Home again

We're home, and home never looked so good, even with a layer of dust on the tile floors, no Internet for 36 hours and an empty fridge.

I'm limping and lurching around like Quasimodo, still unable to put weight on my right foot.

My fellow blogger Babs, who was supposed to be here in San Carlos the same day we got back, has had to delay, maybe even postpone her trip. Very disappointing.

Hmmm, must be time to tally my blessings.

We got home safely before dark, and every time the starter failed (which was every time we shut off the engine), the Capt was able to nudge it back into working order, with a hammer! Nothing was stolen from the house after two months of being vacant. My car started right up, and I can still drive with an injured foot. Liberty! Friends started popping up like mushrooms, catching us up on the latest local news. I hear Tony's veggie stand has moved, expanded into a little mercadito! The Capt, who was going to have to go right back down to Barra and move our boat out of its borrowed slip, has had a reprieve and will be around for at least a day or two. We slept like babies in our king-size bed after wonderful long, hot showers. Life is good and getting better.

All this for a lunch date?

March 21
A Charlie Charlie Morning

Tenacatita Bay - The Amigo Net on the single-sideband radio is coming in loud and clear this morning, and we're hearing conversations from all along the western coast of Mexico and as far away as the mid-Pacific where boats are underway for the Marquesas. Don Anderson, our Weather Oracle, has warned that the gale currently blowing outside the Baja will move into the Sea of Cortez in a couple of days, bringing 35-40 knot winds. But today in Tenacatita, it's a Charlie Charlie morning, meaning calm and clear.

Thanks to an impetuous jump off our bow when we were pulling into the fuel dock at Barra de Navidad a couple of days ago, I now have a major hitch in my getalong. Usually there's someone on the dock to catch our bowline and I have only to toss the rope. But this time the usual attendant was pumping gas on another dock, and the engineer on the stern of Mr. Terrible only glanced at us and went about his business, so it was up to me to "catch the boat." I've made the jump plenty of times, but not in a few years, and not barefoot onto a concrete dock. I landed fine on the left foot, weight slightly forward on the ball of the foot, but messed up on the right, with too much weight on the heel. Mega-ouch! I let out a scream, and had to hobble to the cleat to secure the line.

With 20-20 hindsight, the Capt assured me that we could have drifted into the dock and I didn't need to be in such a hurry, but in the past when we have approached a dock he has always urged me to get off as quickly as possible and get the line on the cleat.

It's my bad... I suppose I should have yelled (politely) to Mr. Terrible's engineer for help. "Señor, por favor, ayudame!"

I've been icing and elevating the foot for two days, but so far I'm still not able to walk on it. I can wiggle it and rotate it, there are no really painful spots on it, no swelling, discoloration or throbbing. I just can't put weight on the heel. I've got a compression bandage on it. There are no doctors in Tenacatita Bay, but I might be able to find one in Melaque when we return to Barra tomorrow, and get an X-ray, maybe even a crutch at the hospital there.

Later this morning we're going over to La Manzanilla on the other side of the Tena bay where the Capt will take the dinghy ashore and pick up a couple of Canadian friends for a day sail and possibly fishing. They're camping on the beach in their Westfalia van and the skipper has been corresponding with them via the Westie forum on the Internet. Tomorrow we'll return to Barra where we've borrowed a slip in a small marina for ten days, so the Capt can drive me and the dogs home to San Carlos in the Westie. Then he'll fly back down here and singlehand the boat back home. Hopefully he'll pick up some crew along the way for the more difficult passages.

Yesterday I made guacamole according to a recipe supplied by Maria of Maria's Tienda in Colamilla. Very simple and the Capt. liked it, so I'll do it again today for our Canadian crew. It's just avocado (well-mashed), tomatillo, cilantro and a piece of serrano pepper (all finely diced), and lemon juice. Add a little water, Maria advises, to thin it out. I'll spread tostadas with refried black beans and cheese, nuke them till the cheese melts, add the guacamole, some chopped tomato, a dollop of crema, and a cilantro leaf. With these I'll serve papas rellenas: stuffed baked potatoes.

