesas. Not our destination but less than forty miles separated ‘Ua Huka from Nuka Hiva, the island we were going to clear in at. We were almost at the front door.

We brought in the sails a bit and slowed our speed with the intention of arriving at Nuku Hiva just as the sun was rising. Considering how long we had already been at sea on this passage, waiting a few extra hours for the peace of mind of entering an unfamiliar anchorage with the benefit of daylight was a no-brainer.

May 27, as the sun slowly rose, the night’s sky transitioned to a shade of indigo, gradually fading from purple to orange and finally yellow at the horizon. The gentle swells of the Pacific began to appear as the night’s shadows began to give way and contrast with the reflecting light and colors from the sky.

We had just surpassed twenty thousand nautical miles aboard Exit since purchasing her in 2017.

As the new day’s light began to better illuminate the surrounding lush green peaks which comprise Nuku Hiva, we entered Baie de Taioha’e – the bay nestled up against Nuku Hiva’s main town, Taioh’e. We had to clear into French Polynesia, and in the Marquesas Island group, Nuku Hiva was one of two places we could do that.

At 6:45am we dropped anchor.

The passage had taken us twenty nine days, five hours and fifty five minutes.

Three thousand one hundred twenty six nautical miles in total.

We were exhausted both mentally and physically, but we had made it to French Polynesia.

April 28 – May 15, 2024

May 15. Thirty minutes before midnight.  

In an hour and a half it will be exactly eighteen days since we raised anchor at our last anchorage fifty miles north of Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.  We are about to surpass one thousand nine hundred nautical miles traveled on this passage, more than twice the time and distance of any voyage we have undertaken on S/V Exit to date. Though we are almost two-thirds of the way to French Polynesia, we still have over a thousand miles of open ocean and probably at least another ten days before we will see land.

By midnight, we will have reached the latitude line of one degree north, placing us only sixty nautical miles above the Equator.  

The nearly three thousand nautical miles of Pacific Ocean between Mexico and the tiny French Polynesian island of Nuku Hiva, which we anticipate to be a three to four week passage aboard our forty seven foot aluminum sailboat, has itself always seemed like a daunting distance. 

Factoring in all of the steps leading up to our actual departure, all the events that took place before leaving Mexico, as well as the experiences of the past eighteen days at sea make everything all the more surreal.

While the semantics of thirty degrees of latitude to the south and thirty degrees of longitude to the west may not sound significant, every degree of progress has had to be earned.

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The endless preparations required had slowly evolved, bringing us from the pure chaos of facing seemingly impossible odds, given the overall mammoth scale of everything before us, into digestible tasks and small degrees of compartmental success.  Eventually, as it became harder to think of things that still needed doing than things that had been already checked off the list, we knew we were close.

The hardest part became not in determining when all tasks had been completed – it’s a boat for fuck sake – but, rather, when we’d finished what needed to be completed.  

Strength and safety…no compromise, no excuses.  Convenience, luxury, and cosmetics…maybe open to discussion.  These are the details that can bankrupt budgets as well as prevent boats from ever even getting back in the water. The endless loop of never ending boatyard projects and/or mistaken priorities.

Having successfully navigated our way through the mine field of Exit’s arduous haul out in Puerto Peñasco, just 40 miles south of the Arizona border, which had optimistically been discussed as an expected sixty or ninety day job but, in reality, stretched out for nearly six months, finally allowed us to relinquish our temporary status as dirt dwellers and sand people (the first words spoken to us as Exit, swinging on the travel lift, was brought into the boat yard’s sand blasting lot was, ‘welcome to Baghdad’). It felt amazing be back in the water.  

Exactly one month after splashing Exit in Puerto Peñasco, we found ourselves enjoying a bottle of wine on the beach in one of the bays of Espiritu Santo.

Ironically, it was the same beach on which we had enjoyed a reunion with our old sailing friend Craig from S/V Russula (nearly fifteen months prior. However, he had successfully gotten out of Mexico last season, already crossed the Pacific Ocean, and was currently in New Zealand.

We, on the other hand, had not. But we were now sooooooo close.

Our eminent return to La Paz would provide the opportunity for us to complete our final provisioning preparations needed for our own crossing of the Pacific Ocean.

As every space inside Exit’s lockers became stuffed with supplies and provisions, forecasts were studied looking for weather windows, and plans materialized regarding the logistics of getting to the tip of the Baja peninsula, which also would be a multi-step process.

Stopping just outside La Paz for a final bottom cleaning.  Exit’s bottom , that is…

…then fifty miles around the northern point to Punta Arena de La Ventana. This seemed like a particularly fitting closing of the circle as it was the first anchorage we arrived at after departing the Mexico mainland at La Cruz nearly two years earlier…

…one hundred miles more to Frailes – nothing more than an anchorage that would place us less than fifty miles away from Cabo San Lucas and the tip of the Baja peninsula…

…deep breath.

A lot of steps just to reach the starting gate.

We needed a weeks worth of favorable indications offshore before committing to a start. Why a week?  Because that’s about as far into the future as the forecasts would be realistically helpful.  Beyond that would be a guess.

We’d been studying weather along that route for months.  And Kris had accessed a wealth of information from forums and chat groups.

We needed to make our way closer to the tip of the Baja peninsula to be ready for the big leap, while simultaneously being mindful of avoiding the pitfalls of both impatience and indecision.

The longer we delay, hesitating with the indecision of awaiting a “perfect” weather window, the more we consume aboard.  We could go a year without running out of canned food; but our fruits and veggies are on a ticking clock.

Conversely, impatience can quickly turn into fuel consumption…something we are now immensely aware of and somewhat nervous regarding.   The two hundred thirty gallons of diesel we carry give us about a twelve hundred mile range solely under engine power, which should be more than adequate, as long as we’re not motoring half of the distance to French Polynesia.  The more we can sail, the more we save fuel.  Duh.

Eventually, the call was made and our official clearing out of Mexico was completed.  A bottle of wine and fondue dinner at Vi’dah commemorated our final evening in La Paz, and the following morning at sunrise, Exit pulled up anchor and headed down the channel.

In a powerful moment of irony, we get a final glimpse of a dozen or more crushed boats, washed up and still stretched along the shoreline, victims of a late hurricane last year that hit while we were hauled out in Puerto Peñasco.  In the end, it turned out we had been in each La Paz and Peñasco while the other was being hit harder by the outer bands of a hurricane. Sheer luck. The destroyed sailboat on the beach closest to where we had been anchored was, even more ironically, named Almost Free.

Exit, on the other hand, was finally free.

That evening we enjoyed a stunning sunset in the bay of Caleta Lobos…the precise location we had sat awaiting Hurricane Hillary almost exactly eight months earlier. So much had happened since then; it seemed like a dream now.

Once out of La Paz, we instantly switch to depletion mode.  Everything we had stocked up on was now being chipped away at. We had gone through a rigorous process of asking item by item: How much can we fit? How much can we afford?How badly is it needed? How hard will it be to get? 

These questions and decisions would be second guessed many times, both before and after our departure.

Initially, it felt like a stumble coming out of the starting gate.  Damned if it wasn’t exactly what we’d come to expect, but it seemed we just couldn’t get a break on wind direction and intensity as we tried to make our way towards Cabo.

Despite our best efforts and some moments of great sailing, it became apparent that getting past Cabo without any sacrificed diesel was not likely going to be in the cards.  Continuing to wait for more favorable sailing conditions with small bits of forward progress would probably just result in us getting completely stalled by a soon to arrive and much more definitive southern wind.  

Looking beyond a genuine intent to be more green, we acknowledged that our reluctance to fire up the diesel before we even really got going was maybe more of a symbolic concern for bad omens than concern for actually running out of fuel.  Better to bite the bullet, fire up the warp drive, and break free of this seeming gravitational black hole.

At 1:00am on April 28th we picked up anchor at Frailes under only a sliver of moon, and set sail for French Polynesia.

By 10:00am, the blow to our psyche of having had to run the engine for the previous six hours was offset, mostly, by the soothing silence that followed when we shut down the old Perkins.  It would have been even more reassuring and soothing had we known at that moment that it would be ten full days before we would need to call upon the diesel again for propulsion assistance.  Sailing good.

