December 16, 2013

This is where I fall in love with Mexico. After years of dreaming and then planning, and a start and stop moment in Ensenada, after 800 plus miles and days and nights at sea, it has taken me the entire ten days we have spent at San Jose Del Cabo to decompress, and to actually realize how vividly our lives are changing, from port to port.

There is something refreshing about immersing oneself in another culture. And we have barely begun. But what we have found has caused me to feel giddy; like a child with a school-girl crush, I am smitten with the people and the country of Mexico. When, exactly, this happened, I do not know. I am wondering, as I think back…

It might have been when I began to see Mexico through the eyes of artists and architecture. Puerto Los Cabos has a long walkway that runs around the marina. It is beautifully landscaped with cacti and flowers and the paintings and sculptures of the artist, Leonora Carrington. Ms. Carrington was a British woman who resided in Mexico for many years. They call her one of the last women surrealist painters. Her interpretations of life resonate around the macabre, a darker view of our world than I would chose, but interesting, nonetheless. Good art opens new avenues of thought.

Then we met Metin Bereketli, an artist originally from Turkey, who has lived and worked in many places, including our own Los Angeles, and North Carolina. He impressed us with his art, and charmed us with his personality. We spent several afternoons in his gallery, regaled by his life experiences and sharing in his dream for the future. We even discovered we have colleagues in common; working with the same film producers, once, our paths almost crossed.

We wandered into buildings built in the 1700s. Beautiful adobe structures with soft, curved arches and tile floors, interspersed with gardens, relief paintings and wood-beam ceilings. What was once a hacienda is now a restaurant. No longer privately owned, the public can enjoy this structural history that recreates a time gone by.

Or it could have been when we found the beach club drenched in white sand with cool, salty, water lapping onto the shore. We took a swim and a snorkel and a snooze on the chairs.

But probably it was the Ceviche. I love Ceviche! I went taste testing throughout San Jose Del Cabo and the Beach Club won, hands down, with their fresh sea bass, lime, cilantro, Serrano peppers, and cucumber Ceviche. And I tried many; tuna, snapper, shrimp and even octopus.

But then it might have been when our friends, Casey and Diane from sv/Inkatu, drove down from La Paz to take us to the Organic Farmer’s Market. We drove through town and then turned onto a dirt road where we traveled for about a mile, closing the windows so the dust wouldn’t suffocate us. Eventually, we turned into a dust parking lot and my expectations were low. I turned to the right and was pleasantly surprised. There, in a garden, park-like setting was the farmer’s market. Fresh organic vegetables and fruit, organic eggs and cheese made from goat’s milk. Art work with the vibrant colors so specific to the Mexican culture. And music. Of course there was music. I’m thinking it was a showcase of some sort as there was a middle-school group with guitars and a ukelele, along with a vocalist. And then there was high school duo with a young man with a guitar and his friend, playing percussion on the body of his friend’s guitar. And the best was the harpist. It was a Celtic Harp. I tried to take photos, but how does one capture the atmosphere that is contained within the chemistry and symmetry of whole health, nature, and music combined? You really had to be there.

It might have been when we met Carlos, our waiter at the Beach Club. He was from Chiapas and was very proud of it. In fact, he was protective of his home. When I told him I would love to visit Chiapas, he demanded, “Why?”

“Well, for the history and culture.” I responded. “And I have heard it is a very special place.” Whew! I think I passed the test.

It probably wasn’t the roosters. They insisted it was dawn when I knew it was the middle of the night. I love the country sounds, but really?

Or maybe it was the evening we sat under the stars at The Container visiting with old friends and new friends and listening to an excellent Mexican band. You should have heard the guitar player. He was quite good. The waiters would bring ponchos for the ladies to keep them warm, but I declined. To me the night air was soft against my skin.

It could have been any one of these moments, or all these moments, that made me fall in love with Mexico. But what does it matter? We are here now. Every day is a new beginning.

Every once in awhile, I get a pang of homesickness. I miss our children and grandchildren. I miss our friends. I miss our home in Martha’s Vineyard, and I miss our food.

The other day, Jay noticed I was pouting and asked me, “What’s wrong?”

“I want barbeque chicken! No tortillas, no beans. Just plain American barbeque chicken.”

“Okay. So we will get some chicken and barbeque it.”

I smiled. Sometimes I just need a taste of home.

December 12, 2013

Suddenly it was very quiet. After six weeks, 800 plus miles, and a lifetime of experiences, Don got into the taxi and was gone. It was time. He was anxious to get back to his family and friends and life in California. On the other hand, for Jay and me, we just stared at each other, speechless, knowing something just ended and something new was about to begin. But what?

Back at the boat we got to the business of tidying up. Don’s two drawers were empty. His computer no longer sat on the table. I thought about the many moments we spent sitting across from each other, dueling computers, uploading photos and writing blogs. A ritual unfolded; we began to read our stories out loud once they were finished. It was interesting how, while mostly similar, there was definitely an individual take on the day’s events.

Imagine living in a small space with three people for six weeks. After long days and sleepless nights there is no escape. Only a change of position. One would move from the helm, to the cockpit, to below, to the bow. The rhythm came easily, though, and soon we were taking turns trimming the sheets, manning the helm, cooking and washing dishes. We had some exhilarating moments, like when we were flying both spinnakers and we had some tense moments, like entering an unknown bay and anchoring under instruments only. Don never once complained. He fell into step; helping when necessary but then fading into the background when it became a husband and wife moment. That is an art many cannot do.

