1/25/06: PUNTA DE MITA

We tried to make it to Chacala today, but huge and confused seas convinced us to turn back before we’d gotten much beyond Punta de Mita. Dislodged objects were flying below in the galley, and alarming clunks and crashes caused me to jump as I sat in the cockpit, dealing with low-level queasiness and holding on to Sophie for dear life. I concentrated on staring at the horizon and was rewarded with the sight of a pod of at least four whales.

I’d have liked to have my video camera trained on them as they spyhopped and dived near a touring panga about 300 yards away from our boat. I kept hoping they’d leave the panga and come closer, while probably the turistas on the panga were wishing the same thing. Any one of the whales would have been larger than the panga, and they looked from here to be only a few feet from the little boat.

Jim decided if we were going to stop in Punta de Mita we should go ashore in the dinghy. “We need a little time off the boat,” he said. I tempered my enormous relief and said only that it sounded like a good idea.

Approaching PdeM the first thing that strikes you is the condos and hotels, looming over the beach in a row, in various stages of completion. Someone is very optimistic about the tourist attraction of this town.

We got the dinghy into the water easily, but the big rollers going into shore had us surfing and Jim was worried that we’d get swamped and the motor would die on us, leaving us in deep water with nothing but a single oar. This is why we need an outboard with a transmission, he explained to me, so that when we see a big wave coming behind us, we can idle until we’re in position to surf properly. Coming into the little breakwater that bisected the beach, we found a little cove filled with as many as 50 moored pangas. We could see no place to squeeze in our little Livingston among these outsize motorboats. Finally Jim got out and walked the last shallow five yards or so, towing us behind. He joked that it made him feel like Humphrey Bogart in “African Queen.”

Sofia was so anxious to get ashore she almost bolted, but I managed to get her safely on the sand and she peed on the spot. We all had our priorities. Jim and I mentioned almost in the same moment that it would be nice to go to one of the palapas strung along in front of the hotels on the beach, and have a lemonade. I remember when we first came down in 1997 a beer was the first thing we’d look for, but now we have lemonade. The palapas here at Punta de Mita are all built off the sand a little, above the high tide line, and have verandas overlooking the beach, where the hotel guests sit and watch the passing parade and fend off the swarm of vendors peddling blankets, jewelry, pottery and wood carvings. I saw an Indian woman carrying a load of t-shirts, her dress covered by the typical old fashioned 50s-era pinafore apron, which seems to be a sort of uniform for Indian women. Remembering Alice Walker’s poem about the Tenacatita vendor, I wanted to buy a little of something from everyone just to relieve their loads and put a few pesos in their pockets, but instead avoided eye contact and murmured a “No, gracias,” when they came up to me.

Jim decided he wanted to find a panguero to take me and Sofia back to the boat, and he seemed in a hurry to do it, so I didn’t get much of a walk. We finished our lemonades and trudged through the sand to a rental pavilion where we asked a 30ish man with a big cookie-duster mustache and excellent English if a panga was available. He went away for a minute and came back with a youth who looked as if he’d be right at home on a surfboard in Santa Monica, in his baggies and tanktop. A wiry short fellow with golden skin and light brown eyes, Tsowie (I’m spelling his name phonetically) wanted $200 pesos (which I didn’t have) but after rolling his eyes heavenward he settled for $100, and led me back to the panga launching cove where his boat was tied up, tightly jammed in with the rest. He told me he had worked on a couple of sailboats, and that he lived in Bucerias. Jim went for a bag of ice and came along behind us in our dinghy.

Tsowie’s panga was in excellent condition, freshly painted and sturdy and big enough to carry a dozen people, with a big 50-hp motor. Jim has mentioned before that he thinks the Mexican government offers special low-interest loans to pangueros and fishermen to buy their boats, and I suspect there’s a sweetheart deal with a manufacturer, because the pangas all look alike. The fishing versions are dirtier and more basic, while those used for carrying turistas are cleaner and have plank seats and canopies.

With Jim leading the way in our little Livingston, Tsowie expertly maneuvered his panga past the breakers, hoisting his motor high enough that only the propellers were in the water. Then he revved it up and we were flying into the bay. I held tight to Sofia, took off my baseball cap and luxuriated in the rush of cool wind and the thrill of speed. No wonder the pangueros raced about, I thought. Who could resist? I looked back at young Tsowie and grinned. “This is fun!” I shouted. “I want one!” As we passed Jim I waved.

At the end of an all-too-short ride I considered well worth my ten bucks, I climbed aboard Bliss with Sofia and watched the panga heading home. He slowed when he reached Jim, and told him if we needed any more help, ice, a ride, whatever, give him a call on VHF Channel 6.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask him: How did he learn such good English? Did he own his panga, or was he working for the rental man on the beach? Did he have a family?

But next morning we left before dawn, headed for Jaltemba Bay.