Enroute to Topolobampo: Downwind Sailing, Peacefulness

Finally, the wind and waves arrange themselves to remind me why I love sailing. A breeze from the south quadrant has been blowing since we left Mazatlan at noon yesterday and we have been sailing ever since, save for a few hours when the wind was either too late or the waves were impeding our progress. That's over 20 hours of mostly downwind sailing with mostly following seas! It's been lovely.

Last night the wind was coming from the South-Southeast blowing between 15 and 20 knots and putting us on a broad reach with short following swells. The wind was fresh and steady, filling the Code 0 with occasional crisp snaps as we surfed down a wave and the wind spilled from and then abruptly refilled the sail, Intermezzo moving sweetly through the sea at 6 knots. The waves coming from the port quarter made swishing, hissing sounds as they passed diagonally under our hulls, rocking us gently but noticeably. The night air was quite cool, the sky partly cloudy with a crescent moon that made a brief appearance and then descended quickly below the horizon as the stars peeked at us all night long from between the clouds.

I felt very much at peace during my 3 to 6 a.m. watch last night, a feeling that has eluded me for many months now. Moving with the wind and waves instead of against them is clearly a valid metaphor for finding peace in life, as is feeling very humble and small with nature and the grand universe visible, tangible and surrounding one in three dimensions and available to all five (six?) senses. I welcomed that peaceful feeling and was grateful for it in the moment and for its after effects on my spirit.

Favorable winds have continued for us through the morning, although the seas are quite confused, with swells coming simultaneously from the northwest and south. The boat's motion is less comfortable and the waves are slow us down, especially when the crests of two opposing swells collide and form a little mountain peak for us to pass over. Fortunately both sets of swells are only about 3 feet high, so the impact on comfort and speed is quite tolerable and the occasional mountain peaks are indeed quite small.

I checked the compass to make sure all these good conditions weren't an April Fool's joke by the autopilot heading us in the wrong direction. Nope, I'm on course. Sailing. Doing fine. Content. Savoring the feelings while they last.

Mazatlan: Returning to the Sea of Cortez, Following the Western Flyer

Tomorrow morning we set off from Mazatlan for Topolobampo, a port about 222 nm up the coast located in an estuary. We will be entering and sailing in the Sea of Cortez again, the objective of this last leg of this two year sailing journey. 

We originally set out from San Francisco  in October 2015 planning to sail south along the Pacific coasts of Mexico and Central America, go through the Panama Canal and head up the East coast of the U.S. via the Western Caribbean and Bahamas. Well, as we sailed, life continued to go on in its mostly unpredictable ways, things happened to us, to others. We changed our plans to adjust to new realities, new circumstances and turned around when we got to Panama and have been moving with purpose to return to the Sea of Cortez, also known as the Gulf of California.

We spent about a month in the Sea of Cortez in 2015, from November 10 until December 8. We have visited a lot of great places since, but nowhere else has held either of our interests as much as the Sea and both of us wanted to return. We even talked about taking Intermezzo back to the Sea from the East coast while we were still on our original plan. That’s a long trip back. That’s how strong the draw of the Sea of Cortez is.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’m reading John Steinbeck’s Log from the Sea of Cortez as we have been heading there. Apparently the strong draw of the Sea of Cortez, the Gulf, is not a feeling unique to us, as Steinbeck writes:

“And we wondered why so much of the Gulf was familiar to us…Some quality there is in the whole Gulf that trips a trigger of recognition so that in fantastic and exotic scenery one finds oneself nodding and saying inwardly, ‘Yes, I know.’…Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to recreate a dream. This is by no means a sentimental thing, it has little to do with beauty or even conscious liking. But the Gulf draws one, and we have talked to rich men who own boats, who can go where they will. Regularly they find themselves sucked into the Gulf. And since we have returned, there always in the backs of our minds the positive drive to go back again. If it were lush and rich, one could undersatnd the pull, but it is fierce and hostile and sullen. The stone mountains pile up to the sky and there is little fresh water. But we know we must go back if we live and we don’t know why.”