We had a lot of fun times but my favorite was watching Don see what Cadneza could do with 18 knots of wind on a broad reach. She is like a thoroughbred and he wouldn’t let go of the helm, nor his smile.

So, yesterday, as Don left for the airport, it was a bittersweet moment. On the brighter side, we can spend some alone time together and I have two more drawers to fill. But we will miss you, Don. We already do.

NOVEMBER 30, 2013
BAHIA TORTUGAS TO BAHIA ASUNCION

We left Turtle Bay on lobster pot watch and with the scent of Maria’s empanadas wafting through the air. They were sweet bean empanadas made with cinnamon and I was heating them in the oven. Yum.

Today was a good day. We didn’t catch any lobster pots. There was no wind to speak of, but the seas were long swells from the NW gently pushing us down the coast. They were anywhere from two to four feet to six to eight feet. The larger waves would lift Cadenza up and along and then set her down, gracefully, in the trough. It was a fun ride.

Jay tried fishing again. This time he barely got his lure in the water when a great big Tuna hooked on and made a run for it. (We know this because we saw him jump clear out of the water.) He was gone before Jay could even grab the pole taking with him our brand new lure and 300 yards of 80 lb. test – every inch we had on our reel!

Oh well, try again later.

Next try was much more successful. He caught a 15″, 15 lb., black sea bass. Only we already had plenty to eat (we were getting down to the must eat food – before it went bad) so we decided to throw him back. He was kind of squirmy, though. Oops! He landed in the dinghy! No worries. Don to the rescue. He put his gloves on and jumped into the dinghy with the fish. If only I hadn’t put down my camera.

The days are beginning to run together so I’m not clear if there were any lobster pots off the entrance to Asuncion. Still, anytime we enter a new anchorage, our new procedure is to scout for pots. All went well.

We arrived in daylight and so we were able to see a sprawling town. Now keep in mind this is relative to Turtle Bay so that isn’t saying much, really. There were houses scattered about. A big, blue church in the center of town and a guano warehouse off to the right. There was definitely life here. When the sun went down the motor bikes came out and raced up and down the beach for hours. I could hear a hint of music coming from town. It was Saturday night, after all.

We contemplated staying long enough to visit the town. We decided against it. There didn’t look like there was all that much to see and we were anxious to move on. The next question then, was, do we go to Punta Abreojos (50 nm) or Bahia Santa Maria (185 nm)? Originally, we had planned on stopping at Punta Abreojos. Especially if we could have a chance at seeing the whales. (Every year they migrate to this area and have their babies.) But it was too early. Even though they say migration season is December to May, it was much too early. The tours don’t even begin to the middle of January so we decided to skip Punta Abreojos and make a run for Santa Maria.

DECEMBER 1 -3rd, 2013
BAHIA ASUNCION TO BAHIA SANTA MARIA

This time when we head out of Asuncion, Don is the lucky one to cook breakfast. It was quite the balancing act. The seas were mixed and rolly and knocking him about. Oh, but the omelets he makes! Yummy! Eating a good, hot meal is such a treat underway.

Eventually the seas calmed down and since the wind was elusive, we motor-sailed into the night. We were on two-hour shifts. Two on, four off. Most people like to do at least three-hour shifts as they can get more uninterrupted sleep. But in the middle of the night, three hours seems endless. Even with my two-hour shift I was stretching and doing exercises. And at 3 am I was so desperate to stay alert, I resorted to dancing in the cockpit. Hah! You should have seen that!

Morning came and as we were nearing Bahia Santa Maria, we heard the yatistas (whom we had met in Turtle Bay) on the radio. There were three sailboats and they were buddy-boating down the coast. We could see them on the horizon too.

Two of the boats had children on board. Two girls on each boat. Their ages ranged from eight to fourteen. They were on the radio playing twenty questions. We didn’t interrupt but we were doing our own fair share of guessing. A good way to pass the time.

A little later, the boys were on the bow and I was at the helm. I just happened to be looking at the right place at the right time and I saw a whale jump straight out of the water and back in, slapping his tail. It made a massive sound. I screamed in delight! I think there were two of them. We could see their spray but no more showing off for the day.

As we gave Punta Hughes a wide berth, we turned into Bahia Santa Maria. This is a big, beautiful bay. Along the west side were mountains sprinkled with green brush and to the east was a long, low-lying sand spit separating it from Magdelena Bay. Tucked into the NNE corner was the estuary. To the south and west of the entrance lies a fishing/surfing camp, a restaurant (that is sometimes open) and a few cottages. I understand there is a little village inside and along the estuary but we never made it in. The break was incredibly high with one wave after another and we weren’t up for dinghy surfing. Maybe if I was thirty years younger.

Dinner was Pedro’s lobster tails. We were pleasantly surprised. Absolutely some of the best lobster I have ever had. No wonder Pedro was so proud of himself.

The sun set and it was another early night after a long two-day journey.