I may be gimpy but I can still cook.

March 22
Let's do lunch -- the hard way

Sometimes I get a notion that things aren't going to go well on a particular endeavor, but it's got a momentum of its own so I just go with it. So it was that we sailed across Tena Bay to pick up the Capt's land-bound RVing friends, Frank and Rita, for a little daysail and lunch. Sounds simple, but it was the picking up part that got complicated. Our guests, Canadians camping in a beach-side RV park, were waiting for us when we dropped anchor less than 100 yards offshore. The Capt jumped into the dinghy and headed toward them, with the understanding that they would wade past the line of breakers and climb aboard the dink. In spite of my misgivings, that part went well, and they had turned around and were headed back to the boat when disaster occurred.

Three in a dink
Three OUT of a dink
Frank and Rita's neighbors gather round to inspect our beached dinghy

Realizing they were going to be soaking wet when they got to the boat, I ducked below to get towels for them. When I got topside again and looked for them...OMG! The dink was upside down and everybody was hanging onto it for dear life!

The next hour was a comedy of errors and a triumph of sheer nerve. The Capt swam back to the boat, arriving exhausted, and we tied all our extra lines to a fender, which he planned use for flotation to swim back with, tie the line to the dink and thereby tow it back to the boat. But the fender wasn't tied securely so it broke loose and floated ashore on its own. The Capt was literally at the end of his rope, still yards from the beach and without enough line to reach the dink. The waves were merciless, battering Frank and Rita as they clung to the dinghy, and the Capt as he desperately tried to get to them.

Our friends' neighbors came to the rescue with Frank's two-man inflatable canoe, and after somehow getting Frank, Rita and our upside-down dinghy ashore, they met the Capt straggling onto land. They pulled the outboard off and carried it to a 55-gallon drum full of water, where they flushed it thoroughly and then -- que milagro! -- they started it up! Somebody retrieved our fender but the dinghy stern light and our oar were lost.

The intrepid Canadians canoe out to the boat. Hope the sail and the lunch were worth it!

Frank and the Capt paddled the canoe back to the boat, and then he went back for Rita. After that dunking, would she still come? We waited, watching the beach, for a long half hour, beginning to suspect they'd had all the water sports they wanted for the day. They couldn't call us, because their cell phone got soaked in the capsizing. But then we saw Frank walking down to the canoe, grabbing the paddles, and -- woo hoo!-- here came Rita. What a trouper! Fortunately they arrived with no further mishaps and we took them sailing (Frank taking my place as first mate) across the bay where, in the relatively calm anchorage, we had a leisurely lunch.

One of the first things Rita said to me, when I bundled her into a big beach towel, was, "I'm not a water person."

March 23
My last sail, for a while.

Frank and the Capt tow the dinghy with the canoe

This morning we sailed back over to retrieve the dinghy, which we'd left at Frank's campsite for the night. Frank and the Capt used the canoe to tow the dink back to the boat. Tomorrow we'll drive the Westie back to the RV park, have breakfast with Frank and Rita, get the outboard and take it to a shop, where it was destined to go anyway.

Now we're underway back to Barra de Navidad. We'll drop the hook in the anchorage and wait for high tide, while I use the wifi to check email, upload this post and send the last edited chapter of her book to Julie, my publishing friend.

This afternoon when I'm finished with the Internet we'll move the boat into the slip, I'll finish packing my belongings and dog stuff, and Wednesday I'll leave the boat for a while. I'll miss it, I realize, but I need some healing for my foot, and some solitude in my house.

"There's still no place like home," she says, clicking her ruby slippers.

Pyrotechnics for Pat and Benny

A belated report on St Paddy's Day, as celebrated in Melaque, the town across the bay whose patron saint is San Patricio. They hold a week-long bash for St Pat's, since a national holiday, Benito Juarez's birthday, also occurs during that time. Thousands of people swarm to Melaque to honor Pat and Benny at the same time, a twofer. Fireworks every night, live music in the square, parades...