Steinbeck pretty much captures the nature of the attraction, the draw of return for me.

I looked at the route taken by Steinbeck and company’s boat, the Western Flyer, and what a coincidence, they went north into the Sea from Cabo San Lucas and turned around at Angeles Bay, exactly where I planned on turning around this season, before laying the boat up for the summer. It occurred to me that we could follow Steinbeck’s route and observe what has changed over the 77 years since his voyage. To do so would provide some structure and purpose to our own expedition and perhaps raise the literary sophistication of my blog posts a bit.

So that’s the plan. We head west across the Sea from Topolobampo and pick up the Western Flyer’s route at Isla Espirtu Santos. Then we’ll head north in short hops until we reach Angeles Bay, and turn around to head south by rounding the north end of Isla Angel de la Guardia, crossing over to the East coast of the Sea at Isla Tiburon. We’ll ultimately cross the Sea again further south to get Intermezzo to Puerto Escondido (near Loreto) to layup for the summer.  That’s the plan right now, at least. Always subject and open to change.

Route of the Western Flyer, from Log from the Sea of Cortez by John Steinbeck

La Cruz to Mazatlan: Getting Cooler, Blobs, Islands, Coral Tragedy, Burnt Sardines

We arrived in Mazatlan early this morning and will rest for a couple of days here at Marina El Cid.

We left La Cruz on schedule at 9 pm on Monday night after a fine dinner at the marina. When we were at the fuel dock topping off our tanks, we found out the marina offered a free slip if you ate dinner at one of the two restaurants there. That worked out great as it eliminated the need for us to re-anchor outside the harbor and eat leftovers while bobbing around waiting for our departure time. Instead we took hot showers, enjoyed a relaxed meal and then just untied our docklines when it was time to go.

It’s a lot cooler in these waters than it was down south. Monday night it was cold enough that we had to put on long pants and light fleece jackets. I guess it makes sense; we’re 800 nautical miles further north from where we started.

I have been enjoying observing numerous luminescent “blobs” in the water during our night passages. I believe they are a type of jellyfish, as I sometimes see luminescent strings streaming out from the main blob body, just like tentacles. The blobs are about six to eight inches in diameter and create a bright florescent green globe of light at or just below the water surface that blinks on for several seconds and then goes dark for about the same period. We pass through these blobs all around the boat, visible from a distance of 300 feet or more. When we run over a blob with the motor running, it seems to get quite excited and glows even more brightly and for longer, as it twists and turns in the propeller’s wake. Sometimes the propeller catches the blob and chops it into smaller blobs. I like to believe that the blobs are like earthworms or starfish and that when we unintentionally chop one up, the pieces all grow into new big blobs to decorate the ocean. If that’s not the case, I feel bad but there is no way to avoid these creatures at night, they are everywhere.

Monday night was moonless and pitch black dark except for millions of brilliant stars in the sky. When I looked for the horizon between sky and sea, I couldn’t distinguish it, the black sky merging into the black sea without boundary. With my attention focused on this dark void, it seemed like Intermezzo was flying through space rather than merely sailing through the water. 

Early Tuesday morning we passed by the three “Maria” islands which lie about 55 miles offshore, putting them about 30 miles off to our port as we sailed between them and the coast. Isla Maria Madre is a prison colony and there is an ominous note on the chart which reads, “CAUTION: ISLAS MARIAS SERVE AS A PRISON COLONY. SHIPS SHOULD KEEP WELL CLEAR OF THIS GROUP TO AVOID INTERCEPTION AND DETENTION BY THE MEXICAN AUTHORITIES”. I wonder for how long you are detained if you don’t keep “well clear”? It’s a prison and so it would seem easy to detain someone for a long time.  And exactly how far away is  well clear? Apparently 30 miles was clear enough that morning for us.

Around noon yesterday we arrived at Isla Isabel, an isolated volcanic island lying about 18 miles off the coast, known as the “Galapagos of Mexico” for its huge population of nesting birds and its iguanas. A perfect rest stop, except that its two anchorages have rocky bottoms and, according to our cruising guide, have swallowed more anchors than any other anchorage in Pacific Mexico. I did not want to lose our beloved (and expensive) Rocna anchor there.