By noon we had passed by Cabo San Lucas and cleared the tip of the Baja peninsula.  To see land, you had to look back.  Outside of the Socorro Islands, which lie four hundred nautical miles in front of us, there would be nothing but ocean on the horizon for almost three thousand miles during the next month.

It would be a lie to say there was not an instant where a tingle of doubt quietly murmured deep inside…a what the fuck are we doing moment.  

On a different boat…at a different time of year…with a different person…that feeling may have lingered.

But in another instant, the trepidation was gone.  I couldn’t have a better partner.  We couldn’t have a better boat.  We had planned well and done our homework.  I felt more like a fortunate adventurer than a misguided fool.  It just took a moment to recognize that.

By sunrise the following morning, any sign of land behind us had disappeared completely.  

Over freshly brewed cups of instant coffee that morning, we toasted having surpassed seventeen thousand nautical miles traveled aboard Exit since we purchased and moved aboard her in 2017.  The milestone was actually reached during the middle of the night.  However, on passage, with twenty four hour watches, nighttime shift changes tend to be more of a quick changing of the guard than a social to-do.

Our initial waypoint we had set was Clarion Island four hundred nautical miles to the southwest of Cabo. In the case of too little or too much wind, we could stop off there briefly. Part of the Socorro Islands, Clarion is uninhabited except for a friendly Mexican military outpost and occasional liveaboard dive boats.  If we had good wind, we likely would not want to interrupt the momentum.

As it turned out, we didn’t have good wind. Initially it had been around ten to twelve knots but that had begun to fall off. Still, even with only a six to ten knot breeze, conditions were exceptionally calm and sailing slowly without needing to run the engine was certainly good enough momentum to keep going.

As we approached Clarion Island in the middle of the night on day four, it was an easy decision to make.  There seemed very little appeal in waiting seven hours for first light before entering an unfamiliar anchorage; and even though winds were currently light it looked like there would be no improvement for days.  Better to keep pressing on with forward progress.

A short time later, when we had to alter course to avoid coming within a mile of a passing cargo ship, we didn’t think too much of it.  We were only hundred or so miles off shore and we had been underway for less than two days.  When it happened again a week later I certainly raised an eyebrow. More than a thousand miles from anything.  Plus, the second time it was just after midnight…a bit freaky. No drama; just occasional reminders to fucking pay attention.  

As it would turn out, that six hundred foot cargo ship would be the last occupied vessel we would encounter in the northern hemisphere.  However, even stranger was the unoccupied vessel we encountered five days later.

On our twelfth day underway, when a red speck appeared on the horizon, we grabbed the binoculars. It became apparent that it wasn’t a boat, but it seemed to have a sail deployed.  We adjusted our own sails and came about, immediately setting a new course to investigate.  As we neared, we were a bit stunned to make out what appeared to be a kayak or a SUP with a sail…?  A thousand miles seemed more than a bit far out for someone to drift…? Maybe a crazy solo circumnavigating paddler…? WTF?  Continuing our approach, we could slowly make out more and more details. It was a SUP-like platform that didn’t appear to have any type of hull or structure below the water; the bright red sail seemed to be attached to some kind of substantial wind vane autopilot.  We tracked alongside it and had to laugh when we found a cadre of sea birds had laid claim and taken possession of what was identified on the sail as “Saildrone”.  

A subsequent reaching out put us in touch with a very surprised and genuinely appreciative tech at the Saildrone company, who excitedly informed us that the units are contracted and deployed for various oceanic and weather research data gathering tasks but that they never hear back from contacts in the field.  Pretty cool…but, come to think of it, yet another of the occasional reminders about fucking paying attention.  Sunk by a coxless pair of boobies…hmmmmmm. Not going there…

The earlier reference to birds appearing to have laid claim and taken possession of the Saildrone may seem a bit comedic and/or dramatic…but I shit you not; some of these boobies are not benevolent beings.

First off, in our own defense, we are devoted conservationists and absolute animal advocates. No latent bird issues.  We once had a blue-footed booby, a truly regal creature, aboard Exit without incident. Toured the decks, stayed the evening.  Lovely chap. 

But these boobies are different.  Rude.  Disrespectful.  They fight over who gets to sit at the top of the mast and end up breaking stuff.  They shit all over the deck, hatches, sails, solar panels, and isenglass windows.  This went on for days.  It was brutal.  Exit’s log notes on May 4:  “Today the Garbanzo Battle was waged and lost on the deck of S/V Exit.  They have taken the mast.  I fear we may be losing the Great Booby War of the Pacific.”  After woefully unsuccessful attempts to dislodge them from the mast with more traditional methods like: yelling and screaming at them, pounding on the shrouds, shaking the back stay, whipping and flicking halyards at them, even running a plastic garbage bag up the flag halyard next to them to try to startle them (a ridiculously inadequate strategy), I brought out my slingshot and proceeded to start eating olives and firing the pits at the top of the mast…fact is, in fifteen knots of wind on a pitching deck I got sick of eating olives without ever making contact.  No better luck with dried garbanzo beans either.  I gave up before trying to harvest the little glass balls out of liquor bottle pour spouts (great ammunition but that’s a lot of drinkin’ for one bullet —- fifteen shots of liquor per shot of ammunition, literally). 

On a side note, Exit undoubtably needs to address its battle readiness, both in the area of ammunition and operational accuracy. 

Fortunately, the boobies inexplicably left after a few days.  Even more fortunate was the likelihood of rain ahead.  It was going to require a deluge or three to clean these decks. 

Thankfully, within a couple of days, that rain did arrive and the booby shit which had left a disgusting white-gray-brown-yellow coat of paint on Exit’s mast, sails, and deck was finally unceremoniously cleansed.

But be careful of what you ask for.

At anchor, the rain can be inconvenient and even annoying. But underway, it can become relentless and unmerciful. In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, more than thousand miles from anything, it can be more than a little bit intimidating.

Fortunately, this was not a violent squall. The rain beat down for a bit, but we were not pummeled by vicious winds or terrifying lightning strikes. Exit received the thorough shower she needed but not much more than that…this time.

With no more boobies to deal with, I could now return to my daily task of cleaning dead flying fish off the deck without fear of being shit on. Flying fish that inadvertently land on deck and fail to flop back into the water accumulate each night.  Occasionally they land near the cockpit and can be offered a helping hand.  Others aren’t so lucky.  Nothing startles you to full awareness during night watch quite like the loud, wet glop! of a flopping fish on the cockpit’s isenglass window a couple of feet away from your face.  Well…ya, actually.  Standing up in the cockpit to make a sail adjustment and literally getting slapped on the ass by a flying fish that’s just collided with your butt…that splattering shplop! makes you jump even more.  I did get that one back in the water; however, he may have eventually died of embarrassment telling the tale of almost suffocating in a face full of ass!

Since passing by Clarion Island our trajectory had been towards the coordinates of 10N / 120W.  This was strategic.  

The ITCZ (Inter Tropical Convergence Zone) is a constantly shifting corridor (right now between about 5 degrees latitude north and south of the equator) where the northern hemisphere’s clockwise moving currents and southern hemisphere’s counter-clockwise moving currents converge.  Throughout that area, very light winds to no wind at all – the doldrums – are interspersed with very volatile squalls loaded with high winds and sometimes lightning.

The latitude of 10 degrees north placed us just above all that, in a position to better choose a course which would hopefully present itself to us as we approached.  The 120 degrees west longitude was accounting for strong westerly currents we were encountering as we approached the ITCZ. The goal was to not get pushed too far west by these currents before getting below the equator.

We had needed to run the Perkins for about six hours to get free of the Mexican coast on our first day.  Then, for ten days straight, we used nothing more than sails to propel us towards Nuka Hiva.  After two weeks into our journey, we had needed fire up the Perkins for only twelve hours in total. Now, we could see a shift beginning to occur.

A comfortable downwind sail, more on the side of not enough wind than anything, with tolerable swell, began to give way to seas and winds with a bit more snarl to them.

The currents, now one and a half to two knots, relentlessly pulled us in a westerly direction.  Even with four knots of boat speed, we were still having to oversteer our heading by twenty to thirty degrees just to prevent ourselves from drifting off course too far west.