Tuesday was a rest day. Jay was thinking we would leave on Wednesday, but I objected. We need one rest day and one play day, I said. He and Don agreed and in the end, I think they were glad. On Tuesday there was 15-20 knots of wind and we were just too tired to get the dinghy down and I certainly didn’t want to fight the wind in the kayak. We considered showers (we were conserving water and had only one shower left), but thought better of it since we were hoping to go swimming on Wednesday. So instead of exploring the bay, we just relaxed; reading and napping and eating.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2013
BAHIA SANTA MARIA

It was dawn and I was kayaking. Behind me, the sun was just rising and brought with it vivid colors of orange, yellow and blue, causing the puffy white clouds to temporarily shift in hue. The air was soft. The sea was flat. I headed toward the mountains where the rocks went straight into the sea. There was no beach on this part of the coast but for a little alcove with a spit of sand that one might land their dinghy. But where you would go from there was anybody’s guess. It was rugged and undeveloped and steep. There were more rocks too, about one fifty feet from shore, all clumped together, with jagged edges peaking out from the sea. This is where the lobsters are and this is where the fisherman go. Today was no exception.

Just as I got closer to the rocks, a panga came jetting out from the shore and crossed my path, slowing down right in front of me. I paused for a moment, waiting to see what was up. There was one lone fisherman on the panga with his bright yellow rubber overalls and a big round belly. He smiled and greeted me, “Hola! Buenes Diaz!” I responded in kind but continued to row in the opposite direction. Curious, but not wanting to appear rude or nosy, I tried to slyly keep an eye on him while pretending to study the scenery. He wasn’t buying it. He held up a lobster. “Lobster!” He yelled, joyfully. “Oh, si?” Thinking this was an invitation, I rowed my kayak to his panga.

He pulled up several pots and held up his lobsters for me to see. “Fantastic!” He said as he pulled out about ten lobsters and threw them into the boat. He asked me my name and said his was Marco and he was “pleased to meet me.” And that was all the English he knew.

I sat there watching him for several minutes as he put more “carne” in the cages as bait and lowered them back into the water. Minutes later he was starting his engine and with a wave of his hand and a wish for a good day, he motored off to the next set of lobster pots.

If only he had offered to sell me some.

I spent the next half hour just drifting along the coast in my kayak. I was reminded of the time we went to Frenchy’s Cove on Anacapa Island for lunch. Our friend, Margy, was with us and she and I went kayaking. Margy is an artist and so she looks at the world through an artist’s eyes. She sees the contours of the rocks, and notices color and how the light reflects on the water.

“Most people think of the ocean as blue, green or turquoise.” She tells me. “But look at it today. It is almost black.” She goes on to name all the birds that live on the island. This was her husband’s favorite place, she tells me, with a tear in her eye. “We brought his ashes here to rest.”

She sat there that day, drifting in her kayak, contemplating sweet memories of the past, just as I was doing now, in Santa Maria Bay.

Soon I headed back to the boat where the boys were sitting on the bow, waiting for me. They were having their coffee and watching out for me, should I get into some trouble. No trouble this day. Just a delightfully quiet moment with nature, along with meeting a new friend.

Later we lowered the dinghy and went off to explore the bay. We ran into our neighbor boat who were in search of their dinghy. Seems it wasn’t tied up correctly and it drifted off sometime during the night. They were especially sad because they built “Split Pea” themselves. It was a green, wooden, dinghy that split in two somehow and folded up to stow while cruising. We offered to keep a lookout while touring the bay. Unfortunately, we never sighted it, nor did our friends.

We did give it one last try, however, when we saw a panga with two fisherman working the lobster pots. We drove over, and in our best Spanish, asked them if they had seen the dinghy. I guess our Spanish wasn’t so good because we didn’t end up with a dinghy but we did end up with four lobsters for three sodas and a bunch of chocolate candy bars!

So this is how it’s done.

And then we jumped in! After days of no showers, we were feeling pretty stinky and icky and yucky, so the sea water, cool as it was, was incredibly refreshing. We splashed and laughed and then took a solar shower on deck. What an amazing afternoon.

It was time to do chores again, when another panga came by our boat and asked us if we wanted to buy lobster. “No gracious.” we said as we already had some. They also asked if they could give us a tour of the estuary (Wish I had been topsides when this conversation happened.), but the boys said no as we had chores to do to prepare for our two-day journey. (Darn!) They asked us for cigarettes, but as none of us smokes, that was a no. Finally, we sent them off with two Gatorades and a bunch of chocolate. I guess they like sweets.

Lobster for dinner. Again. Yum!

DECEMBER 5th & 6th
BAHIA SANTA MARIA TO SAN JOSE DEL CABO

For the two days we were in Santa Maria there was a Navy boat anchored just outside the bay. They didn’t come in to check anyone’s papers. Not sure what they were doing. They did however get some lobsters from Marco. We saw him zip his panga over to their boat as we were leaving Thursday morning. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t offering me any. He was feeding the Navy. Smart man.

“Neutral!” Jay yelled as we were passing the entrance to Mag Bay. “I’ve got a fish!” Sure enough, he caught us a tuna and this time we kept him as we were running low on food. Great lunch of grilled tuna over a cabbage salad. Lobster & tuna. Now I feel like we’ve really arrived.

“Neutral!” Don yelled just an hour later. “I’ve got a fish!” Another tuna. Wow! Are we in luck! But this one we all agreed to throw it back. We had enough food for now.

“Where is all the wind they were promising?” I asked. The weather reports all said 17-20 knots from the NW. We were hoping for a good sail but we were motor-sailing again. Careful what you wish for.

It was 2130 and my turn to take the helm. The winds were 13-15 knots from the north, northwest but we were still motor-sailing. It was pitch black and with just the three of us, we weren’t up to raising the spinnaker. Jay suggested I take it off of autopilot and give it a rest. I did. And as soon as I did the wind picked up to 17-20 and the seas were about 6-8 feet. (This we guessed by the rolls we took in the trough.)