What I wanted most to see was the castillo, the big fireworks structure they light up at 10:30pm in the square in front of the church. We were standing behind it, since the crowd in front of it was so dense you couldn't have shoehorned yourself in. And the Capt and I are both a little claustrophobic in crowds. But we had a good view of the back, and didn't miss a thing. The letters were just backwards, that's all.

The castillo towered over the plaza and was made up of wheels of fire that took turns spinning and then revealed a star, a heart, a shamrock, a religious symbol, in colored light. When the top wheel had spun out, rockets began shooting overhead in all directions, an awesome and thrilling sight, as the crowd screamed in delight.

The Capt captured the whole shootin' match on video and provided a clip for this post, which we have to figure out to format so Blogspot will accept it.

St. Patrick's is the most significant holiday of the year for us because it marks the day we met in an Irish pub 20 years ago, the day we married 17 years ago (I wore a green dress) and the day we bought our boat 15 years ago.

And the fireworks of the castillo seemed the perfect way to celebrate. Reminded me of our first kiss...

Better to bloom late than never

Bonnie Gibson (photo from bonniegibson.com)

The Capt and I had a date last Thursday night, to hear local jazz chanteuse Bonnie Gibson singing at Seamaster's in Barra. We don't do the town very often, so it was a special occasion, and the gifted Ms Gibson made it even more special with her singing and her humor. It seemed every song she sang was either one I know well, or one I'd love to know. She had two guitarists: Marco (her longtime main squeeze) and a young, very talented fellow whose name I forgot, though the Capt was very impressed with his playing.

Before she took the stage, Bonnie cruised through the packed house, warmly introducing herself and getting acquainted with her audience. When she stopped at our table, the Capt mentioned we're also performers and she invited us onstage for a number or two. A wonderful opportunity we had to turn down because we haven't been practicing together.

Beyond jazz standards that she made very much her own, she went on to sing a couple of tunes that really tickled me: "Don't Advertise Your Man," (which I haven't heard in decades) and Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time." She did her own version of "Summertime" dedicated to Barra de Navidad, warning that we shouldn't tell anybody about this unique place except our coolest friends. (Not to worry: I've been blogging about Barra for three years, but I consider all six of my blog readers very cool.)

She wandered playfully through the audience, moving to the music, growling some of the lines like an old-time blues singer. During her break, she turned over the mike to a young singer/songwriter who performs elsewhere in Barra. But I couldn't wait for her to resume her set and see what else was in her repertoire.

On our way out we stopped to talk to her again and buy one of her CDs. She told us she lives here in Barra, and Thursday was her last show of the season because Marco is headed back to Canada. She invited me to get together for a singers' chat while I was here. It's so rare to meet another jazz singer, especially in Mexico, and I was eager to compare notes.

So today I spent an hour at the Sands Hotel pool with Bonnie, learning more about her career, commiserating about the challenges of finding performing opportunities in a male-dominated industry (even more so in Mexico). We have a lot in common: she's a late-bloomer like me, having begun singing at 40 although she had already been in theater for years so she's very comfortable onstage. We're both mated to musicians, a situation that seems ideal since we don't play instruments ourselves, but can be fraught with problems at times. She spends five months of the year in Barra, and has been coming here for 21 years. She would live here all the time if she could, but she also has a home in Vancouver, Canada. She teaches Spanish in Barra as well, and holds singers' workshops periodically. (I'm already hoping at some point I'll be be able to take part in one.) Lots of info on the Spanish and the workshops at her website , bonniegibson.com.

She reminds me a lot of my online singing coach, Chrys Page.

I invited her, her niece and a friend to join us tomorrow night when we go to Melaque for the finale of the week-long San Patricio celebration.

P.S. My first loaf of sourdough bread was a dismal failure, and now I'm trying to decide whether to get back on the horse or shoot it.