As we struggled to reach our ten degree north goal before shooting well past the one hundred twenty degree west target, the Pacific went and bitch-slapped us with our first squall a thousand miles offshore.  It was our first real serious rain in a couple of years and, fucking hell, did it come down in buckets.  We were already double-reefed and good to go when the thirty two knot winds hit.  Still…damn.

After riding that out under sail, we were dismayed to end up having to finally fire up the Perkins later when the winds died completely leaving us in sea conditions which were untenable for just sitting and waiting.

Largely, the days and nights were rather uneventful. But we found ourselves on a roller coaster of emotions. Periods of elation followed by frustration the following hour. Pondering and absorbing the magic of our current adventure only to have thoughts of weather forecasts or course adjustment options creep in, casting a shadow across an otherwise bright moment of introspection. Caught up in the indescribable and glorious colors of another sunset in the middle of an ocean, which itself had just hours before revealed an unfathomable shade of blue reflected from an over ten thousand foot depth. Serenity and colors which could never be adequately captured by even the most imaginative artist…

…only to realize our wind indicator sensor had failed. A significant blow once we determined a trip up the mast would be required before the displays in the cockpit and nav station would once again provide us with wind direction and wind speed data – something that was not going to happen until we reached French Polynesia!

During the next four days we found ourselves having to motor for over forty hours as we battled to get through the ITCZ.  At times there was absolutely no wind, but the relentless western drift and lumpy sea state still prevented the option of just sitting and waiting things out.  Other times we were beating thirty degrees into fifteen knots of wind from the south. 

All the while, every weather forecast indicator told us that we were currently at the greatest risk for heavy lightning and potentially violent squalls, keeping us in a constant state of high alert and concern. Every possibility and scenario was playing out again and again in our heads. Every decision was being second guessed.

Fortunately, we dodged the lightning…but slogged through lots of rain…and lots of threatening black clouds which we attempted to navigate around as much as possible.

Finally squeezing below the latitude five degrees north after two days of sporty conditions, Exit’s logbook notes:  The ITCZ…last night was fucking wet…with the sun coming up it looks like Mordor ahead…milk run my ass…just cued up ‘Riders On The Storm’ on the stereo...

Before departing Mexico, we had envisioned possible situations of absolutely still air combined with mirror-like flat surface conditions…sit or motor.  The doldrums.  Like the movies would portray “becalmed”.  But motoring into winds, fighting currents, four foot waves coming across the bow…not in the brochure.

The nights were now pitch black.  Almost no moon, and clouds that would obscure one if it existed anyway.  We kept receiving daily reports of a derelict sailboat that had been spotted adrift three weeks ago within a hundred fifty miles west of our current location.  Remnants of a dis-masted and abandoned boat from over a year before.  We’d never see it at night even if it was next to us.  Fortunately, we knew a drifting boat wasn’t going to get any farther east in the short term to potentially be a threat with these currents…as long as we could stop going west, it wouldn’t be a concern.

On day seventeen we were visited by the first pod of dolphins we had seen since departing Mexico.  Our friends stuck around for quite a while doing gymnastic leaps out of the water, surfing down wave faces, and jockeying each other for position bow-riding Exit.  

The visit was received as a very good omen.  It seemed as though, as we closed the gap between Exit and the equator, every degree of latitude had gotten more and more difficult to push through; each number approaching zero harder and harder to reach.  All the while, we relentlessly continued our western drift.

Tenacity and determination eventually helped tip the scale in our favor.  As another midnight came and went, ushering in day nineteen of our passage, we watched the numbers on our chart plotter representing the coordinates of our current position flash by until…boom.  The number”1” on the latitude reading changed to “0.999”.   This placed us only “minutes of latitude” away from the big red line!  

The Equator. Less than one hundred nautical miles away.

Translated into sailing speed that means…looks like we may get a visit from King Neptune tomorrow right around happy hour!  Woohoo!

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!

March 4, 2023 – September 12, 2023

A vote was unnecessary. After nearly two years in the Sea of Cortez, the opinion was unequivocally unanimous and clear…we were both more than ready to clear out of Mexico.

Granted, there were a lot of challenges during that period to potentially color our overall view, but many were quite circumstantial, and not necessarily typical experiences.

Our unforeseen emergency return to the States immediately after arriving at the Baja peninsula carved nearly four months away from Exit, and created an exceptionally rocky start and stressful cloud of uncertainty right off the bat.

However, the six month span after our November return offered opportunities for some incredible experiences both on water and land.  And, despite most of our scuba diving aspirations ending up sabotaged by a combination of seasonal cold water temperature and compressor failure, the marine life around us, especially bigger stuff, was at times still amazing.

After an unforgettable reunion with our dearest and oldest friends from Pullman who came all the way to La Paz for a visit, we headed north in search of moments of sailboat bliss:

Regular interactions with our friends, pods of dolphins, from both the deck of the boat, in the dinghy, or even while out paddling on the SUP, somehow became almost daily experiences.  Sea lions, both entire colonies in more known locations as well as the occasional adventurous individual explorer showing up in a random location, offered endless entertainment.  Whale interactions, though much less frequent, were among the most magical of encounters of all.  Sometimes just a single spout in the distance that a random glance happened to catch.  Sometimes one or more whales, tracking alongside Exit while we are underway for hours.  Or the rare close encounter from the waterline perspective of a dinghy.  All incredible moments.

Dolphins underway between Punta Colorado and Bahia Tembabichi in March:

A short time later, after returning to Isla San Jose, we were treated to a jackpot of experiences in our dinghy over just a three day period.

A whale encounter:

Followed by magical dolphin interactions in crystal clear water two days in a row after that… Holy shit!

More dolphins the following day:

In addition to a drone launch from the beach at Isla San Jose that resulted in some awesome footage:

In April, just as we were emerging from the channel departing La Paz, we stumbled across whales heading in the same direction as Exit. What a treat.

Large pod of dolphins passing by near Isla del Carmen in April:

Dolphin encounters on the SUP in Bahia de Las Animas in June:

A group of cownose rays at the surface near Santa Rosalia in June:

Dolphins while underway to Agua Verde in August:

A brief close encounter with a whale north of Isla San Francisco in August:

Spectacularly clear water with dolphins underway to Isla Salispuedas in September:

A Mahi Mahi (Dorado) swimming past while underway between Isla Salispuedas and Bahia El Pescador in September:

And, of course, though not as popular in polling results, our personal favorite occupier of the skies – the remarkable pelicans and their aloof, quirky personalities.  They provided constant entertainment throughout our stay in Mexico. A shout out to “P”!

Dinghy and land excursions allowed for closer inspection of the bizarre coastal desert geology all around us.  Probing numerous islands and spaces along the coastline for new anchorages also made for endless ways to occupy our time.

True, countering the impressive roster of potential wildlife encounters and arroyo explorations loomed the shadow of our constant struggle to anticipate weather issues, interpret forecasts, find sources of accurate information, and ultimately make good decisions of where we needed to be by sundown…or, in some cases, where we shouldn’t be.

Again and again, we found forecasts falling short or even being counterproductive with information contrary to what was actually happening. Local land influences and regional variations skewed everything.  Furthermore, alternate anchorages could be far apart, or have similar protection limitations and exposure weaknesses often making improving a bad situation difficult.

Less than ideal or impossible sailing, extra engine use and fuel consumption, uncomfortable anchorages, unnecessary waiting for weather windows, not waiting long enough, enduring poor conditions underway…all potential outcomes of “bad weather information”.

Add the potential for random seasonal events like overnight high wind “chubascos” blowing in and it became easy to see why we were constantly sleeping with one eye open.

The end result always seemed to be a bit of a nerve wracking process trying to gather weather data, followed by stressful indecision and often regretful second guessing.

The times we did better at predicting important details led to increasing confidence in our decisions. Every time we left La Paz and got a bit farther north, we seemed to fair better in the areas we had become more familiar with.  Simply having access to internet was a detail that made all the difference.

Only two cell tower areas, Santa Rosalia and Loreto, in the five hundred mile stretch between La Paz in the south and Puerto Peñasco in the north would typically be debilitating for most live aboard sailors (or blissful heaven for some, depending on the perspective of the moment).  For us, having Starlink onboard made cell tower proximity irrelevant.  Similar to having sails, solar panels, or a watermaker, Starlink has ultimately become yet another tool to help us reduce our dependence on shore supplied resources.