I have to be honest. I haven’t done a lot of night sailing. Night motoring, but not night sailing. I couldn’t see a thing. Not the sail. Not the water. Not in front of me. Not behind me. I had no perception as to what was going on around me. I was trying to set us on course. It was hard for me to steer. Suddenly, I felt dizzy. The boat was zigzagging. It wasn’t dangerous but I wasn’t really in control at the moment. Jay was telling me how to steer.

“You take it!” I said, grumbling. “It’s really hard to handle her right now.”

I don’t think he believed me. Two minutes after he had taken the helm, I proved my point. The auto pilot went back on and we got back on course. Needless to say, it was a long and tiring night. Finally, the blessed dawn arrived.

Now we can see Cabo Falso, the tip of Baja. Cabo San Lucas is right around the corner and just beyond that is our port of call, Puerto Los Cabos in San Jose del Cabo. A welcome sight. Then, about twelve miles off of Cabo Falso, the engine stopped. (You didn’t think we were going to get all the way down here without some kind of drama, did you?) We are out of diesel.

Okay. Before you get a good laugh in, let me explain. We have two seventy-five gallon tanks but we have no way of computing how much is in them. There is no gauge. The way we figure out how much diesel we have used is by the engine hours. Our engine hour meter had been a bit temperamental this entire trip so we couldn’t count on that. But I kept accurate records of how many hours we used on which tank. Or so I thought.

I looked over my records. Maybe I made a mistake. We switched tanks. Nothing. It wouldn’t start. Jay and Don are trouble-shooting. I, meanwhile, am sailing and loving it. Who cares if we don’t have any diesel. We have a sailboat for crying out loud! Jay and Don pour in our five-gallon stash of diesel and we keep it for when we need it to go into port. For now, we’ll sail.

We started out wing to wing, but after no sleep, that was just too much work. Oh, the heck with it, Jay says. Let’s just jib and head out to sea. When we get far enough, we’ll jib again and head into Cabo and get some fuel.

We had a fabulous sail! The wind picked up to about 15-17 knots from the NNW and we had a blast. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful sail. We saw humpback whales. We saw dolphins. We saw lots of fisherman on their boats cruising the waters for tuna and marlin. We have arrived!

I was at the helm for a couple of hours but then the Captain said he wanted to sail past the arch. He did and it was beautiful and we made a toast to our trip and for arriving at our southern most destination to date. We turned on the engine and went in to Cabo San Lucas to get some fuel. What a crazy port! Pangas going in every direction, Jet Skis, two cruise ships, fishing boats. People everywhere. “Loco Americanos!” Our attendant at the gas station called them.

In the end, we did still have about 15 gallons of diesel left in one of the tanks. Only we think air got into the line when we drained the port tank, keeping us from getting the fuel to the engine. Despite that, Jay was able to bleed the air out of the line at the high pressure fuel pump and get her started.

We have reached the last leg; Cabo San Lucas to San Jose del Cabo. The whales are in abundance, making us feel so welcome. The finale; a grey whale jumps out of the water and does a 360 degree turn right in front of the boat. Not one of us has ever seen this in person. Only in pictures or on film.

Wow! Welcome to Mexico!

We approach Puerto Los Cabos at dusk. We have traveled 268 nautical miles. We are tired. Elated. We have succeeded in reaching our first goal But not without a lot of help. Many, many people have helped us along the way. Thank you.

November 29, 2013

The streets of Turtle Bay are dirt. The pier is old and in disrepair. The dock is wooden and lopsided with planks missing and others dangling precariously. Rusted out nails stick out here and there. The stairs leading from the floating dock to the pier are steep and misshapen; the first step is muddy and slippery, the second angles toward the pier, the third, toward the sea. Then there are is a wide gap where two steps are missing. You had better hold on.

The cannery factory has been closed for over 40 years and sits in quiet desperation on the beach, broken and in pieces, a memory of better times.

The big business here is fishing, of course. It is lobster season and the cooperative is busy with fisherman bringing in their catch. We are told they are sent by truck to Ensenada and then by plane to Japan. They are not allowed to sell individual lobsters off the boats, so our quest for a lobster turned out to be an all-day affair for Don.

Pangas zip by Cadenza in the wee hours of the morning and the evening hours of dusk. This is the fisherman’s daily commute.

The town itself is a mixture of old and new, poor and middle class. There are run-down shacks and there are well-groomed homes. Some are drab like the dust that blows through the streets, and others are rich with color; blues and greens, oranges and yellows. Many have no running water.

What first appears to be wild dogs and feral cats wandering the streets turns out to be beloved pets. They’re just allowed to roam freely and are a bit ratty from the dirt.

We walk up hills and around corners. We investigate the mercados (markets), find the local family medical clinic, the mechanic, a car-wash (such as it is), two churches and a shut down bank that has a Tecate sign on its window. (Maybe that’s why the bank went under!) There is a building that houses an internet cafe with computers and dial-up modems for the villagers which has a line out the door; customers patiently waiting their turn. Mother’s walk their children to school and cars start their engines, presumably taking their passengers to work. For others it is laundry day and they are hanging their clothes on the line.

Our first impression of Turtle Bay is somewhat stark and bleak and has me concerned for those who live here. But then we looked beyond the facade of the material and looked into the faces who live here. We found loving spirits with warm, generous hearts who live a life far from what I know.