A laboratory in the galley

Addendum to my sourdough post: Here's a recipe that produces only one two-pound loaf, which is about right for the Capt and me. In this version, you spritz the loaf and the inside of the oven with water.

And on this page of the same website is probably more information than you'd ever want about sourdough, like this caution:

Allowing the dough to bulk ferment or proof too long will cause the gluten to start breaking down and the dough to get "gluey." When you bake overfermented dough it will spread apart, have a ghostly whitish color and look glazed like porcelain.

If you want to be an expert and don't mind wading through a lot of info, it's a good place to start, learning about things like bannetons (French proofing baskets lined with linen), couches (liners for proofing baskets made of canvas), boules (rounded loaf) and batards (baguette-shaped but slightly larger loaf), hydration percentages, how to keep the dough from crawling out of the bowl, and how to line up your gluten (?!)

And here's a website showing all the traditional shapes of artisan breads, from baton to Coburg to Fougasse.

And if you like your instructions on video, here's "the world's easiest sourdough" recipe. This version uses a heavy-duty pot with a lid to bake the loaf. This version warns against using chlorinated water, as the chlorine can kill the starter.


And now I will say no more on the subject of sourdough, at least until I succeed in producing some bread!

What should I name my new pet?

Sourdough bread hot from the oven -- now that's something to look forward to

As if this boat weren't crowded enough, with two dogs and two humans, I have added another "pet." It doesn't bark, shed or claw up the furniture, and it has a regular job to pay for its keep. This morning I adopted a sourdough starter, contributed by Sharyn on SunSation, a catamaran anchored here in the lagoon.

This is my second attempt to keep a sourdough starter; the first one fell over in the cooler and took on some contaminated ice melt. You're supposed to store it in a container that allows a little air, so we had punched two holes in the jar lid. So you have to take care that it doesn't fall over, feed it regularly and dispose of half of it regularly, preferably by giving it away. I found a lot of information about sourdough starter, including how to make it from scratch without adding potatoes, sugar and a lot of other fuss, at S. John Ross's web page.

John says it's almost impossible to kill a sourdough starter, once it's going well, and that a some starters date back hundreds of years. Like the cockroach, it'll be around long after I'm gone. But you're not supposed to stir it with a metal utensil or in a metal bowl; stick with glass or plastic, he adds. And the murky liquid that forms at the top is called "hooch" -- right, just like you'd refer to alcoholic beverages except you can't drink this stuff. Somebody has already tried, I'm sure, but regretted it. Anyway, you just stir the hooch back into the starter when you feed it. I don't know how people kept it in the days before refrigeration, but all the instructions I've seen insist you keep it in the fridge.

I've talked to a number of first mates here and in La Cruz who keep sourdough starters, and given the lack of good bread to be found here in Mexico, I thought I'd try making my own, at least until it gts too hot to use the oven. And there's always sourdough pancakes.

Nobody I know has named their sourdough "pets," but I thought if I did, it might help me remember that it's another entity that needs feeding and maintaining. Bubbles?

Just another day in Paradise

It all started with an "uh-oh!" As in, "Uh-oh, we're outta propane." I was making coffee, the Capt was still in bed, and I was thinking, "Is the whole day going to be like this?" But luckily we have a little butane stove, so we were able to get adequately caffeinated to get on with our day. The closest place to buy propane from Barra is on the road to Cihuatlan, so we dinghied into town, lugged the propane tank to the Westie parked at the Sands Hotel parking lot, and headed out. Propane "farms" are always located away from dense populations, ever since a major explosion in Mexico City, so it's always a long drive, and very difficult if you don't have transportation.

We had talked about doing a fact-finding mission to Las Hadas marina, to see if it would be a good place to leave the boat while driving the Westie back to San Carlos. Since the propane farm was almost halfway there, we decided to keep going and make a day of it. That turned out to be a wise decision, but I'll get to why in a minute.