By this time, for us it was not so much about more exploration of the Sea of Cortez. We had done lots of that already.  We were so looking forward to our departure across the Pacific Ocean, destination French Polynesia.  We were really biding our time, awaiting an extensive haul out which was a mandatory prerequisite for the nearly three thousand mile passage we were preparing to embark upon.

Our lists of tasks to de done went on for pages – engine work, replacing standing and running rigging, major component repairs, upgrades and replacements, sandblasting the hull, bottom paint, canvas repairs, outboard rebuild, dodger overhaul, on….and on…and on…

Cabrales Boatyard in Puerto Peñasco, all the way up at the northern edge of the Sea of Cortez, only an hour drive from the Arizona border, had been decided upon as our haul out location. The third generation business had been operating for an eternity but had only switched its clientele from commercial shrimp boats to private yachts and pleasure craft in the last few years.  Growing pains?  Uh…ya.  Inevitable.

Still, it’s northern location would hopefully offer more peace of mind until hurricane season ended in November, as well as much easier access to US products free from import taxes (and we had lots of things on the list that needed to be shipped) which apparently could be easily shipped to and picked up at the border.  

Originally, the intent was to work our way up to Puerto Peñasco and haul out in June.  Later we learned June through August was when temperatures in the boatyard exceeded 110-120F.  Hardly realistic for doing productive work at all, much less all day.  Ouch.

This late developing realization now put us three months further back with extra time to kill.

Our choice to delay the haul out, combined with multiple difficulties we’d experienced around Bahia Los Angeles, as well as a mysterious failure of our dive compressor (which we hoped could be revived in La Paz) all contributed to us being well farther south than we wanted as hurricane season commenced in June…farther south than we really should have been.

When Hurricane Hillary set the Baja Peninsula in her crosshairs in August, it became a razor thin margin that potentially distinguished hurricane hole from hurricane hell.  We knew the anchorage at La Paz would likely be a shit show and vowed to stay clear.  We considered running north early in the forecasts but ruled out the option based largely on the very real  possibility we could move to an even harder hit location.  Everywhere seemed so exposed to either wind direction, or swell, or both.  We finally settled on Caleta Lobos, just north of La Paz.  Small, but hopefully not likely to overcrowd with other boats.  More than anything, we hoped to be slightly more shadowed from wind by the land orientation relative to the likely wind trajectory of Hillary.

We were wrong about the boat traffic. The night before the hurricane’s projected arrival, eight boats lumbered into the anchorage after dark.  It was way too crowded when an unanticipated squall came from an unexpected direction and pandemonium ensued.  We were almost sideswiped by a giant mega-twat that nearly ended up on the lee rocks, and had to reverse past us in thirty knot winds and pitch black conditions. Thankfully, seven of the eight boats picked up, and left during the squall.  Even better, only one more arrived the next day before Hillary.

It turned out Hillary didn’t plow straight into Mexico, instead sliding up the coastline towards California. But she still left a lot of destruction behind.

It turned out we were right about the land shadow.  The wind direction was such that we became huge beneficiaries of the nearly one hundred miles of land mass between Cabo and La Paz, allowing it to absorb or deflect a significant amount of the energy that managed to get through to either side of us.

During our five days at anchor at Caleta Lobos, we never saw winds over the thirties, which was incredibly fortunate.  Both north and south of us winds between the forties, fifties and even higher were experienced.  Santa Rosalia, one of our favorite stops, was smashed with something like winds in the sixties, plus catastrophic flooding. 

Overall, luck was with us and we were unbelievably fortunate.  Others not so much so.  At the same time, it was another unbelievably stressful SOC (Sea of Cortez) moment.

It became a bit of a trigger moment for us.  We had just had a close call with a hurricane.  We also had an appointment for a haul out five hundred miles away in less than a month.

Run rabbit…run.

In an apparent season finale, we were treated to three separate encounters while we were underway, churning out mile after mile as we tenaciously pressed north.  

One day we watched in amazement as, over the course of hours, numerous juvenile hammerhead sharks swam up to Exit, right at the surface, and then disappeared into the depths.

On another day we were stunned to encounter a family of three adult and two juvenile sperm whales.  We saw them repeatedly while we were underway, and it appeared that they were trying to cope with some sort of net or line entanglement. Eventually, while trying to assess the situation, I had the privilege of momentarily being in the water at the surface as the group of five swam past.  Absolutely magical.

If that weren’t enough, later in the day, a small pod of adult and juvenile orcas approached Exit.  We were fully aware of the reports of belligerent orcas off the coast of Spain sinking boats. Not gonna lie…bit of an anxious moment.  But…no.  They looked at the rudder.  They looked at us.  They didn’t try to eat the rudder.  They didn’t try to sink the boat.  Only mild curiosity.  And magic.  We were flabbergasted by how long they hung around.

We couldn’t have asked for a much more impressive final show before undertaking what we knew was going to be a painful, though necessary, next endeavor.

Hauling out the boat is rarely something to look forward to. The result is, but the process itself can be a miserable, expensive, traumatic, and painful process.

Kind of like a dentist appointment that lasts for months.

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…

Finally being moved from Baghdad back to the main lot…

We still were trying to sort out whether to try restoring some version of our stripe, only this time with vinyl.

We were told by a local printer, “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.

Unfortunately, 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 were actually scheduling a date on the 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, “Holy shit, what dumb fucking luck…now that’s being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Fortunately, 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.

Though it seemed that the day that would never arrive, it was finally time for Exit to return to where she belongs. In the water.

The moments before splashing and just after…

Cabralles Boatyard in a nutshell – the reality of limited resources vs. the possibilities of imagination. When the staff (and the boat owner) are resourceful, shit can actually sometimes get done.

Case in point: how to replace the massive tires on the travel lift without proper equipment… 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 maneuvers were attempted). You have to respect when perseverance and ingenuity get things done.

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 now owe a huge apology to our dear sailing spiritual kindred and inspirations James and Dena aboard S/V Cetacea, who may never forgive us, we have to declare…

…THE PINK FLOYD LIGHT SHOW LIVES!

February 11 – 19, 2023

We made three stops along the way to Isla Carmen.

An overnight stop at Caleta Nopolo. We didn’t actually go ashore, but two things caught our eye from the cockpit.

One, we had read about. Just inside the entrance of the small cave along the shore we could see the remains of an old dugout canoe. Apparently over a hundred years old, it belonged to the man who founded the nearby village.

The second, had actually been a running joke for months.

Ever since arriving in the Gulf of California, I had joked that the landscape around us appeared to hold the perfect terrain for spotting burros. This had degenerated into an ongoing spoof with Kris almost every time I looked through the binoculars…

“Enough with the stupid fucking burros…”, was all I’d get from Kris any more. The joke had obviously run its course.

How sweet it was as I quietly scanned the hillside with the binoculars to have my eyes come to rest upon not one but — I shit you not — four burros.

I now joke that I fully expect to see the fossilized skull of a pterodactyl embedded in the rocks somewhere, but I’m not really holding my breath for that one.

Not quite thirty miles further up the coast lies Bahia Los Gatos, named for a family of pumas that used to live in the area.

Again, we didn’t go ashore. Just an overnight stop.

Nevertheless, within about five minutes of shutting off our engine after setting the anchor at Los Gatos, a local fisherman motored up.

His name was Rudolfo; a nice guy. Three meals worth of fresh fish? Filleted on the spot? Five bucks.

The third day started off looking like it would be a brilliant sail all the way to Isla Carmen, forty or so miles away.

Anticipating light winds, we had already rigged up the solent sail.

We even put up the main sail before lifting anchor. It had been a long time since that had happened. A short time later we were underway, with the engine off, moving solely under the power of the wind with our solent and main sails.

We had reefed the mainsail at anchor. Seemed like overkill at the time, but we were grateful when the winds kicked up later almost without warning.

Rounding a point near Agua Verde, the display on our wind indicator showed upwards of thirty knots (it was even higher that that factoring that, at the time, our boat speed sensor was not working which skewed the reading).

The relentless wind and depth variations at the point created waves and chop that nearly stopped our forward progress entirely. It quickly became obvious that continuing to bash into this would be stupid.