THANKSGIVING DAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2013.

We intended to sleep in. But then Don pointed out that maybe we had slept in since we fell asleep at 6:30 last night and it was 6:30 in the morning. We had a leisurely breakfast, lowered the dinghy, and headed into town.

As we near the pier, we ask the man standing at the end of it for his permission to tie up. He says, “Si.” and points to the east side of the dock.

We get off the dinghy and wobble up to the stairs. Don is first and discovers quickly that the steps are slippery. Jay goes next and before I know it, both of them are at the top while I stare warily at the distance between the floating dock and the first step, which is muddy and slanted.

“Guys!” Suddenly I am a helpless female. “You just gonna leave me?” I yell at them.

Jay comes back to help me but now I’m stubborn and I don’t want any help. I want to do it myself. I hand him my backpack and make it across without falling.

The man at the top of the stairs is Enrique and he asks us if we need fuel. We do not. We ask him if he can find us some lobsters. He cannot. “Can you help us get water? Drinking water?” Jay asks. Enrique points to the beach where there is a green building with a thatched roof. “Antonio’s.” he says. There is also a place next door to Antonio’s we can get water. And then he proceeds to tell us that if we want something to eat we should go to Maria’s, just to the left of Antonio’s on the edge of a hill, overlooking the beach. Just having had breakfast, we save that thought for later.

We meet some yatistas on the pier and they have just filled their jugs with drinking water. 15 pesos for five gallons, just over there at those green buildings, they say. But when we get there, it’s deserted. Antonio’s is locked up tight and the green house next to it shows no sign of life. Whoever was there a minute ago has disappeared. Oh well, we’ll try again later.

Next we pass a young sailor, limping and moving slowly. He is on his way to one of the local bars that offers free wifi if you buy a beer. He doesn’t look so good. We ask him if he’s okay. He says yes, but yesterday he had one too many and was carrying a five-gallon jug of water down the pier steps. He fell through the hole where several steps were missing and broke his toe. He had two deep gashes on his legs, as well. Later, remembering his story, we chose to beach our dinghy and carry out our water that way.

We walk through town, just to explore, but also to scout out the best markets. There are several. Most of them are small and have a limited amount of items. One store has mostly bare shelves and an old man sitting behind the cash register. I’m not really excited by his collection of groceries, but something about him touches me and I can’t leave without buying something. I purchase three fresh green chiles and a bottle of water. Jay notices that all the stores, no matter how small their inventory, have an abundance of cleaning supplies. We wonder at that.

Once we have seen enough choices, we decide on Abarrotes Anaid. This mercado had the most selection, a butcher in the back, and was the town gathering center as it was full of villagers, greeting one another and telling stories. This must be the best place, we think, and make note of its location. Tomorrow is our day for chores. Today is Thanksgiving and a day of rest.

Now we find our way to the church. On the way, Jay asks someone about a place to eat and they suggest Morroco’s down the street. We pass by it and Jay wants to go in, but, for some unknown reason, I am insistent in my desire to go to Maria’s. After teasing me about being the boss and getting my way, Jay and Don acquiesce.

The church was around the corner and up a hill with a beautiful view of the bay. I wanted to go inside but no luck. The priest had left town for a couple of days.

On to Maria’s, which was just a few doors down from the church. We walked up the stairs to the outside patio and looked inside the door. It was just one room, nearly empty, but it had a kitchen to one end of it. One like you would find in any modest home.

“Hola!” I call out. I hear someone respond from afar.

While we wait, I notice a hand-written note taped to the outside of the door on the porch. Last December Maria had a fire and has had to start all over. She asks her patrons to be patient with her as it might take longer to make the meal. We look closer and see the remnants of the fire; charred areas along the roof and the corners.

“Oh! Buenas Tardes!” Maria crys, as she comes out to greet us, raising her hands to heaven. “Oh thank you. I need the work! How did you come here?”

“The man on the dock told us we should come to Maria’s.”

“Oh, my brother. That is my brother, Enrique.” She smiles and tells us to sit down. She will make us a meal. We ask her for a cerveza.

“Please be patient. I am starting over.” She speaks English. At least enough that we can understand most of what she tells us and she understands some of what we tell her. “I have no cerveza, but you can go over there,” I think she points to Antonio’s, “and get some and bring it back to drink here.” We hesitate, not sure where she means, exactly. Antonio’s still looks closed.

“My son can get it for you. Would you like my son to get it for you?” We say yes, give him some money, and he comes back with a six-pack of Tecate. Meanwhile, Maria asks us what we would like to eat. Does she have a specialty? She has fresh halibut and shrimp for tacos. Perfect, we say, and sit down to enjoy our beer and the incredible view of the bay.

Curious, I walk into Maria’s kitchen while she begins to prepare our meal. Her son, Victor, is standing to her side, assisting. She points to several pages taped to the wall behind her counter. “This is my prayer.”

“Your prayer?”

“Yes.” she said and began to explain. “This is my dream I want to make happen.”

On the papers are drawings of a boat-shaped building. Actually, more than drawings. These are detailed plans that someone has put a lot of work into. “This one, the first floor, will be my restaurant. The second one (floor) will be a music school.”

My ears perk up. Jay will want to hear this. I go outside and get Jay to come and join in on the conversation.

She had a little trouble explaining the third floor, but I think I understood correctly. There would be three rooms, or sections. These would be for the investors. They would be able to come there whenever they want. She has figured out it will cost about $300,000.

