Day 291 to 298 of the Third Voyage: In which we have to ask ourselves, “When does this get fun?”

Once…just once…it would be nice to get from point A to point B and not have something go wrong. Lots of other cruisers do it. They set out, get some good wind, have a nice sail, find a good anchorage, go ashore to have a cold beer at a local beachside joint, return to the boat for a relaxing night’s sleep, and, if it’s a good spot, hang out for a few days before heading to the next anchorage. Seriously, people do it all the time. So why can’t we?

We left on the 7^th, as planned, and did the short jaunt to La Cruz just across the bay from Nuevo Vallarta. The plan was to stay at the marina there overnight, have dinner at a favorite restaurant one final time, finish the last of the stowing, and top off the fuel tanks prior to heading out the next morning. We delayed the departure by a day to take advantage of an optimal weather window and thus left for Barra de Navidad on the 9^th. The plan was to do a series of day hops—no overnighters or incredibly long days—and take our time getting to Barra. There would be a night at the anchorage at Ipala, a couple of nights on the hook in Chamela, and maybe a week at anchor in Tenacatita. Seriously, people do it all the time. We thought we could too.

The trip to Ipala was somewhat uneventful—about 50 nm with wind on the nose so about a 7-hour motor. We found the anchorage despite our GPS being off about 15 degrees (so we did indeed anchor in water and not, as our GPS was indicating, right in the middle of the village) and set the hook on the first try. Before we did though, we tested the gears. Everything was copacetic. Unfortunately for Otter, the wind had whipped up and it was too dangerous for a beach landing, so going ashore was off the table. He would instead have to do his “bidness” on the foredeck (which he absolutely refused to do.)

The next morning, we raised the anchor and turned to head out…and lost the gears. Not a hint of trouble since Morro Bay and now here we go with the transmission again. The anchor was quickly dropped. After our previous transmission troubles, we had purchased a rebuilt spare—just in case—and stored it under the v-berth. But the anchorage had become too rolly to swap them out and we feared that Ipala was not the ideal place to do an operation of this magnitude given the lack of cell phone signal and/or lack of services of any kind. After refilling the transmission with ATF, we regained enough of the gears to make a break for Chamela—another 50 nm south. We talked about just making a beeline for Barra (about 90 miles) but we didn’t want to be coming in at night and underpowered. Plus, the dog was getting anxious.  

We got to the anchorage around 3:00 pm and set to work getting the dinghy ready to take Otter to shore and possibly stake out a nice beachside bar for a well-earned beer. The dinghy was lowered, the outboard was attached and…it wouldn’t start. All the tension surrounding the transmission came to a head at that moment. Bitching, fussing, squabbling, barking, and finger pointing ensued but finally, after about an hour and a half, the Captain finally got the outboard to start and he, I, and Otter sped to shore. We had approximately 10 minutes—just enough time for Otter to pee 16 times, poop twice, and run around like a mad dog—before it was time to clamber back in the dinghy. The tide was coming in and already it was getting difficult to drag the dinghy into and over the waves. Otter, who was having flashbacks of being flipped out of the dinghy in Bahia Asuncion, jumped out and I’m chasing him around the beach while the Captain is trying to drag the dinghy past the breakwater till finally the three of us, soaking wet and extremely irritable, are speeding back to the boat at which point the Captain says loudly, “Isn’t this supposed to be fun? When the hell does this get fun?” And I have no answer for him.

But at least the Chamela experience wasn’t all sucky. Two girls from a neighboring catamaran were going from boat to boat selling rum punch. Extremely potent rum punch. So that was nice. Plus, we finally got to try out our hand-held searchlight—we used it to flag the girls down for a second round.

Unfortunately, copious amounts of rum punch can only provide a temporary respite from your woes and when we got ready to make way the next morning, the mood was still decidedly glum. I made the remark, “Let’s get going so we can see how long it takes for something to go horribly wrong today.” The answer was 15 minutes. As I’m bringing up the anchor, I notice that it’s fluke up—something which, of course, it had never done before. I stop, lean over the edge of the bowsprit, and try to swivel it around right side up. But it’s just out of reach. So I tap on the windlass button, trying to get it to come up in small increments, and it’s ooching up ever so slightly, and then the shank hits the collar and the whole thing whips up and crashes through the teak in the bowsprit like an angry rhinoceros. It was probably two hours before I could utter anything that wasn’t, “Son of a bitch!”

Thoroughly demoralized, we decided to blow off Tenacatita altogether and head straight to Barra, which was a huge bummer as it was probably the one anchorage I was most looking forward to since the third voyage was being mapped out. The way the cruising guides describe it, Tenacatita is the quintessential paradise anchorage. A five-mile long horseshoe bay with white sand, clear water, and lots of beachside bars. There’s a snorkeling area so abundant with sea life that it’s known as the aquarium. And you can take your dinghy up an estuary through the mangroves at the end of which is a small village nestled in the jungle. How cool would that be? I mean, seriously, people do it all the time. We could have as well, but the prudent course of action was to get to the security of Barra so we could deal with our new cadre of problems. We also figured that with the way things were going, we’d have dropped the anchor onto the head of a whale who in his anger would proceed to bash a hole in our boat. And the outboard would likely be eaten by a crocodile. So on we motored past Tenacatita, buffeted by strong headwinds and choppy seas, and because it couldn’t get any more pathetic, it rained a little too.

But finally, we got into Barra—where apparently, nobody in charge monitors the VHF on the weekends—and with the help of some cruisers got Raven tied up onto an end-tie dock in the Marina Puerto de Navidad. We’ll be here at least a month—licking our wounds, expediting some repairs, and making some big decisions.

To those who are critical of our lifestyle (and you know who you are), go ahead and gloat. But at some point, we will get from point A to point B and nothing will go wrong. We will get to sail without worrying if we’ll have gears when we turn the engine back on. And we will stop at an idyllic anchorage and have that beachside beer. We may even spend more than one night. I mean, seriously, people do it all the time.

Our 10 minutes in Chamela. At least someone had fun.

Day 286 to 290 of the Third Voyage: In which we crew in the Banderas Bay Regatta..

Disclaimer:  The opinions, observations, and snarky asides in this blog post are the author’s and do not (necessarily) represent the views of the other regatta participants. So now that that’s out of the way…

Until about two months ago, I had never crewed a racing sailboat in my life. My sailing skills are marginal at best, nonexistent in times of crisis and/or when it really counts (such as when racing.) So imagine my surprise when I found myself on Vitesse, a 27’ Santa Cruz, participating in the Banderas Bay Regatta.

I had been out on Vitesse a few times before. It’s owner, Bart, had put up an advert on the community bulletin board looking for crew for the Wednesday Night Beer Can races out of La Cruz and the Captain had jumped all over the opportunity because there are few things he loves more than racing sailboats and beer. I went out with them a couple of times when they were light on crew but even though there was sailing, tacking, gybing, and going around buoys, it never really felt like racing. Probably because it’s loosely organized, everyone waves when you pass each other, and you’re drinking beer the whole time. So it’s more like a fun day sailing. But the Regatta was a real race and not just because we weren’t allowed to drink the beer till after we crossed the finish line, but because everyone took it so very seriously. Some boats used special racing sails, some rerigged, others came from outside the area to participate, and some would only bring on experienced, semi-professional crew.