We cut our losses and turned Exit around. Better to sacrifice some time and diesel rather than potentially something more serious or permanent.

Arriving at Bahia Rancho Santa Marta after seven and a half hours and thirty one nautical miles. Incidentally, Bahia Rancho Santa Marta is only about ten miles north of our previous anchorage Los Gatos. The extra twenty one miles was spent arguing with wind, waves, inaccurate forecasts, and bad luck.

Ironically, the conditions were completely becalmed as we rolled into the bay. So it goes.

The following day we knew we had made the correct decision. We might still end up motoring but at least it wouldn’t be into thirty knot winds.

Our original plan had been to have a nice sleep-in followed by relaxing Valentine’s Day at anchor after waking up at Isla Carmen.

Shit happens.

Valentine’s Day underway. Not a bad alternative. The final stretch on the way to Isla Carmen. No sporty conditions today. No winds at all…at least to begin with.

As it turned out, Poseidon and Mother Nature had gotten together in advance and formulated a gift for us to commemorate our fortieth Valentine’s Day we were celebrating together.

Before too long a slight breeze had appeared; and suddenly, for the third day in a row, we were sailing. Holy shit! Neither of us could even recall that ever happening, much less when it was. If we weren’t careful, someone could mistake us for sailors.

Not only did we have a fabulous third day in a row of sailing (redemption from the frustrating previous day), we also ended up at what might as well have been our own private island in a bay we had all to ourselves…Punta Colorada on Isla Carmen – Parque Nacional Bahia de Loreto.

Happy Valentine’s Day to us.

The following day we still had a private bay…although that was short-lived. You’ve gotta enjoy it while you can.

Inevitably, others would follow.

Which is not necessarily a problem…as long as they followed the non-snugglers’ protocol.

Even someone else’s sailboat can enhance a beautiful sunset.

And while an overcast, cloudy day may not contribute to jaw-dropping colorful photos, it certainly can make for a more pleasant hiking conditions.

Hiking off-trail has its risks. Those risks can even be enhanced, especially when you are ill-equipped… say, with uhhhh, $14.95 cheapo shoes.

Stepping across a small gully of rocks, I managed to land squarely on a stick that was poking straight up.

There was a momentary panic of uncertainty.

The stick was not small. It had definitely penetrated clear through the sole of my shoe. I had felt it had pass through my foot. We were not an insignificant distance from the dinghy; even farther from Exit.

Only one way to find out how bad the situation really was.

It wasn’t a piece of re-bar stuck through my head or an arrow in my chest…

Facing away from me, Kris placed my foot between her knees and took hold of the stick. No countdown. No instructions to breathe out.

Just a quick jerk. Solid. No hesitation. Well done.

I expected a lot more pain. Kris threw the stick aside and said there was no blood.

Gingerly I pulled off my shoe; then my sock.

Amazingly, the stick had gone straight through the gap right at the base between my big toe and the next toe over. A glancing blow off both toes that would cause some painful bruising, but nothing more.

Luuuuuuucky. A potentially really messy situation averted by less than an inch. I was immediately demoted from trailblazer.

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We have witnessed some truly spectacular sunsets and sunrises aboard Exit. It’s impossible to capture the intensity, colors, and sheer impact of something that covers the entire sky in an image.

You can try to convey the magic of the moment, but it always seems to fall short of the actual experience.

This was one of those sunrises.

February 1 – 11, 2023

When we arrived at Isla San Francisco, we knew immediately that we would be here for a while.

The giant bay on the south side of the island provided tons of space and excellent weather protection from every direction except the southwest. The gentle slope just off the beach provided infinite choices of depth to anchor in, and we could tell we were well dug into nothing but sand when we felt the satisfying tug of the chain as the anchor solidly caught.

It didn’t take long before a shore excursion was in order.

The massive crescent shaped bay is lined by a picturesque sandy beach providing easy dinghy access.

Just beyond the beach lies a large salt flat of parched earth and scrub, separating the anchorage from a bay on the other side of Isla San Francisco.

In one area we came across a number of pits – what appeared to be the remnants of a salt harvesting operation at some time in the past. Thick sheets of crystalized salt still remained in the pits.

On the other side of the salt flat is another bay covered in round pebbles and rocks, ground down smooth by endless waves, tides, and storms.

A number of trails winding around the southeast leg of the island provided an opportunity to get out and stretch our legs beyond the confines of Exit’s lifelines, as well as offering fantastic views from the surrounding peaks.

Later, sundowners in the cockpit watching pelicans hunt as the sun slipped over the horizon provided a perfect finale to the day.

It was also one of the last sunsets we had to endure looking at our sickly compass, which was very possibly on one of its final headings. For the better part of a year, we had watched the fluid level inside the acrylic dome drop lower and lower. Now, it had finally gotten to the point where the center post was mostly exposed and there was very little fluid left above the compass card itself.

One of those moments of truth. Either I would be able to successfully refill the compass with fluid we had purchased just before transiting the Panama Canal, or it would be the final moments of life for our precious ship compass. Adding a $600 compass to our list of expenses seemed less than ideal…far less ideal than gambling on thirty dollars of compass fluid to stave off the inevitable.

After disassembling everything, it turned out a fill port whose aluminum threads had corroded away after long contact with a stainless bolt had been the source of the leak. Adding more of the correct fluid and a bit of silicone around the fill hole were the only things needed in the end. Our trusty Suunto lived to navigate another journey. Woohoo!

When all was said and done, it was a good day and victory was declared.

A few days later, when another northerly blew through, the islands rugged landscape we had struggled to traverse only a couple of days earlier now offered us additional protection from the building winds and waves.

As the wind began to pick up, a group of dolphins visited the anchorage.

Eventually, dolphin lunacy ensued.

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About five miles to the north of Isla San Francisco lies the much larger island of Isla San Jose. Between it and the mainland lies the San Jose Channel, purported to be a superhighway for whales transiting towards the Loreto area.

Though most of our whale sighting so far had been fleeting and rather distant, we remained hopeful, optimistic, and patient.

On the other hand, dolphins seemed to be much more abundant both in their number and their curiosity.

No matter how many times it happens, a visit from dolphins while underway is ALWAYS a magical experience. When the water is exceptionally clear, it makes things even more surreal.

Bahia Amortajada was our stop at the southern tip of Isla San Jose. We hoped to make a dinghy excursion there to access a mangrove lagoon.

From above, images of the lagoon almost looked to be more the result of human design and construction rather than natural science, evolution, and geology.

There was only a brief period during the highest tide that afforded enough depth for dinghy access across the rocky bar separating the mangrove system from the outside anchorage area.

Fortunately, high tide was right around sunrise. With an early start, we could get across the entrance, spend a little while exploring the mangrove, and then get back out without ever getting out of the dinghy.

The mangrove just inside the shoreline at the anchorage transported us to a setting more like Bocas Del Toro in Panama than the landscapes we had been getting used to seeing here. Once inside, it was its own completely isolated world.

Of course, when you are in the middle of no where for the first time, it can be quite challenging determining the exact timing of tides, precise depths, and best paths to navigate.

Guide books like Sea Of Cortez (by Breeding & Bansmer), as well as information posted in the Navionics anchorage indications, can prove incredibly helpful when it comes to gaining a general understanding and awareness of things.

But sometimes, given a situational lack of actual local knowledge that is also recent, you just have to wing it.

We’d estimated about how long we thought we’d have to get in and out of the

Approaching the shallow, rocky bit we had to get across to get out of the mangrove lagoon, we could see it was going to be close. We just couldn’t tell exactly how close. It definitely looked like the tide was lower than when we had entered.

A momentary convergence of an infinite number of observations, estimations, calculations, and assessments — all with the end goal of avoiding running the dinghy aground. What appeared to be the deepest route, quickly became the chosen path as the current picked up almost immediately and committed us. The exact composition of the bottom became more and more vivid as the water grew more and more shallow.

And it goes without saying that, when you improvise, the devil is in the fucking details.

Thankfully, we got the engine up in time and didn’t leave our prop on the rocks. A short time later that wouldn’t have happened, and we would have really regretted the fact we had forgotten to mount the dinghy wheels that morning.

All part of the adventure.