The island is about a mile long by a quarter mile wide and rises steeply to about 250 feet above the sea. It is lightly vegetated with short woody shrubs. There are tens of thousands of birds, many peppering the sky in flight above the island, many fishing in the surrounding sea, many on land, nesting, resting or sunning themselves on a bush or rock with their wings outstretched. The water surrounding the island is very clear, ranging in color from deep to turquoise blue.  The sea was fairly calm during our visit, but still the swells would dash violently against rocks or rush onto the rock reefs in tubular surf breaks. It is small but quite a spectacular island and feels very isolated and far away.

There are two anchorages off the island. The first is located a the south end  in a small cove with a beach, a small fishing camp and a research station. We entered this anchorage but the swell was bending into the cove and I didn’t like the idea of anchoring in a rocky bottom with the boat bouncing around. So we proceeded to the second anchorage, located just around the corner on the west side of the island next to two large rock pinnacles. This anchorage was much calmer and we found a nice sandy patch to grab the Rocna and hold us firmly in place.

We had read and heard that the snorkeling was good here, so I put on my gear and jumped in to take a look.  The water was very clear and there were some colorful fish at the base of the rock pinnacle but nothing special. I swam towards the beach with the idea of stepping on land and looking at the blue-footed boobies on shore.  As I got closer to shore, I encountered a coral reef in increasingly cloudier water. It always saddens me to come across  a large expanse of dead coral, which happens far more frequently than finding live coral. If the coral I was swimming in was alive, it would have been spectacular, with bright colors and teaming with life. Instead, it was just a corpse-like grey, draped with ugly, mournful algae. If coral is like a canary in a coal mine environmentally, we are in trouble. I  read about the dying of coral reefs all the time and my own personal experience sadly corraborates with what I read. Even if coral reefs are “expendable” with respect to man’s survival on the planet, their dying out is like losing the most beuatuful gardens on earth, as if every orchid, rose, tulip, every colorful flower along with every beautiful butterfly, bee, ladybug and hummingbird vanished from the land.  Very sad.

After completing my water reconnaissance, I hauled myself back onto the boat and we spent a couple of restful hours at anchor, enjoyed a light lunch and then departed from Isla Isabel to resume our journey to Mazatlan.

The wind blew a solid 15 knots yesterday afternoon, far enough off our port bow to let us sail until early evening. A bumpy, determined beat upwind, but I enjoyed every minute.

Yesterday evening, Renee burned a sardine pasta dish on the stove while I was asleep; I woke up thinking a rubber hose on one of the engines was on fire. Pew.

We motorsailed under another moonless starry sky last night. No luminescent blobs to be seen; I wonder if the water is getting too cold for them? The air continues to get cooler at night; I had to put a jacket on over my fleece.

The next leg of our journey will take us into the Sea of Cortez…at last!

Sunrise off the Mexican coast somewhere north of San Blas 

Isla Isabela, our rest stop halfway between La Cruz and Mazatlan

Rock pinnacle at Isla Isabela anchorage

Isla Isabela western anchorage

La Cruz: Leaving for Mazatlan, John Steinbeck's vs My Outboard Engine

We have spent a pleasant four days anchored off La Cruz, not doing much. We've roamed around town, had a couple of nice meals. We enjoyed a really nice dinner at Marc and Marci’s place on Saturday night; good food, good wine and great conversation. Yesterday we spent the morning at the La Cruz farmer’s market and stocked up on organic coffee, yogurt, strawberries, bread and peanut butter.

But it’s time to get moving again. We have a good weather window of mostly light headwinds with occasional stronger breezes favorable for sailing if we leave for Mazatlan tonight around 9 pm. Before we leave we need to top off our tanks at the fuel dock. And, yes, I will be rigging jacklines and making sure all the hatches are closed before we depart.