The Regatta officially kicked off with the Skipper’s Meeting.  Held at the sponsoring yacht club, it’s not so much a skipper’s meeting as a cocktail party where they make some announcements, give a quick rundown of events, and promote the swag in between which there is as much mingling, schmoozing, and smooth jazz as you can handle.  I was only half-way paying attention because I found myself standing directly behind the “Where’s your pass?” lady and was trying hard not to “accidentally” spill my beer on her head.  Two days previous I had arrived at the gate at the top of the docks and was searching for my key fob. I had a big bag of groceries, a very large dog, and an old lady in tow when this woman and her husband pushed past us to the gate. “Great!” I said, “Can we get in with you?” to which she replied, “I don’t know. Where’s your pass?” At first I thought she was kidding. I mean, I get that as marina tenants we have to be vigilant about letting people onto the docks that don’t belong there, but “woman with groceries, large dog, and old lady desperately rummaging for a key fob” doesn’t really scream “I’ve come to steal your dinghy.” But she wasn’t kidding. As I’m fumbling around for my key fob, she’s blocking the gate with her body and going on and on about “I need to see your pass. You’ve got to have a pass. Pass, pass, pass.” And I tell her as I’m searching that I’m on Raven in Slip B-31 and she says, “That’s just a number. That doesn’t mean anything to me.” And I finally find my key fob and marina id card and shove it under her nose and only then does she very begrudgingly let me through. I’ve been worked up about it ever since. Editor’s Note: I know she’s not on our docks so I figure she must be on C and D docks so I’ve taken to walking Otter around looking for her boat so I can let him pee on her dock box. And if she complains I can show her the pass that’s now hanging around his neck in lieu of his collar because apparently having a pass gives you carte blanche to be an asshole.

But I digress.

The first day on the water was “Start Your Heart Out” Practice Day. As in a day to practice your starts. The start is very important because it’s not like all the boats can line up in a row and start sailing at the sound of a horn. You have to time a running start at the line without crossing early (or else you have to turn back and go through again) or crossing too late (in which case you’ve probably already lost because every second counts.) So the race committee boat put out a couple of buoys and we practiced our starts by going around and around and around and around. It was bad enough at the stern where I was, but even worse at the bow where the Captain was. He was so dizzy after 18 starts that we were half way back to the marina before he opened his first beer. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to finish it because on the way back, we decided to practice a spinnaker set and the wind kicked up, caught it, and blew it so far out that we started tipping over…way over. Brian was at the helm and immediately starting yelling to “Douse! Douse! Douse!” and I’m thinking, “I don’t want to douse! I want to be upright again and not clinging to the side as we’re doing a big old Titanic into the water. It was only later after we were upright again that I learned that “douse” meant to bring in the sails and that what we were doing was actually “capsizing”.

The next three days were race days. Now Vitesse is a 27-foot boat and there were six people on board--everyone with a job to do. Neil ran the foredeck—working the jib, preparing the spinnaker sets, etc. Scott assisted Neil, skirted the jib, and manned the halyards and lines. Richelle trimmed sails and released on the tacks and jibes, Brian and Bart each in turn manned the helm and tailing winches. My job was to time the starts, top and drop the spinnaker pole, and help douse the spinnaker (douse as in bring it in, not capsize the boat.) When not working, we were all rail meat. In the racing world, rail meat describes the people that scramble from one side of the boat to the other to put as much weight on the high side so as not to capsize the boat (as in tipping over, not bringing in the sail.)

Now the challenging thing about a 27' boat is that winches, lines, halyards, cleats, travelers, and doused sails (the ones on the boat, not in the water) are squeezed into not a whole lot of room. There is all manner of things to hit, bump, scrape, rack, stumble over, and uncomfortably sit on. Add six people all doing their various jobs on top of one another and your chances of hitting, bumping, scraping, racking, stumbling over, and uncomfortably sitting on something increases tenfold. The race itself consists of intensely chaotic moments of tacking and jibing when everyone is moving at breakneck speed, frantically doing their jobs, and barking at one another punctuated with very long stretches of hanging out on the rails watching the scenery go by, musing about what cocktails that mega yacht in the distance is serving, and wondering what the hell you’re sitting on and do you really want to know.

After each race, you get points for how you finished based on the time it took to complete the course (1 for first, 2 for second, 3 for third, etc.) and after the third race the points are totaled and whoever gets the lowest score, wins. Vitesse came in third on the first day, fourth on the second day, and last on that awesome day when the wind totally died on our last leg and then the heavens opened up and rained on us while we were desperately trying to bob toward the finish line. But here’s the thing…regattas are open to all boats (so instead of apples racing apples, it’s apples racing apples, oranges, kumquats, and watermelons) so each boat is given a PHRF “rating” number. The rating is based on make, model, age, weight, height, breadth, depth, paint color, zodiac sign, and number of beers on board. Long story short, the J-Boats that we raced against had to give us 30 seconds per mile which is how we came in 2^nd overall in our class. Not too shabby for a beer can crew.

So I guess I’d have to say that sailboat racing is equal parts adrenaline, anxiety, awkwardness, and complete bedlam but not without a bit of fun thrown in. The Captain would do it again in a heartbeat. I don’t think I will unless the boat is bigger, fully automated, and has comfy cushions. Oh…and the only thing in danger of capsizing is the cocktail shaker.    

A special thank you to Bart for the opportunity to be part of the Vitesse crew. I learned a lot—mainly that I’m not really cut out for real racing. I’m more of a beer can girl.

Pictured: Sailboats hovering around the start line during practice day. Only a fraction showed up so you can imagine what it was like when all 23 boats were present. It was hectic, confused, and a little stressful. And that was just inside my head.

The Even Longer Sixth Siesta of the Third Voyage (Day 216-285) in which odds are good that we might, maybe, perhaps be leaving so here’s what we’ve been doing in the meantime.

Big news, Ravennaires! After nine (!) months in PV, we’re finally ready to move this party south! We are technically four months behind schedule (not counting the four months we spent hunkered down here for hurricane season) so to all those people who planned to transit the Panama Canal with us last July, hold tight…there’s a 50/25/25* chance that we might make it this year so don’t give up on us yet!