Upon returning to Exit we were treated to a comedic routine we saw play out again and again both at anchor and miles offshore. A group of what we referred to as diving ducks (sometimes only a few while other times an entire army) passed by us, randomly appearing and disappearing in synchronized movement diving underwater and then reappearing at the surface again a short time later.

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With the stunning Sierra de la Gigante range stretching along the coastline, sometimes it seems impossible to decide what is more striking – having the black silhouette of the mountains offering a foreground to a blazing sunset…

…or having same striking colors illuminating the striations of Sierra de la Gigante under the first light of a new day.

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Despite the fact that we were thoroughly enjoying our current location, a brief southerly wind completely dislodged us from our sedentary position, allowing us not only the rare opportunity to sail, but to sail downwind…holy shit.

We only half-joke when we say that the only days we seem to be moving are on the days we’re going into the wind.

However, every now and again, it seems to work out.

December 1, 2022 – February 1, 2023

Isla Espirítu Santo is about thirty nautical miles north of La Paz; ten miles beyond the mainland point. It is the largest of three islands, uninhabited except for a park ranger station. Smaller Isla Partida, separated by a sandy spit and shallow channel, is just to the north; and Los Islotes, a small group of rocks and home to a sea lion rookery, lies just beyond that.

As far as a day of sailing, the journey to Isla Espirítu Santo provided no joy. Nevertheless, that was a minor detail in the big picture. We were back on the move, even if we were motoring, and that was more than enough to put a smile on our faces.

Furthermore, upon reaching Isla Espirítu Santo, there would be no denying the one joy that absolutely does accompany a three hour motor…hot water.

The following morning, as the sun began to rise, the surface of the water was so still it provided one of those rare symmetrical mirror-like moments between the sea and sky.

Absolute tranquility.

As it turned out, our first trip to Espirítu Santo was a bit of a false start.

On one hand, we were chomping at the bit to get moving somewhere. On the other, we only had a week before we expected the new Starlink equipment we had just ordered to arrive at Marina de La Paz.

Once we got to Espirítu Santo, a series of quite windy days prevented us from doing much exploring.

Consequently, much our first visit was highlighted by time spent shivering in the cockpit, enjoying unbelievable sunsets, and engaging in typical boat life activities and adventures – for instance, persuading a rather endearing bat that, in fact, it had not found the perfect new cave to take up residence in below deck.

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Despite our longing to keep going, we turned around after only a week. Our return south meant that on Christmas Eve we were treated to the glittering lights of La Paz’s waterfront. Thankfully, the holiday lights did not include snow.

Turns out, this year, Santa may have been driving a Tesla. Starlink had arrived for Christmas.

To those who have ever struggled with trying to painstakingly wade through overly complicated manuals which have been incomprehensibly translated from Chinese, I present to you: the Starlink assembly instructions.

And then Elon looked down from on high and said, let there be light...off and on; but let there be internet…always.

And then there was internet. And it was good.

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Exiting La Paz – Take Two…

…there would be no stopping us this time.

It could be unanticipated stowaways.

It could be no wind.

It wouldn’t matter.

Once again, it appeared we had broken free of the gravitational pull of distractions. We were back at Isla Espirítu Santo.

It was the opposite of a Times Square New Year’s Eve for us. Only two people at anchor in Ensenada El Cardonal…us. The only flashing lights…a single navigation marker across on the mainland miles away.

2023 arrived quietly.

Any visit from our dolphin friends is always a welcome moment. If having the new year ushered in by dolphins qualifies as a good omen, seeing a whale should make one incredibly optimistic. And while the whale encounter was a fleeting glimpse from a distance, the dolphins stuck around to play.

With the arrival of January, came an open slate and, once again, infinite possibilities.

We straddled the new year bouncing between a handful of bays, anchorages, and coves – Caleta El Candelero, Bahia El Empachado, Ensenada El Cardonal, Ensenada Raza.

Each one was a unique study in geology, vulcanology, and mixology.

Despite the arid and inhospitable environment, the landscape continued to provide an absolutely fascinating backdrop with an endless variety of shapes, layers, formations, colors, and textures.

Inevitably, by the end of the day, even the pelicans have gotten lazy.

El Cardoncito:

Ensenada El Embulo:

While the picturesque surroundings of Ensenada El Embulo were a legitimate enough draw to Isla Partida’s northernmost anchorage, it’s proximity to Los Islotes was what really drew us there.

Los Islotes, just a few miles further north of Ensenada El Embulo, is home to the largest sea lion rookery in the entire Gulf of California.

We surmised stationing ourselves at El Embulo would allow us to leave Exit at anchor while we took the dinghy to Los Islotes at first light. The strategy paid off perfectly. Surface conditions were nearly flat in the morning; our timing gave us almost an hour alone with the sea lions before the first tour boat could even be seen approaching on the horizon.

While we had experienced the magic of scuba diving with sea lions in Argentina over ten years ago, it was not an option today. We would have had to go with a licensed operator.

Snorkeling? I’m not sure if we would have had the courage to hop in without experienced guides. The females and younger sea lions are extremely curious and playful. However, the seven hundred pound males patrolling around the perimeter of their harem territory are more than just a little intimidating.

Fortunately, because we are complete pussies and, at this point, refuse to get in the frigid water unless it is a necessity, we did not even have to address the question.

Los Islotes:

Even without getting in the water, the sea lion excursion was unbelievable. Benign surface conditions made the dinghy trip a breeze. However, it would not take much wind to make that trip a rather foolish endeavor.

While at Ensenada El Cardonal, we left the dinghy on the beach for a land excursion to the other side of Isla Espirítu Santo.

On the other side of the island, we were treated to an exceptional view of the bay.

It’s difficult to enhance days like these, unless maybe you add some additional beach time and a hypnotic sunset.

From day to day, the traffic in a given anchorage could vary from completely empty, to tour boats for thirty minutes, to a couple of sailboats sitting for days, to a mega-twat fully equipped with a mobile water park, to a charter catamaran dropping anchor on top of you in an empty bay…

Most of the time, we found ourselves completely alone. Occasionally, we came across people we had met before.

Someone from day or a week ago is pretty understandable. A month…okay. A year…hmmm. Sometimes, it really makes you wonder.

It’s amazing how the world can be such a massive space and yet a small place simultaneously. Given all the variables, when friends on very different trajectories occasionally find their orbits intersecting, it can seem both fortuitous and inevitable.

Sailors often follow similar winds and routes over time. Still, random meetings over the course of years in multiple countries or oceans can only make you smile.

We had to smile when S/V Russula dropped anchor next to us. Honduras, Guatemala, Panama, Mexico…we had seen Craig in four different countries in as many years.

Golden hour dinghy visit to Isla Gallo with Craig and his crew, followed by a beach sunset happy hour:

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The waning days of blue skies, calm water, and almost no wind.

Day after day; it was hard to believe how striking the cloudless blue skies contrasted with the shades of reds, browns, and other colors layered into the earth and rock. The water endlessly varied with blues and greens, but it remained translucent and calm.

For the time being…

Clouds in the sky and winds from the north began to increase in frequency. Slowly at first. Mild conditions overall with a troubled day thrown into the week. Then the day became a couple of days. Then the couple of days became the time in between blows.

The Northerlies had arrived and we would quickly find ourselves struggling, not only to press on, but also to find adequate shelter.

The cliffs, hills, peaks, and valleys of Isla Espirítu Santo all have a profound effect on the winds that blow through. Sometimes the winds are dampened or deflected by the landscape. However, sometimes they can be funneled or amplified as well. Almost always, the result is swirling conditions.

And then, eventually, things calm down again.

Toward the end of January we needed to return to La Paz yet again. We had fallen a bit short in some provisions as well as made a minor error in our Starlink service that had to be corrected.

The Starlink technology had worked flawlessly. After debating the different service options, we had signed up for “Residential” instead of “RV” (only because we could reverse from Residential to RV if we had made a mistake but not the other way around); however, we had failed to add the “Roaming” option to our service before departing La Paz.

Turns out, once outside a twenty mile or so territory of the address you are signed up with, Starlink stops working if you don’t have roaming activated. Bit of an inconvenience…but lesson learned.

A pleasant, calm evening sunset in the crowded anchorage outside La Paz can make you forget why you didn’t want to return.