You know you're in Manzanillo's waterfront tourist area when you see the giant blue sailfish

After getting a bit lost in Manzanillo's touristy waterfront hotel district, we turned around and headed back to Santiago where we stopped for lunch at Julio's, one of our favorite taco places. Then we got directions for Las Hadas and doubled back to the exit road to Hotel Las Hadas. Soon we were driving up steep narrow streets surrounded by white buildings that reminded me of pictures of the Mediterranean. I guess if you build an apartment complex in Las Hadas, you can paint it any color as long as it's white.

Finally we located the marina office, talked to the manager and got the scoop on rates. Very reasonable for the area, we thought, about $20 a night. There are moorings too, but we'll probably want the boat at the dock while we're away.

On the way home the Capt made a couple of stops for me to jump out and get photos, even though by then he was getting tired and looking forward to getting back to the boat. So I shot a stupendous view of the Las Hadas harbor.

Hundreds of white condos, hotels and apartment buildings overlooking the Las Hadas Marina

And then he stopped again at the roadside fruit stands in La Central, where I'd been wanting to get a few shots. A pretty señorita at a stand across the road gave us a friendly wave and I dashed across to ask her about the monstrous green fruits displayed there. I'd seen them before, and they made me think of the alien pods in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." She said they were yaka and offered me a sample slice. Estupendo! It was as though they were made up of every fruit I'd ever tasted! Very fragrant, bright yellow and just sweet enough. She said they taste like six different fruits and I agreed: pineapple, apple, peach, banana, mango and melon. I bought two bags of yaka pieces. I can't imagine buying a whole one, they're much too big unless you're having a party, or supplying the neighborhood. The world's largest fruit, in fact. This post on the Manzanillo Blog says they can grow up to 30 kilos and that they're also called jackfruit.

The things that look a little like green wasp nests are yaka, my new favorite fruit!

It's four-lane highway all the way from Barra to Manzanillo, except for Cihuatlan, where you still have to take the two-lane street through town. It was worth it for me, to get these two views of Cihuatlan's church, one very imposing and one that cracked me up. Coca Cola Plaza, indeed!

Guess we all know who paid for the big plaza in front of Cihuatlan's church

The other side of the church is a lot more dignified

Back in Barra when we pulled into the Sands parking lot, we saw piles of coconuts, and heard a loud "whump" as more hit the ground. The coconut guy was harvesting the palms before they could break loose and bean somebody. The fortuitous thing about this is that the coconuts were landing right where our van would have been if we hadn't driven it away today! Another white van was still there, and I wondered if its windshield would get smashed before the coconut harvest was over.

The Coconut Man is actually a teenager, sitting on a clump of coconuts, whacking away at them with a machete until they tumble to the ground and singing at the top of his lungs

Croc doggerel

Don't mind me, I'm just a log

Floating in this murky bog

I wouldn't even hurt a frog

And I love yappy little dogs

Everybody's an elitist about something. We all seem to like to sort ourselves into groups of enthusiasts, whether it's Trekkies, or needlepointers or fans of the Dallas Cowboys. Nothing like a common frame of reference to promote bonding. For the Capt and me, it's musicians, sailors (in particular sailors of Morgan sailboats), MacIntosh users and owners of Volkswagen Westfalia campers. The Capt has belonged to the Morgan and Westie forums for a couple of years and has found a number of Westie folk camping here in Mexico. Yesterday we drove over to La Manzanilla to meet Frank and Rita, bloggers from Ontario and check out their red Westie at Carmen's campground on the beach.

Check out their blog for a road warrior's viewpoint of traveling in mexico. They've caravanned with other Westies but for the most part have struck out on their own.

Carmen's is directly across the road from a more-or-less fenced-in swamp area where reside any number of crocodiles. Rita told me small dogs are especially at risk in La Manzanilla; in fact, six of them were dinner for the crocs last year. I looked around for our leashes and counted dogs when I heard that.

Driving toward their campsite I saw in the swamp a whole pile of crocs taking the sun. They seem to like getting cozy, just as dogs do. Then I spotted another huge one outside the fenced area lounging only a few yards from the road, where unsuspecting tourists were wandering by. (Gulp!)