*Definitely Yes/Maybe Yes/Couldn’t get out of the slip

So how did we manage to get four months behind? Well, practice does make perfect. Those of you that have been following our (mis)adventures since the first voyage, can probably count on one hand the number of times we’ve left when we said we would (and if you lost a finger or two in an unfortunate DIY project, you’d be closer to the actual number.) Mechanical malfunctions, bad weather, and vindictive animals have all contributed to our dismal track record of on-time departures to the point where by rights we should just choose a date three years in the future and count any departure prior to two years, eleven months, and 28 days as a win. But maybe that’s something that will come with experience…until then, we’ve taken to penciling in departure dates and then setting up betting pools as to what will cause the delay. Case in point…originally we were going to leave in late-October—which is when our insurance policy said we could venture out while still in the hurricane box—but with active storms still brewing south of us, we opted to wait until late-November. Weather delays are even money—no odds given. Our late-November departure was delayed by the windlass or, more specifically, the arrival of a part so that the new windlass could be properly installed. Editor’s Note: Just because you order the exact same windlass as you had before, and just because the seller claims it will fit the original footprint, and just because the manufacturer swears on a stack of Bibles that nothing in the design has changed, doesn’t mean they’re not all full of shit. In actuality, the manufacturer moved the gear mechanism up about an inch rendering the connecting rod to the anchor locker too short and necessitating the shipment of a longer rod (Said the Full of Shit Manufacturer: “Technically the design didn’t change, it was improved.”) Odds of a delay due to something mechanical, electrical, and/or electronic? On this boat? 2 to 1. Knowing that we would be waiting for a part, the Deck Boss opted to have knee surgery as recounted in the previous blog entry. So now we have surgery, a mosquito-borne illness, and the holidays to account for—a new departure date is set for early-January which is quickly revised to mid-February for personal reasons during which time the Deck Boss takes advantage of this delay by having yet another surgery. New departure date is set for February 22^nd!  Aaaaaand…many beers later during what was supposed to be one of our last dinners out with friends before we leave and we somehow get talked into crewing on a boat in the Banderas Bay Regatta which runs February 28th through March 4^th. Odds of that happening? 3 to 1 that the Captain would be asked (he’s that good) and 10 to 1 that he’d agree (the rum helped the odds). Editor’s Note: For some reason, they wanted me as well. I think that’s what you call a sucker bet.  So our new departure date has been penciled in for March 7^th. Odds that we’ll be up for leaving after three straight days of racing on a 28-foot boat? 100 to 1.     

So right now I’m sure there are a few people thinking, “Whoa! Another surgery?” and there are others going, “What mosquito-borne illness?” and I’m congratulating myself that I’ve tricked you into reading further than you were planning. Starting chronologically, yes, it’s true, the Captain contracted chikungunya. How did this happen? Not all mosquitos carry a virus so if you get bit, it’s a crap shoot. And the Captain rolled snake eyes. The day we brought the Deck Boss back to the boat after her knee surgery was the first day he got ill. What started as just an icky feeling quickly escalated into what was symptomatic of the flu—sporadic fever, extreme fatigue, and intense joint pain. It was over a week before he had enough strength to get out of bed* and another week beyond that before he felt “normal” again. During this time, we took him to see Dr. Gutierrez who surmised it was either chikungunya or dengue fever, neither of which has a cure. We were hoping for the latter as dengue is one and done. Unfortunately, the dice came up chikungunya, which stays with you for about five years with symptoms flaring up every few months until it eventually peters out. So we have that to look forward to.

* Now for those of you who knew the Captain in his lubber days, you’ll recognize the gravity of this statement. Because this was a man who never took a sick day. Never. Ever. He could have had small pox, intermittent blindness, and an axe stuck in his head and he’d still be at work. I once had to forcibly haul him into an emergency room one afternoon because he’d broken his rib playing hockey the night before and was having trouble breathing. Luckily the rib had punctured his lung, because if it hadn’t I’d still be hearing about “the time you dragged me away from work over nothing.” We went through the same thing a few months later. It was the crack heard round the warehouse and all I got on the way to the emergency room was “I’m sure it’s just a sprain. I can’t believe you made me leave work early for this!” (It was 6:30 pm.) Luckily, he had broken his ankle so I could distract myself with the medical paperwork while he went on and on about how he’d “probably miss half a day of work” due to the surgery. Editor’s Note: After the surgery, he insisted I drive him to work. After much arguing, I finally relented. Of course, he was so looped up on pain meds that he just slept on the floor of my office, but technically his 100% No Sick Days record still stands.

So the Deck Boss did indeed have another surgery—this time on her hand. She suffers from something called Dupuytren’s Contracture which her doctor, Dr. Marron, calls “Spiderman Syndrome” because it’s near impossible to pronounce Dupuytren. This is basically where the connective tissues in the hand contract to the point that your fingers bend toward the palm and you can no longer extend them fully. It primarily affects the ring finger—hence looking like you’re about to fling some serious webs and/or hang two and a half instead of the usual ten. The corrective procedure is not without risks and could severely affect the use of the hand (of course, not doing anything about it WILL severely affect the use of the hand) but the Deck Boss liked her odds and long story short…the surgery was a success. Editor’s Note: For those suffering at home where the operation is generally classified as elective, the procedure took about two hours and the recovery about three weeks. Total cost: $1200.

In preparation of might, maybe, perhaps leaving, we have been doing some provisioning—mainly stocking up on those items that might be harder to find down the road, especially things for the boat. Banderas Bay has a good smattering of marine supply stores (well…if three is considered a good smattering) but our options might not be this good again until we hit Panama City. And that’s a long way from here…literally, figuratively, spatially, geographically, and longitudinally (it’s really frickin’ far!) In preparation for the journey south, we’ve scrubbed the boat inside and out, polished and treated all the teak, replaced frayed lines and halyards, organized lockers, pulled up soles to clean (and RAID) the bilges, updated our inventories, tested all the electronics, and had the engine room checked out by a mechanic. I think we each have a mental list of what might possibly blow up when we leave but we’re careful not to say anything aloud or even write anything down. Because the last time we did, it came true (Reference blog post of May 18, 2016. Exhibit A: Windlass.)

Now since I don’t have any kick-ass pictures of us cleaning, scraping, fixing, or shopping and because you really don’t want to see any post-surgery photos (trust me), I’m kind of at a loss as to what to put here for your visual pleasure. So I thought I’d go with a picture of the local Hooters.

They have a different concept as to what sells chicken wings here.

And finally, because you’re dying to know…

Update from the front lines of World War C. The battle for galley dominance against the cockroaches continues with casualties on both sides, notably numerous fatalities on the roach side and my dignity on the other. Trench warfare is ongoing with the introduction of sticky traps. This is basically a little cardboard tunnel with a tantalizing treat pellet stuck in the middle of an extremely sticky floor. I lay them out at night and in the morning gloat over the victims stuck in the gooey mess each wearing their best “oh shit!” face. Thanks to the sticky traps, I have identified that we are dealing with two types of roaches. Long, light brown ones (Cockroacheus Totallus Assholius) and a round, dark brown variety (Cockroacheus Completus Bastardius) of which the former is infinitely more stupid because they have been known to run INTO the tunnel when the light is turned on. We have coupled this with those plug-ins that emit a high-frequency sound that is supposed to drive pests out of your home. We used them at the print shop with great success to combat a vermin problem. The jury is still out as to whether they’re keeping down the roach population, but at least we needn’t be worried about an infestation of rats, mice, hamsters, or gerbils. And as a bonus, they have a blinking blue light so you know they’re working. We put them in the heads and they make great runway lights when you’re trying to find the toilet in the middle of the night.

