One of the joys of a voyage is
the chance encounters one can have. When we meet fellow sailors, we have an instant connection, born of shared experiences, appreciation of the freedom of sailing, and a willingness to brave the elements. We had one such encounter on our second day in Bahia Santa Maria, the bay in the shadow of the peak of Cabo San Lazaro that sheltered us while storms lashed the Pacific. On the afternoon of our first day, when I was wrapped up in the
hammock slung between the forestay and the mast, Richard and Dennis took the
dinghy over to visit a catamaran, Begonia, that had arrived the night
before. They discovered a charming couple named Maryanne and Kyle, whom Richard and I visited on our second morning and whom we
duly invited for drinks. Ebenezer's cabin became a drawing room as we laid out homemade guacamole (thank you Rick!), cheese and red wine, plus a juicy, white-fleshed vegetable called a jicama that looks unprepossessingly like a turnip until peeled and cut up. Yummy. It felt bizarrely exciting to be entertaining, after having our boat to ourselves for so long. As if we were venturing back into society!
View from the hammock
Me with Kyle and Maryann aboard Begonia
Begonia, an 'Athena' catamaran, complete with wind turbine at the stern
Ready for guests!
Maryanne and Kyle live aboard Begonia, inhabiting a
truly nomadic lifestyle. They give truth to the old saying ‘a pessimist bemoans
the wind, an optimist expects it to change, and a sailor sets his sails’. We
discovered plenty in common, not least that Maryanne had attended my own alma
mater, St Andrews University, and they told some hilarious stories about their
adventures around the world. Best of all concerned the impossibility of trying
to check into customs in a remote port in southern Ireland. ‘Ah, you’ll be
fine’ was the reaction of everyone, from the (absent) harbourmaster to the
local police, who said 'well, we're not going to arrest you, but if you want to be sure, go to the pub,
they’ll set you right’. Shades of my own experience arriving late at Shannon
airport with my hunting friends and sprinting through security covered in mud
with everyone shouting: ‘Have a good day? On ye go!’ I do love Ireland.
Richard and Rick bringing our guests
Limoncello from Begonia!
Me and the great storyteller Kyle
Conversation came to an enforced end as
darkness fell and Richard ferried Kyle and Maryanne back to Begonia. We had another early start,
spurred by the favourable weather reports from Kyle’s weather app. Accurate
forecasts are of inestimable value to the modern sailor, and it is no small
claim to say that they saved our lives on this trip. Ebenezer is a comfortable
ocean-going yacht, but when the waves are 27ft and the winds 40knots, I for one
would not want to be at the wheel. A weighted keel means she is capable of
rolling right over on her beam ends and, in theory, of flipping back up again
(unlike the more stable catamaran, which, once over, stays over), but none of
us wanted to put her to the test. Even before I had left England, there had
been reports of wild weather in northern California, and by the time we were
halfway up Baja, the Pacific was being whipped into a raging maelstrom to the
north-west. Fortunately, we were far enough south to escape the worst, but the
prevailing winds meant high seas were driving towards us and even the edges of
the storms were pretty windy. We had to be continually aware of potential
anchorages, which are few and far between on this barren coast, and ready to
dive into one if the need arose.
Ebenezer III at anchor
Proud captain
Our noble vessel
Of all the anchorages, Bahia Santa Maria is
special. On the Baja Ha-Ha, 150 boats drop anchor here, and, Dennis related, a
band bounces out in a jeep from a village inland to get the party going. Stands
selling fresh fish tacos work non stop, and the tips alone must keep everyone
in tequila for the rest of the year. When we stopped, however, only one other
boat lay quietly offshore and we slipped ashore in our trusty (if tiny; I confess to a few squeaks as we tipped and crashed through the breakers) rubber
dinghy to a beach free even of Man Friday’s footprints. Dennis, a sculptor, was on a mission to find beautiful seashells for his wife's schoolchildren, to whom he teaches art, and the rest of us had no objection to strolling along white sand, picking up sand dollars and scallop shells, olives and abalones. The sand was silky, soft as caster sugar, set in strange formations in sheltered hollows like a miniature Monument Valley. On one side rose the peak of Cabo San Lazaro, on the other stretched the sand in a long shallow curve towards Punta Magdalena nearly 10 miles away. Behind the beach were mangrove swamps, a name redolent of exoticism, of brave explorers battling through steamy jungles with machetes and khaki shorts. We rowed gently through in the dinghy, glimpsing rays on the sandy bottom and birds galore.