Iguana go home soon!

First iguana sighting of the year! This guy was perched on the top of a two-story palapa next to the Sands Hotel in Barra de Navidad

Yesterday we began making plans for returning home. We've been two months on the boat and apart from the occasional harrowing hour it's been great, but I have to admit I'm looking forward to being back in my house, cooking in a real kitchen, Spanish lessons and singing with Lolita, swimming in the hotel pool, seeing friends before they head back home to Canada and the Northwest... I also have three books to edit now with deadlines in early April, and a faster, more reliable Internet connection would make the work a lot easier.

Las Hadas, in Manzanillo Bay

We're considering either taking the boat back up to La Cruz marina or south to Las Hadas marina, about a half-day's sail. Then the Capt would retrieve the van and drive me and the dogs home to San Carlos, fly back to the boat and solo home. I'd like to see Las Hadas, as I've never been there and the rest of this trip has all been previously explored territory. It's the first marina established on the mainland west coast of Mexico and instead of slips it has Mediterranean-style dock, so you tie up at the pulpit and get off the boat at the stern. There's a hotel with a swimming pool where marina users have privileges, as long as you have a white towel to match the hotel guests (according to Charlie's Charts). I just hope the pool is cleaner than the one at the Sands.

Mr. Terrible

Today we filled our water tank at the fuel dock, and talked to the engineer of Mr. Terrible, a 160-foot motor yacht. We speculated that Mr. Terrible is owned by an oilman, from the look of the silver logo on his deck gates, a Yosemite Sam lookalike brandishing a gasoline nozzle. Perhaps he's Ivan the Terrible's ever-so-great-grandson. An even larger yacht resides in the Grande Hotel marina, with its own helicopter and a motor launch almost as big as our vessel. Such a rarified atmosphere for us humble boat bums.

Typical Barra panga motors past Itessa, biggest megayacht in the marina.

Oops, is my boat envy showing? No, I love our humble sloop, it's just that sometimes it seems to close in on me.

A cool green water toy

You know what they say about an ill wind... As we expected, it's very blustery in the afternoon at Barra Lagoon. But at sunset we saw an adventurer from the boat next to ours who took advantage of the wind to bring out his kiteboard. It's just a big kite that looks like a black crescent moon, some line and a surfboard of some kind. I couldn't tell if he's wearing a wetsuit. He can probably pack the whole thing in a nylon bag. The sail fills with the wind and he zips around as though he's being pulled by a speedboat, but he does his own steering and navigating. Unlike jet skis and other obnoxious water toys, there are no gas fumes, no noise, very little wake. Looks like fun!

Watch kiteboarding in action here.

Log of the S/V "Bliss" Feb. 28 - Mar. 6

Saturday - The Lost Supper

"On schedule" is a phrase we usually laugh at around here, but we did get a little feeling of accomplishment out of leaving La Cruz marina yesterday morning only a few minutes after our target time of 10am. The first few hours of sailing went smoothly, until a southwesterly blew up in the afternoon and tossed us around like a toy. We had planned to sail south to Yelapa, but with the wind on the nose, we turned around and went to the other end of Banderas Bay to spend the night at Punta Mita.

Problems came up all day, confirming the truth of the old salts' warning, "Never begin a voyage on a Friday." The engine overheated. The batteries wouldn't take a charge. The Capt was suffering from a cold, and when he suffers, it's almost operatic.

I'll spare you photos of PM. From the bay you're presented with a wall of condos, with about a half-mile break and then another wall of condos. I always wonder if they get anything like 50% occupancy in all those rooms, even with the attraction of the golf course along the point of land that offers the anchorage its shelter from the north.

During the toy boat toss earlier in the afternoon, the five-gallon drinking water jug was knocked over, soaking the cabin sole. Objects went flying, including our supper. I had planned to cook up an easy black bean soup mix, adding a can of corn, and had put the two together in a container. But when I got ready to cook, it had gone missing! Other options crept through my mind, but the soup would have been so easy, I was loathe to give up on it. With all the energy I put into digging around for it, I could have probably concocted a five-course meal, but I was a first mate on a mission and I was going to find that soup or else!