A couple of days ago, the war was escalated with the introduction of Inse Control Gel.  Aside from the RAID, I’ve been trying to utilize as many non-toxic pest solutions as I can. Not because I’m morally opposed to full-scale roach slaughter but because there are pets on board and they do have their not-so-bright-moments. Like when Edgrrr got pissy because there was a dog hair in the water dish and swished his tail so furiously that he got it stuck in the roach tunnel. Or when Otter tipped over a bowl of borax trying to get to a container of margarita salt (don’t ask, we can’t figure it out ourselves.) But Inse Control Gel is the WMD of World War C. When I finished translating the text on the box, I read it to the Captain…”The gel is appetizing to the cockroach. To the consumed they do not feel poisoned therefore they do not loose their eggs so it comes to them and they all die.” “What does that mean?” he asked. “I have no idea.” I replied. “But I like that last part.” So carefully avoiding any areas where pets (or humans) could come into contact with it, I squeezed out little dollops of the appetizing gel (or as the translator app said, “treat balls”) in strategic areas around the galley. Best case scenario, it will cause mass genocide. Probable scenario, it will gradually deplete the population until time, tide, and even more lethal products finally eradicate them. Worst case scenario, the little bastards will use the gel to make foot ware that allows them safe passage across the sticky floor in the roach tunnel to get to the treat pellets.

Do we have a chance of winning the war? It may be a longshot, but as Han Solo so succinctly put it, “Never tell me the odds.”

The Extremely Long Fifth Siesta of the Third Voyage (Day 150-215) aka What the hell have we been doing all this time?

Many apologies, faithful Ravenaires, for the long and blogless period. I wish I could say that we’ve been busy brokering peace accords, curing cancer, and ending world hunger but unless scrubbing marine life out of strainers, eradicating roaches, and keeping the local bars in business count as humanitarian efforts then I guess there’s no excuse for not at least checking in now and again. Plus, I’ve had writer’s block and/or I’m sure you’re tired of us bitching about the heat, the mosquitos, and the roaches. Editor’s Update (and feel free to skip over if you’re tired of the aforementioned bitching) The magic switch was flipped and the weather is officially fabulous! Days in the mid-80s with low humidity and nights on the chilly side (and by chilly, I mean that t-shirts have replaced tank tops) have become the norm. Mosquitos? Still get the occasional bite, but vitamin B and double doses of antihistamine keep the discomfort to a minimum. And the great roach war? We’ve added Ortho to our regular RAIDing parties and have dispatched our new secret weapon: Borax. Supposedly, it not only boosts your laundry detergent, it butt-kicks your pests as well. A light sprinkling on the counters—perhaps a tempting little sugar cube in the middle—and the borax gets stuck on their legs. When they get back to the nest, they clean their legs and promptly die. And because roaches aren’t just nasty, they’re uber nasty, the live ones eat the dead ones…and promptly die. Editor’s Note to the Editor’s Update: if you’re one of those people that think that’s cruel, then instead of Borax, I’m sending the next roach down to the nest with a one-way ticket to your house.

So best to start with current events:  the Deck Boss had surgery! Ten years ago, in her lubber days, the Deck Boss had this great idea to take down a window shutter right after a heavy rain. Soggy ground, cheap plastic step stool. What could possible go wrong? Quite a lot, actually. Having thoroughly destroyed her right knee and everything below it, she dragged herself to the back patio and called my dad who promptly fell and, given his health problems at the time, could not get back up. By the time the Captain and I got over there, I had two parents splayed on the family-room floor and immediately thought aloud, “Is this a test?” Luckily, a Sophie’s Choice was averted as it was quickly apparent that my mother could not be moved and so an ambulance was called. Three hours of surgery, one titanium rod, nine screws, and three months of immobility/rehab and she was finally back on her feet. Fast forward ten years and the ensuing knee pain became unbearable. How unbearable? Let’s just say that I come from a long line of not-so-silent sufferers—and married into a family of them. Scenario:

NSSS: My God! The pain is excruciating! I may die!

Me: Do you want to see a doctor?

NSSS: Nah. I’m okay.

(Repeat as needed.)

I, on the other hand, believe that if there’s a pill for what ails, then who am I to poo-poo possible relief.

At any rate, the fact that she visited a doctor at all should give some idea of her distress. And so it was that we made an appointment to see Dr. Gutierrez. Now at this point, some of you are probably thinking (and I say this because people here actually asked us), “You’re having the surgery done in Mexico?”, “You’re not going back to the US for this?”, “Do they even have doctors in Mexico?”, “Aren’t you worried about the drug cartels?” (This comes up in most conversations with our friends to the north.) And our answers are, “Yes.”, “No.”, “Of course.”, and “Really?” Some may assume that healthcare here is “third-world”, but that is unequivocally not the case. Both Dr. Gutierrez and Dr. Marron McNaught, the orthopedist who performed the surgery, are highly educated, speak English fluently, and have stellar reputations. The facility was clean, modern, and had a higher ratio of staff to patient than most US hospitals. The procedures are progressive—having the metal removed from her leg was secondary to repairing the knee which entailed removing the calcification, smoothing out bone spurs, and taking stem cells out of her hip and injecting them into the knee to regenerate new tissue. And the cost? Sit down because this will blow your mind. Four pre-procedure consultations, X-rays, lab work, EKG, the surgery itself including the anesthesiologist, hotel stay for post-op recovery, and all medications: approximately $3500. This is why places like Puerto Vallarta are turning into “medical tourism” destinations. Come here for a procedure that’s probably less than your US healthcare deductible, then recuperate in paradise. Oh, and the doctors make house calls. Mind blown.

She was having some trouble with the crutches, so to get the Deck Boss from the taxi to the hotel room, we “appropriated” a chaise lounge from the pool. The Captain doesn’t just think outside of the box, he crushes it and spits on its carcass.

So the total time lapse between the first consultation with Dr. Gutierrez and the surgery itself was about one month. And that’s only because we had already planned another sojourn back to the states—this time to Corpus Christi, Texas, where the Deck Boss grew up and where many of her friends still live. It was important to make an appearance so she could prove to them that she was still alive and somewhat sane after a year and a half of voyaging. On our way back, we stopped and spent three days in Mexico City. First impression from the airplane? Good God, that’s a lot of humanity! Mexico City and its surrounding municipalities sits in a large valley in the high plateaus of central Mexican and every square inch of said valley is covered in dwellings. House after house after building after building—all crammed with humanity…21 million people worth of humanity. Second impression? It’s one beautiful city. And not at all what I expected. I was expecting Tijuana on steroids, but it’s is more like a microcosm of Europe. Castles, palatial homes, cathedrals, wide boulevards, big open green spaces, and extravagant public buildings abound. After three hundred years of Spanish rule, it’s a given that much of the architecture reflects old-world Spain. But as the Second Mexican Empire was ruled by the French, there are entire sections of the city that wouldn’t look out of place in Paris. The Palacio de Bellas Artes out-neoclassicals anything from Italy. The modern skyscrapers could be from Germany. And the hotels are brought to you by IKEA. Intersperse this with a bit of pre-colonial Mexico (think Aztec meets hacienda), sprinkle it with an abundance of monuments, add a liberal dose of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, and garnish with millions of people and you have Mexico City. Outside of the city proper is another story. Endless neighborhoods full of small, boxy homes packed tightly together, each painted a different bright color and sporting a satellite dish in a complimentary color—some middle class, some lower, some with a hint of squalor, but all with character. One particularly poor outlying municipality is split by a multilane highway, so the government installed a gondola—like the kind you’d see at a ski resort—to go over it. Now the people can get from their homes on one side to the markets on the other in about 15 minutes. It may look like the barrio version of Aspen, but it did cut the commute time by about 90 minutes.