Dawn from the forward hatch
Shellseekers
I could have sat here all day
Rick/Robinson Crusoe
Monument Valley in Mexico
Into the mangroves
Discarding the engine for the peace of the oars
Looking inland from the slopes of Cabo San Lazaro
Intrepid explorers
The few who scrape a living from fishing
here live, at least some of the time, in a collection of huts, cleaning the
fish in raggedy sheds on the shore. Some even seem to sleep in their pangas, as we found when we left at 5am. They don't seem to have much, but are unfailingly cheerful, especially the chap perching next to a brightly painted shrine. I felt slightly odd, the archetypal white visitor, taking pictures of him, but he promptly took a picture of me and grinned, which made us both laugh! It was uncomfortable to see shark fins
lying in the sun, knowing what damage the shark-fin-soup demand does to the
ocean’s shark population (see the work of WildAid), but at least the whole of
the shark is eaten here. We bought a hunk, naturally, and feasted on shark
steaks grilled on the barbecue that reposes on the stern rail, the perfect
lunchtime feast to our lobster dinner. Yes, lobster – purchased from a passing
panga that morning for the vast figure of $3 each… Oh, and we had bacon and eggs for breakfast and tuna fishcakes for lunch. I thought I would eat well
on this trip, but I didn’t realise how well!
Shark fins drying in the sun
Stowing the rest of the catch for transport to the mainland
Hunters home from the sea
Reciprocal photography
Our lobster delivery boat
Spiny lobsters of the Pacific, three from the tropics and one
(in Dennis's left hand) from more northerly climes
Yum!
Transformed into a feast fit for kings, complete with melted butter
Yet another fishy feast awaited on the way
past Isla Cedros on our dash to Ensenada: Richard swept a beautiful
blue-and-silver striped bonita from the sea and turned it into fish and chips
(bonita burgers with homemade tartar sauce and the chips we call crisps). And
it was a dash – the weather forecast was abysmal, preventing our stop at
Tortuga, Turtle Bay, 48 hours out of Bahia Santa Maria, from being anything
more than a fuel stop. A shame, as I would have liked to explore the church,
the largest and most beautiful building in the town. It was built by two
American fishermen in gratitude for being rescued from their wrecked ship in
1943 and restored to health by the local people. Leaving the bay, our supply of
gold severely depleted from the extortionate prices required for ‘the best
diesel in Mexico’, a council of war was held to determine whether we should
wait the storm out there, where there might be an easier route home for me, or
carry on. I had left a few days spare when booking my flight home, but the
storms could potentially have held us up a week, meaning I would have had to
get a bus or small plane back from Turtle Bay to California. Not a pleasant
prospect. But after pages of calculation and discussion between the three experienced seadogs, we decided to press on to San Quintin, where an anchorage of sorts was
to be had and the village lay close to the main road north. With clear skies
and limpid waters, such a discussion seemed redundant, but things change
awfully quickly at sea and the knowledge of what was coming lent a frisson to
the coming dark, especially as we approached the point of Isla Cedros and the
end of shelter.
Supper: a Pacific bonita!
Westering sunshine amid the clouds
A few more layers needed at the helm!
