February 2, 2017

Iguanas run everywhere. They climb the trees, jump in the pool, even get on our boats. I think they’re kind of cute and relatively harmless or at least, the young ones. Recently, I’ve become brave enough to pick them up which came in handy last Monday.

We were on our way to La Cruz and were just stepping off our boat when two of the hotel gardeners were yelling to us, trying to get our attention. They were working on the property that sits behind our slip when an iguana (He has since been named Diego.) fell off the palapa he was perched on, hit the iron gate, and then dropped into the water. The gardeners didn’t have a key to the gate and thus were unable to help him.

Iguanas use their tales to swim, but for some reason, Diego was unable to move it. The poor thing was stunned and hurt and could barely keep his head above water. Jay quickly got the boat hook. Diego grabbed on, but then slipped off. Jay was able to get him close enough to the dock and then I was able to grab his tail and pull him up onto the dock.
He was alive, barely. We just stood there, staring, not sure what to do next. We sort of felt good about saving him. I mean, his eyes were open, but he wasn’t moving and his front leg was distorted like it was broken. Now what?

News travels fast in our marina. We told Richelle who told Linda. Both have a huge heart for animals and Richelle knew Linda had a car and could take Diego to the vet. Which she did.

Diego’s shoulder was broken, but it was his body temperature that was threatening his life. It was way too low and the vet couldn’t find his heartbeat. He kept him on a heating pad for thirty minutes and slowly he started coming back around. The vet kept him overnight and only charged 200 pesos ($10.00)!

Diego came home Tuesday morning and is now being nursed back to health on Linda’s boat. I went to visit him. His eyes were much more alert and he began moving. Yesterday, he started eating and drinking water. Soon, he will be back in the trees where he belongs. Sweet!

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

You have to admit; Jay is a good sport.

It was Christmas day and we were at Las Animas, a beautiful cove on the south shore of Banderas Bay. You can only get there by boat or by foot. This was our second time at Las Animas as we spent last Christmas there too. (See “A Very Different Christmas.”) Several boats came from the Vallarta Yacht Club (VYC) carrying a multitude of passengers, along with another cruising boat, Cool Change, with Rick and Cynthia on board. Every year the VYC invites guests to join them at the El Coral Restaurant for lunch and a day at the beach.

We had barely sat down when a gentleman walked up with his pet iguana and offered him to Jay. First, he put him on his shoulder, but quickly removed him and put him on Jay’s head. We had a few laughs. I took a couple of photos. Jay gave the man a few pesos. And off he went to collect from other gullible tourists.

This isn’t our first experience with iguanas. They frequent many areas in Mexico. A few of them have made the marina their home and are boat-surfing. One was on our anchor platform the other day. I got out my camera and took some pictures. I kept getting closer and closer, thinking he would move. Nope. He just stared at me. Finally, I shook the anchor chain and he jumped into the water. I watched as he swam away using his tail. I turned around and found he had left a little present for us on the deck. Grrr!

Considering a swim, I went off to change into my bathing suit. When I got back to the table, Jay had already ordered me an ice-cold Negro Modelo and Zaran Deado. For two days, we had been talking about this fish. It is a Mexican specialty made with Red Snapper. They filet the whole fish and season it with a base made from carrot juice, add spices, and then grill it over a wood fire. It is absolutely delicious! It is served with the traditional sides of beans, rice and tortillas. We added guacamole.

While we waited for lunch to arrive, the beach vendors came to sell their goods. First, the pie lady stopped by our table. Jay said, “Thank you, no, not yet. Maybe come back later.” Carol said, “Wait! I want one. Coconut, please.” She explained that if she didn’t get the coconut one then, they might be gone later. Next came a man with jewelry. “Do you have any anklets?” I asked. “Yes. Just wait one Mexican minute.” (Mexican minutes are much longer than NY minutes.) He fitted one to my ankle. Three Mexican children, a boy and two girls, came by with a basket full of candy. “Merry Christmas! It’s free.” Carol took them up on their offer. (I’m thinking she has a sweet tooth.) A few minutes later, someone else came by with jewelry. She sold me a silver starfish necklace. I smiled. “Christmas presents.” I said to Jay, justifying my expenditures. “For me.”