The people of Mexico City were friendly, but much more aloof. But it’s not something to take personally. I think it’s a big city thing—the go-go-go mentality. The people walk faster, talk louder, and seem more preoccupied. And in the early evenings, everyone gathers in the parks so they can walk, talk, and be preoccupied together. And they all have a car. All 21 million of them. The honking, beeping, tailgating, stalling, edging, blocking, and near-miss side swiping was unbelievable. The Captain and I did one of those Hop On/Hop Off tours where you ride a double-decker bus, get off at someplace that looks interesting, and when you’re done, you just hop on the next bus that comes by. In between there is audio commentary and you can sit on the upper deck and try not to get hit by low-hanging branches and powerlines. Unfortunately, this was late Friday afternoon. So it was more like a “Hop On/Sit in Traffic for Three Hours While You Slowly Freeze to Death” tour. Where was the Deck Boss? After we spent a good portion of the day clambering up the hillside to visit Chapultepec Castle, she hobbled up to her hotel room with a bottle of wine and “hopped into” bed.

Atop the Hop On/Hop Off bus. We sat in this intersection for a good fifteen minutes so a photo seemed to be in order. I think this company must own every radio station in Mexico. In the time it took us to get across the street, they had acquired five more.

The next day we did something a little different. If you ever find yourself in Mexico City, do yourself a favor and take an extra day to travel outside the city to Teotihuacan, the ancient Mesoamerican city that’s home to three major pyramids including the Pyramid of the Sun, third largest in the world after the Great Pyramid of Cholula in Puebla, Mexico, and that other one in Egypt (you know, the one with the better publicist.)

At the city’s height—around 400 AD or so—Teotihuacan had something like 250,000 citizens. What was fascinating was that it was a planned city with large plazas, markets, artisan and trade workshops, paved streets, and a sewer system. The people lived in what can best be described as apartment buildings—first class buildings were nearest the temples, the other classes spread out from there. Only 7% of the city has been excavated but the size is still notable. And obviously, the main draw is the Pyramids along the Avenue of the Dead.

During their heyday, the three major pyramids—Pyramid of the Sun, Pyramid of the Moon, and Temple of the Feathered Serpent—would each have been covered in limestone, adorned with colorful mosaics, and topped with an elaborate temple. The view from the top—250,000 inhabitants (the old-world equivalent of seeing 21 million people from an airplane)—must have been impressive. Probably, the only one not impressed would have been the virgin being hefted up the 100+ steps to the temple to be sacrificed to the deity du jour. “All these people and I’m the one getting lugged to the top? I knew I should have checked off the ‘Harlot’ box on the questionnaire.” they’re probably thinking. Surrounding the major pyramids were hundreds of “ceremonial platforms” which were basically baby pyramids with their own temples dedicated to their own gods. And each of them got a virgin, too. Archeologists differ as to how many sacrifices would be performed but it wasn’t uncommon in Mexico for each temple to have one daily sacrifice. So with, say, 300 temples at one virgin each (two on special occasions) over 365 days that comes to…a sh*t ton of virgins. Most victims came from neighboring tribes, others were procured through war, and quite a few came courtesy of the local families. As they started running out virgins I’m sure the standards became a little lax. Virgin Procurer: “Are you, or have you ever been, a virgin? You have? Okay, come with me then.”

Like many other Mayan and Aztec cities, the population just kind of disappeared one day. It could be they ran out of people to sacrifice and when the last two sacrificed each other, that was it. Or maybe they just moved the party south (into virgin territory so to speak). However, archeologist have noted that in the 7^th century the city was sacked and burned…but only the nice parts of town. In other words, the rabble turned on the elite. Probably because they kept all the good virgins for themselves.

But at any rate, what’s left of the city is awesome and if you don’t mind a thigh-burning climb up and a stomach-churning skooch down, you too can stand atop the pyramids where the ancient Aztecs stood and take in the same view. I took in the view and it is indeed breathtaking. The Captain, who suffers from extreme acrophobia, took in the view for approximately 15 seconds before handing me the camera and quickly making his way back down. He said later that going down was easier than going up because the faster you descend, the less steps there would be to smack your head on if you fell—and that’s a great motivator. I asked one of the guides how many tourists fall down the steps each year, but he very diplomatically waved off the question and instead said, “The priests would cut out the still-beating heart, then tip the body over the side and let it roll down the steps.” Which I think is guide speak for “history repeats itself a lot here.”

We visited Teotihuacan through Amigo Tours and would highly recommend it. Be forewarned though: they start early to get a jump on traffic (this tour takes eight hours; the tours that start later are 11 hours because…traffic.) and they have this nifty little trick wherein after clambering about the pyramids in the hot sun for four hours, they stop for a “tequila tasting” on the way to lunch. After one to two shots each of three different tequilas on an empty stomach, you’re set loose in the gift shop. Needless to say, we bought two bottles.

Pyramid of the Moon:  Pre-tequila

Pyramid of the Moon: Post-tequila

On our final night in Mexico City, The Captain and I were witness to a demonstration. About four hundred protestors from one of Mexico’s many political parties were calling on the government to release documents in regards to the 43 students missing since 2014. They were impassioned, they were loud, and apparently, they were hungry. They had marched the full length of the Paseo de la Reforma to their final rallying point at the Benito Juarez Monument in Alameda Park—about 9 miles. Trundling along beside them were dozens of food cart vendors, selling everything from chalupas to tortas to sodas. That’s what I love about the Mexican people: they find an opportunity in every situation—good, bad, or otherwise.  I can just imagine the scene in Teotihuacan…a body, devoid of heart, tumbling down the steps of the great Pyramid of the Sun. It comes to rest at the bottom. A throng of people stand in silence until a lone voice cries out, “Tamales!” 

Riot police wait for the protestors…and the taco trucks.

Meanwhile, back at the boat...

                                                            

Edgrrr up to no good. As per usual.

Because apparently the water in his dish isn't as tasty as the toothpaste cup.

 

Want to see the “real” photos of our trip to Mexico City?  Go to the page marked “Totally Not Boring Travel Slides”

The Fourth Siesta of the Third Voyage (Day 110-150): In which, unfortunately, there is a downside to paradise.

Admit it, you read that title and thought, “Oh great. More bitching about the heat.” But I’m going to throw you a curve. The climate here does takes some getting used to (I’m thinking about ten years till I can go a day without using the words “heat”, “humidity”, and “Hot feet! Hot feet! Hot feet!”) but in all honesty, I really don’t mind it. Summer is considered the low season here in PV and as a result, there is only about 30% occupancy in all of the bay area. We have yet to wait in line at a restaurant, bar or shop. A taxi is always available. The beach is empty enough that we can let Otter play in the surf off-leash without alarming the other patrons. And the marina is quiet at night. Let’s just say that it’s easier to take the heat when you can cool off by yourself under the waterfall in a quarter-acre size pool. But, alas, paradise does come with its own drawbacks. A Trifecta of Terror if you will—two of which I have already touched upon. Aside from mosquitos and the little creatures that gum up your air conditioning hoses, there is one other entity that forms the Axis of Evil (well…four if you count T-Mobile). I’m talking of course about the ubiquitous cockroach.

