Day 15-17 of the Third Voyage: In which we arrive in Paradise ahead of schedule, but I’m pretty sure we took a short-cut through Hades to get there.

We left Cabo around ten in the morning in anticipation of a 55-hour journey across the lower Gulf of California to Puerto Vallarta. This was based on an average sailing speed of 5 nm/hour which, given the weather forecast, seemed completely doable. You see, the Captain had reloaded our GRIB weather software onto the new MacBook (herein to be known as the MexiMac) and the forecast called for winds out of the NW at 12-15 mph. Not a lot of wind per se but given a sea swell of only six feet at 13 seconds apart, we figured it would be a relaxing albeit leisurely sail. Unfortunately, the winds never materialized. The wind gauge was registering speeds of four to five with the occasional six thrown in for good measure. After a while, it gave up trying to calculate speeds that low and just displayed “meh” on the screen. And so the diesel was fired up and off we chugged toward mainland Mexico.

Now it stands to reason that where there’s no wind, there’s no breeze—and we weren’t even motoring fast enough to create one. And as the day progressed and the sun rose ever upward in the sky—its rays radiating off water that just got bluer and bluer the further south we went—the temperature started to rise. It quickly went from warm to hot to downright uncomfortable to holy cow how do people live like this?! (You’ve heard the phrase, “Hot as Hades”? Even the imps were fanning themselves.) Keep in mind that we have spent the last quarter century in the Pacific Northwest (motto: In God We Rust) where the first day of summer is July 5^th (because it ALWAYS rains on the Fourth of July), it lasts about six weeks, and if the temps ever get into the 80’s you can be sure there’ll be a run on bottled water, air conditioners, and mesh shirts. So needless to say, some acclimation is in order.

But for now, we needed relief. So we put up part of the cockpit bimini to cut down on the direct sunlight and when that seemed to cool things down a degree or two, we decided to put up of the rest of it. Then as the sun started moving through the sky—its searing rays creeping underneath the bimini threatening to undo all our good—we pinned towels to the sides…then seat cushions, t-shirts, napkins, whatever we could get our hands on. I’m sure at one point we must’ve looked a little like one of those Chinese Junkets…or a floating blanket fort. 

But whatever we were dealing with outside was nothing compared to what was below. No breeze meant no air circulating down in the cabins. We kept the companion hatch and the side pilothouse door open to try to get something—anything—stirring, but were unsuccessful. We even tried opening some hatches—which after the great wave fiasco that necessitated the purchase of the MexiMac, we were loath to do—but that, too, proved futile. By late afternoon, it was about 95 degrees down below. We had to turn the Deck Boss over every fifteen minutes so she would roast evenly.

Needless to say, sleeping was difficult—which made for a long night. And it quickly became apparent that sleeping on deck would not be an option that night. The Captain, HMS Cliff, and I were doing three-hour watches and I had the nine to midnight. As I was scanning the horizon, monitoring the GPS, and watching the dark water glide by in the glow of our steaming lights, I had the weird sensation that I was getting taller. I reached up my hand and the bimini, which was usually about a foot above my head when standing, was now about three inches lower. It wasn’t raining. It was condensation from the humidity. I pulled some foulies out of the wet locker to sit on because nothing makes a three-hour watch miserable like a wet tush. By the time my shift was over at midnight, everything was damp and the humidity said, “Screw it; may as well just rain.” By the time HMS Cliff’s shift was over at 3:00 am, everything was soggy. When the Captain’s watch ended at 6:00 am, I’m pretty sure the mast had mildew.

Luckily, the next day was much kinder (or we were much smarter). Though still hot and unrelenting, the bimini kept the sun at bay and made things bearable. And by early afternoon we threw caution to the wind and turned on the air conditioning down below. We didn’t know if it would work (we’ve only ever used it at dock when plugged into shore power) but the condensers kicked in and we managed to get the interior temp down to a slightly-less-objectionable 82. The nighttime watches gave us a new sensation. For the first time ever—EVER—we didn’t need to put on extra clothes. No long pants, no shoes, no hoodies. It was that warm. Two o’clock in the morning and it’s warm! And not a weak, arid warm. A heavy, slightly sticky warm. One that says, “You thought today was hot? Wait till you see tomorrow. But for now…enjoy.”

About 7:00 the next morning, Banderas Bay came into view—about six hours earlier than planned. We found our way into Nueva Vallarta (about 4 nm north of Puerto Vallarta) and sidled into the guest dock at Paradise Village Marina. The sun was barely up and it was already hot and muggy and steam was rising off the water, but the foliage was lush, colorful flowers bloomed everywhere, and the cacophony of parrots and other exotic birds pierced the air.

When you’ve lived all your life in a temperate zone, it can be quite a shock to the system. We know it will take a while to get used to the climate. I guess it’s possible we’ll never fully acclimate. But given how beautiful it is, I can see why people live like this.

Pictured: 50 hours at sea makes a person hungry. The Captain about to tuck into a nine taco platter.

Not Pictured: The doggy bag. 50 hours at sea tends to make your eyes bigger than your stomach.

 

Pictured: Bananas! Just growing there along the pathway. Can you believe it?

Not Pictured: No, really. Bananas!

 

Pictured: An iguana! Just hanging out there along the pathway! Can you believe it?

Not Pictured: No, really. An iguana!

 

Okay...maybe some things will take a little longer to acclimate to.