Sleepy passenger! He later transferred his bunk to the helm canopy,
and stayed there till dawn. We called him Pedro
Waking to the dawn, at anchor in Turtle Bay
Pelican hang-out
An incongruously shiny sport-fishing boat refuels from the rickety pier
The fuel pier stretching out from Turtle Bay
The refuelling boat
Boys at work
Fishermen drawing in their nets off the church built in gratitude
by two American fishermen saved from the sea
A peaceful anchorage
Cedros lies north-west of Turtle Bay, creating a narrow passage beyond which the seas are notoriously wild. Inside or outside of Cedros is a continuing debate among skippers, but we plumped for inside, dodging the lobster pots and gaining a splendid view of giant tankers coming to collect the salt that is shipped from inland salt pans and processed at huge factories on the island. There’s not much else there, bar a tiny airstrip and lots of scrub-covered rocks. Drugs are a terrible problem among the young, unsurprising but sad. Tiny Isla Natividad looked much more inviting, lying just off the south-western tip of Cedros and shimmering green after rare rains, a white church atop its highest slopes. Yet Cedros had its own majesty, rocks of every colour, scree slopes and caves, millennia of geological history revealed in the tilted strata pushed up by volcanic activity. Cedros means ‘cedar’, but there were few trees except atop distant ridges, only bare white trunks and willows at the mouths of dry rivers. An occasional hut stood concealed by the willows, with a mooring buoy just off the sand. A place for wild parties? Drug deals? Romantic trysts? I prefer the latter.
Approaching the Isle of Cedros
Isla Natividad, softly green and oddly inviting
Salt pans on Isla Cedros
Golden Glory, not living up to its name.
It is funny how such ugly ships are given such grandiose titles
Baja Bulk, the slightly more appropriate words that adorn
the side of Buena Ventura
A lonely hut sits amid the willows at the mouth of a dry river
Slipping northwards in the calm of twilight
The seas got up as my watch waned and
darkness grew, until only the stars and the lights of North Cedros could be
seen. As the darker hulk of the land slipped astern the waves did indeed
increase, although not as much as feared. When Dennis took over, I lay in the
cockpit to gaze at the stars, worried it would be my last night at sea. Sleep
was difficult as the crash to the trough of each wave shuddered through
Ebenezer’s hull, but things had calmed down by my 0200 watch and Richard’s
flask of hot chocolate tasted unbelievably good, especially mingled with the
salt spray on my lips. I slept far better afterwards, and the next day’s weather
was so good we abandoned the San Quintin contingency plan and set a course up
the coast for Ensenada. It was a gamble, but a well-considered one, and the
thought that I would at least get within a stone’s throw of the Californian
border before I had to leave the ship was a cause for glee. The local dolphins
clearly shared my view, one passing us southwards calling ‘playtime!’ before
returning with a whole swoop of his friends (I don’t know what the collective
noun is for dolphins, but it should be ‘swoop’), leaping six abreast and diving
through the clear green water. The day was the last of pure sunshine, spent
sewing cockpit seat-straps and Dennis’s oilskins, and watching waves crash on
half-hidden reefs that guarded an inviting island, smooth swards of grass on
which a lighthouse and a few huts stood. A writer’s retreat, perhaps, wild and
lonely with space to walk and think.
Enjoying a stiff breeze
Captain in his cabin with Swallows and Amazons
Rick in the saloon with Moby Dick
Dennis in the cockpit with Two Years Before the Mast
Er, me with wine...
A writer's retreat?
The weather finally began to change as I
cooked quesadillas for supper, the
sun’s last rays breaking through clouds as the wind shifted and swelled
sufficiently for some actual sailing. The grin on Richard’s face had never been
wider! Orion peeped out briefly as I took the wheel, but the clouds soon
swallowed him up in the blackest watch I had yet stood. Only lights on shore,
reminding us (sadly) that we were closer to civilisation than we had been for
hundreds of miles, alleviated the velvet dark. My 0200 watch was exhilarating,
dark and gusty, the burgee flapping and spray flying. Day broke grey and
overcast, so I made French toast and bacon to cheer us up, Richard’s excellent
notion of adding almonds and vanilla essence raising it to Michelin-starred
status. I went on watch in full wet-weather gear, with some premonition of what
was to come. Rain fell almost immediately, but with the wind backed southerly I
could barely feel it. The swell slifted the port quarter first and rolled us in
a corkscrew motion almost onto our beam. Ebenezer performed brilliantly, wind,
waves and donkey – running at 3,000rpm in this race against the weather – combining to push
our speed to a high of 6.7 knots. Tea below and burgers for lunch were most
welcome, as was the sight of Point Tomas, just beyond which we would turn east to
Ensenada. With the waves growing and approaching on our port beam, we had one
good broach during Rick’s watch, when I was sitting on the margarita seat in
the stern squeaking: ‘Big wave, big wave, oh, really big wave!’ It broke as it
met us and briefly filled the cockpit – thankfully my Noble Outfitters riding jacket
is definitely waterproof. For the sake of my hearing aids I retreated below
until we had skirted the necklace of rocks that guard All Saints Bay and were
running in before the wind, the sunshine breaking through to light
our way as if to reward us for our courage in pressing on. Or perhaps it was
having a vicar at the helm…
Dark 'n' stormy weather looms...