Seven of us shared two orders of the Zaran Deado (see photos). It was more than plenty. We sat back and enjoyed our meal while watching boat after boat dropping off tourists. Most everyone on the beach was Mexican. Very few gringos. “They come from Guadalajara.” Javier, our hotel waiter, told us when we asked him about the visitors. “Mexican tourists. They come from the city.”

After lunch, I took a walk along the beach. Loosely translated, I learned Las Animas means The Spirit or The Soul. It was particularly poignant because this was Christmas day. A day in the year that we celebrate Jesus’s birth. I wondered if the Holy Spirit had gathered all of us here, to this special place, to share in the beauty of His gifts.

I thought about this as I looked around. Children were laughing and screaming, running back and forth into the water. Their joy was contagious. A little girl sat at the water’s edge. She was covered in sand but didn’t seem to mind as she was intent on filling her red bucket with sand. A wave came up, maybe in the hopes of washing her clean, but no. It only left more sand. Still, she didn’t seem to mind. Such a simple pleasure like filling a bucket with sand, and then dumping it out, will keep her busy for a while.

Behind her, a little more inland, was a very intense game of volleyball. Not two against two, but the regular size team you would find on a court. Some of them, too, were covered in sand, having fallen trying to hit the ball. They didn’t seem to mind either. It was all in the fun.

Further along, I came upon the para-sailors. Two men had suited up a young boy about twelve years old. They were giving him instructions. He was very serious and listened carefully as they explained the whistle commands he must follow. I watched as they ran with him and lifted him off, the boat pulling him up and off the beach and into the air. Maybe someday, I will do that, I thought. Then again, maybe not.

At the end of the cove, I saw two sets of two horses tied up under the shade. Two Mexican men, fully dressed, stood in front of the first set, having a quiet conversation. So there is yet another way to get to Las Animas; by horse. A sensible solution to navigate this mountainous terrain.

On my return, I spotted the boy para-sailor. He was on his way back to the beach. I was amazed how the boat moved through the tall masts. How he did not wrap the child around one of those masts, is a mystery to me. But he didn’t. The whistle blew and signaled the boy to follow the directions he was given. He was a good student. Only to me he seemed to be coming in too fast but the men caught him and the boy landed on his feet. All who had been watching sigh in relief.

Back at the restaurant, our friends, Yoshie and Larry, were playing a game of Bocce Ball. Ann was sitting on a lounge chair visiting with Cynthia and Rick. Everyone else was relaxing around the tables and talking with friends. Evidently, the pie lady returned as Jay munched on a slice of chocolate pie. He smiled to me. “Want a bite?”

I looked to the sky and notice dark clouds beginning to gather over the mountains. I mentioned this to Jay. He, of course, had been observing them, as well. “Let’s leave no later than three.” He told me and went to let the others know.

The day was getting later and the clouds were getting darker, so we made our move to leave. The young boy on the panga picked us up on the pier. It is a bit precarious getting on and off but no more so than backing into shore through the waves – which he tried, when bringing us into shore. We were all a little leery about that, especially me, after my accident. Jay or Dick, or maybe both, quickly negated that idea and told him to bring us up to the pier.

As I was stepping into the panga, I asked the man from El Coral (who kindly walked us over to the pier), “Habla English?” “A little.” He answered. I then asked Jay to explain to him how we wanted to be released from the mooring. He jumped into the panga and came to help us out.

They were simple instructions. We had a bridle using the port and starboard dock lines. I was to untie the port side first and then hand the starboard side to the man in the panga. He would use that to pull us out and away from the mooring. (The moorings lie close to the beach, practically in the wave break. And, by the way, there was no mooring ball, per se. Just an old orange life vest attached to a line that hopefully was dug in deep at the bottom of the ocean.)

I went to untie the port line but it was snug tight. The panga guy yelled to Jay to come up to ease the line. Jay shook his head no. He wasn’t going to risk wrapping the prop with the line. Voices were coming from all directions, but I can only listen to my Captain for directions. Unfortunately, I could no longer hear him because I had taken off my “marriage savers” (head phones) so they wouldn’t fall off while I was fussing with the port line.