“I will put it right here. On my property. But I need the money.” She says, laughing. “I pray I get my dream.”

“Maria, do you play music?” Jay asks. She sings mostly, plays a little guitar and writes music too.

“But I lose my guitar and my compositions in the fire. I lose everything; my restaurant, my clothes, my home, my music, everything, in the fire.

Maria goes on to explain that she was in Ensenada for forty days taking care of her mother who was ill. “Since I was with my mother, I only pack three pants and three blouses. I don’t think I need more. The day before the fire, I called my sister (she has five sisters and six brothers. Her mother had 15 children but three died as babies.) and asked her to go to my house and pick up my guitar and my compositions. I want her to send it to me. But she didn’t go and then the fire.” She shrugs her shoulders in acceptance.

“Do they know what happened? What started the fire?”

She shrugs her shoulders again. “I don’t know. I think somebody don’t like me.” Personally, I don’t think this is possible. To not like Maria.

“But now I must cook!” She says, changing the subject, and sends us out of her kitchen.

We enjoyed a delicious Thanksgiving meal of fish & shrimp tacos, beans & fresh tortillas while watching the fisherman work their lobster pots off in the distance. Music drifted out from the kitchen. It was Maria and Victor in song while working. They both have beautiful voices.

I stood up to stretch and noticed another paper taped to the wall outside her door. This one is typed. It is Maria’s testament to God. It tells us she almost died and having lived, and having God answer her prayers, she found the Lord. She gives thanks and states her hopes for the future. It seems Maria wears her heart on these walls.

“What time do you open tomorrow?” I ask Maria as she clears the table. She doesn’t have a set time because there is little business, so it is whenever. More reason to come back for another meal. To give her more business. We make plans to come for brunch Friday morning at ten. She will make Huevos Mexicana and serve coffee.

Before leaving, we go back into the kitchen to ask Maria if she knows where we can get some lobsters. There is a man sitting in the corner by the counter. He must weigh 300 pounds and he has no neck. The folding chair he sits on all but disappears. He is very serious.

Maria answers no, but she looks over to the man in the corner and rattles off some Spanish. She introduces us, and when she does and he becomes part of the conversation, he lights up with a huge smile, also speaking rapidly in Spanish.

“This is my friend.” She says, “I am feeding him lunch. He is captain of that panga.” She says, pointing out the door to a boat tied to the pier. “Over there.” I asked him if he knows where there are lobsters for sale and he says, there is none.”

“But all the lobster traps.” we protest.

“Maybe it is too early. They go to the cooperative anyway.” I think there was much more to this conversation but this is what we got out of it. Besides, it wasn’t looking good for that lobster dinner we were hoping for so we decided to let it go.

We visit with Maria and the Captain a little more and she tells us of a place, far away, out on the bluffs toward Punta Sargaso.

“It is beautiful. My favorite place. I would love to take you there. If I had a car, I would take you there.” I get the feeling she would find a way if we were staying a little longer.

We bid them goodbye, “Hasta manana.” and leave for Antonio’s. Maybe now that it is 2pm, he will be open.

Antonio’s was deserted except for two American surfers, Kevin and Tyler. The building had an odd shape to it, octagonal, I think. The roof was thatched and raised high in the shape of a cone. The room had several wooden tables and chairs and could probably seat thirty. It was in a bit of disarray. Like someone had a party the night before and passed out before cleaning up. The ashtrays were overflowing with cigarette butts. There were empty beer bottles and empty bags of chips lying on the tables.

“We’re looking for Antonio. Is he here?” we ask.

“Oh yeah, he’s here. Antonio’s the man!” Kevin says emphatically, as he walks by with five beers in his hands.

I head for the backroom where Kevin just exited and Tyler quickly yells for Antonio. Does he not want me to go in there? Antonio pops out of the door just in time to keep me from entering. He wears jeans with a brown leather belt, but no shoes and no shirt.

“Excuse me. But I am cleaning. Sorry. I am cleaning.” Antonio says as he starts picking up empty beer bottles.

No worries. We just came for a beer and some information. Antonio says he can get us alnost anything we want. We would just like to know how to get some drinking water. He offers three options. We can get five-gallon containers delivered to the beach by his brother; bring our own containers next door to where there is a water tank. (Which, by the way, is run by his father.) He promises the water is drinkable; or, we can get washable water from a hose. Maybe for a tip. Or maybe for free if we have no money. We decide to bring our own containers later and go outside to have our beer.

The two American surfers have joined a couple and two young Mexican locals and are sitting at a table outside. We sit at the table next to them. As it usually goes with cruisers, we begin sharing our stories.

It turns out our surfers are from Ventura Harbor. They left about a month ago with their friends Eric and Pamela (and their dog) on board Emma Belle, a Columbia 32. Eric and Pamela bought their boat about a year and a half ago and lived aboard while the four of them fixed it up to go cruising.
Kevin had done some racing on board Fusee. He knows Harry! He said Harry taught him to sail. What a small world.

“We’re surfing down the coast.” Tyler offered. “We have dreams of sailing around the world, but this is our shake-down cruise. So far, we love it! We just got back from surfing. Our friends, Eric and Pamela, speak fluent Spanish so they were able to hook up with these local guys and they took us to a really great beach, but getting there on the roads, that was kind of sketchy.”

We finished our beer and headed back to Cadenza to get our water jugs.

“Don’t forget.” Antonio said as we were leaving. “I can get you almost anything.” No doubt.

