Notes from the Passage

April 11

Pangaea and crew departed the Mexican coast April 9th, Wednesday night, for our south Pacific-bound passage of roughly 2800 nautical miles. Our first half day out was miserably windless and glassy and we clocked only 34 miles. Joining us as we bobbed and drifted were a host of sea turtles, lifting their heads to watch us float by, nodding in a knowing way, sympathetic to our slow pace. Running the engine isn't really an option as our fuel will need to last the entire way to keep our batteries charged and powered up. The refrigerator, the autopilot, the computer, and of course lights and stove, are pretty greedy for electrons. The solar panels are helping too, when the sun is shining....

On day two we meandered into some steady winds and have since been sailing on a broad to close reach. Our first full 24 hours saw us make 160 miles.

Much better.

Life conducted on a slant takes some acclimating, but we're gradually getting our sea legs, minimizing the shuffle and stagger. You quickly learn to brace, wedge and counterbalance. Negotiating the head (nautical for bathroom) remains a challenge. I won't go into detail.

We've been eating well, working strategically to consume the perishables, and trying to clear up a little space in our fully-packed refrigerator. Getting anything in or out of the fridge requires a solid capacity for geometric and spatial orientation. If you want an egg, the lettuce, spinach, cherry tomatoes, parsley and various cheeses will need to be unpacked first. If the mustard slips into the hole vacated by the deli meat, you may never see it again. You may wonder what we do with all the free time on a passage such as this. If you factor in the added time and energy required to do something as simple as change a pair of pants, or pour a glass of water, maneuver to the cockpit and jostle for a place to sit (not to mention attempt to get comfortable), you'll see that our time is equally precious.

Looking ahead, the weather forecast poses a bit of a dilemma. The usually steady and reliable northern trade wind belt (created by circulation about the Pacific high) is expected to dissipate in the next few days. These winds are our driving force to the equator so we may be facing slow days, and some tactical deviations, ahead. Currently, though, as we have just reported on the progress of our 2nd full day, we're happy to report a distance made of 182 miles. A day of beautiful weather and great sailing. Just now our wind seems a little less robust so we'll see where it takes us next...


April 14

Day 4 (and a half) and we're humming along. But let's review day 3 (and a half).

Yesterday, in the early morning twilight, Kristin and I heard a metallic object drop on the deck. After searching the deck for any missing pins or nuts, employing headlamps to examine the boom gooseneck and vang, Ben decided to check out the mast for the absence of anything important. So, we took turns hoisting him with the winch and up he went, under sail but in calm winds and seas. A model of bravery in my book. Anyway, the rig checked out ok, all parts accounted for. And of course this provided a good photo op, from both ends of the mast. The provenance of the metallic ping remains a mystery. An avian plot (as we’re often surrounded by birds) has not been ruled out.

Speaking of calm winds and seas, yesterday's progress was painstaking. We were sailing surprisingly well for want of any real wind, willing the boat forward despite the lollygagging conditions. Finally we hoisted the spinnaker for some extra power. It's a tricky affair learning to steer with a spinnaker, especially in light, fluky, fickle winds. None of us (the crew) were comfortable steering the "kite" at night so Ben valiantly pulled an all-nighter and, man, was he grinning. A 360-degree view of heaven, the billowing clouds and billowing kite backlit by the moon's silvery airbrush, like a starlet filmed through cheesecloth. Since then, with daylight, we crew are back on track with the spinnaker and learning how to keep the sail full (now sailing at 8 to 9.5 knots in 14-15 knots of breeze).

Ben struggled with whether to maintain yesterday's course, in winds half as strong as the weather files reported they should be, or whether to jibe and head due south (earlier than we had originally planned), in search of wind. But, as that course was getting us nowhere pretty quickly, he decided to do it - and now we're reaping the benefits. In fact, it looks like we might just have found the trade winds! Our next report will let you know whether this will have turned out to be the case, or simple optimistic exuberance.

Our current position (1900 UTC time) is 13 degrees, 53 minutes north, 113 degrees, 27 minutes west.

April 15

A daily delight has been the frequent visitations of our curious avian companions, mostly masked boobies, pink-footed shearwaters, Leach's storm petrels and a few others that we have struggled to identify. They approach in the morning, circle the boat in a meandering way for an hour or so, land on the water in an apparent conference of sorts, and float away. An hour or two later they return. They appear fascinated by the sails, and, we think, smitten with us. It didn't dawn on us until recently that perhaps their visits are more self-serving and less adoring. Our path through the water often disturbs flying fish, making an easy meal for the birds who await. Or perhaps they are playing a game. Whichever booby pooped on our spinnaker no doubt scored points for his bull's eye. Are they using the wind off the sails as an aerodynamic elevator? Just now we've observed a different kind of game, as a shearwater circles in a spiraling way (clockwise, in case you're wondering) until he kamikazes just ahead of the bow, and swoops back up to a soar. Several times he has also approached the spreaders of the mast, hovering near this moving target in an attempt to land. He thinks better of it and sets back to circling.

Yesterday's great excitement was stirred by the joyous approach of a large pod of dolphins. Really, a lot of dolphins -- I mean it. Maybe a hundred? What enthusiasts! They leapt, darted and competed for a ride at the bow -- gymnasts with a sunny disposition. I imagine them to always be smiling, and I always smile back. They were preceded by a large flock of birds, likely tracking the dolphins' whereabouts as a beacon for hapless fish prey below the waves.

In fact, we wonder how far out along our Pacific trek the birds will be chaperoning us. Over the past couple days we have been sailing over an extensive seamount -- an area of submarine peaks and ridges that create shallows and upwelling currents -- a haven for fish, and their respective predators. This underwater mountain range is named Mathematicians Seamount, a conglomerate of Newton’s, Euclid’s, Lagrange’s and others. We’ve passed over many seamounts off the Mexican coast, always the destination for sport fishermen. Now, of course, we’re quite a way off shore, so it’s only us and the sea life. (We haven’t seen a ship in days). Once we pass this seamount, will we encounter this much sea life? We’ll soon find out.