The cacophony of voices was getting louder. I decided to go over to the starboard side. I untied that line but before I knew it, another panga showed up and he had the entire line in his hands. He threw it to me. Now, he can no longer pull us because the starboard line is not attached. I blame him. Later, I realize this is my fault because how could he have the entire line without me untying both ends?! Why did I do that?!! Stupida!

The voices raised to an even higher level, including mine. I don’t understand them. They don’t understand me. It was chaos for a minute or two but finally we got free of the mooring. I looked up and saw that Rick and Cynthia on Cool Change had just witnessed the whole ugly mess. I went back to the cockpit embarrassed and defeated. Jay smiled at me and said, “It’s okay. Everything is fine.” Even his warm smile couldn’t mend my bruised ego.

On our way back to the marina, the looming clouds threatened to break over us until the NW wind came up and kept them hovering over the mountains. That is where they will stay. The rain clouds visit the south shore often, creating an incredibly lush and green landscape.

The only disappointment of the day was that we saw virtually no sea life. Dick spotted a dolphin and a ray. No whales or turtles, though. A few days prior, we did see two, huge Ridley turtles when we had gone out for a test sail. Jay and I decided they were the mama turtles saying thank you for helping their babies last week.

It was early morning and were walking along the beach by the hotel. We ran into a group of about twenty people who had found a nest of baby turtles. They must have just hatched. There in the sand were hundreds of them, in a circle, about three feet in diameter. They were frantically going in all directions. One pour soul was digging himself into a hole. “Whoops! Wrong way!” I said, as I picked him up and took him over to the water.

For about five minutes, Jay and I joined in with the other twenty or so people and took the turtles, two at a time, to the sea. You are supposed to take them to the edge of the waves and let them find their way to the ocean. “This way, they will know where to come back to.” Ann told me. She worked with a turtle sanctuary a few years back. “Those that make it won’t come home for at least eight years.” She also explained how they taught her to first put her hands in the sand and then rub them together to get all the human oils and scent off. The turtle specialists think this might be better for their survival.

Back home, we said goodbye to our friends. Later that night, Yoshie and Larry invited us over to their condo for Christmas dinner. Larry barbecued a delicious meal of pork and chicken wrapped in bacon. Yoshie provided us with her homemade wine. They’ve got talent, those two.

Jay and I, we slept well Christmas night.

(See Photos in Gallery.)

December 17, 2016

3:30 a.m. – I awaken to hear Jay rustling below. It is our second night back on Cadenza and we have been sleeping in the cockpit. Whenever we leave the boat for an extended period of time, we take her apart and most everything seems to land on our bed for safekeeping. The boat is cluttered and in disarray. Thus, we sleep topsides for several days while we reorganize and regroup.

“What are you doing?” I ask Jay.

“I woke up so I thought I would check the batteries.” He says, as he crawls back onto the bunk. So far, we are feeling rather optimistic since most things are working; the electronics, our Ray Marine, the radar. Even the raw water pump – that broke the day we left Martha’s Vineyard – has been replaced. The big question this season, at least as of now, is if we will need new batteries. They aren’t holding their charge so Jay has been monitoring them closely. Evidently so closely, he checks them in the middle of the night.

The moon is nearly full. The light creates an air of confusion. “Is it time to get up, Jay?”

“Hardly. It’s only 3:30. You can go back to sleep.”

However, I am wide awake. Disoriented, I suppose, from the change of time and scenery. Just a few days ago, we were on Martha’s Vineyard. A cold snap had hit and we were bundled up in front of a warm fire. Soups and large meals were consumed. I claim, to add to the warmth. (Sadly, they only added to my winter fat.) The island, especially our neighborhood, was quiet. So quiet, at night we would hear no traffic. All was still. Our street was dark and deserted but for the millions of stars shining overhead.

I lie back down and try to sleep. Puerto Vallarta is a big city and I hear lots of traffic. Despite the late hour. What sounds like a heron squawks loudly as it flies past the boat, announcing his arrival. Another bird makes a soft cooing call in groups of four. Off in the distance, a beach party continues into dawn. Their music amplified, just enough to sound like a bass thumping drone. The surge has picked up and the boats bump back and forth against the docks. The fenders grown and breathe as they get caught between. An engine hums across the fairway. Fisherman preparing for their daily outing. These are not unfamiliar sounds. It’s just different here. Drastically different than where we were just a few days ago.