Later that night Jay said he would like to help Maria. He wanted to give her some money so she could buy herself a guitar the next time she goes to Ensenada. He asked me what I thought.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea!”

We ended the day with that thought.

BLACK FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 2013

I turn on the internet to check my mail. AOL news reads something like this: WALMART SHOPPERS RACE INTO STORES! REPORTS OF FIGHTING BETWEEN CUSTOMERS! It is a sad commentary on our culture.

There is no Black Friday in Turtle Bay. For us it is chore day. We need to take the trash out, go grocery shopping and get some more water. We will do this in two trips. First, we will take the trash, have brunch at Maria’s and then go shopping. Later, we will take the water jugs to Antonio’s and fill them, have a beer and try the internet.

We head to the pier again and lock the dinghy as we did the day before. Only this time there is a different man at the end of the dock. His name is Pedro. Come to think of it, he might not even be a man yet, he might still be in his teens. He is very tall and burly, has a baby face and one and a half arms. He speaks no English, but he is clear in that it will cost us for him to keep an eye on our dinghy. It is locked, but we have heard it is better to give them a little money to watch your dinghy then to not. This way you are sure to find it in tact when you get back. Besides, this is how they earn money to live. We give him the dollar he asks for. For one peso he takes the trash.

On to Maria’s where she welcomes us warmly and tells us her friend, the captain, left for Isla Natividad and will be back tomorrow. “Maybe he will bring you some lobsters.” I tell her we will be leaving tomorrow and both of us are disappointed.

Maria and Victor serve us another delicious meal. As we are finishing our coffee, Maria comes out on the porch with her breakfast and starts to sit at another table, but we ask her to join us.

“Oh, okay. Are you sure? Thank you. Are you sure?” She says as she sits down at our table.

“Of course.” We answer.

We learn much more about Maria. She has two sons, Victor and Rojellio. Rojellio lives in San Jose del Cabo and works on boats. Victor (besides his love of singing) says he would like to study medicine.

When Maria was younger she wanted to travel. She traveled to Cabo and Ensenada and even Los Angeles. She wanted money and clothes and things. In 2004, she was in Ventura in a van with her family. She mentioned there was a driver so maybe this was a shuttle of some sort. The van caught on fire and she was yelling at her son to open the door. At the same time she was praying, “I don’t know where you are God, but if you are there, please save me and my family. Please.” Terrified, she was pleading with God to help her. They got out of the van just in time to turn around and see it explode.

Maria said this changed her life. She had wanted so many material things. She wanted to leave Turtle Bay and travel. She partied too much. Not anymore. “That Maria is gone. When I come home and see my home, I cry. This is where God wants me to be. This is my home. I love my home.”

Somehow the subject got changed and we were talking about food again. Maria said she makes empanadas, too bad I wouldn’t have a chance to taste her empanadas and I said, “I love empanadas!”

“Really?”

“Yes. Will you make them for me?” She agrees as she tells me how good they are; sweet bean empanadas and coffee, yum. I order a half dozen and we agree to come back at four to pick them up. This is good. More work for Maria and empanadas for me.

“Maria,” I say, “We brought some gifts for the children.” I hand her two back-packs filled with crayons & coloring books and little footballs. Together, Bobbi & Don and Jay and I gathered a few things for the children before we left the states, but weren’t sure who to give it to. We decided Maria would be able to put it in the right hands. “Oh, thank you. I have many children to give to.”

“Maria,” Jay said, “We want to give you a gift too. We want to give you the money so you can buy yourself a new guitar.”

“Really? Thank you. Really?” Her eyes are wide and she puts her hands over her mouth. Tears come from her eyes. “Oh thank you.”

“But you must promise to buy a guitar with the money.” Jay adds.

“Oh yes, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Don wanted to pitch in too and so between the two of them they handed Maria $70. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She was so happy.

“There is a guitar store on Lopez Mateo St. in Ensenada. You can find a good guitar there.” Jay told her.

“Okay. Thank you.” She looks at Victor and tells him what just happened. His eyes light up too and he says thank you so much.

There are many hugs and lots of smiles and as we walk down the stairs and away from the restaurant we hear Maria screaming with joy. I looked at Jay. “Thank you, honey. You just made my day.”

We have shopped for our groceries and are walking on the pier back to the dinghy when Jay makes one last attempt for lobsters. He asks Pedro if he can get us some lobsters. Pedro lights up, “Si!” and points his finger, telling us to follow him.

We follow him several blocks to one of the offices of the cooperative where he asks a lady if they have any lobsters for sale. She gets on the phone to ask but is unsuccessful. Now he points his finger again and says to follow him. After several more blocks, Jay says, “No. I can’t walk anymore.” He had worn water shoes with no support. The roads are uneven and filled with rocks and by this time he was practically limping. We tell Don to go and we will wait by Antonio’s. Poor Don. Pedro walked him miles before he came up with, “Come back at three and I will have three lobster tails.”

Meanwhile, Jay and I are sitting at Antonio’s (It is now around one and it still isn’t open.) and we meet Antonio’s father, Rogellio. He lives next door. He is the one who has the water tank. He also has three dogs and a cat who get very friendly with us. He doesn’t speak much English but he does tell us he has lived here, right in this spot for 65 years. His front yard is the bay.

We ask for Antonio and Rogellio says he is out surfing with the Americans. He will be back later. We tell Rogellio we will be back later too, with our water containers.