In the meantime, we manage our daily tasks pleasantly, but not always gracefully. A recent change in course has us at the mercy of swell and waves from the side. We’re rocking, roaring and cruising right along. The heat is a constant bedfellow, but steady over the past couple days. The trick is to sprawl out just so – limbs akimbo, avoiding contact with your sweaty neighbor. Evenings are better…but not much.

My Dad and Kristin were the guinea pigs for solar showers in the cockpit. A sudsy floor compounded by the boat’s motion made for a slip and slide adventure for the two of them. From below Ben and I heard frequent peals of laughter to suggest the process was fun, in the least, and luckily lead to no lasting injuries. Meanwhile, he and I were working on a quick sail repair, as we had torn the foot of the spinnaker during a jibe. No major structural importance for the sail itself, and the repair went smoothlhy.

So, our current position (1900 UTC time) is 13 degrees, 20 minutes north, 118 degrees, 53 minutes west. We’re on a rhum line to our next way point, 900 miles away, where we’ll turn due south to cross the doldrums. More on that later….

April 19

We are speed demons. We all let out a cheer when we surfed down a wave at 17.03 knots. Shortly thereafter, Ben suggested we might consider taking a reef (ie, shortening the sails). After taking the reef, it still appeared we could tow a water skier, and now it was dark out. So, we took down the jib top. Since then we've been humming along at a more sedate, but more tolerable for the nerves of the crew, 8 - 9 knots with a single-reefed main sail alone. Not that the weather is dark and stormy. Really it's just steady, in the way trade winds tend to be. Dark clouds do occasionally threaten, but we've only had a couple sprinkles of rain, and one episode of sheet lightning (on my watch, of course). We are now, officially, HALF WAY THERE, having sailed 1238 nautical miles fo far, and we're one day out from our way point, where we'll take a left turn and head as due south as the wind and sails will allow. Headed straight for the doldrums. Fee fi fo fum.

We've had our eyes on the prize. For a monohull sail boat, that would be a 200 mile day. This is calculated simply as a straight line from point A to point B, and so underestimates the true distance, as a sailboat never sails in a straight line. But, we still fall short. Anything over 180 miles in a day is to be appreciated though, and we've reported now 4 of those (183 miles, 195, 183, and today's 191). We'll see if it is yet to be done...

We hooked two fish a couple days ago, but lost both when reeling them in. Then we neglected to take up the line as night fell and, as we were flying 17 knots down the wave, it disappeared. Oops. Lures don't really like to be dragged along at that clip.


A malaise has settled over us. Don't worry, we are neither depressed nor despondent, simply lazy. And really, that comes with the territory on a passage. When we wake up for the morning (a relative term dependent on one's watch schedule), we'll usually contemplate what one task needs to be completed. Anything exceeding the ONE task can not be expected to get done. So, for me, it will be cleaning the bathroom today. After that, if I'm not steering the boat or preparing a meal, I fully expect to be lounging -- napping, reading, chatting, sleeping (as distinct from napping). We could blame the weather, but that would be only partially true. Though these days the cloud cover has given us some relief from the sun's intensity (It's only 81.9 degrees in the cabin, as opposed to 84)

Speaking of watches, here's how we've divvied them up: Kristin 6 -9 (am and pm), Dad 9-12, Ben 12-3 and me 3-6. Our auto pilot ("Otto") has been doing a fabulous job,on occasion outperforming some of us crew. But, sadly, he's now on sick leave (we hope temporarily), as he's got a bit of an alignment problem. Ben knows what to do to fix it, but we need to wait until calmer wind and seas to get it done. In the meantime, hand steering it shall be.

April 23

We are no longer speed demons. Welcome to the doldrums.....

To review the days preceding, though:

We took a left turn a little west of our waypoint, trying to position ourselves for the ITCZ zone to come. The cloud cover became gradually denser and increasingly ominous. A little more lightning, but no close calls. Little squalls would come and go, but none carried big wind shifts below. Finally, two days ago we got the real weather, with rainfall of biblical proportions and wind howling at a decent clip. The helm required more muscle to keep us on track so Ben and my Dad braved the forces while Kristin and I holed up below decks. Regardless, everyone was soaked. Soggy layers were stripped off, replaced by dry clothes, which there then, again, thoroughly soaked. With the hatches and companionway closed, we had a virtual steam bath in the cabin. Can you say muggy? The wind and rain abated about 4 hours later, and we set to trying to dry ourselves out. Dinner was simple fare that night.

The next day (yesterday now), the wet wool blanket cloud cover finally lifted, giving us back our searing direct sun, and an ever-changing view of cotton candy clouds. Our soggy selves dried in short stead. We occupied ourselves with cooling measures when not on watch, and enjoyed gin and tonics and the pate supplied by the Souquet family for a leisurely "cocktail" hour before dinner.

Ben said something he shouldn't have, though. "I think we punched through the ITCZ already." Famous last words. Come yesterday evening, the wind became squirrely and confused, like it couldn't remember what it had come to this corner of the globe to do. It then shrugged and wandered away. Actually, we were just getting our first glimpse of the ITCZ. For those of you who haven't sailed, you should know that it is much more fun to steer a boat that's moving. The wallow and swing, left at the mercy of any wave's whim, is a frustration. By the end of my first watch last night, I was cranky and peevish. Oops, a slip in morale.

