The music from the Cabo bars was still pumping, astonishingly, at 7am, when we woke to the dawn casting the eastern sky in gold beyond the rocks that guard the bay. We were definitely back in civilisation. The kind of civilisation, though, where you can dive off the boat for a morning swim in water so clear you can see the anchor chain all the way down. The water was cool and silky, and especially blissful considering the one drawback of living on a 36ft boat is the lack of a shower!
Sunrise over the Arches
Reclining on the bow in the sunshine afterwards, I gazed along the beach to where the hotels became ever more stylish and expensive, and saw two dark blobs. Horses! I have a radar where these things are concerned. I squeaked my discovery, and was granted leave from the captain to investigate further that afternoon. Before then lay the serious business of refuelling and finding our berth, so we made all shipshape and motored over to the marina. We were a rare specimen, being a sailing boat, as this is sport-fishing Mecca and high-powered, sunglasses-defying powerboats, gleaming white from their hulls to the tiny fish-spotting seats high above the decks, were everywhere. Gin palaces with identikit crew members in starched shorts and polo shirts rode at the entrance, too large to enter the slips. A reminder of earlier, wind-powered times was a two-masted ship, albeit one now host to drunken partygoers rather than drunken sailors.
A pair of brown blobs beside the big white hotel are horses, I promise
Tidying up the cockpit lockers. At least, sorting them, and then tidying
Cabo's guardian rocks,
which end in a natural arch not visible from the harbour
Cruise ships arrive here in their droves,
floating monstrosities from a yachtie's perspective!
floating monstrosities from a yachtie's perspective!
Entering Cabo marina, past gin palaces and party boats
Refuelling was swift and easy, thanks to efficient staff and a diesel dock as smart as any gas station in California. After tying up at our slip opposite the 'Luxury Avenue' shopping centre, we scrubbed Ebenezer III down and rubbed Vaseline on the rubber seals of the hatches to keep them from drying out in the sun. Richard and Dennis made a valiant effort to revive Otto, our autopilot, who had been sleeping on the job for the past couple of days, but he resisted all efforts. Can't get the staff these days. Still, it had felt a little bit like cheating to sit by the wheel when on watch instead of keeping to the course oneself, and at least everything vital was still in fine fettle. The new engine, installed before the Baja Ha-Ha, and new sails had repaid their investment many times over. The staff of IGY Marina were polite and helpful to a man, as was the customs chap who came to check us out of the country. Because we weren't planning to stop at a major port again before San Diego, the paperwork had to be done here, and it was blissfully smooth and friendly. Lazy and rude these Mexicans are not!
Attempting CPR on Otto, to no avail
The glitzy side of Cabo: luxury fishing boats and luxury shopping
Ebenezer's mast can just be glimpsed among the motorboats
With the boat (and ourselves) clean and tidy, the boys set off on a provisioning trip and I was released to find a horse. On the advice of IGY Marina staff, I left the harbour and crossed the road to the tourist office, a tiny room with an even tinier puppy - the perfect conversation opener! According to the man there, the horses I had glimpsed on the beach could not be ridden on the beach, but there was a better option. Ten minutes later I was rattling through the back streets of Cabo with a large Mexican, hearing about his experiences in Chicago and California as an illegal immigrant ('I used to ride horses, but I ate too much in America and now I'm too fat'), to Migrino Beach, where, apparently, part of the movie Troy was filmed. Dusty tracks wove off the main highway to rickety shelters among windswept scrub, where a collection of sleepy looking horses dozed. To my delight, there was no one else there but me and a guide, Enrique, who spoke no English but was a willing hand with a camera. My little chestnut horse, Compadre, had a weeping eye and was terribly thin, but when I got on and the driver had taken off the lead rope ('you rider!'), he pricked his ears and jogged off as if he was heading to the start of Royal Ascot. He was fit and strong and sound, and gave me a lovely ride. Once on the beach, we galloped flat out along the soft sand (no wonder these horses are fit), then turned and jogged back. Blazing sun overhead, the blue Pacific glittering to the west, a keen horse underneath me and, to cap all, whales spouting and splashing just off the beach. Oh, and flying fish too! I could not stop grinning with delight and Enrique and I shared gasps of wonder, our pleasure in the sight transcending all language barriers.
San Migrino Beach. An unexpected piece of heaven
Enrique with Compadre and Tequila
For some reason, Enrique invited me to sit on Tequila for a minute,
I think just for a picture!
I think just for a picture!
So, I didn't pack riding gear... Bare feet feel good in rawhide stirrups!
Shortly after Enrique took that last picture, we turned to see Tequila disappearing at full gallop into the hills... Enrique had failed to tie him up tightly enough and he done his, apparently well practiced, disappearing act. We turned back towards the stables, but Enrique soon got tired of walking and hopped up behind me. Compadre wasn't too keen, and bucked a couple of times to show his displeasure, but we both stayed on. Down on the flats amid dry bushes, quad bikes appeared, setting off to try and catch the wayward horse, and we followed them for a spell up the winding, dusty tracks. It was well over my allotted hour, though, so Enrique took Compadre and I was whisked back to base on a quad bike behind a substantial, somewhat pungent Mexican. In the car, my driver told me all about Tequila's penchant for escaping, and reassured me that he had been heading for the company's second stables and not just off into the wide blue yonder. Whales, sunshine, sand and excitement - an afternoon to rival any Brad Pitt epic!
