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.

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.

Serendipity can step in.

In the end, when all the dust settles, hopefully you can make a difference where it counts…

…while at the same time remembering what is really important.

Shit happens.

You deal with it…and move on.

May 2, 2025

Hi. It’s me…I’m back.

Not really the Central Scrutinizer. But, especially when whispered, those words always remind me of Joe’s Garage…a Frank Zappa classic.

After a nearly three year hiatus, I have finally managed to get my shit together and update our blog to a near-current state of existence.

Outside circumstances, lack of internal motivation, unfinished drafts, unedited photos…life in general. A long list of factors that all contributed to a lagging behind in blog posts that seemed to accumulate and stretch out further and further.

Considering I don’t own my own phone, don’t even have my own current email account, have never had a Facebook account, nor a Twitter account, certainly not a Truth Social account, I think it is fair to say I’m pretty old school…maybe Neanderthal would be more accurate.

Suffice to also say I am definitely not privy to the etiquette, protocols, or established acceptable norms of blog posting regarding the passage of time.

I am far too anal and too much of a slave to OCD to leap forward, fire out a current blog post, and just leave a massive gap in time. I also didn’t want to simply shut the whole blog down and call it quits. A bit of a quandary.

Eventually, I decided that the multitude of partially finished posts really required nothing more than a dedicated effort to complete. On the other hand, the slow process of wading through everything, sorting it all out, and filling a number of gaps into some sort of coherent progression proved, in reality, to be no small task.

The end result? Two dozen or so stories that catapult Exit’s blog almost back into the present. Well…maybe not quite the present; but, at least finally on the correct side of the Pacific Ocean. Closer to the present, anyway. Kind of like a simultaneous three season release of not one of your favorite series.

To our friends and family, sorry for being such a slacker. You know what we’ve been doing all along anyway. To anyone who feels I am somehow violating the rules of blogging…fuck off, I guess. Shit happens.

This is the Central Scrutinizer. We take you now to………..

July 25 – 29, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 7 – 25, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another magical dolphin experience.

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

Sunrise the following morning was spectacular.

Puerto Vallarta / Cruz de Huanacaxtle:

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

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

They quickly left as we scrambled aboard.

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

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

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

Fabulous food…

Wandering about and people watching…

And an incredible view…

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes you only think that you’re alone.

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

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

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

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

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

Inside the Gulf of California…finally.

We had made it!

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

July 1 – 7, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was currently 12:25.  

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First things first. One thing at a time.

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

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

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

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

…we hoped.

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

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

Beers on the beach…

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

Still…

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

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

---

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

And yet…

There seemed to be challenge after challenge to getting out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the night-man.

And it sure seemed…

…as he glanced over at us…

…we may have heard faintly on the breeze…

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

---

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

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

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

Our final sprint for the Sea of Cortez had begun.

Exit…Stage Left.  Fuck the Eagles.

May 25 – June 30, 2022

A…B…C…D…

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

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

But time was no longer in surplus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We watched and waited. Day after day.

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

After three weeks we were at our wits end.

Even the toad in the toilet had moved on.

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

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

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

…where we found San Cristobal de las Casas.

Our accommodations…

Steps and churches…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then suddenly, it opened…just a bit.

Our response was zero hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers to that!

…wait a minute…

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