The views, though, are spectacular in this dead calm dead zone. The clouds gather and tower, white and angelic, or dark and foreboding. Squalls march right on by, dumping more rain and giving us a brief period of wind to sail. And they can't really sneak up on you. Finally, at 4 am, we turned on the engine. We've been using our fuel stores efficiently and have some to spare for just such an occasion. Can you envision the mid-oceanic Pacific to be glassy? Well, believe it. I guess it was named Pacific for a reason.

Now that we have calm winds and seas, though, this gave Ben an opportunity to attend to "Otto." The good news first: the autopilot appears to be, in and of itself, functional. The bad news is: the rudder is stiff in one direction (Ben speculates due to algal growth or an issue with the rudder bearings) so he doesn't want put "Otto" in a compromising position, at odds with the force of the rudder. So, he plans to dive on the rudder once we're in port and anchored but, in the meantime, it looks like we'll be finishing out the last 2/3 of our crossing with a constant hand on the tiller. With four people to share the load, that's not so bad.

Our supply of fresh meat and produce is now dwindling (but not officially dwindled). Tomatos, avocados, cucumbers and oranges are no longer with us, the last of the lettuce was dumped overboard this morning, and the carrots suffered my error in judgment, having become pure mush when stored in plastic. So meals are getting a bit more creative. Despite this we've been eating in style, with compliments to Ben, on dinner duty, all around. Last night: omelets with carmelized onions, roasted peppers, sausage and gruyere, served with roasted potatoes. Yum.

But what awaits?! As of this writing, we are now 98 nautical miles from the EQUATOR! As you know, cause for celebration. We will report on this soon!

Current position: 1 degree 38 minutes north, 132 degrees 29 minutes west. (0300 UTC time).

April 25, 2008

Here we are, down under, where people walk upside down and toilets flush in reverse. Our momentous crossing occurred yesterday at 6:15 pm, as the sun was preparing to set. And we were prepared. We had appetizers and champagne, cameras on the ready, and festivities planned. We even had a short but much appreciated increase in wind, which made sailing a pleasure instead of a slog, and gave us a breeze to cool by. In short, it was a beautiful afternoon and spirits were high.

Ben was disappointed to find that the equator itself, while indicated by an orange line on the charts, is not really orange. It appears it is the same blue as the surrounding sea, making identification of the demarcation reliant upon our GPS. We ticked off the miles, then tenths of a mile.....and finally arrived -- latitude 00 degrees, 00.0000 minutes north (and/or south). We crossed at longitude 133 degrees 17.79 minutes, in case you're wondering.

As mariners have long celebrated the occasion, so did we. King Neptune presided over the ceremony, introducing our vessel and its crew to the creatures of the southern latitudes. He appeared enrobed and crowned, carrying a trident of brilliant silver. King Neptune requested that members of the crew present him with a doggerel verse or poem for the occasion, which he then judged. Ben, as captain, presented the crew with certificates of equatorial passage, and we all thanked Pangaea for having taking us there safely. Ben followed with a quiz, geofacts about the equator itself, which none of us passed. (In case you didn't already know, 9 countries straddle the equator: Ecuador, Colombia, Brazil, Indonesia, Uganda, Gabon, Somalia, Kenya, and Rep. of Congo). Anyway, I didn't already know. The ceremony was concluded by a long-time (eons long) Ferguson family tradition, an oral history that stretches back generations, detailing the accomplishments of our ancestor, the giant, Fergus. In this account we were introduced to our more ancient, and more giant, ancestor Ferg, who roamed the earth back when all continents were conjoined...... To cap off the evening Ben cooked a darn tasty pasta dish, with bacon and sausage in a tomato base. After dinner we used my handy planisphere (thanks Kristi!) to orient ourselves with the southern skies. The Southern Cross indicates our way.

So now we come to....today. I've mentioned calm winds and seas, remember? Well, this is now day 3. We are officially becalmed, with winds ranging 2 - 5 knots. Ben is remarkably talented at making Pangaea inch ever forward despite the dismal conditions. An added challenge is 1 knot of current acting against us as well, though we appear to be breaking through the cross-current, at long last. The bummer is, this is officially the southern trade winds, and it appears to be worse than the doldrums we just passed through en route to the equator. The weather forecast predicted 10 knots of breeze in this region -- we'd love to find those 10 knots if we could. As we were speeding along prior to the ITCZ, our hopes were high for a fast passage, but these past 3 days have taught us not to count our chickens..... On the bright side, we have 584 nautical miles left to traverse so there's a light at the end of the tunnel.

Anyway, it looks like there will be plenty of time for more passage notes to come....

Our current position: 1 degree 11 minutes south, 133 degrees 37 minutes west.

April 26

Today is Ben's birthday, as good a day as any to sing his praises, as he has been the STAR of the voyage.

It's no exaggeration to say that Ben's seamanship, judgment and intuition are top notch. He has an uncanny ability to keep Pangaea humming along in almost any condition of wind and sea. The doldrums, the vast expanse of it, presented perhaps the biggest challenge, and yet we managed to keep on keeping on. A little tweak of sail trim here and there brings about immediate and noticeable results, and even the faintest breeze on the cheek is translated into speed. His need for speed is not a mark of impatience, as he keeps his cool and steady morale even when becalmed. More than anything he loves the process of milking the wind's power and making the most of whatever we've got. It seems a perfect balance between a deep, second nature understanding of sail theory, and a "feel" and a "touch" that must also be innate.

But a captain must be so many things besides a sailor. He's a navigator, a meteorologist, a boss and an example. Throw in instructor as well, as Ben has enjoyed teaching us crew the finer points of helmsmanship to boot. Ben studies the charts, the wind speed and direction, sail configuration and the forecasts, and mulls it all over until we've got a plan. How to account for and optimize it all. He pays attention - any shift in conditions is considered, and the skies are scanned for what weather this way comes. Who's to say which decision will be the right one until reviewed in retrospect. Well, in retrospect, Ben has made an awful lot of right decisions.