7:30 a.m. – Jay is off to collect gas for our dinghy. Our friends have generously offered to take him in their rental car. Much easier than trying to schlep a five-gallon container full of fuel on the bus.

I decide to take a morning walk along the beach. The shoreline of Banderas Bay stretches for miles along a flat patch of sand. The water nips at my toes. I feel it to be a perfect temperature for swimming. Today the waves are gentle. They roll in quietly.

Up ahead, three people are standing in a circle staring at the beach. I stop to take a look. There, on the sand, is a tiny, baby turtle struggling to make her way to the sea. She is weak and moving slowly. As the water rises enough to touch her, she gets a burst of energy and paddles furiously, trying to find her way. The wave recedes and she sticks her head up as if to say, “What? Where did the water go?”

This goes on for several minutes while the four of us root her on; a young Canadian couple, a pretty Mexican woman (who cheers in Spanish) and me. The waves reach out, again and again, while the little turtle tries desperately to survive. We are her protectors, we say. Our presence keeps the birds away. We see that she is close. Finally, close enough that we think she will make it to her destiny, when a big wave crashes down and carries her back onto the beach. We collectively sigh in dismay. She must begin again.

The Canadian couple move on but the Mexican lady and I stay. A few minutes later, another Canadian woman comes along (There are lots of Canadians here.)

“Oh, the poor little thing. You know she’s not going to make it.” She says, emphatically. “She has lost all her strength. Most of the turtles, when they are released, run to the water with energy and spirit.” Our smiles turn to frowns. I look at the turtle, stuck in the sand, imagining how she must have watched as her sisters and brothers left her behind. Of course, it is the nature of life. Either she will be strong enough to survive or she will succumb and become food for others. Understanding that intellectually is not the same as accepting it emotionally and both the Mexican lady and I are hesitant to give up.

“I know we’re not supposed to touch them, or interfere in any way.” The Canadian woman continues, having noticed our concern. “But we could pick her up and give her one last swim. One last try.” The Mexican woman and I look at one another in hope.

“So, who’s going to do it? You? Or you?” The Mexican woman asks. I hesitate, wondering why she has so pointedly announced it will not be her. Is it the fact that it is illegal? Or is she just squeamish? Maybe she knows of an ancient spiritual curse that will come upon the one who touches the baby turtle. Meanwhile, the Canadian woman picks her up and takes her out to the sea.

“I will wait for the right wave!” She calls out to us. I can see the turtle’s legs moving – as if she is swimming in air. Clearly, she is upset and unsure of what is happening. If only we could assure her that we are trying to help. The Canadian woman returns to us with a satisfied grin. “There. At least she will have a last swim.”

I continue my walk. I pass several people on the beach. Generations of family members walk together. Couples stroll hand in hand. And, as usual, there are athletes out for their morning run. I come upon a Mexican man standing guard next to a bucket of fish. He watches as his partner heads out into the water with his net.

I briskly walk past, but then stop. I am out for exercise, but I try to be mindful too. Being aware of my surroundings enriches the experience. It is no longer just a physical activity, but becomes a meditative therapy that calms my mind and at the same time makes me feel connected to the earth and the people around me.

I turn around and walk over to the fisherman. I try out the little Spanish I know. “?Que es?” (What’s that?) I say, pointing to the fish. “Liza.” He answers. “? Comida?” I want to know if it is edible. “Si.” He smiles.

I move on but then stop again. I want to see how they catch it. It is all done by hand.

His partner gathers the net (which is circular and has some kind of weights at the bottom). He moves through the waves as they crash against him. He is waist deep. When he has gathered the net together, just so, he waits for the perfect wave and then as it breaks, he tosses out the net up and over the wave. Then, he moves backward and slowly collects the net. I see he has no fish this time.

He does this several more times but it seems to be an uphill battle as the waves are now increasing in size and bashing him around. Since they already have a bucket of fish and he quickly surrenders, I can only presume that this kind of fishing must be done when the waves are small and gentle like they were when I first began my walk.

On the way back to the Cadenza, I notice a ketch leaving port and heading out to sea. It still seems so far away; our life of cruising. Getting back to the boat is just the beginning. There are so many more things to do to prepare – both for the boat and for ourselves. We still have much to do. I am reminded of a Spanish saying, “Poco a poco.”