Finally it turned up in the dishpan along with a few dishes we'd used during the passage. Don't ask how it got there. I mixed up the soup, added the corn, grated cheese on top, made a salad and we had supper out in the cockpit under the stars. Next to us was a big white motor yacht with a large number of gringos aboard, having a riotously good time from the sound of it. I speculated on whether they had a dishwasher, and the Capt assured me a boat that size probably had a chef and servers as well. Ice cream and steaks in the freezer. A wine steward with a white towel over his arm. Walk-in closets. A jacuzzi on the stern deck...

Ipala Beach

This morning we set out around eight, going south, and the trip was like a train ride, since the winds don't kick in until afternoon. The Capt had only slept an hour or so, and after we rounded Cabo Corrientes and landed in Ipala, he was exhausted. But he gallantly dinghied Sofia, Chica and me to shore for a little walk, a little business and a cold coke. Ipala is a tiny village perched on the hillside behind Punta Ipala, invisible from the northern approach. A few small houses, a palapa and a restaurant serving food and beer, a couple of palm-roofed beach shelters for camping and dozens of pangas anchored in the little cove. Strings of plastic bottles float here and there, marking fishnets, and we were careful not to hang up our propellor on any lines. The most striking feature of the town is a life-size figure of a shark, mouth agape, on a pedestal at the bottom of the town's single cobblestone street. It was a busy Saturday, with little boys skating their boogie boards on the wet sand into the water, a quad racing noisily along the beach, pangas heading out to fish, and a Ski-Doo towing four muchachos, coming out to investigate our boat and ask us for candy.

The Capt has had a nap and looks forward to a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we'll have a 42-hour journey to Chamela.

Sunday - We are programmed to receive
The plan, at least for the moment, is to stay over here in Ipala for a day to allow the Capt to rest and try to get over his cold? flu? enough to be ready for a 42-mile run to Chamela. He had a bad night, shivering with chills under two blankets while I was comfortable with a single sheet, so I dosed him with aspirin and he soaked the sheets with sweat after his fever broke. I'm thinking of making him some chicken soup.

High point of the morning was checking in to the Amigo Net on the single sideband radio. "Big deal," you might say, but we have had single sideband since we bought the boat in 1997 and never before have been able to transmit, only receive. What's different is that we installed a whip antenna on the stern while in La Cruz, and the Capt is now in process of adding copper grounding wire which will improve our transmissions even more.

On the Amigo Net we learned that the vessel Oh, Baby is safely at anchor in Zijuatanejo. A couple of weeks ago there was a health and welfare inquiry on the radio for Oh, Baby and nobody knew its location. Now the inquiries are for Uno Mas, which was due in Ensenada in early February and has not been heard from.

Sometimes boat names rival rock band names for eccentricity. A couple of my favorites, heard over the AmigoNet, are Lost Elvis and Swamp Angel.

Melaque Beach

Tuesday - Cut to Malarkey...uh, Melaque!
We decided to cut to the chase, and with one overnight landed in Melaque this morning.

When the starter wouldn't start in Ipala, the Capt had to put in an hour or so getting it going, and we lost our early departure time. This would mean arriving in Chamela after dark, which is inadvisable. The subsequent landing options, Careyes and Paraiso, would also have to be approached in the dark. No, gracias. So we just kept going. The Capt assured me that if we had trouble starting the diesel again he had only to climb into the engine compartment and give the flywheel a turn so the gear would mesh with the starter.

We were running well, with some sailing time, and sighted quite a few sea turtles here and there during the morning; we'd spot a dark lump on the water and then a head popped up, checked us out and vanished again.