When a sacrifice of sleep is called for, Ben's more than happy to comply. He's endured more than one sleepless night and, somehow, inexplicably and unncecessarily, maintains an upbeat mood. It's not like we'd begrudge him a little grumpiness but, no need. And then, of course, he has to manage US, the crew. He's patient, persistent, flexible and gracious, taking our slip-ups and inattentions in stride, with just the occasional sigh or grimace. And I haven't even mentioned his cooking.

For those of you who know him well, you'd sure smile to see Ben in his element. His nerve endings are all atingle and alert, his temperament is even, his morale is good and his spirits are high. If a person could glow, Ben would be brilliant.

From me, an ocean of gratitude. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEN!!

April 27

A brief update on our whereabouts:

And, you could set your clocks because the countdown begins....

As of this writing, we are only 267 nautical miles from our destination. IF we maintain our current pace, we would arrive in 1.5 days, Tuesday morning, shortly after sun-rise. Oh, yes, about our pace. You have surmised correctly -- we have escaped the doldrums!! The wind picked up two days ago, carrying us further south and west, through one squall after another. They're a wet affair, but make for spectacular skies. We are currently sailing 8 knots in 11 knots of breeze. Respectable progress. Hallelujah!!

Oh, and about our destination. We had planned to make landfall on the island of Fatu Hiva, but have since changed our sites and have settled on Nuku Hiva, the "capitol" island of the Marquesas. We have in mind a one-night stay in a hotel; sweat-free sheets; long, deep-cleansing, loofah-scrubbing showers; laundry; and dinner out on the town.

Sidenote: Since running out of cigarettes, nearly 2 weeks ago, Ben has been sharing pipe tobacco with my dad. Not free of the habit, but at least not inhaling smoke, so, an improvement. But, with Ben's added consumption the pipe tobacco is running in short supply, so we have some desparate smokers aboard. The voyage has been renamed: The Great Tobacco Race of 2008. We'll see how they fare over the next one and a half days. It may run to foul play as they jostle ashore on our puny dinghy, elbowing each other out of the way en route to the Tabac. As long as no injuries ensue....

Our current position: 5 degrees 49 minutes south, 136 degrees, 52 minutes west (0400 UTC time).

We'll be in touch soon!

April 28

96 nautical miles to go...

April 29

Land ho!!

As day broke, around 4:30 am, Ben made the first sighting of land, Ua Huka on our port. Just beyond, our destination paradise, Nuku Hiva, popped into view as the sun started its rounds. We were greeted by new flocks of birds and a pleasant breeze.

As we approached Nuku Hiva, the sun's rise started to put the island's geography into relief, and finally colors joined the mix, a green wash over the ridges, right up to the steep-sided, reddish brown cliffs plunging into the blue. The island's tallest peak (1225 meters, 4000 feet) hid in the clouds. We rounded the southeastern point (Cap Martin) and followed the coastline 6 miles to our bay of choice, Taiohae, set back beyond two "sentinel" rocks on either side of the bay's entrance. Ben hoisted the tricolore, got on the VHF radio and hailed Wayne from Moonduster, who promptly boarded his dinghy and zoomed up to escort us in. And look where we ended up...

19 + days and 3056 nautical miles (2800 as the crow flies). We thanked our crew, grateful for their help, their positive attitudes, their flexibility, their conversation, and of course their turns at the tiller! It was a great passage to have shared with family and seasoned sailors alike. Special thanks, hugs and kisses to Dad and Kristin!!

We hadn't slept much but, anyway, we were wired. Happy to have done it. Happy to have arrived.

Update May 3: We have been exploring and enjoying Nuku Hiva, finally cleaned up and rested up, and we're preparing now to let the island hopping begin. Our internet access has been spotty, and will soon be non-existent until we arrive in Tahiti, in about 1 month. We'll have plenty of stories and plenty of pics to regale you with by that time. I have videos waiting in the wings for a good internet connection, so stay tuned!

Si Si to Oui Oui

Adios (y mucho gusto) Mexico….Bonjour la polynésie française!

We’ve spent the past week swabbing the decks, arranging for fuel, dotting our i’s and crossing our t’s. To make this job easier, and in anticipation of the arrival of our crew, we’ve parked ourselves in a marina here. Not much time went by before we were meeting new people, sitting on the dock and accepting tequila shots from our neighbors on either side (m/v Aurora and s/v Tequila Rose). We’ve also spent most evenings regaled by our new friends from s/v Easily Amused, Mike and Tony. When at anchor we combined our puttering little outboard motor with their sleek and manly dinghy to make for some downright capable transport through the wind and chop of the bay. Other exchanges of services with Mike and Tony have included their help in hoisting Ben up the mast (bonus for me!) and, well, some perfectly illegal medical care. (I may consider a career change). Tony lacerated his finger into a deep and lonely flap of skin and came ashore in search of a skookum vet. Mais, oui...But, of course. Why not? I was happy to comply, and so started a fun and unexpected morning project. Nine sutures later (and with the help of Ben, my shady anesthesiologist) and I may be open to lawsuit. You know those Canadians….




I’ve been looking for a nice colorful piece of artwork to hang in our cozy but otherwise unadorned salon and found just the thing to fit the bill. The Huichol Indians in Mexico create compositions and sculptures made from colorful yarns or beads, pressed into a thin layer of wax mixed with pine resin. The figures in these pieces are fantastical and dream-like, humanoid or animal, and inspired by shamanic visions.

In the meantime we settled in to relax for a few days, as most of our chores were completed, and my dad and Kristin were delayed 4 days in their arrival. Kristin experienced some untimely dental pain and luckily is feeling back in form.