Little by little.

P.S. Can’t figure out how to do the inverted question mark for the Spanish. 🙁

December 4, 2016

It was mid-October. The weather was changing. Autumn was well on its way. Storms were becoming more frequent. And, as you can see from the photograph, most of the boats had already been taken out of the water. There were only about a half-dozen left bobbing on their moorings. SkipJack was one of them. She looked lonely out there, weaving from side to side as the wind and current directed her bow. All things considered, Jay and I decided it was time to put her to bed for the winter.

The logistics of getting SkipJack to Vineyard Haven, and us back home, are a bit complicated. We could have Martha’s Vineyard Shipyard (MV Shipyard) simply pick her up and tow her back. But, Jay and I like to sail her whenever possible and this was just another chance to get out on the water.

We walked the mile and a quarter to the landing where we keep our dinghy stored on the beach. From there, we took the dinghy out to SkipJack and prepared her for the journey. We tied the dinghy to the back of the boat and drove SkipJack over to a nearby, private dock (The neighbors were absent at the time.) The wind was favorable and we were able to tie up easily. I unleashed the dinghy and Jay rowed her back to the beach where we would pick her up later. He walked onto the dock and boarded SkipJack. We were off.

We made a quick pit stop at the fuel dock and ordered a couple of gallons, just in case. As it turned out, it was a good thing. As usual, once out of Edgartown Harbor and having set course, we found ourselves heading straight into the wind. Unfortunately, it was mostly a motor sail. Still, it was good to be out in the catboat, viewing the island from the water. We knew it was our last “sail” of the season and so enjoyed the ride.

Vineyard Haven is approximately eight nm from Edgartown, which is about a two-hour excursion at four knots. As we neared the entrance to the harbor, our course changed and suddenly we were cruising on a beam reach as we headed toward port. A fine gift from Mother Nature for our last sail of the season. We tied up to the mooring where MV Shipyard’s launch brought us back to land. From there, we walked several blocks to the ferry terminal and caught a bus back to Edgartown. The island transit system is very convenient and dropped us off at the head of our street. Jay and I commented on how similar our day was to one we would spend in Mexico; finding our way about without the use of a car.

A couple of weeks later, Jay received an email from the shipyard. It seems they have deemed our outboard motor old with a multitude of issues. One of which is water in the gear case, most likely from a bad seal. Our boat is a 1979 Herreshoff America catboat with a six HP Johnson that sits in a well. Finding an engine that will fit in the well could present a challenge. Jay began his research. And in doing so, decided we had to go visit SkipJack in the boatyard. He said, to measure the well. I suspect he just missed her.

MV Shipyard dry-docks some of their inventory on an acre of land near the airport. Yesterday, Jay and I drove over there to see if we could find SkipJack and measure the well. While we drove inland, I noticed the ever-changing landscape on the island.

The Scrub Oaks were virtually bare, revealing homes I had no idea were there. The sun sat low in the sky, playing hide and go seek with the white billowing clouds moving briskly through the air. When the sun wins, it casts a warm glow over the water in the lagoon. When it loses, shadows hover, causing the atmosphere to grow heavy. A golden blanket of leaves covered the grown. Step on it and it will break into dust. I peeked through the barren woods for signs of deer or wild turkeys. They were hiding. Smartly, as it is hunting season. Vineyarders are warned to wear bright orange when walking through the forest. Jay and I think it prudent to find long stretches of wide open beaches to hike rather than take our chances with hungry hunters.

Jay pulled off to the side of the road and parked. We exited the car and walked through the fencing, ignoring the “No Trespassing” sign. Boats of all shapes and sizes were packed onto this tiny piece of property, tightly shrink-wrapped in white material with big black letters stating their names. There were some sailboats, but mostly power boats. Before I realized it, Jay went one way and I another. We moved under boats, squeezed between boats and around stands where boats were perched, precariously. “Terri?” Jay yelled.

“Over here!” I answered. But where was over here? I was getting lost in the maze with no sight of SkipJack anywhere. Feeling a little unnerved (Could one of these boats fall on me?) and a bit claustrophobic, I headed back to the car. Jay soon followed and we left without finding our catboat or getting our measurements.