We’re not sure when they arrived or why they chose us (although our well-stocked bar IS quite notable), all I know is that they’ve become the bane of my existence. Now the Deck Boss grew up in South Texas aka cockroach country so she knows a thing or two about the nasty buggers. She also knows that eradicating them is practically impossible, which is why her best advice for dealing with cockroaches is to name them. Fair enough. Let’s name them. It’s easier to kill “Succubus” than one of the nameless rabble. Editor’s Note: The Deck Boss found one in her bed one night. I think she named him “Victim”. 

So I spend my days RAIDing nooks and crannies, setting traps, and putting a coffee grounds/cinnamon/clove mixture amongst the food in the pantry (on the plus side it’s kept them out of the pantry; on the minus side it looks like a sugarplum fairy took a dump.) At night I go on roach patrol. I tiptoe into the galley with my can of RAID and flip on the light. There’s always one that freezes for a split second then makes a quick break for the edge of the counter. Like any good marksman, it’s important to shoot ahead of your target to counter his speed and trajectory. Barring a direct hit, the poisonous fog it just scuttled through will be enough to slow it down for the double tap. Then it’s on the next one because roaches, like dachshunds, always come in pairs. Moving a couple of containers will generally send the other one scurrying out. He’s easier to dispatch because it’s hard to run quickly when you’ve just pooped your pants. A scan of the other counters and a couple of warning shots into the corners and it’s mission accomplished. If I had just one word of advice to the makers of RAID it would be that every can should come with a holster so you could totally twirl that bad boy before sliding it back onto your belt.

For those roaches that are too cowardly to come out and fight like a pest, I’ve got bait traps strategically placed around the galley and in the heads (and by strategically I mean every twelve inches.) These are like the old Roach Motels (“Roaches check in but they don’t check out.”) except these are more like roach crack houses where they score some bad dope, take it back to the nest, and everyone od’s. So when I see a roach, I’m always in a quandary…should I wait for him to visit the dealer and deliver his deadly package to the masses or just RAID him right now? And then I remember hearing that for every one roach you see, there are a thousand lurking below—presumably sending out more scouting parties--and immediately hit him with a double dose.

Recently we’ve added something new to the arsenal. Costco sells an all-purpose cleaner (with a fresh lemon scent!) that does double duty as a repellent. It only came in vat size but when it comes to roach warfare, anything is worth a try. So I spent an entire afternoon washing down cabinets, counters, floors and sinks. That night I walked in on a record seven roaches. They were erratic, confused and had a distinct case of “Hot feet! Hot feet! Hot feet!” It took less than five minutes to add another seven notches on my belt. The Captain figures they were driven from their home by the RAIDing I had done earlier, attracted by the bait, repulsed by the all-purpose cleanser (with a fresh lemon scent!), got high on the drug cocktail, and freaked out. The next night there were no roaches. I have won this battle. We’ll see about the war.

You're going down, esse!

You’re not a true expat until T-Mobile kicks you out of the country.

We had a little trouble with our cell phone company. Now the obvious question is…why the hell would we go with T-Mobile in the first place? And I’d say that there was a method to our madness. You see, while Verizon and AT&T were busy trying to dominate the US, T-Mobile has been quietly taking over the rest of the world. Which would be beneficial to us beings how the rest of the world is where we want to be. Sound judgement to be sure. Why else would we venture into one of their stores aka “a pink neon discotheque where you can hardly hear over the thumping baseline” and put the fate of our communications into the hands of someone who spends their entire paycheck at Forever 21.

Now I can’t speak for the other cell phone companies (except for Sprint…because apparently we’ve made it a habit of backing the losing horse) but getting a straight answer and/or the truth out of anyone at T-Mobile is like trying to get defense secrets out of the Pentagon. They run their company on a need-to-know basis and plausible deniability aka “complete ignorance” starts from the ground up. The front line aka “disco kids” at the store know just enough to sell you on the service aka “if the customer asks if the plan can [fill in the blank], the answer is always ‘yes’.” We found out they were full of shit when our “International Plan Including Mexico and Canada” did not in fact cover Canada (well, to be fair, we had free text messaging, but no phone; which is great when you’re trying to arrange for the fabrication and international shipping of a manifold in 100 characters or less.) Not to suffer the same fate in Mexico, we visited a T-Mobile in San Diego and got confirmation from the manager aka “I’ve been here three years, sold the most plans, and have earned my Level 1 Clearance” that our international plan would indeed provide us with unlimited talk, text and data in/to/from Mexico and all points south. We found out he was full of shit when we got charged for calls made to the harbormaster in Ensenada. So we called a customer service rep aka “I can’t answer a question if it goes off the phone script but I do have Level 2 Clearance” and was told that the manager had misspoke (which is T-Mobile speak for “he had no idea what you were asking but knew that the answer was always ‘yes’.”) She informed us that we shouldn’t have been on the “International Plan Including Mexico and Canada” but rather the “International Plan Plus Mexico and Canada”. Whatever, Ernestina. Sign us up before the second ringy-dingy. Fast forward four months and we are each informed via text message that we have violated the terms of our agreement and will be cut off. We are given a special number to call (roaming charges may apply) and put in touch with a customer service rep with Level 3 Clearance. This is where we learn that buried deep down in the fine print is a clause which states that you can only qualify for an international plan if you’re not planning on actually being out of the country. The Captain naturally takes umbrage and gets in contact with someone with Level 4 Clearance. He tells her that everyone we talked to knew our intentions—that we would be leaving the country and not coming back—and all assured us that the plan would be fine. She told him he was “misinformed” (which is T-Mobile speak for “Thank God the fine print is only available online so we can change it at will”) and that the plan was only good if we were going to be spending HALF our time in a foreign country. When The Captain asked if anything could be done, she suggested we send our phones to a relative in the US and have them use them a couple weeks each month aka “the stupidest thing we’ve ever heard.”

As you can imagine, this didn’t sit too well with The Captain. Long story short, a customer service rep with Level 10 Clearance informed him that we are forthwith banned from T-Mobile. Next time you go into one of their stores, look for our mug shots. I’m sure they’re there behind the dj booth.

Out of the frying pan. Into the tortilla maker. Now I wish that this story had a happy ending in that we rode off into the sunset with our new Mexican carrier, Telcel, but if there’s something that Mexico does well it’s that it adds a whole new level to “que?” With some exceptions (read: 18-month contracts), Telcel operates on a pay-as-you-go system. Daily, weekly, and monthly plans are available—most with unlimited talk and text, but all with miniscule amounts of data. Fine for the average person, but when you use your phone for emailing, translating languages, checking exchange rates, utilizing GPS, checking the weather, and occasionally catching up on US news (shudder), it’s amazing how quickly those 1.5 gigs get eaten up. Extra gigs may be purchased and are good for 30 days but run concurrent with your base plan (which may only be a 20-day plan because it’s more cost effective to just add the extra gigs) so you must be vigilant about both deadlines so that you a) don’t end up with data but no talk/text or b) lose your extra data because your base plan got ahead of you. Confused yet? It gets better. They provide three ways to see how much time and/or data you have left but none of them really work and when they do, they don’t match and/or have nothing to do with reality. So you really have no idea how much time/data you have until you get an ominous text message in Spanish and your phone ceases to work. Ready to renew your base plan and/or buy more gigs? That can be done via text message…AFTER you put money in your account. So you either have to go to a Telcel kiosk or take your chances online (where the Spanish equivalent of “Page Not Found” is prevalent), put money into your account, then send the text telling Telcel how much you want to buy. Didn’t get a confirmation text? Clear your calendar; you’ll be spending the next three hours at the Telcel store trying to get it sorted out. To be fair to Telcel…we’re only one month in (although I’ve already bought two packages of extra gigs…thank you, Microsoft, for downloading “updates” to my computer without my knowledge and blowing through four gigs in under fifteen minutes.) and I’m certain we’ll eventually get the hang of it. Until then, we’re getting to practice our Spanish a lot. The first thing we mastered? Telcel es frustrante, pero es major que T-Mobile. Chupa T-Mobile.”