Now that my dad and Kristin have joined us here in La Cruz, we’re busy with the final provisioning, stowing, fueling and, of course, the official clearance of Mexico. Ben keeps a watchful eye to the weather fax, trying to gauge optimal wind for our departure. Then, of course, we prepare to say our goodbyes. Today we arranged for delivery of water from Jose and Carmen, owners of Talia, Sorillo and Coyote. Talia was my biggest worry, and she still seems anemic, but she’s eating well and energized, so I’m cautiously optimistic. We drove with them to the marina – Ben, Jose and Talia all in the back of the truck, and hauled jugs of water to the boat. Talia explored the boat while we watered up, and then we said our farewells. Mexico has given us a warm welcome and we hope to return.

The passage from here is roughly 2800 nautical miles. We’ll be aiming southwest, toward latitude 7° north, longitude 130° west (or wherever the wind dictates nearby), positioning ourselves for the turn south, to cross the infamous ITCZ (intertropical convergence zone), or doldrums, zone of weak wind, rain and pesky little squalls. We’ll be pushing to get there, and then slogging our way out as fast as we can, taking the shortest path we can sail. And then, voilà! The equator! From there, just another…….. to the Marquesas. Sounds simpler than it is, no doubt.

Here’s what our references tell us to expect: clear blue waters, lush vegetation, rugged peaks and spires, tall waterfalls, and the warmth and welcome of the Polynesians (ie, paradise). For those whose geography may be a little rusty, French Polynesia is an overseas territory of France consisting of four island groups: the Society Islands, the Tuamotu Archipelago, the Marquesas and the Austral Islands, in total 109 islands spread over an area of 1.5 million square miles. The Marquesas are high islands, young in geologic age, too new to have developed any appreciable fringing coral growth. At the other extreme, the islands of the Tuamotu Archipelago are true atolls – lagoons ringed by coral reefs that long ago swallowed up the remaining land masses. Somewhere in between are the Society Islands, which have mountainous peaks, fertile coastal plains of volcanic ash, plus a protective barrier reef that shelters the shorelines.

Sounds good to me!

So, some reading to get in the mood: Melville’s Typee, which catalogues his journey along a valley in Nuku Hiva, and the months he spent living with the natives there. And, Bligh’s Mutiny on the Bounty – tips in case I need to mutiny on Ben’s ass.

We won’t be checking our email until we get to the other side, but we’d love to hear from you, and it would be a treat to land ashore, search out an internet café, and catch up on news from home to penetrate the self-imposed isolation of Pangaea’s crew during our Pacific trek. We’ll try to post a mid-voyage update or two, so check in when you can!

La Cruz de Huanacaxtle

We have lengthened our stay in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, here in Banderas Bay, up the bend, so to speak, from Puerto Vallarta. We have found that our repairing, trouble-shooting and provisioning needs can be met quite well where we are. Puerto Vallarta is an easy bus ride away when we're in need of particular items, or a social night out. But La Cruz is more quaint and friendly, and a good place to settle in.

Cruisers abound here, some also preparing for the Pacific Puddle Jump (as it's called) to the Marquesas. We spent a good deal of the first week here visiting with Wayne Mertesky of Moonduster, whom we had met in Ensenada. The cruising scene in Puerto Vallarta is old hat for Wayne so he offered a great wealth of advice on where and how to get things accomplished around town to prepare for the passage. We explored just about every little taco stand in La Cruz together, and hunted down some perfectly delectable flan for dessert most nights. We took a Sunday evening stroll down the malecon in Puerto Vallarta, watching and weaving through throngs of couples and families, there to see and be seen. We went out for dinner and some great live music on Good Friday, our send-off for Wayne who is now en route in the Pacific. Bound for paradise....

Easter is a pretty big deal down here and, the week preceding, Semana Santa, is part of the holiday. In celebration, La Cruz hosted a carnival for the whole week, featuring rickety rides, balloon darts, sweets and a little road-side gambling. On the last night, everyone and their uncle were out on the street, enjoying the carnival games and a festive 12-piece mariachi band. Ben and I had a blast on the pirate ship - just the two of us gringos and a bunch of boys, who thought it pretty hilarious to hear me screaming behind them. It was FUN!

For the last few days I've been treating three dogs belonging to the owners of a local convenience store. One of them, "Talia," is pretty sick. I'm cautiously optimistic because she's feeling better, but I have a feeling that whatever lies lurking is unresolved. The other two, "Coyote" and "Sorio" have wounds that are well within my ability. In exchange we've been receiving free refrescos. Our conversations are interesting as the family doesn't speak English, and vice versa. I make up words as I go and they seem to be able to figure me out.

I've been experimenting with video lately and have put together a couple clips. One of the birds on Isla Isabella, the other from the La Cruz carnival. Bear with me, as they're pretty amateur. But, you can check them out. Click on Pangaea's Photo Album link on the upper right side of the blog's front page.

And, for the timebeing, we'll continue bumming in Banderas Bay.

XOXO

Birds, birds, birds!

Green flash? It is rumored that a green flash may grace the sky, if you're lucky, just as the sun dips below the watery horizon. Critics do exist. I've been looking for it for years, without yet abandoning hope. Is it a myth? A mariner's equivalent of the Sasquatch? Or a veritable atmospheric phenomenon, rarer but no less spectacular than the aurora borealis? Well, it's hard to be convincing if I can't state anything with more certainty than: I saw a flash! The trouble is, while wearing my rosy-colored, polarized glasses it looked, well, rosy-colored. I guess it remains elusive. Maybe it's best viewed from the shifting shores of Atlantis.