On the other hand, when the Northerlies blow through (and it seems like they are every few days)…

…another bouncy day in a crowded anchorage makes you remember instantly why you didn’t want to return; especially when you add opposing tidal currents and the real possibility of dragging boats.

We never ceased to be amazed at the number of hails over the VHF asking if anyone had seen someone’s dinghy that had gone on walkabout. Or, even worse, someone making an announcement warning of an unoccupied sailboat that was currently drifting through the anchorage.

As January drew to a close, once again we departed La Paz.

This time our return to Isla Espirítu Santo was brief. We were just passing by. Previously, we had hiked over to the east side of the island, but always anchored in the western bays. We decided this time to try the east side; Bahia Bonanza appeared to be a good, and just about the only option.

Another beautiful day.

We expected the increase in northerly winds. Still, for the most part, the skies had remained either completely blue or filled with soft puffy clouds.

And then something happened. Something we hadn’t experienced on the decks of Exit for months, and months, and months.

Holy shit.

It started raining.

Bahia Bonanza had a massive beach and we were the only people there. While I sorted out some boat projects, Kris had the entire beach to herself.

Sweet.

Our stay at Bahia Bonanza was only overnight. We weren’t on a schedule, but we had already spent plenty of time at Isla Espirítu Santo. It was time to move on.

Our first trip to Los Islotes, by dinghy when we were anchored on the opposite side of Espirítu, had been an incredible experience. Today, we once again had perfectly calm surface conditions heading up the coast aboard Exit.

Making good time up the east coast of Espirítu Santo in near flat waters, we had the opportunity to pass right next to Los Islotes, this time keeping the mothership back well farther than had been the case when we were in the dinghy. Still, we were able to pass close enough to see and hear the sea lions who had apparently already commenced with an entertaining morning show for the couple of tour boats that had already arrived before us.

From Los Islotes, we set course in a northwesterly direction making for Isla San Francisco. Now, every movement north would for us represent a new record since passing through the Panama Canal and into the Pacific Ocean just over one year ago.

And, in this Gulf of California, we still had a lot of water north of us to explore.

December 27, 2022

Coxless pair or double scull?

I never thought I’d use that sequence of words. I had to Googly the shit out of this to have any context.

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[Authors disclosure: The following excerpts were taken from the online source boatbiscuit.com during the course of researching what the fuck I was talking about.]

Double Scull

In sculling, athletes use two oars, referred to as sculls, rather than one. In a “double scull,” which is also called the “double or 2x,” two individuals, each with two sculls, maneuver the boat.

Coxless pair

This boat has two rowers outfitted with oars on the left and right sides, each with one oar apiece. There is no coxswain, in this case, so the rudder is attached to the boat through cables.

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It is important to note that, in both cases, the rowers are facing backwards, making it exceptionally difficult to see where they are going. A coxswain aboard would not only control the foot pedals steering the boat, but would also be facing forward making navigating the boat a much simpler task.

This tidbit of information, while rather obscure, will seem less random shortly…

During our return stay at La Paz, the northerlies that had been kicking up things in the anchorage had managed to substantially tap into our sleep schedule. Whether it was getting up regularly to check our snubber line, or being bounced and rolled around as we swung in twenty five to thirty knot gusts, or simply being awoken by a creaking line or halyard knock as you finally managed to drift off, we found ourselves getting little more than snippets of rest.

When the wind finally subsided and the sea state calmed, we welcomed our first sound sleep in three days.

It had been nearly eight solid uninterrupted hours into that sleep, at about six thirty in the morning, just as the light of the new day was beginning to illuminate the anchorage but had not yet risen above the horizon.

Light enough to see.

Not that it mattered to us. We were sound asleep…

…WHAAAM!

The sound tore us from the haze of drifting aimlessly through some distant and unfocused dream…not a care…

…to a bolt upright instant consciousness, simultaneously amplified by a physical jolt felt through the bed…a shock that conveyed no other possibility other than impact.

What the fuck?!

I repeated the phrase two or three more times as I scrambled out of bed and stumbled up the companionway steps in my underwear.

What the fuck?! I coughed out another one as I peered out of the cockpit, looking around in a state of groggy confusion without seeing anything amiss anywhere around us.

Then I saw a shadow of movement to our starboard, just beyond and below the level of our toe rail. Was is someone in a dinghy? Had a God-damned dinghy hit us? I hadn’t heard an engine…

As the shadow drifted a bit further away from the edge of the deck, it materialized into two people sitting in a boat. I could see it was one of those crew type rowing boats.

What the fuck happened? I managed to clarify my question.

They said nothing. I couldn’t even be sure they heard me. They were moving pretty slow.

I remember in the past seeing six or eight people rowing these crew boats with an extra dude aboard. I always assumed the extra dude was an evolutionary leftover from the old days…a viking who used to hack off the arms of rowers who started slacking…now become more of a navigator and cheerleader than an armed motivator. The coxswain.

There were only two guys on this boat.

They both looked pretty dazed and confused.

Both of them were holding oars. Two each; though at the time it didn’t seem significant. Apparently it distinguishes what you call them.

What happened? This time I became a bit more civil, except I was still speaking the wrong language.

Still, they said nothing. The guy at the back was moving around a bit more and had started paddling backwards a bit. The guy at the front was still mostly just sprawling and groaning.

After a bit more silence, it was quite apparent that they were still pretty dazed.

The fog of confusion began to lift for me as I realized these two guys had probably been rowing like Hell just moments ago, both facing the opposite direction that they were moving. A long, sleek, low-to-the-water boat. As fucking hydrodynamic as the science of physics can possibly imagine and conjure up.

Built for speed…which it must have built up a LOT of.

Two young athletes. Working hard. Pushing it. Concentrating one hundred percent on the rhythm of their rowing. In the zone. Momentarily forgetting that the same laws of physics permitting them to fly along at a speed upwards of ten miles per hour also prevent two solid objects from passing through one another.

Apparently neither guy looking ahead for only a short time. All it takes.

The math question reads something like this:

If a four hundred pound object composed of lightweight material and flesh moving at ten miles per hour collides with a forty two thousand pound mostly metal object that is stationary, how long will it take for the moving object to stop and how far will the stationary object be moved?

Answer: Zero to both. Zero time to stop and zero feet moved.

I tried a different tack… ¿Están bien? Are you alright?

The guy at the back of the boat gave me a thumbs up. The guy at the front, on the other hand, was still stretched out moaning, like he hadn’t yet fully verified his neck wasn’t broken and back wasn’t paralyzed.

A couple more minutes passed.

The guy at the back had started rowing gingerly. The other guy still was pretty much a heap.

¿Quieren ayuda? Do you want help? My attempt to be a bit less of an asshole became more pro-active.

The rowing guy waved me off. The other guy appeared to have verified all his limbs were capable of movement but still didn’t seem fully aware of where he was.

The boat eventually disappeared into the distance. It was the last I saw of the two guys.

I looked at our hull and couldn’t find even a scuff.

About an hour later I saw what looked like the same boat rowing along about a thousand feet away from us. In place of the two guys were now two women. They were looking over their shoulders frequently as they rowed. Apparently the story had been told.

Later, when I began to reconstruct the story myself, I realized the comedy of the terminology I had stumbled across.

In retrospect, I so wish that, during the moment, I could have leapt into the cockpit and in the best King’s English cried out, “are ye not double scullers? Pay attention to your direction lads, lest ye be mistaken for a coxless pair!”

Okay…it wouldn’t have worked in Spanish.

November 10 – 30, 2022

Back to La Paz.

The Peace.

Literally.

Just over three months had passed since a black hole of chaos had, almost overnight, sucked us up and spit us out in what seemed like an alternate reality.

While we had been back in Washington sorting out the shitstorm threatening to derail our entire sailing adventure, nearly the entire alphabet had been exhausted in naming all the damn hurricanes which had menacingly passed by the Baja Peninsula.

Fortunately, none had landed on La Paz.

That good fortune had extended to our marina situation as well. We had been able to stretch out what was originally only a thirty day window the marina slip was available for us.  In the end, instead of us having to return to Mexico just to move the boat or pay someone to do it for us, the marina had been able to simply move Exit to a different slip that had become available. Peace of mind is always welcome, even in small slices.