Pictured: Manager at the San Diego T-Mobile "Store"

Honorable mention to the Beast of Bucerias.  About a month ago we received some sage advice from one of the locals. It went thusly, “You’ll see a lot of dogs, cats, horses and other animals but no matter how cute or how tame or how much they seem to want it…do not try to touch them!” In other words, unless you get the okay from the owner you don’t know if that dog is over-protective or just a stray. Street cats are probably not the friendliest of felines (and most likely fleabags to boot.) And, especially here in caballero-country, it’s just not polite to touch a man’s horse without first asking. Good advice not just for Mexico but for everywhere really. I bring this up because The Captain and I went to Bucerias one day and ended up taking a stroll along the beach after lunch. We passed by three boys playing in the surf. Watching them from the shore was a medium-size terrier-type dog sporting a blue harness and a distinct air of superiority. We passed him. He watched us pass. No muss, no fuss. Until we got a good 50 yards past him at which point he ran up on us like a flash and sunk his teeth into the back of my calf. He made a couple more passes at us and each time The Captain chased him off till he finally backed off. I was more in shock than injured although I did sport a well-formed goose egg with faint teeth imprints on the back of my leg for a couple of weeks. So there you go…don’t touch the animals. And if you don’t and they still act like jerks, it’s okay to drop-kick them in the ocean.

Artist's rendering of the Beast of Bucerias

And because I just can’t let it go. With the exception of the week when The Captain’s brother and his wife came to visit and brought a five-degree respite with them, it’s been incredibly hot. I know I’ve said this before, but I’m happy to report that it’s not just us being whiney. Several people who live here year-round have remarked that this has been one of the hotter summers on record. So in the succinct words of La-Z-Guana…

"Bleah."

The Third Siesta of the Third Voyage (Day 89-109): In which we’d like to address Los Elefantes en al Cuarto.

A few weeks ago there was a kidnapping in Puerto Vallarta. We know it made the rounds of the US media because friends and family started contacting us, some out of concern for our safety, others out of curiosity. For those that may have missed it, one of the sons of Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman and five of his companions were kidnapped at gunpoint from a restaurant on PV’s main drag. Now if you’re not up on your Mexican drug lords, El Chapo is the head of the Sinaloa Cartel, arguably the most powerful cartel in the world and the main supplier of illegal drugs to the US. The DEA has called him the “godfather of the drug world” while the US Department of the Treasury considers him the “most powerful drug trafficker in the world” (which is Treasury-speak for “He’s imported products into the US worth billions of dollars. Forget evading the DEA; he’s evading his taxes!”)

After having escaped from prison back in July 2015, El Chapo was recaptured this past January and is currently awaiting extradition to the US. So right now his organization is basically undergoing some leadership changes and rival cartels are taking advantage of the situation to get themselves a bigger piece of the pie. The popular consensus is that the perpetrators of the kidnapping were members of the Cartel Jalisco New Generation or CJNG (and no, I’m not using an acronym because I’m lazy (okay, maybe I am) but that’s what’s on their logo. Yes, they have a logo. Who knew?) Editor’s Note: what the US media didn’t report was that everyone was released after a few days of “negotiations”. What was negotiated is not exactly known because CJNG might have a logo but I don’t think they do many press conferences.

So far that’s been our one brush with violence and by “brush” I mean that we were familiar with the restaurant (having walked by it numerous times) so there’s that visceral connection that comes with personally knowing one part of the where/what/who equation. Editor’s Note: The restaurant, La Leche, stands out in that it’s a white pseudo-modernist structure with prominent black scroll markings (that and its name means “milk”). But I must admit, it was kind of exciting in a “you hear about it but does it really happen” kind of way. Because if security is the smoke, then whatever fire you’re being protected from is always in the back of your mind. And there’s a lot of security around here. It’s not uncommon to see military trucks driving around convoy-style, each filled with marines armed with assault rifles and at least one manning a mounted machine gun. The Federalis are prevalent on the highways where they randomly pull over vehicles to search for guns and drugs. All properties in Nuevo Vallarta and the hotel zone in PV are gated and have 24-hour security. All stores have uniformed guards and security cameras. Editor’s Note: We were leaving a Sam’s Club and there were two men armed with semi-automatic rifles at the exit. For a minute I thought, “Wow. They’re really serious about checking the receipts.” before I realized they were guarding another guy servicing an ATM machine (which prompted The Captain to remark, “Just how much cash do they keep in those things?”)

Now I must be honest. When we were planning the third voyage, we were going to fast-track Mexico. You hear all the stories, you see all the news footage, and the State Department travel warnings only add to the dilemma with their passive-aggressive…”Government employees are prohibited from travelling in certain area after dark. The rest of you? Do what you’re going to do. We can’t stop you.” (Thank you, US Government, for once again not being very helpful.) It’s so easy to get caught up in the hype, and I think that sells the whole country short. Because after three months, we’re so glad we decided to stay. Aside from the weather which does take some getting used to and some run-ins with aggressive vendors, we have not had a bad experience since we got here (weird and/or interesting incidents yes, but nothing that would make us want to cut our residency short.) Granted, we are in a town that’s heavily reliant on the tourist trade and it’s easy to feel warm and fuzzy when you know the local government is doing everything in its power to keep its visitors, expats and law-abiding citizens safe and happy. It’s likely that things will be different the farther south we go, and a healthy respect for current events will confine us to the more reputable ports and anchorages.

But as we all know, there is no “safe” place really. And I’m not talking about getting mugged, or being hit by a bus, or drinking the water (more on that later). I’m talking about getting caught up in the unfortunate downside of an otherwise great country—physically yes, but more psychologically. The odds are extremely low that we’ll get caught in any gang-related conflict, but hopefully we won’t scare ourselves out of seeing some really amazing places just because we think we might get hurt. Like anywhere else in the world, it’s important that we be smart, cognizant of our surroundings, and not take any unnecessary risks. In other words, we’ll just continue to enjoy ourselves and hope that cartels “keep to the code” and leave tourists and law-abiding citizens out of their endeavors (or as Jerry says to the gangsters in Some Like It Hot, “It’s none of our business if you guys want to bump each other off.”)

All that being said—and at the risk of contradicting myself—we will be bypassing Acapulco. Whereas many Mexican cities have recently dropped off the various “most dangerous cities” lists, Acapulco is currently sitting at #3 right behind Caracas, Venezuela and San Pedro Sula, Honduras. They call it Guerrero’s Iraq. Street killings, kidnappings, and other crimes associated with the drug trade have turned the city—including the previously safe tourist zones—into a battleground which even a heightened military presence can’t seem to abate. Foreign tourism has become virtually nonexistent (plummeting from 3.6 million in 1999 to less than 110,000 in 2014), Mexican tourists have taken to bringing weapons for protection, and armed military personnel now patrol the beaches (apparently jet skis have become a favorite mode of transportation for the modern assassin.) Even the US Government has outright forbidden its employees to travel there. I guess for once, we’ll go ahead and agree with them on this one (See? Pigs do fly!)