Last sunset
Wet-weather gear coming in useful!
A new mood on the face of the sea
View from the cosy cabin of Dennis standing watch in the rain
Me staying warm!
Dennis and Rick: master sailors
Cap'n/Rev Richard
My boys!
Me and two of my boys!
Thanks to Rick for the pic
A sea lion, chillaxing
Safe harbour at last
Dark 'n' stormys! Never was a drink more fitting or welcome
There's nothing like a shower after being at sea for 10 days straight. I washed my hair three times, then we repaired to the marina hotel to feast on a Mexican buffet and drink delicious Mexican wine recommended by a charming Mexican waiter. Less charming Mexican bureaucracy awaited us the next morning, as, technically, we had already checked out of the country in Cabo, but a wet minibus ride and a chilly wait in the port authority's office later and they had decided it was too much trouble to do anything, so they did nothing. At least, something along those lines! Snoozing, reading, strolling, grocery shopping and eating, swimming in the hotel pool, then more eating, characterised our spell in Ensenada, which I'm sure has lots of things to do if it isn't raining; apparently, a blowhole on the southern side is worth seeing. The big question hanging over all our heads was: when can we leave? At first, it looked as if Saturday would give us a long-enough window to get to San Diego, a mere 60 miles and 12 hours sailing to the north, but that notion was soon dispelled by escalating winds. Next, we settled on Saturday night, when winds were supposed to lessen and back southerly, before getting up again on Sunday. Unfortunately, the port authority didn't share our optimism (and, looking at the waves breaking just outside the harbour, I could understand), but the alternative was being trapped in Ensenada for another four days, which would have meant my getting a bus to San Diego and home. Not ideal.
Sullen skies and stormy seas
The marina through windswept palm trees
Yes, those are loungers in the pool. Did I mention it was windy?
Calm waters on Saturday morning
Desirable seafront property. Stylish architecture and swish barbecues,
with scrub and stray dogs between houses and rocks
Inviting skies, but slightly scary seas
Crash!
The marina entrance, through which we had to leave,
is just visible beyond the spray on the right of the picture
Me and my beautiful steed
Ebenezer III basking in the last of the sunshine
Hours of pouring over weather reports culminated in us standing on Ebenezer's deck and gazing out at the huge waves still rollicking past the harbour entrance, despite a calm day. To leave the marina, we would have to motor beam on to the waves for several hundred yards to clear the point, before turning to starboard and into the swell. The rocky shore along which I had strolled that afternoon would be unsettlingly close to port. There were decent spells, of some 15 seconds, with no large wave, but then one would roar past that would give anyone pause for thought. Richard and Dennis considered long and hard, then gave the word: we would leave. We went into action silently, sweeping everything below, lashing down anything that could move and closing the hatch completely. Richard and Dennis strapped in above, Rick and I braced below. Butterflies took up station in my stomach. Through the portholes, I could see the lights of the town slipping by, then swinging madly up and down as we met the waves. Ebenezer rolled, steadied and then turned her nose to the west, riding the seas with an ease that seemed to say: 'Why were you worried? I got this.'
Safe on the cushions below decks!