The entire time, Exit had been patiently waiting, tied to the dock in a slip at Marina de La Paz.

Now, standing back on deck, it all felt so different than it had three months before.  The air temperature was more than thirty degrees cooler than it had been here in August, and yet, forty degrees warmer than where we had just come from.  Perfect.

The crushing feeling of outside forces and influences seemed to be giving way to a slowly returning sense of calm.  

As we commenced with the task of returning our girl from her current hurricane-braced hibernation state to full expedition prepped and provisioned glory, we had time to reflect on both how daunting and serendipitous the past one hundred days had been…the shock and relief of realizing you haven’t been hit by any shrapnel from the reality bomb that just exploded next to you, though your ears are still ringing from the concussion.

We had only walked the streets of La Paz once – straight to the bus station to get tickets to the Cabo San Lucas airport in August. Now we had the luxury of being able to meander aimlessly, absorbing the sights and sounds in a truly leisurely fashion.

Actually stopping to enjoy and appreciate the myriad of fascinating statues lining the long stretch of walkway that skirts along the waterfront, known as the Malecon, now seemed like a welcome pause in a lazy jaunt, rather than an interruption in time we didn’t seem to have only a short time before.

And yet, irregardless of having just managed to accomplish what we perceived as once again successfully escaping Washington State, we found the Pacific Northwest creeping back into our La Paz existence, albeit in a more benign and welcome manner…

To our amazement, despite the presence of an armada of boats in the marina and outside anchorage brandishing Seattle, WA on their transoms as their hailing port, not a single Husky banner was visible on the day of the Apple Cup. We even got a “GO COUGS!” from a passing dinghy. Turned out they were one of the boats from Seattle. Ironically, it also turned out they were flying a WSU flag as well.

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The new list of tasks – reassembling everything that had been taken down or apart on Exit, completing a number of maintenance and repair projects, provisioning and re-stocking, getting fuel, on and on…we dug into the list of tasks, relishing the knowledge we would be off the dock and back at anchor by the end of the month. Exactly four months, to the day, since we had arrived at Marina de La Paz.

At least now we were in control of the priority list.

It was nice to, once again, be able to enjoy a lunch not only because it was delicious, but also because you realized you actually had the time to enjoy it. Vi’dah, a cafe only five minutes walk from the dinghy dock we were using, became our favorite go-to spot.

And before we knew it, November had come to a close.

No… of course, all the things on the to do list had not been completed. It’s a boat for fuck sake.

Didn’t matter.

We had done enough.

Departing Marina de La Paz, we headed straight out the channel. No reason to stick around. For too long, both our refrigerator and freezer had been completely empty. But lot of shopping had just taken place, and both the fridge and freezer were now completely full. We were much lighter in cash, but our lockers were once again stuffed with provisions.

Our return to Bahia Falsa was like hitting the refresh button.

Four months prior we had arrived at Bahia Falsa under a cloud of uncertainty and panic. Four months ago we were sitting in the cockpit, wincing over both our situation and the mega-twat spotlights bearing down on us. Four months ago since we had been at anchor…this exact spot.

A new day.

And yet, as this inner peace outside La Paz began to settle upon us, we were quickly jolted back into a less Zen and more raw nerve based reality when we hopped off the back of the transom and into the water…

Holy shit! While the thirty degree drop in air temperature from one hundred to seventy degrees that had taken place since August was a welcome gift, the twenty degree temperature drop in the water from eighty to sixty was nearly stroke inducing.

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But all in all, we had nothing to complain about.

One of the luxuries of our return to the States had been the ability to secure a plethora of things difficult to come by in Mexico that could be brought back with us. Things we needed like spare parts and equipment…necessities. Things we wanted…priorities. Things we missed…guilty pleasures. Things we were intrigued by…experiments.

One of the experiments that had intrigued Kris enough to be added to our return luggage was a solar oven. A bit of space technology integrated into a strange looking contraption which utilized the sun’s energy for cooking. My skepticism was dwarfed by Kris’ enthusiasm to embrace something which seemed so congruent with our approach on Exit – harnessing the wind for movement, making fresh water from the sea, generating electricity with the sun…why not use it for cooking as well?

Some culinary technology experiments had been easier for us to undertake than other communication technology experiments. But we were currently facing a real issue with cell phone limitations.

Normally we are able to fairly readily access phone and internet service through Kris’ iPhone which can double as a hotspot connection for our iPads and laptop. However, we had learned that here in the Gulf of California, cell towers can be far and few in between. In fact we were stunned to find out, north of La Paz, we would have no signal all the way until Loredo.

Bahia Falsa was our last outpost for internet.

We had already made a decision. Cell service would be unreliable. Our Iridium (a dated evolutionally step from the even more dated satellite phone technology) required an expensive monthly service and was effective only for obtaining weather forecasts and emergency emails.

It was time to upgrade our technology.

But it had been a long process getting to this point. Like many other realities we have come to know in boat life, sometimes you have the luxury of making very simple decisions. Decisions that feel good both in your head and your heart. Other times you have to rethink or even reprioritize your philosophies. We have always despised Walmart stores and yet now find ourselves often seeking them out…function over form. No different with our internet coverage. Despite his humanitarian aspirations, Elon Musk has always struck me as just another rich, pompous, eccentric prick. It would be great if someone else had come up with a way for us to connect to the world regardless of Exit’s location, but as it turns out, we have to contribute to the Twitter investment reimbursement fund for access to that technology.

Up to now, we had been holding out. For us, the jury was still undecided on how well Starlink would actually work in the functioning environment of people living on a boat.

Our own discussions had been getting serious since we were in Marina Chiapas back in June. For months we had been monitoring forums and posts as well as having conversations, learning about other peoples’ experiences with Starlink. It was becoming more and more apparent that the technology was capable of giving us unlimited internet access, even offshore, without the hassles of either local cell tower coverage or international phone data services.

A decision was made. We ordered Starlink.

At this point, it was the only thing that was going to keep us on a short leash. We would have to return to La Paz to pick the package up, hopefully before New Years Day.

Once it arrived, we expected it to be a game changer.

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From Bahia Falsa, we moved to a quiet anchorage just to the north called Caleta Lobos. It was much less popular than nearby Bahia Balandra and, therefore, would have much less tour boat traffic.

Chilling at Caleta Lobos for a few days allowed us to wait out a bit of a northerly front that was passing through, as well as scrub the bottom of Exit – a task which was long overdue.

Normally cleaning the bottom is a pretty low key endeavor with minimal drama, as long as it is kept up on. A quick scrub every couple of weeks helps keep the growth from taking too much of a hold. If you wait too long, barnacles begin to take hold, grow, and anchor themselves firmly, making the whole job exponentially more difficult, lengthy, messy, and injurious.

We had paid someone to clean Exit below the waterline in the marina a couple of times while we had been in the States (a first); but that had been over a month ago. The algae and barnacle build up since then had become untenable. When you can feel the vibration in the prop or see the lower number on the boat speed indicator, you know you’ve waited tooooo long.

The fact of the matter was not any objection to the actual task of cleaning the bottom of the boat itself…swimming underwater in a cloud of toxic ablative anti-fouling paint amongst an eco-system of floating and swimming marine flora and fauna you have just scraped from the hull (nothing like having a small crab decide the inside of your ear is the next best place to hide).

No. That was not a problem. The fact of the matter was simply that we had become pussies.

Twenty years prior, we had scuba dived in near freezing conditions in Seattle for our open water course. Subsequently, we had been called insane for diving in wetsuits by drysuit divers boat diving in Oregon. All a different time. Ten years of tropical diving conditions had turned us into pussies. Pure and simple.

After a great deal of soul-searching, and whining, I managed to grow a pair, and then don the 3mm wetsuit I hadn’t touched since it was brought aboard Exit years ago. And then…I put my 5mm shorty over the top of that. And then scuba gear…there would be no free diving for the Michelin Man. And then I proceeded to get in the water…and scream like a little girl. It was shocking…the water, I mean.

Apparently the water temperature here doesn’t get warmer again until April.

Fuck.

The bottom simply won’t wait that long.

Eventually, the task was done. Exit had a clean hull once again. With my circulation returned and my ears vacant of any critters, we could now lift anchor and depart Caleta Lobos.

Next stop: Isla Espirítu Santo.