Back home, I did find my deer. Three of them. It was dusk and they ran through our backyard. I was looking out the window while on the phone with my brother when I spotted them. I squealed in delight! Silently, I wished them luck in their freedom.

Meanwhile, Jay was back perusing the internet, ordering supplies for Cadenza. We will fill an entire suitcase with items more easily found in the states than Mexico: inner tubes for our Danard dinghy wheels; solar showers; patches for the dinghy; an impeller; an American flag and a Mexican flag; bungee hooks; and even a plastic ice cube tray. He checked online and found photographs of Cadenza taken by our friends in Puerto Vallarta. He looked longingly at those photos. I’m beginning to think Jay is like the “man without a country.” Only, he is a man without a boat. He has put one boat to bed while another one sleeps in its berth, waiting for our arrival.

On second thought, maybe the title of this blog shouldn’t have been “The Lonely Catboat.” Maybe it should have been called, “The Lonely Sailor.”

Eleven days and counting, honey.

September 5, 2016

Ah, yes, the joys of boat ownership during hurricane season.

We are blessed by having two boats in two oceans, over 3000 miles apart. And usually during the late summer months, the weather patterns on both coasts start to produce favorable conditions for tropical development. The water temperatures around our beautiful island, Martha’s Vineyard, are warmed by the Gulf Stream. This keeps us warmer in the fall, but also provides a highway of sorts for storms to follow on their northward course. Our Herreshoff Catboat has weathered several hurricanes at her mooring in Katama Bay.

This year, however, our friend, Jack Brewer, who works at Martha’s Vineyard Shipyard, decided that conditions were such that they should move the boat to a safer mooring in the inner harbor of Edgartown. Katama Bay is wide open and a strong southeasterly fetch and tidal surge, combined with some big seas could drive the boats ashore. At the moment we are hunkered down in our home in Katama awaiting what Hermine is going to do. Gusty winds, over 50 here, but out in the open, Atlantic gusts of up to 70 are predicted by Marine Weather, with some very heavy seas.

So, while studying the local computer models, I decided to check out the conditions in the Pacific where Cadenza is moored. She is safely ensconced at Paradise Village Marina in Nuevo Vallarta, where she rode out Hurricane Patricia last fall. The season prior, she was in a close relationship with Hurricane Odile in La Paz.

I am somewhat of a weather worry-wart ( WWW) and check many websites frequently for updates. Some of the best for the Eastern Pacific are www.eebmike.com and www.sonrisanet.org I also find www.windyty.com quite helpful for both coasts and, of course, the National Hurricane sites are very helpful as well. Today, all are cause for some alarm as rarely are we “attacked” on both coasts simultaneously.

The weather is something we have no control over, so “letting go” is one of those mantras that Terri will repeatedly chant . I guess it helps somewhat, as there isn’t much we can do. Fortunately, we were able to arrive home yesterday before the storm hit. It is quite interesting being on a popular vacation island with so many tourists unable to leave because all the ferries have been canceled.

As far as preparation, we, of course do the usual storm preparation of adding extra lines, fenders and reducing windage. We also have great caretakers on both coasts: Eugenie Russell and Elizabeth Shanahan in Nuevo Vallarta and Martha’s Vineyard Shipyard in Edgartown, Mass.

But, when studying both of the enclosed graphics, its a bit difficult to relax until these two blow themselves out far away and not cause much damage to anyone.

A good day to have some chowdah and a glass (or two) of wine and catch up on some reading. But, no, Terri has suggested we take the 4 wheel drive Lexus down to the South Beach for a photo opportunity.

Perhaps we should invite some friends to the house for chowdah and put Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be happy” on the stereo. Might as well sit back and enjoy while Mother Nature shows us that she is, indeed, in charge.

August, 2016

Every year, we rent out our house on Martha’s Vineyard for the month of August. The same two families have been coming for over fifteen years. They feel as if it is their house and they take good care of it, so we continue. That means we are homeless for four to five weeks. Sometimes we do road trips on the east coast but mostly we come back to California.

Our friends Alison and Allan, who live on the canals of Mandalay Bay, have consistently opened their home and their hearts to us and for this we are grateful. Their home feels like our home and we love staying with them. Both sailors and pilots, they are adventurous and love stepping out of the box.