Once the motion had settled somewhat, I ventured into the cockpit, to be greeted by a pair of seasoned sailors grinning like schoolboys. The relief of having made it, coupled with the knowledge that we had defied the port captain's advice, added a certain extra something to the evening! A watch was kept for the Mexican Navy, but they must have realised that Ebenezer III was no easy mark, and we passed on our way unhindered. Looking forward, the swell loomed up like walls, only to give way as we rose to the crest and swooped smoothly down the far side. Majestic but friendly, no bashing here. The stars appeared, trusty Orion watching approvingly, and Rick whipped up a fantastic meal of spaghetti and tuna despite the galley's wild movements. I confess, however, that I couldn't watch him chopping carrots.
Richard and Dennis having a marvellous time!
Nothing like the frisson of naughtiness to add spice to an evening sail
Rick cooking a spectacular meal with impressive insouciance
as the cabin rocked in all directions
On deck at 0200, Richard greeted me with the news that we were nearly in California. The lights of Tijuana, the northernmost Mexican city, glittered off our starboard beam, a strip of black showing where the no man's land of the as-yet-unwalled border lay. The seas were still huge, but comfortably so. Lights ahead revealed where vast tankers were turning towards San Diego. Given their proximity, Richard stayed in the cockpit, hailing a couple to alert them to the miniscule scrap of hull and sails off their beam, as I steered for the faint red light that marked the beginning of the channel. The massive bulk of a roll-on, roll-off car transporter passed across our bow, then, inexplicably, described a wide circle that seemed to take it out to sea again. Was it lost? (These vast ships always remind me of the Vogon Construction Fleet in Hitchhiker, which hung in the sky in much the way that bricks don't.) We followed another tanker in through the narrow channel, checking off the red and green buoys to starboard and port. Dennis came on watch as we slipped into calm waters, and Richard fried the last of the chicken in butter to avoid jettisoning it at the border (meat, dairy, mangoes and avocadoes are among the items forbidden to bring into the US), causing a delicious scent to waft up from the cabin. We tied up at the police dock and whipped up hot toddies with Smuggler's whisky, to await the officials who would allow us to set foot on land. Bit more official than Ireland, here, but extremely friendly, and we were soon released to motor on to our berth and collapse into bed.
Made it! Safe in San Diego and awaiting the friendliest
customs officers I have ever encountered
Awaking in the late morning, storms were lashing San Diego, the winds of a strength that made us extremely glad we were no longer at sea. Reports came in that there were swells of 34ft in Monterey Bay, rather different to the last time I saw it, and surely a danger to the aquarium and restaurants perched on stilts along Cannery Row. A breakfast of hash browns and bacon restored my equilibrium, and by the evening, we were all back up to strength for a scrumptious meal at the Bali Hai, a Polynesian restaurant known for its mai tais. We may have had two each... followed up by whisky aboard Ebenezer, accompanied by sea shanties and poetry - The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service was a highlight - until we all fell asleep to Dennis reading The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. A fitting end to an incredible journey.
San Diego in the grey dawn
The city lashed by a rare storm. Rather nice to be on dry land
Mai tais to toast our safe passage
Leaving my berth the next morning was harder than ever, knowing it was the last time I would do so on this trip. I slept so well there, even when I was taking off in the Bash! After a last round of Rick's banana pancakes and a feast of fish tacos and ribs at the Stone Brewery, it was finally time to head north to Los Angeles airport and home. What a voyage. Whales, dolphins, turtles, fishcakes, tuna sashimi, starry night watches, Bahia Santa Maria, ambrosial hot chocolate at the helm, margaritas in the cabin, sitting on the bow to watch the sun go down. To be out of reach of news, fake and otherwise, Facebook, politics and 3am worries is liberating. It is extraordinary how the things we check compulsively at home fall away utterly when out of reach, to be missed not one jot. The far horizon, the changing colours of the sea, the ever-enchanting stars: these are things that command attention. Sailing 1,000 miles may be an extreme way to escape, but we could all do with more time to cast off the slings and arrows of modern life. 'I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely seas and the sky', and I will, one day. Fair winds, Ebenezer III!
Thank you Captain Richard!