Unfortunately, I don’t have much original material to draw upon for a more interesting blog post today. I could delve into my psyche and state of mind, a diverse environment to explore, but of a bit dark of place right now and, in any case, too personal and narcissistic for this sailing blog. I could try to describe in poetic detail my surroundings, the weather, the sea, the search for meaning in it all, but my writing talent is limited in such areas and wouldn’t do the topics justice. So instead, I will write a few words about our outboard motor.

I bought the 15 hp, four-stroke Yamaha for our dinghy a few years ago. It is powerful and quiet. It’s much heavier than a 15 hp two-stroke, but it is about as environmentally friendly as a small gas engine can be. What I appreciate most however, is its reliability. Other than the first annual mandatary service required per the warranty, I have performed absolutely no maintenance on this engine. It has sat around unused for months in Costa Rica and then again in Chiapas. Yet, it  always starts on the first or second pull and then runs flawlessly. We have put quite a few hours on this engine since leaving San Francisco 18 months ago and it has lived in an aggressive saltwater environment on Intermezzo’s stern since, yet it looks almost new, with only a few scratches and little bit of corrosion on some mild steel parts. I’m very pleased with our outboard, which serves faithfully together with the dinghy as our taxi to and from the boat and as a vehicle for exploring estuaries, inlets, coves, islets and snorkeling sites.

Contrast this with the description of the outboard in John Steinbeck’s The Log from the Sea of Cortez, a book I’m belatedly reading as we sail back to that wondrous body of water.  To avoid a lawsuit for slander by the manufacturer, Steinbeck calls his outboard a “Hansen Sea-Cow” and considers it a living being. “Our Hansen Sea-Cow was not only a living thing but a mean, irritable, contemptible, vengeful, mischievous living thing.” He observed the following traits in it (original text edited here for brevity):

1. Incredibly lazy, the Sea-Cow loved to ride ride on the back of the boat, trailing its propeller daintily in the water while we rowed.

2. It required the same amount of gasoline whether it ran or not.

3. It was able to read our minds, particularly when inflamed with emotion. When we were driven to the point of destroying it, it started and ran with great noise and excitement.

4. When attacked with a screwdriver, it fell apart in simulated death, a trait it had in common with opossums, armadillos and several members of the sloth family.

5. It hated Tex (the mechanic).

6. It completely refused to run: (a) when the waves were high, (b) when the wind blew, (c) at night, early morning and evening, (d) in rain, dew, or fog, (e) when the distance to be covered was more than two hundred yards. But on warm, sunny days - on days when it would have been a pleasure to row - the Sea-Cow started at touch and would not stop.

7. It loved no one, trusted no one. It had no friends

Having once co-owned an ancient British Seagull outboard with my father many years ago, I am familiar with outboards of the Sea-Cow’s vintage and their unique personalities. I observe with some nostalgic sadness that decades of mechanical evolution have rendered my Yamaha devoid of the personality and soul that our British Seagull and the Sea Cow would regularly express. I wonder if that is too high a price to pay for starting every time on the first or second pull and running flawlessly. But I admit, I don’t wonder for long.

Many thanks to the great American writer John Steinbeck for helping me pad my blog today. I hope I do the master some justice. It’s humbling to write in his presence.

Sunset anchored off La Cruz

Handmade hats and baskets at the La Cuz Farmer's Market 

The elegant schooner "Shearwater", anchored next to us off of La Cruz

Our Yamaha, reliable but devoid of personality

La Cruz: A Bashing Passage, A Couple of Lessons Learned

Our passage from Barra de Navidad to La Cruz was comfortable motoring followed by a few hours nice upwind sailing and then 10 hours of bashing against 20 knot headwinds and wind waves steepened by the effects of an opposing northerly current. Those ten hours were far from pleasant, but we endured them.

Not without incident however. 

I confess to have fallen to some complacency after the previous relatively peaceful passages. Before setting out for La Cruz, I failed to rig jacklines, the lines running up from the cockpit to the bow of the boat to which we can clip our ourselves to prevent falling overboard in rough weather. I also did not double-check that our deck hatches were dogged down.