One day they took us out for an afternoon sail on board their Catalina 38, Risa. (Appropriately named after the STAR TREK pleasure planet, Risa.) And one day, Jay and I had a chance to go flying in their two-seat, tail-dragging plane; a Luscombe. Here’s how it came about.

I was sitting at Cabelos Salon in Oxnard. My favorite hair stylist, Jovan, was trying to save my damaged and uncontrolled do. She was coloring, toning, conditioning and trimming my hair. Our conversation was quietly private as we shared personal stories of our lives. Suddenly my purse was vibrating. I reached inside and picked up my phone. “Going flying.” was the text I got from Jay.

“I’m so jealous!” I replied. (This was Jay’s second flight with Allan. I had yet to be invited.) Minutes later, my phone vibrated again and I looked to find a new text from Jay. “We can meet for lunch and you can go up in the plane.”

“Yes!” I said, smiling at Jovan. Then I shared with her my coup.

Alison and I met up with Allan and Jay at Sea Fresh for lunch, one of our favorite harbor-side restaurants. After our meal, I went back to their house to change from my dress into shorts as I was told the climb into the tiny aircraft would be a bit awkward.

Allan and I arrived at the Oxnard airport where they keep their plane. We parked behind the hanger and I stepped out onto a deserted tarmac. Allan unlocked the hanger to reveal a small aircraft with long wings and an even longer tail. After checking all systems and doing a once-over of the exterior, Allan got under one wing and pushed it onto the runway. It was that light! One man can move this airplane!

I stepped up with my short legs, grabbed a hand-hold and lifted myself into the seat. I couldn’t quite reach the pedals – probably a good thing – but the control stick stood tall between my knees. (I wondered what I would do with it should Allan suddenly have a heart attack.) Allan handed me a headset and instructed me as to how it worked, when to speak and when to listen. There would be lots of conversation between him and the various towers as we flew through the airspace that formed the miles we would cover.

I wasn’t afraid, exactly. In fact, when I was a child, I absolutely loved flying. It’s just when I got older and I considered what could happen that I started to hesitate, started to second guess whether or not it was safe to fly. I do love to fly. I do. It’s just… a very small plane…with just one pilot…

I was nervous, excited. Pushing myself to cross the edge. For some people, this would be nothing. Our friends who are pilots thrive on every flight. They love it. I had to quell some stomach ruffling. But I did it! I loved it!

There is a whole other perspective from the air. On a small plane, flying at a low altitude, the cities and farmlands look, well, so organized, linear. We passed over Oxnard, Camarillo and then up and over the Santa Monica mountain range. Allan pointed out a house built out of a 747. I wondered if the owner was a pilot.

We continued down the coastline, heading toward Malibu. We did a fly-by over our previous home. Twin Peaks we called her as she stood tall on a mountain top with two chimneys reaching out to the sky. Circling around to head back home, Allan asked me if I wanted to drive. I choked and said, “No, thank you. Maybe next time.”

I think my favorite part of our flight was when Allan descended and flew close to the ocean as we headed north along the Pacific coastline. The kelp beds looked like spider webs as I watched kayakers fish from their boats, bobbing in the waves. I looked for whales, dolphins, any sort of sea life, but spotted none.

“Would you like to do some touch and go’s?” Allan asked me. “Sure. I’m up for seeing what that’s about.” I replied, having no idea what he was talking about. Allan got on the radio and asked for clearance to “…do some pattern work.” That means, he could touch and go; touch, stop and go; or, land.

On our first approach, he did a touch and go. What a rush! We just barely touched the ground when he picked up speed and up and away we went. We circled around and landed a few more times before we finally taxied back to the hangar.

I climbed out and stood staring at the tiny plane with a smile on my face. There’s nothing like stepping out of one’s comfort zone and realizing it’s all okay. It’s all good.

August, 2016

It was cold! We were sailing with a steady 17 knot wind and five to six foot waves. We were screaming through the water. It was great fun. But it was cold! Granted, maybe for most, it wouldn’t be necessary to be covered from head to toe. (Note Ed in shorts sitting next to me.) But I suffer from Trigeminal Neuralgia, a nerve condition, and it can be triggered by cold wind so I wasn’t taking any chances. Thus, the scarf circling my face.