There have been some engine overheating issues and some battery issues throughout this voyage, which we've just coped with as they arose. But the scariest episode was just outside Tenacatita when we were changing watch at 3 am. Smoke suddenly filled the cabin and the Capt scrambled to shut off the engine. Temp in the engine compartment had reached 140 F, and it becomes critical at 140. I was horrified because it reached this crucial point during my watch. "It may have seized," he said ominously. curled up in the V-berth, praying and trying to stay out of the way as the Capt. raised the sails and began methodically checking the engine (once the compartment had cooled sufficiently for a human to get in there).

What do you do when your engine conks out in the Pacific in the middle of the night? I do know people who don't even have engines in their boats, and do all their sailing, departures and landings, with skillful use of sails. We have been known to drop anchor and leave an anchorage while under only our sails, just to see if we could do it, but I was hoping desperately that it wouldn't come to that. And it didn't: the Capt discoveredßß a lack of coolant, and once the supply had been replenished the engine started again, bless its greasy little old heart.

Now we're anchored at Melaque in the same spot we dropped the hook last year, just off a little stone malecon walkway that includes a lookout topped by a ragged palapa, and a little outdoor amphitheater. A great place to throw the ball for Chica, and an excellent place for a walk. As the Capt was setting the stern hook, sitting in the dinghy a few feet from the boat, a manta ray flew straight up into the air a couple of times to check him out.

We counted more than ten boats here when we arrived, almost all Canadians. Ashore, we visited an RV park situated at the end of the beach, occupied by almost all Canadians. Maple leaf flags, bumper stickers and license plates abound. At this rate, we'll probably go home with Canadian accents. Yah?

Wednesday - Bring on the water taxis
We heard on the AmigoNet that the missing vessel Uno Mas has been rescued and the Coast Guard sent a general thanks for the diligence of Mexico ham folk in passing on information.

Last night, walking the beach back to the dinghy, we ran into Kak and her current crew, a couple from Canada. She's trolling for venues to perform and planned to move over to Barra de Navidad's lagoon this morning.

This morning we're also crossing to Barra Lagoon, where we can take care of some Internet banking, email and blogging. Much as we like it here in Melaque, it's risky to take the laptop ashore. Every landing we've made so far has involved some soaking, swimming and panicky dogs. At Barra, there's a dinghy landing, water taxis, wifi in the Lagoon... but it's often fiercely windy there, so we may not stay long.

Two business opportunities for this area that I think would be successful at least on a seasonal basis: some kind of beach landing assistance at Melaque such as they offer in Zijuatanejo where a fellow is hired by the beach restaurants every year to come out and help bring in dinghies. And a water taxi that would travel across the bay from Barra to Melaque and back, maybe four or five times a day.

Thursday
The plan to head for Barra fell through when we discovered the depthfinder was out of commission. We never go into Barra Lagoon with anything bigger than a kayak without a depth finder! So the Capt put on his electrician's hat and climbed into the cockpit locker to track down the bad connection, found several and had to spend the entire day going through wiring, tearing apart most of the boat in the process. I stayed out of his way in the V-berth.

Standing in the cockpit locker, Capt Electric ponders his progress

The result: he installed new 12-volt connections in the binnacle that will make life a lot easier, replaced several corroded connectors and reduced the spaghetti factory of wiring down to a much more manageable tangle.

The altar at the gateway to Barra de Navidad

Barra de Navidad

Friday
So this morning we motored across to Barra and dropped the hook at the same spot where we anchored last year, just off Dog Island (Isla de Los Perros sounds so much better, don't you think?) The dogs are still there, keeping watch over their island. We got a wifi card for four days at a local restaurant, cost $200 pesos. I'm looking forward to going ashore for a run to Beer Bob's Book Exchange, a visit to the French Baker, maybe a swim at the Sands Hotel and a paleta de piña.

Made it sound easy, didn't I? Well, actually, we ran aground even with the help of the depth finder, since we didn't check the tides, and as we were sitting there in two feet of water (we need at least four feet!), two other yachties came by in their dinghies and proceeded to push us out. Success! One of them remarked that we'd gotten stuck in his spot, and I told him he was welcome to it.