The first oversight compromised our safety in the heavy chop as we approached and rounded Cabo Corrientes. Fortunately, I only had to go forward once to lower the mainsail while the seas weren’t quite as rough and I proceeded very, very carefully. If one of us needed to go on deck for something more difficult under rougher conditions, we would have had to rig something up at the worst time. No damage done, but bad risk management. One of my cardinal rules of sailing is: Stay on the boat.

The second mistake resulted in over an inch of water on the cabin sole when a large wave broke over the starboard bow and green water rushed along the deck. Some clothes and a few other items got wet but, again, no damage done. If I hadn’t happened to go below right after the big wave to get something, however, we would have shipped a lot more water during my watch and probably ruined my laptop and some other gear. 

So, what were the root causes of these two errors. One was pure complacency; until now we have been sailing in relatively calm waters where we don’t have to pay too much attention to the boat and can read, look at the scenery, etc. The other was distraction. As the end of our two year sailing adventure comes closer, I’ve been thinking a lot about life and what’s in store for the future. That thinking has been pretty intense at times. In this case, intense enough that I didn’t pay close enough attention to what I am doing now.

I’m resolved to correct these errors. We’ll go back to a more formal pre-departure preparation. And I’m resolved to make a greater effort to stay in the present and let the future unfold as it may…later.

En Route to La Cruz: Shipwreck Revisited, Nothing Much Else

We’re on our way to La Cruz de Huanacaxtle (“La Cruz”) after spending two restful days in Barra de Navidad. The time spent there was quiet and uneventful; we ddn’t do much, but we did have a couple of nice dinners on shore.

We visited Barra de Navidad on our way South late last January with additional crew members, Marc and Marci.  On our way into the harbor, we noticed a ship wrecked against the cliffs at the south of the bay. I mentioned it my blog post of January 31, 2016. Well, the ship is still there, but is apparetnly being dismantled, with a helicopter making trips in the mornings and evenings to drop off workers. It looks like its going to be a long job.

Our passage to La Cruz is about 130 nm and will take a little over 24 hours. We chose to leave this morning to miss some stronger winds near Cabo Corriente forecast for later this week. It looks like this will be mostly a motoring passage, with wind on the nose most of the way.

When we get to La Cruz, we’ll stop for a while to take care of some administrative work (like filing my taxes). Fortunately, Marc and Marci are going to be in town at the condo in Nuevo Vallarta and we’re looking forward to visiting them and catching up on life.

Boring post, I know. But the record needs to be kept complete and up to date.

Enroute to Barra de Navidad: Sailing!

We have covered about 120 nm of our 203 nm passage from Zihuatanejo to Barra de Navidad. The best thing about the passage so far? We've been able to sail a good portion of the way, almost 50% of the time so far. We haven't enjoyed this much time under sail for a long time. It's fantastic!

It's the natural beauty of being propelled along by the wind that I'm passionate about. Motoring is an unfortunate consequence of wanting to be somewhere by a certain time, counter to the planet's nature. If we tried to sail the whole way to the Sea of Cortez, I figure it would take us about 25 days of continuous sailing, as we would need to head way offshore to tack back into the coast. By hugging the coast and motoring when needed (unfortunately, lthe majority of the time), it will take us less than 10 days of sailing, with plenty of brief rest stops at nice ports along the way. I think I'll buy some carbon offset credits for the diesel we burn for such comfort and convenience to be environmentally responsible and to spit symbolically into the face of our current climate change-denying head of th EPA.

Right now we're sailing along nicely under the Code 0, the wind blowing 10 knots from the South. We're diverting from from our rhumb line to Barra de Navidad, heading offshore to catch some stronger winds and anticipate a westerly wind shift forecast for later this afternoon. Being further offshore when that happens will give us room to alter course towards the coast and keep sailing until the wind is forecasted to die later this evening.

Our ETA for Barra de Navidad is around 10 am tomorrow morning. Remember, you can see where we are and follow Intermezzo's track by clicking on the link on the right sidebar.