And as if we needed one, we also have another—more personal—reason to skip Acapulco. Apparently the Deck Boss contracted a nasty case of what she refers to as the “Aztec Two Step” during her last visit in 1951 and has harbored a grudge ever since (and as Canada can attest, she does know how to hold one—a year later and it’s still all about the eggs.) Now I had heard of Montezuma’s Revenge and even the Gringo Gallop, but never the Aztec Two Step. But a little research into travel articles written in the 1950’s unearthed a plethora of colorful euphemisms coined by travelers who just couldn’t not drink the water. Visiting the pyramids? Mind the Gippy Tummy. Istanbul? Watch out for the Turkey Trot. Visiting the Taj Mahal? Delhi Belly! Interestingly, the Mexican people have their own euphemism—the Turista. (That they don’t call it the Posterior Piñata is just a wasted opportunity.)

So Acapulco is out due to violence (of one kind or the other) but the rest of the Mexican Pacific coast is open for adventure. And if we have any mishaps? Well, I guess that what keeps this blog going.

Editor’s Note: Keep a copy of this blog entry. If we fall victim to Mexican cartel violence, it’ll be the ultimate in irony.

Pictured: The Mexican army in Nuevo Vallarta. That's an M60 mounted on the back. They should mount one with a t-shirt cannon and shoot D.A.R.E. shirts at unsuspecting passersby. "Stay off drugs, amigo!" PHOOMPH!

Pictured: Got milk? La Leche—where it all went down.

Not Pictured: Dairy Farmers of Mexico lamenting, "Great. We finally get people to consume more dairy products and then this happens."

Pictured: On the bus to PV about a week after the kidnapping. The group in front of us all pointed and started talking very excitedly as we passed La Leche. Proof that even the locals find this a bit of an anomaly. Coincidentally, they were on our bus on the way back to NV where they spent the entire time singing, "Who let the dogs out! Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!" So there you go.

Now because elephants always travel in herds, it’s time to discuss that other hot-button topic: Zika.

Mosquitos outnumber gang members by about a billion to one. So it stands to reason that you’re more likely to get a mosquito-borne illness than caught in the crossfire of warring cartels (unless you live in Acapulco where all the mosquitos packed up and left long ago—primarily for their safety but also to avoid the Bloodsucker Squirts.) 

In an earlier post, I blogged about the importance of using bug spray. Editor’s Note: I say “blogged” instead of “wrote” because the latter implies that I use correct grammar and punctuation. At that time, the emphasis was on comfort (because it’s hard to be comfortable when you want to rip your skin off) but of course the underlying motive is illness prevention. West Nile Virus was the big bad for years, but now it’s Zika. A lot has been reported about this latest in mosquito-borne maladies with the three biggest takeaways being that it’s spreading quickly, there is no vaccine, and for some that contract it the results will be devastating.

In Mexico, it’s not just Zika you have to watch out for. They’ve also got malaria, dengue fever, and some nasty piece of work called chikungunya down here. All come with a fever (which is a glorious thing to have when it’s 95 outside); a couple come with a rash; some have vomiting; and most throw in extreme joint pain for good measure. The severity (or even onset) of symptoms varies from person to person as does recovery time. So of course every time one of us gets bit, the “worst case scenario” prize wheel starts spinning and every ache, pain and bodily anomaly is heavily scrutinized. Editor’s Note: For a couple of days The Captain felt sluggish—just kind of blah—which we immediately attributed to yellow fever because that’s what happens when you live in a mosquito-infested environment and WebMD is your primary physician. But he quickly recovered, as did the Deck Boss from her sudden bout of cholera.

So what’s to be done? In the truest spirit of ounce of prevention/pound of cure, don’t get bit. Or at least put up a good fight. Apply bug spray, put screens on hatches and windows, make sure there is no standing water around like in a bucket or crevice or even a fold of canvas, treat door and companionway openings with insecticide, invest in some citronella coils or candles if you’ll be on deck after dark, and apply bug spray. The experts say that you should also wear long pants and long sleeves and long flowy things but in all honesty, I’d rather get bit. It’s fricking hot here! It’s only modesty that keeps me clothed at all.

Paradise Village does a pretty good job of spraying to keep the mosquito population down but when you’re dealing with a pest that can go on Tinder, hook up, get pregnant, lay 10,000 eggs in a puddle of water, and get back to the bar in a span of ten minutes, you’re kind of fighting a losing battle. 

We keep a can of OFF! next to the door and try to be good about spraying it on before going up on shore, especially if we’re taking Otter out. When doing his business, he prefers greenery. And because he likes to milk every last ounce of walking time, he will hold it till we are way off the resort property where the grass has gone wild, the trees hang low, and it’s perpetual spring break in mosquito-ville. It was out here where we first learned that when applying bug spray, you can’t just hit the major areas and hope the rest of you is protected by residual waft. The little bastards are adept at finding the one patch of skin that got missed—the chink in the armor if you will. I’ve returned from walks with a welt above my left eye and three bites on my middle toe. The Captain got bit underneath his watch—we’re still trying to figure that one out. And speaking of, animals get bit too. Otter is on Bravecta, but when out we try to keep mosquito contact at a minimum by walking him in a zig-zag pattern. Zig to a bush, lift a leg, zag back to the pathway, repeat. The longest time spent in the grass is for doing his duty. Which is why God forbid Otter should get into something dodgy. A raging case of the Doggie Doo-Dah-D’ohs! will keep his butt pinned to the ground for hours.

Suffice to say that Zika has already entered the pantheon of “reasons why mosquitos shouldn’t be allowed to exist.” Seriously, why are they here? Besides reproducing, drinking blood, and keeping bug spray companies in business, what purpose do they serve? And before someone pipes in with “they serve as food for other creatures”, I’m sorry but anything whose main goal is to wipe out the human race should have been eradicated long ago. Besides, those “other creatures” should take one for the team and eat flies instead—they’re annoying as hell, too.

Editor’s Note: Keep a copy of this blog entry. If one or more of us contracts a mosquito-borne illness that, too, will be the ultimate in irony. The only thing more ironic would be contracting Zika, then falling victim to cartel violence on the way to the market to pick up some Imodium.

Pictured:  One of a series of public service ads. This one is imploring people to wash food containers thoroughly to avoid inadvertently creating a mosquito breeding ground.

Not Pictured: A group of juvenile-delinquent mosquitos. Those pupas got their doo-rags on, their pants slung low, and their spray paint at the ready. There's gonna be some tagging tonight!

Pictured: Ground zero for mosquito-borne illnesses: the stagnant puddle of water. Brought to you by the chicken in the Walmart parking lot.

 

 

Special Editor’s Note: The Deck Boss would like to say “thank you” to everyone that commented on her last photo. We think she looks good, too.

We’re also happy to report that even though Dr. WebMD suggested she go immediately to the emergency room, the small pox cleared up on its own after two days.