Another quasi-experience: auditory evidence of a whale breaching behind us (audio without the visual). We were approaching Isla Isabella a few days ago, actually dawdling a bit, waiting for daylight before making our approach. It was my watch, around 5:30 am; my senses were heightened, as they always are when approaching shore. Down below, looking at the chart, I heard a loud slap. I climbed the steps to the cockpit and heard the tell-tale "Whhhooooophhh!" of a whale's blowspout, and then another loud splat. We were minutes from that pre-dawn rosy haze, just as the stars are beginning to fade before the sun's grand entrance. Looking in the direction of the splat, I saw an indeterminate shadow move, and another loud splat....then another. I guess it was far enough, at least, that there was no tactile experience to go along with the auditory one (no spray on my face or rocky loss of balance). Anyway, I was SO excited, and a bit nervous, not wishing to have a blind, closer encounter than this. I made Ben get up, of course, but the whale gave no further proof of its existence.

So, I experienced half a green flash, and bore partial witness to a breaching whale. These incomplete experiences paled in comparison to the delight of Isla Isabella itself. The island is a bird sanctuary, and one of Jacques Cousteau's favorite places. National Geographic filmed a documentary here, and there is a permanent ornithological research station on site. The stars of the show? Nesting magnificent frigatebirds, blue-footed boobies, brown boobies, in the thousands I would hazard to guess, in addition to nesting Heermann's gulls, red-billed tropic birds and the usual suspects, brown pelicans and eared grebes. And would we be so lucky to have arrived smack in the middle of breeding season? We hiked along marked trails, often within arm's reach of ground-nesting boobies and gulls, or tree-nesting frigatebirds. I wouldn't say they were equally delighted by OUR presence, but they remained undisturbed, voicing an occasional honk (or in the male boobies' case, a low, plaintive whistle), but remaining in place. I can't imagine access wouldn't be restricted to such a place as this in the US, but Isla Isabella is established as a park that welcomes visitors. Regardless, I felt a twinge of guilt to intrude, and tried to make myself as small as possible as we tip-toed by.

These boobies, especially the blue-footed ones, are only less goofy-looking than a pelican. I mean, blue feet? Are you kidding? The brown boobies are no less precious, and seem a little more gregarious. The booby babies are, of course, adorable in their utter awkward ugliness. The frigatebirds, on the other hand, are striking in their silhouette against the sky. They have the longest wings relative to their weight of any bird, and long-forked tails, so they make a dramatic statement as they soar endlessly overhead. They are described as aerial pirates, often attacking other sea birds in flight to get them to disgorge their fishy catch. So, they steal meals from others, leaving the hard-work of hunting to their "inferiors." They build paltry little nests in low-slung branches, oten at just our height. They could care less as we walked by. I don't know how the frigatebird nestlings manage to maintain their balance in these little nests, though with the number of dead frigates on the ground here and there, I imagine they don't all manage to balance in the tree-tops.

So, MORE birds: back in La Paz I was excited to find white ibises mingling with snowy egrets, tricolored herons, little blue herons, reddish egrets and yellow-crowned night herons in the mangroves across from our anchorage. I know, boring detail to some, exciting to me.

The anchorage itself is stunning, with surf crashing on rocks only yards from where we were anchored. But, there we were with a couple other boats and did just fine. Tucked into the head of the small bay is a fishing village. The island, despite its status as a sanctuary, still offers a harvest to local fishermen, who have an established fish camp used to mend nets and sort the catch. The fishermen are very friendly, and offered me a ride to shore, sitting next to a heap of red snapper, shortly after our arrival. Several speak fluent English and talk of their time living in the US. They all sound happy to be back home. Not to be outdone, we caught our own dinner (en route from La Paz), a skipjack tuna. We made sushi tuna rolls and ate the rest seared. This time we tried what would seem to be a more humane way to kill a fish, based on some advice. We squirted vodka in its gills and, well, that seemed to do the trick! Who really wants to bludgeon his dinner?

Well, after an overnight sail, here we are in Banderas Bay, currently anchored off the quaint town of La Cruz de Huanacaxtle (still haven't figured out how to pronounce this). In the next couple days we'll move to a marina in Puerto Vallarta proper to work on a few boat projects in preparation for the big crossing to come....

Oh, I've finally gotten my feet wet with some veterinary work, during our prolonged stay in La Paz. I did exams and consultations for Zeus the Doberman and Henry the Lab, both belonging to fellow expatriate cruisers, and a behavioral consultation for Pixie, a local Scotty. We also made a donation of medical supplies to a Baja Dogs Rescue group. I didn't manage to organize a spay/neuter day with them, but maybe more opportunities will be encountered in PV.... I've also been making bead jewelry for future trades (I hope) on some of the South Pacific islands. That's been fun.

Anyone up for an impromptu trip to Puerto Vallarta is more than welcome!

Cheers!

A Change in Plans: Galapa-no-gos

We arrived in La Paz on February 20th, prepared to stay a couple days. We stayed at Marina de La Paz, surrounded by a multitude of other American cruisers – a fleet, shall we say. Many have made La Paz their permanent home, some purposefully, some accidentally. Everyone we met warned us that some magnetic force tends to draw one in, foiling any intentions to leave this happy town. I’m currently reading Steinbeck’s Log of the Sea of Cortez and he alludes to this force much more eloquently:

"And we wondered why so much of the Gulf was familiar to us, why this town had a 'home' feeling. We had never seen a town which even looked like La Paz, and yet coming to it was like returning rather than visiting. Some quality there is in the whole Gulf that trips a trigger of recognition so that in fantastic and exotic scenery one finds oneself nodding and saying inwardly, 'yes, I know.'"

And, what d’ya know, our “2-3 days” in La Paz turned into 5. We told ourselves it had to do with the internet access. Who knows?

Finally we set sail for the islands opposite La Paz harbor, for a few days of exploring. And, oops! We broke our backstay purchase. (Maybe, the force?) So, we took down our sails and motored on, but now had cause to return to La Paz (after visiting the islands) before heading further south.