We were on our way back from Santa Cruz Island on board Barbara Ann, a Tayana 48. We met the owners, and now our friends, Ed and Barb, while cruising in Mexico. They were our dock neighbors and sometimes, our buddy boat. Last season, Ed and Barb decided to return home to Santa Barbara where they have a slip and, more importantly, family. When they heard we were coming out to California they invited us to visit and to sail out to the islands for a couple of days.

Having missed our cruising buddies last season, we were all too happy to join them in Santa Barbara for a trip out to Scorpion, one of the several anchorages on Santa Cruz Island. This is one of their favorite spots as it hosts great kayaking, a relatively easy beach landing, and several hikes. It has been three years since we left the area and we miss the quiet beauty that lies amongst the coves of the Channel Islands.

We left early morning with a bank of clouds hanging low on the horizon. The seas were flat and the wind was waiting for the fog to lift. Still, it was a peaceful crossing and a perfect sea to watch for wildlife. No whale sightings but we did get a visit from a pod of dolphins. About an hour out, the sun broke through the clouds and the wind arrived. We turned off the engine and were able to sail for the rest of our journey.

The weather report was nebulous in that they predicted 10-20 knot winds. That’s a wide range, lots of room for error. Not very helpful at all. As it turned out, the wind produced a steady 20 knots into the evening and throughout the night. No beach landings for us that day. Still, we enjoyed a delicious dinner while visiting with our friends.

There were six of us on Barbara Ann, as Bobbi and Don had joined us for the cruise. They, too, are from the local area (Oxnard) and are currently cruising in Mexico. So we had much to talk about and much to catch up on. Soon the sun set and it wasn’t long that we followed and bedded down for the night. A rocking and rolling night!

Mornings at any anchorage are lovely but sitting in the cockpit at Scorpion sipping coffee reminded me of so many other mornings on Cadenza where Jay and I would linger; talking, dreaming, planning our cruising days that we now enjoy. While reminiscing, Ed poked his head out of the companionway to check out the weather. The wind had settled and a joint decision was made to take advantage of the relatively calm shore break.

The beauty of going on shore is the variety of activities to choose from. Swimming, beach-combing, and sun-tanning are a few. Kayaking, of course, as there are a few sea caves tucked in the walls of the cliffs. There is also a small museum one can visit and learn about the history of the island. There are hikes of different levels, different lengths, to choose from. And there are campgrounds. The kind where you pack in and pack out, keeping the scenery pristine. There are many things to do, but one never gets the sense you are in a tourist bubble. As part of the Channel Islands National Park, Scorpion cove still preserves the stark countryside that was present hundreds of years past.

We each voiced a vote for what we wanted to do. Bobbi decided to beach-comb for awhile and brought a book to pass the time. Ed, Barb, Don, Jay and I took a hike into the canyon and then up onto the ridge where the trail leads to an overlook of Potato Harbor. I don’t think we made it quite as far as Potato Harbor but the views were breathtaking. Especially while standing on the edge, looking down at the sheer rock that dropped hundreds of feet into the deep blues and grays of the water below. Frothy seas crashed against the shore as the wind gusts tried desperately to capture our hats. Beyond the cliffs and across the vast expanse of ocean we could see the mainland as it stretched for miles. It is times like this I imagine what it was to be a sea explorer, hundreds of years ago, when all this was new to their eye.

Once back down on shore, the waves were rising with the increasing winds. Ed and Barb had recently purchased a new dinghy and it was much lighter than their old one. I don’t think Ed took that into account when he tried to pick us up (two at a time). The current was running strong and he took great strides with the oars to make it into shore. Eventually we all got back to the boat. A little wet, yes, but fortunately, with no great dinghy-dumping stories.

A good day of hiking leads to an early night in bed. The heavy winds continued through the night, keeping us alert and, in the end, a bit sleep deprived. Nevertheless, we did get some rest and awoke to another beautiful morning. It was time to return and already the winds and waves were showing us it could be “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” for the crossing. We weighed anchor and before we were even out of the cove we got hit by a big wave, crashing over the bow and into the companionway. Luckily, I was below, but I heard it was a big splash!

So, it was on this day, sailing home, that the air was cold. The wind was a steady 17 knots and the waves were five to six feet. We were screaming through the water. It was great fun. But it was cold!