My noble guide and the escape artist
Pacific paradise
Dawn the next morning saw us slipping quietly out of the marina under a bright full Moon, rounding the Arch at the entrance to the bay, its curved shape inky black against the silver-lit water. Many lights on shore showed the ever-increasing spread of the resort of Cabo San Lucas, luxury hotels patterning the ocean's edge with swimming pools and balconies. The glitzy edge of Cabo is just that, however, a silk edging to a dusty interior where the local Mexicans live in, if not poverty, certainly not affluence. On my drive to the stables I had passed the usual assortment of broken-down cars and skinny dogs, but also laughing schoolchildren in neat uniforms and brightly painted houses. Tourism is clearly vital, but seemingly welcome, too, as it is hard to see many other ways of making money in what is, simply put, a desert. Fishing is tough work, as it is anywhere, so taking out a few rich Westerners to catch a bonefish or marlin must be child's play. None were out as we set the sails close hauled to a light westerly and headed into a gentle swell and unusually calm seas around Cabo Falso.
San Migrino beach, backed by typically rocky, arid scrub
Three men in a boat:
Mexican fishermen in a tiny panga about 20 miles offshore
When I awoke after an extremely good sleep in comfortable seas, we were off the beach on which I had ridden the day before. And the whales were still there, determined to entertain. There were humpbacks on every quarter, leaping clear out of the water and crashing back, sending up fountains of spray. Two together near the beach waved their pectoral fins like synchronised swimmers, bidding us 'good morning' in the most polite fashion. It was an amazing display, a rare treat, that was followed after a lunch of tuna and bacon by another gymnastic triumph of the seas: a school of fish was powering away from a pod of dolphins, springing high and wriggling through the air in a desperate attempt to avoid being lunch. Dolphins leapt six abreast behind them, crossing our bow only yards away. Glorious.
Up in the air...
...and splash!
Flash of flukes
Pair of pectorals off San Migrino Beach
Hitherto strangely quiet and calm, the seas decided to give their own display towards evening. The winds got up, right on our nose, and the waves grew steep and high. My blissfully steady stomach allowed me to cook quesadillas for a windswept supper in the cockpit, before I went on watch in bright moonlight that allowed me a slight warning of the walls of water crested with white that were coming our way. Richard stayed on deck in case it got a bit much for me, being a lot more sea than I've ever seen before, but I managed to keep us on course, steering slightly diagonally across the waves to minimise the crashing descent on the other side. The wind got up to 15 knots and the biggest waves to maybe 6ft, but with Ebenezer riding them well it was exhilarating, rather than scary. Sleep was a little difficult to come by, but I got more than the boys, after they decided it was a little too wild for me to go on watch at 0200. I didn't argue.
Dennis chilling at the wheel before the winds picked up
Dennis woke me with a shout of 'field of ponies!' They know me so well already. The Isle of St Margarita was in sight on our starboard beam, with a lonely white lighthouse on the southern tip. I wonder what kind of life the lighthouse keeper had. Hard to imagine anywhere more lonely, with not even a scrap of level earth for a garden. We glimpsed a two-masted cutter to the west and hailed her, a rare moment of sociability in the ocean. A whale crested nearby and a turtle waved hello. Above, frigate birds wheeled and, as we approached Bahia Santa Maria, pelicans and gulls dived and gulped down supper. It was clearly a well-stocked area, giving a lifeline to the hardy fishermen who live here. It's a lonely place, the only sign of 21st-century life a wisp of smoke from some kind of factory or power station in the large bay that lay beyond the low dunes. We anchored in the lee of Cabo San Lazaro, 1,275ft high, the only high point for miles. It's a windswept anchorage, but sheltered from the swell and beautiful in its wild loneliness.
Someone's home, that white speck. The loneliest job in the world?
Making good time
Two for two: fishing trawlers passing pink-tinged peaks
My favourite spot
The peak protecting Bahia Santa Maria
Approaching the anchorage
Margaritas were duly mixed to celebrate our arrival, and in honour of Swallows and Amazons, I made crushed new potatoes and pemmican (corned beef). It was Arthur Ransome's classic book that first made me fall in love with sailing, yet to my astonishment, our esteemed skipper had never even heard of Cap'n John, the Boy Roger or Nancy Blackett, Amazon Pirate and Terror of the Seas. I brought him a copy as a voyage present and he instantly began devouring it, so what better way to mark our first anchorage in a bay equal to Wild Cat Island than a meal Mate Susan would have been proud of? Especially when it's washed down with some good red wine and a recording of Dylan Thomas reading his poetry. Magic.
Cheers, boys!
Happy sailor!
Next instalment: chance encounters and chancy exits
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