Apparently, when we said we were going south the generator
took that to mean that it was time for it to go south too. Only it was the
wrong kind of south. Once settled in the anchorage, we fired it up and
immediately heard a subtle clanking sound coming from the engine room followed
by flickering lights on the electrical panel. At that point we didn’t know if
it was mechanical or electrical, major or minor but we did know that the
journey would be delayed. But if the generator had to take a dump, I guess the
timing was good because, and let me go back to Mantra 2 (of 18…because you can
never have too many mantras): Better
here than out there.
We had a crew meeting right then and there and it was decided
that we could just as well get the generator repaired or replaced at our first
stop in Mexico: Ensenada. There is, after all, a boat yard right next to the
marina we’ll be visiting. And it’s not unprecedented. People do it all the
time. Raven’s previous owners spent a good three years in Puerto Vallarta and
had a lot of work done there. Aside from a devastating bottom job (stop
sniggering land lubbers…it’s not what you think) all the work had been quite
competent as well as less expensive than had it been done stateside.
But then we talked to our mechanic. He offered to come out
to the boat while in the anchorage and give us a prognosis. And after running it
for approximately 30 seconds, decided it was very likely that the generator
needed to be replaced but he wouldn’t know until he could run a pressure test
and that we should probably start looking at ways to rip up the cabin floor in
order to gain better access to the engine room. Oh…and given his current work
load, it would be one to two months after the pressure test before he could get
to us. With mouths agape, we made mention that were thinking of taking the boat
down to Ensenada and having the work done there, especially if he was so busy. He
then proceeded to tell us that (and I’m paraphrasing here) all Mexican
mechanics were quacks and that over half of his jobs consisted of repairing
botched work done in Mexico. Now our mechanic is highly rated, frequently
referred, and did a great job diagnosing and repairing our last few engine concerns.
So we took his advice, tucked into the closest marina with space available, and
waited for the pressure test to determine what exactly we were in for. And thus
it unfolded like this…we arrived at the marina on Monday, the pressure test was
supposed to be done on Tuesday, which got pushed to Wednesday, which got pushed
to Thursday, which got shuffled over to one of “his guys” who would come on
Friday. When the time of his arrival came and went, the Captain gave this guy a
call and was told (and I quote)…”I’ll be out when it stops raining.” Now it
rarely rains in San Diego, but a system came through and intermittent rain was
expected for the next three days. Concerned about yet another delay, the
Captain called our mechanic and was told (and I quote), “My guys don’t work
when it’s raining. They might get wet feet. In fact, nobody works when it’s
raining. If you can find a mechanic that will work when it’s raining, they’re
incompetent.” Now maybe it’s because we spent over 25 years in Washington State
where if you didn’t go out when it was raining, then you would never go out,
but this just didn’t make sense. For one thing, engine rooms are typically “inside”
the boat and not prone to getting wet (and if they do, then you have bigger
problems). And for another thing, it’s a boat. And boats and water generally go
hand-in-hand. And thirdly, it’s a boat—because it bears repeating that when
working on something that sits in the water, one may get a little wet now and
then. And lastly, did I mention that it’s a boat? Even the guy who came out to
inspect our anchor windlass (IN THE RAIN) thought that was a pretty flimsy
excuse for not doing a pressure test. At any rate…feeling a little betrayed and
a lot stupid about believing his diatribe against Mexican mechanics, we cut our
losses and called in another mechanic. Sam came by the next day (Saturday!),
diagnosed it as a faulty valve, placed a call to the manufacturer to have new
parts shipped in, and feels we should be up and running around the 27th.
And it was raining and everything!
So what does this do
to our timeline?
Successful cruising is reliant on how not reliant you are on
time. (Have another beer. It’ll start to make sense.) In other words, if
something goes kablooey, the process to get things un-kablooeyed will be much
less stressful if you don’t have to be anywhere at any particular time. Conversely,
if something goes amazingly well (such as anchoring in a spot where the fish
are abundant and come up on the line attached with their own wine pairing) then
you may as well extend the hot streak. That being said, we do have a timetable.
Or rather, our insurance company does. For there is this thing called The Box.
The Box is an area of the globe between roughly 12 and 23 degrees latitude and
various degrees longitude (depending on the ocean) where the majority of
hurricanes are likely to hit. Many underwriters will not insure a boat while
it’s in The Box during hurricane season (June 1st to November 30th).
Or if they do, the deductibles are so high that you’ll probably just recoup the
cost of the phone call you make to hear them say, “What part of ‘you’re not
covered in The Box’ did you not understand?’”
That’s not to say that you can’t get insurance that covers
The Box. It’s just frightfully expensive. I’ve seen some quotes so high it’d
almost be cheaper to just buy a fleet of boats, put them all over the
Caribbean, and play “law of averages”. Editor’s
Note: We were speaking with an insurance broker (unnamed to protect his
audacity) at a boat show in San Diego a few months back. He said to us—in a
totally straight face—that insurance companies no longer recognize a hurricane
box, that since any place could potentially be hit by a hurricane the box was
simply extended to cover the entire planet and that we should just get used to
policies that start in the five digit range. Apparently he thinks we disembarked
from the S/S Turnip Truck.
So back to the timetable. Technically, we must be in
southern Nicaragua by June 1st. Had we left on time, we would have
had two months to leisurely saunter down the coasts of Mexico and El Salvador.
But with a delayed departure date of May 1st, we will now have one month to
travel 2400 nm—a 20-day voyage all the way through, but not a whole lot of time
to see the sights. So we have two choices…spend the next seven months in Baja Mexico/Sea
of Cortez and wait for hurricane season to “blow over” (don’t worry…I slapped
myself) or continue on as planned and keep a very close eye on the weather.
Which way are we leaning? Well…let’s just say that someone once told us that
there is no box. And we’re not afraid to get our feet wet.
Pictured: Doggles!
Not Pictured: Marbles! (We lost those a long time ago.)
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