Upon reflection, the journey from Barra to La Cruz was
remarkable in that nothing really went wrong from an equipment standpoint. Editor’s Note: I should clarify that…nothing
really went wrong from an equipment currently
working standpoint. The transmission didn’t give us any problems, the
generator and electrical systems did their thing, and the dinghy/outboard
performed as it should. With the exception of one engine flutter, we had no
mechanical problems whatsoever—which I think may be a first. Yeah! One in a
row!
As each hour went by without any major problems, we would
look at each other and—without saying a word so as not to jinx it—knock on
wood. In fact, we knocked on so much wood that it’s probably time to varnish
again. Of course, we didn’t temp fate too much. When we got to Tenacatita
without any problems (either in the journey or in the anchoring), we opted not
to spoil a good thing by launching the dinghy and attempting a beach landing on
a shore that is known for not being very friendly. Otter had had a two-hour
walk/poop-a-thon right before we left, so we knew he would be a trooper till
the next day and/or go on deck if he was full to bursting.
He’s not allowed to use the head
until he learns to aim. And operate the pump. And light a match.
Speaking of dinghies, the Captain was decompressing on deck
with a Cuba Libre and a fat cigar when he spotted an unmanned dinghy floating
past. He got on the VHF and put out an APB to the other boats in the anchorage
and was preparing to launch our dinghy when a neighbor came zooming by to
intercept the wayward dink. It was soon reunited with its owner who later
stopped by to say thanks and assert that “this has never happened before!” Really? Because this kind of stuff happens to us all
the time. We were just surprised that wasn’t our dinghy floating off into the
sunset. Never mind it’s still in the davits—with our luck, it’d not only break
lose, but it’d take the davits with it and float off with the tangled wreck of
aluminum trailing behind it—the epitome of a floating disaster. Editor’s Note: That’d make a good name! If
we ever got another boat, I’d totally christen it “Floating Disaster”. It’s
much more poetic than S/V Shitshow.
The next morning, we headed out to Bahia Chamela. It was
another calm crossing, another straightforward anchoring. We launched the
dinghy without any complications, the accommodation ladder got Otter
effortlessly from the boat to the dinghy, and we had a fairly painless beach
landing utilizing our new dinghy wheels. And this time we got to spend 20
minutes ashore! Editor’s Note: Otter got
to spend 25 minutes ashore because he opted to jump out of the dinghy about 50
yards out and swim the rest of the way. Such is the power of the full bladder. Why
such a short amount of time? Because it doesn’t matter how flat the waves are
coming in, they’ll be shoulder high by the time we want to leave (whether that
be five minutes or five hours from the time we arrive.) With that in mind, we
wanted to give ourselves at least three hours to figure out how to negotiate
the surf without a repeat of Santiago and we were wasting daylight. That’s when
we decided to cut out all the middle stuff (i.e. the capsizing, the crashing,
and the figuring out what to do next) and asked a local pangero for assistance.
He timed the waves perfectly and helped us push the dinghy past the surf
line—it took all of three minutes (and was probably the easiest five bucks he
made all day.)
The next morning we got an early start for the seven-hour
motor to Ipala. Everything was fine. Everything was peachy. And then we
made our turn toward Ipala and that’s when the gale hit. It’s going to sound
like I’m making this up, but I’m not (if I was, it’d be more spectacular and
there’d be UFOs) …the waves literally went from two to four feet and the wind
went from 12 mph to 30 with gusts up to 42 in LESS THAN 10 MINUTES. We had no
warning—there was nothing in the weather forecast—but this was instant reality.
There was no going into Ipala now. It’s not really protected enough for winds
this big and we could already make out white caps in the harbor. If there was
no room for us, or if we couldn’t set an anchor, we didn’t know if we’d be able
to get back out without getting pushed into the rocks, so we veered off to head
toward Cabo Corrientes. As the Captain is bucking the waves, the Deck Boss and
I are down below trying to lash down those larger items that we were waiting to
stow while at anchor in Ipala—tasks made more difficult by the bow constantly rising
up then crashing straight down, causing everything to shake and move about.
When we finished, and I got the Deck Boss safely stowed in the pilothouse
(ruing the fact that I had neglected to install seat belts), I made my way back
up to the cockpit. By now we were taking copious amounts of water over the bow
and there wasn’t much left to do but ride it out. Editor’s Note: this passage was not unlike our one through the Strait
of Georgia (See Day 20 of the 1st Voyage) where we had to endure
rough seas, howling winds, and facefuls of water for hours on end. The only
difference was that this time we weren’t freezing. So, I guess that’s
something. Luckily, this little episode only lasted two hours, after which
the seas and the winds calmed down a tad and, aside from some always-nauseating
side-to-side action coming around the point into Banderas Bay, the nasty stuff
was behind us. And by the time we got deeper into the bay, it had smoothed out
completely.
Now the sucky thing about having to bypass Ipala was that it
would put us in the bay after dark and when the sun set, it did get dark.
Really, really dark. As in…no moon. Which made it all the more disconcerting
when we heard a loud THUNK and felt the boat shudder. We immediately ran around
and throughout the boat trying to ascertain what had fallen, broken and/or died
but found nothing. So we decided we had either been broadsided by a sea turtle
or snagged a crab pot, in which case our very expensive line cutter had earned
it’s keep and kept our propeller from being fouled.
Around 10:30 pm, we reached the anchorage outside of La
Cruz. At least, we thought it was the anchorage. We couldn’t be sure because we
couldn’t see anything. We couldn’t make out any shapes, and if there were any
anchor lights we couldn’t distinguish them from the lights on shore. So the
Captain brought us down to around 1-2 mph and we glided carefully through the
water; he’s looking at charts, trying to ascertain our location in accordance
with the depths and the markers while I’m up at the bow, desperately looking
for other boats. Editor’s Note: This is
probably a good time to mention that I have terrible vision. I’ve always been
extremely nearsighted, only now I’m at that age where I need reading glasses
for up close. To combat this, I wear two different strength contact
lenses: one to see far away, one to see
close up, and somehow my brain makes it all work--except when it’s pitch black
and I’m trying to make out shapes and my brain decides to just give up and make
everything blurry. So I had to close one eye and look through the stronger
lense and now I realize that Popeye wasn’t a victim of sun exposure, just bad
optometry. But I digress. We’re gliding through the water, and I think I
see a boat but I’m not certain, and the Captain says to alert him when I
definitely, positively, 100% see a boat, and I’m hoping to God that I
definitely, positively, 100% see a boat before we definitely, positively, 100%
hit one. And then the Captain says, “Screw it. We’re going for it. Hit the
anchor.” And we do. And we hold. And as our eyes finally become adjusted to the
dark, we start to see boats silhouetted all around us. It wasn’t until the sun
came up the next morning that we were able to appreciate the fact that we had
managed to anchor among 44 other boats. We also both agreed that anchoring in
the dark was probably the most stressful thing we had done thus far. Storms are
stressful, gales are stressful, and equipment malfunctions are stressful, but
none of those involve taking out 44 of your neighbors so we’re quite pleased
with ourselves, although it’s not something we care to repeat anytime soon.
The next morning, we moved into a slip in Marina Nayarit
where we will await our haul-out. Can’t wait to see how this turns out…
Pictured: The anchorage at night.
Not Pictured: Well...that's pretty apparent.
Just
ReplyDeleteAwesome.