The islands (Espiritu Santu and Partida) are stark, rocky veins on the southwestern fringe of the Sea of Cortez. They are designated sanctuaries so there is no human habitation, save for the occasional fisherman’s hut nestled in coves here and about.

Beachcombing has become my favorite pastime. We found little cowry snails having a convention of some kind, before digging themselves down into the sand at the water’s edge. The hermit crabs were characteristically unsociable, downright reclusive. We found “mummified” puffers littering one beach, and enjoyed watching a few of the live specimens trundle their way along the water’s surface. They’re poisonous so what they lack in maneuverability and grace of movement, they make up for in unpalatability. In other words, they’re not much of a target, so why bother getting out of the way? They do, however, make a good bath toy. We watched a seal use one as a rubber ducky, flipping him about in the waves.

The vegetation is of the tough, spiny and hardy sort, in this dry environment. But I’m often surprised to find stunning and ususual, dainty little gems clinging to the rocks or nestled into crevices. Pelicans continue to dominate the skies. But they share the catch with plenty of gulls, magnificent frigate birds and, finally, some brown boobies. Turkey vultures feast on whatever remains wash up on shore, including pelicans (though puffers remain untouched). I did find a couple goofy looking pelican beaks, bleached and picked clean. The water isn’t what you’d call warm, but it was perfectly comfortable at 63 degrees for my first snorkeling adventure. This particular site was a little murky, but I could still see flashes of color as tropical fish darted by, and some rounded coral heads attached to rocks along the shore.

In total we spent 3 nights visiting the islands, each morning moving to a new cove and dropping anchor. On the last day I rode the dinghy out to a couple islets (Los Islotes) just north of Isla Partida, to get a close-up of a known sea lion colony. Oh, the raucous ruckus. They certainly have something to say most of the time. In calmer weather some brave souls actually swim with these sea lions. I can blame the wind and the waves instead of my own cowardice for my failure to do so on this occasion. Who’d be the wiser?

On the 28th we motored back to La Paz, to repair our backstay purchase, with plans to learn how to splice. The splicing was a cinch, really, and kind of fun. So, mechanical problem solved. But, of course, we just had to check our email…. And there was, waiting for Ben, an urgent request to return to San Diego for some design work and trouble-shooting. So, here I am, spending our 17th anniversary (17!?) alone. Really I’m just being dramatic, as he’s due back this afternoon. In the meantime, I’ve finally utilized some of my veterinary skills, having just completed physical exams on Zeus the Doberman, and Henry the Lab. I also just made a donation of medical supplies to Baja Dogs Helpline of La Paz.

Anyway, assuming all’s well, we’ll be leaving La Paz again, tomorrow morning. This time we’re heading back south (once more across the Tropic of Cancer), bound ultimately for Puerto Vallarta. If weather allows, we’ll be making a stop at Isla Isabella en route. (More on this later….)

Oh, yes, and finally to our change of plans. The Ecuadorian government has been fickle of late, seemingly unable to decide whether it likes cruisers or not. Regulations for visiting yachts (to the Galapagos or to mainland Ecuador) seem to change on a dime and, unfortunately, the most recent trend has been a more hostile stance. We’d been waiting anxiously to hear reports of the first of this season’s yachts to visit the Galapagos, and the reports we have gotten have been quite unfavorable – increasingly expensive, increasing restrictive and open to any official’s interpretation. So, boaters are being charged whatever it is deemed they might be able to afford, and can no longer visit any other than their original port of entry. Well, long story short, we felt the additional 1200 miles we were prepared to sail to get there wasn’t worth the hassle. I was looking forward to this destination as a highlight of the trip so you can imagine the disappointment is real. But, perhaps in the future, by different means, we’ll get there one day… Instead we’ll be sailing to the Marquesas in French Polynesia directly from the Mexican coast. A lot less distance than our Galapagos detour, and more reliable winds…

Stay tuned!

The Tropic of Cancer

The trip from Turtle Bay was pleasingly quick and to the point (~44 hours). We entered Magdalena Bay, further south along the Pacific coast of Baja, and were welcomed by a randy pod of grey whales. Apparently they’re breeding, and so it seemed. We were under full sail and cruising along, apparently picturesque from the perspective of the many surrounding pangas of whale watchers. We soon became the subject of the sated whale watchers’ cameras. We were pretty pleased with ourselves, and super excited by our brush with the behemoths.




We anchored in Man-o-War cove off of Puerta Magdalena, and met up the following day with Mark and Michelle of s/v Cheers, who had offered to procure fresh produce for us. They are Captain and head naturalist of m/v Sea Lion, a cruiseship sponsored by the National Geographic Society. They were gunkholing in Baja, on a vacation cruise of their own, and got a hefty supply of the fresh stuff from the cooks aboard the Sea Lion. No scurvy in our futures!

The highlight was a hike across the dunes that separate two large bays (Santa Maria and Magdalena), and a long stroll on one of the longest, remotest beach I’ve been so lucky to encounter. It’s about 10 miles long, and inhabited by no one. We were the only people on the beach as far as we could tell. The beach is nicknamed sand dollar (or Frisbee) beach, as it’s littered with sand dollars as large as an outstretched hand. It could also have been named Skeleton beach, for all the sea lion and dolphin bones scattered about. We even found a pile of sun-baked rays (or skates?). Other gems: vulture feeding on a sea lion carcass, blow spouts of more whales just off shore, tracks in the sand, beautiful shells, quaint little succulents sprouting out of the sand…. I could have stayed all day, but Ben dragged me back across the dunes, and finally we rowed back to the boat for a late lunch.

The following morning we left Magdalena Bay. Curiously, an octopus tried to hitch a ride, but finally agreed to let go of our anchor and inked along his merry way. We passed right back out the Bay’s entrance, and right back through the same pod of horny whales. The closest sighting was ~75 yards from the boat, and again we had to jockey around the whale watchers on our way out. A few hours later we were sailing at a nice clip, and were lucky to be visited by 3 Common dolphins. They swam at the bow for a good while, happy enough to accommodate our photo-snapping frenzy.

