Shit Happens

Some storms more readily announce their approach

July 30 – November 10, 2022

You can’t always smell a shit storm brewing on the horizon, but you sure as hell know when it hits.

Not if, but when it does, the difference is in how it gets dealt with.

As with the storms thrown at us by Mother Nature, so go life’s personal tempests. And though they can’t necessarily be controlled, they can be faced.

The particulars vary from situation to situation. Nevertheless, the upending chaos that ensues can be an common unraveling thread.

If we are lucky, a careful blend of tenacity, integrity, grace under pressure, and outright luck may help us to navigate and ultimately survive these life storms, hopefully with one’s dignity and sanity intact.

Choices always have to be made. Sometimes the best you hope for is the least shitty outcome from a list of bad possibilities. Sometimes there are simply zero alternative options.

The body of water that creates the channel between Isla Cerralvo and Punta Arena de la Ventana, the point of land we had anchored next to upon our arrival in the Gulf of California, had been locally named the Whale Highway due to the number of whales seen passing through.

Though we didn’t see any whales during our day and a half at at anchor along Punta Arena de la Ventana, nor during our sail across the channel to Isla Cerralvo, nor during our time anchored off the shore of Isla Cerralvo, we were still more than happy to be where we were. We hadn’t physically seen any hurricanes while we had occupied the area we had dubbed Hurricane Highway either. Still, we far preferred trading a decreased likelihood of seeing tropical depressions for an increased likelihood of seeing cetaceans.

Unofficially renamed Jaques Cousteau Island, Isla Isla Cerralvo provided another nearby stop for a number of days, and as we would learn over time, was a typical representation of most islands in the Gulf of California —- a fascinating study in geology, though unbelievably arid for being surrounded by water. The residents are almost exclusively small animals, low lying plants or bushes, and, of course, cacti.

Outside of the endless variety of cactus plants dominating the landscape, very little life reaches up higher than a few feet off the ground —- the occasional tree clinging precariously on the side of a rocky cliff or a group of mangroves at the shoreline.

Though a great deal of archeological evidence establishes people have resided on the islands in the past, very few of the islands are currently occupied full time. Tourists, researchers, and fishermen are the only visitors.

It quickly begins to stand out as you realize there are no permanent structures to be seen in every direction you look. Just nature. It also quickly begins to stand out as you realize just how little garbage is to be seen in every direction you look. We have been in some ridiculously isolated locations and still stumbled across disgusting amounts of rubbish which makes its absence here even more pleasing.

For three days we reveled in the unequivocal delight of as near to complete relaxation aboard Exit as we had experienced since possibly Las Perlas, in Panama.

However, as is almost always the case in life, the law of averages eventually has to offset those moments of sheer bliss with trials and tribulations that allow one the perspective to truly appreciate the distinction between the two.

Shit happens.

And when it does, you better just be prepared to fucking deal with it.

In the course of one brief message received through our Iridium satellite connection, it became apparent that our exploration of the Gulf of California was on indefinite hold and we were going to have to return to Washington state.

By the end of the following day, we had motored nearly forty miles to Bahia Falsa and booked flights back to the States for the next week.

The invasively convoluted and unanticipated situation we suddenly found ourselves in seemed perfectly encapsulated and reflected later that night when a mega-twat anchored directly on top of us in Bahia Falsa after dark and then proceeded to power up its two massive stern deck lights, which pointed directly at us.

Despite learning that every marina slip in La Paz appeared booked through hurricane season with waiting lists stretching into weeks or even months, Kris still managed to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

The responses had been almost immediate from every marina Kris emailed – no slips available. It appeared we would have no option but to start motoring north. As it turned out, one of the marinas sympathetic to our urgency had been kind enough to forward our message and a last minute sailboat no-show at Marina de La Paz meant we had a slip at one of the best built and most modern marinas in the area for a minimum of one month.

Unbelievably, she was able to secure a slip at Marina de La Paz immediately in which we could leave Exit in for thirty days.

Done.

A brief moment of joy.

August in La Paz, Mexico. Middle of hurricane season. Leaving Exit for a minimum of a month. Less than ideal. Less than even desirable. The best choice in a short list of shitty options.

We started digging into an endless list of tasks that had suddenly materialized before us. There was no avoiding the excruciating heat which reached one hundred degrees by ten o’clock in the morning. No relief jumping in eighty degree water which surrounded us.

For us, due diligence for potential storms meant fulfilling a long sequence of prepping Exit which included: setting up a spiderweb of lines to the dock cleats, removing all the sails and canvas, clearing the deck of anything possible and securing everything else, going up the mast to remove the electronics, pickling the watermaker for long term storage, storing the dinghy…on and on. An endless list of physical tasks, logistical arrangements, and planning considerations.

First time for everything.

And suddenly, less than a week after we had been standing on the beach of Isla Cerralvo, we were back in the States.

In this instance, it felt more like sitting atop a ricocheting bullet than a swinging pendulum.

Shit happens.

And when shit happens, all you can do is wade through the stink and try, as best you can, to wipe up the mess.

Yet, every now and then, even when things appear to be spinning completely out of control and the light at the end of the tunnel has grown so small that you begin to suspect it may have flickered completely out, a realignment can still occur.

The kindness, generosity, and therapeutic support of reliable friends and family make that even more possible.

It may take three months, which at times, can seem like forever. However, given the task at hand, a three month time frame may actually be closer to a miracle.