The wind blew for awhile, but petered out by late evening, so we motor-sailed the rest of the way to Cabo San Lucas. In the middle of the night we had one momentous event, crossing the Tropic of Cancer (i.e. latitude 23 degrees, 25 minutes north)! With this crossing, I can definitively say, this is the point at which it has now become hot. And it will only get hotter still…. With dawn we skirted around the edge of a shallow bank off the coast (ie, where fish like to hang), and counted 28 sport-fishing boats in one tight wad. We made landfall in Cabo mid-day on February 19th. The landscape really is breathtaking, so it’s hard to deny what no doubt has been a pressing urge to develop up to the eyeballs. The rocks are cool on the way in, the sand beaches stretch on forever, and the terrain is rugged. We really had to elbow our way in to the harbor, jockeying for space with ferries, pangas, sport-fishing boats, cruiseships, parasailors, one sea turtle, bazillions of juvenile pelicans, and jet skies galore. We stopped in long enough to fuel up, and turned around and left, bound for more tranquil territory.

Now for more wildlife encounters. A shark (only evidenced by its dorsal fin) and, shortly thereafter, some other creatures that we never could put our fingers on. Basically, two largish pectoral fins of something (dark on one surface, silvery on the other) would protrude a good foot or two above the water’s surface, without any clue to what these were attached. It seemed this would only be possible if the animal were floating on its back. It would just float on by, as if sleeping. Apparently sword fish sleep on the surface… Maybe it’s some big game fish? Marlin? Could it be a large sea turtle? But upside down? Or maybe a sea lion, lollygagging? Seriously, you’d think a veterinarian might at the least be able to differentiate between a fish, a mammal and a reptile, right? Anyway, whatever they were, there were a lot of them – somewhere between 1 and 2 dozen! About an hour later Ben and I were both below decks, lollygagging as well. Suddenly there was a thump, and there sat a juvenile pelican, at the bottom of the steps, startled by himself, but obviously more hungry than startled, because then he gaped. Then he thought better of it, and started to back up. He stumbled into our main cabin (bedroom), and when he couldn’t back up any further, he tried to climb up onto our bed. So, I grabbed Ben’s fleece (note, not my own), and used it to pick him up. With some staggering and tripping about, I carried him up on deck, and with a little more ado, he finally plopped back into the water, and didn’t even seem too offended by the whole affair. Anyway, a friend of his was waiting for him. It wasn’t until about 20 minutes later that I realized that he and his friend were following us. The pelicans around here are accustomed to fish entrails and bycatch, thrown off the fishing boats. I felt bad we didn’t have fish guts to offer, but was also bothered by my conscience about the whole affair. Do I hunt for some canned tuna to make both of us feel better? O do I abide the naturalist’s lecture: “don’t feed the wildlife.” While I struggled with this he threw up his wings and flew off.

So that leaves us…still en route to La Paz. And, bound for a second trip across the Tropic of Cancer, as we head north up the Sea of Cortez side of Baja. We’ll be there shortly, with plans to stay there, and at nearby islands, for several days before we head back south.

I hope all is well in love, life and work!

PS- We have moved accompanying slideshows to Pangaea's photo album link at the top right of the screen. Go there for more pics from Magdalena Bay to La Paz.

Bienvenidos a Bahia Tortugas!

We arrived in Turtle Bay, about half way down the Pacific coast of Baja, after a two-day motor-sail from Ensenada. Not much wind to speak of; just enough to top up our engine’s capacity, but we made on average 6 knots an hour. We stayed within 20 miles of the coast, and enjoyed the view. We saw blow spouts at a couple points along the way, belying the massive gray whale hulks below the surface, coming up for air. Dolphins joined our bow wave for a ride, and pelicans were on the hunt, headfirst.

Moon set was a bewitching sight. A narrow, smiling sliver of a crescent moon set around 10 pm, turning orange before slipping below the horizon. And then the stars shone in a pretty raucous display; it’s almost dizzying. On the first early morning watch (starting at 5 am), after some time watching stars I came below to check our position. I popped my head back up top for a glance (about 4 minutes later), and we were nearly engulfed in fog. Fade to gray. The fog stuck around for 6 hours, and then mercifully lifted just like it had settled. Luckily no objects had loomed abruptly in our path in the meantime.

We made a daytime arrival to Turtle Bay, miracle of all miracles, and dropped anchor in about 30 feet of water. This little dusty port town (Puerto San Bartolome) is surrounded by stark, but architectural mountains of nuanced shades of pink to brown to gray. Dust is pretty monochromatic when you look at it up close, so the splashes of brilliant color peeling off dilapidated structures about town is a real joy. The people are warm and kind. We like it so much we’ve decided to stay a few days in all. Yesterday afternoon was spent visiting with a fellow cruiser that we met in Ensenada, Wayne on “Moonduster,” trekking through town to find tacos (no problem) and an internet café. We rode our dinghy ashore, elbowing our way to the pier through a throng of pelicans, who seem pretty unimpressed. Dinner was a potluck on “Moonduster” with Wayne, and joined by other cruisers Mark and Michelle on “Cheers.”

Today some chores. Ben’s finishing up the watermaker, and needs to dive on the propeller to dislodge what we suspect to be a nice fist-full of kelp. I will be cleaning, just like a good swabee. Hopefully this afternoon we’ll have time to explore the shores in our dinghy. It appears there’s some good beachcombing to be had.

What next? I think we’ll leave tomorrow, next stop Magdalena Bay. We’ve been hearing beautiful things about our next destination. The weather reports give us no wind to speak of for the next week, so we’ll motor our way south once again.

Stay tuned!