It is later now and everyone is gathered at Antonio’s. Everyone meaning the Emma Belle crowd and us. Don comes back, after walking many miles again, with a few lobster tails. They are frozen so we are wondering just where they came from. At this point, it doesn’t matter. Pedro has a wide grin on his face and points to his chest. “Me. Pedro.” And shakes his head yes and then points to the pier. I interpret that as if we need anything we go to Pedro. He will be on the pier. He can get us almost anything.

He joins us at our table. I can tell he longs for company as he babbles on in Spanish as if I understand. I wish I did. I want so to be able to communicate more clearly with the people of Mexico. I think I have much to learn from them.

Kevin and Tyler are telling us more of their story. What was two groups of strangers at two different tables yesterday has become one group of friends at one table sharing stories. This is what I love about cruising. We ask them how they met and they tell us they met when they were working as wildfire firefighters. (Go figure. You just never know what lurks behind a face.) They came from Washington and Colorado and fought wildfires in both those places as well as Alaska. One day they were ice-fishing in Colorado and said, “Ice-fishing in Colorado or surfing in California? Hmm…” Well, you know how that went. They quit their jobs and all moved to Ventura. Now here they are, sailing and surfing down the Baja coast, hoping to become professional surfers. They have a marketing manager in Texas and they send her videos and information as they go, hoping to get the word out, hoping to get sponsors. They are living their dream.

It is time to pick up our empanadas, so we say our goodbyes and head over to Maria’s. She is in her kitchen with Victor and they are cooking Chicken and rice. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you. We must go.” Insisting that we must have some, she packs a container of chicken and rice and puts it in the bag with the empanadas. One of her sisters comes in and introduces herself. She can do our laundry if we like. “Thank you, but we must go.” I say again. Children are running around and there is happiness in the air. I guess the word got out. More hugs and goodbyes. Maria asks, “When are you coming back?”

Jay looks at me and we shrug our shoulders. “We don’t know, Maria. It may be years.” We all leave with the bittersweet thought of having made a new friend only to leave her behind.

Jay and Don and I enjoyed meeting all the characters of Turtle Bay, but none touched us so much as Maria. She is an amazing spirit and I felt as at home with her as if I had known her all my life. The following is an excerpt from her testimony to God that was taped to her wall outside the door of her restaurant.

Maria’s Hopes of God

1. Project museum and restaurant school for music and singing
2. hause for my brothers
3. homes for poor children and homeless
4. Mi book
5. viajar worldwide evangelizing with music by my husband.

If you know someone who wants to help in any donation to God’s purpose is fulfilled do not hesitate to tell my longings, and the story of a woman who worked hard to be happy but only found peace and love when I get to meet her savior Jesus Christ. AMEN.

November 21, 2013

Our friends, Kevin and Debbie (sv/Peppermint Patty), whom we met while we were at Marina Coral, asked if we would like to join them for a trip to La Bufadora via bus. Jay had been there before and wasn’t amazingly impressed but since we had time on our hands and our friends knew the way, we thought it might be fun. We were to meet Sunday morning by the “Three Heads,” a central plaza located near our marina, Baja Naval. Don was out of town so it would just be the four of us. Only Kevin ended up falling ill. Debbie wrote us an email Saturday evening to let us know and suggested we go anyway.

Her instructions read like this:

Take the orange bus labeled Maneadero or Zorillo. I was told they stop for 5 minutes when they get to a road that goes down to La Bufadora. The next bus is on the right by a Calimax store. I have “Blue”and “Nativios” written on the map. I assume the bus is blue. Have a fun day.

Okay. Sounds simple enough. We took Debbie’s directions and headed out.

“So, where do we pick up the bus?” Jay asked.

“Um, not sure. I didn’t ask.”

“Well, since they suggested we meet at the Three Heads, we probably pick it up there.”

“We could ask at the Tourist Information booth.” I offer.

“I’ve never seen anyone there.”

“Don and I spoke to someone there the other day.”

Jay is not convinced. We go to the Tourist Information Booth. No one is there.

“Let’s just go to the bus station. Surely someone there can help us with directions.” I say. Jay agrees, albeit hesitantly.

We walk the twelve blocks and as we get closer, I realize this is a bus station like our Greyhound Bus Station, not a city bus station. Jay mumbles something like he knew we should have waited for the bus at the Three Heads. We go inside and he asks, “Habla ingles?”

The woman behind the counter shakes her head and says, “No.”

“Uh…” Jay begins, “El bus to La Bufadora?” Half in English and half in Spanish.

The woman just looks at him and shakes her head. Then she puts up her finger for him to wait and goes to get a gentleman who can speak English.

Meanwhile, there is an older man with a younger woman (his daughter?) standing to my right. I notice he notices us as soon as we say the words, La Bufadora. He says something in Spanish to his daughter, looks at me. He continues to speak Spanish as if I might understand. But I don’t. I am distracted by Jay who is now speaking with the man behind the counter.

When Jay asks him what bus/buses we take to La Bufadora he smiles, or should I say, smirks, because he looks at us as though he is saying to himself, “Ah, these stupid Americans. Good luck with that. But if you want to go by bus…I will tell you.”

What he really says is, “You have to take two buses. (He says this emphatically as if this should deter us.) Go two blocks to ninth street and pick up the yellow and white bus to Maneadero. There you will get off at the Califax Store. (By the way, there is not just one in town, they are everywhere.) Then wait for the blue bus to take you to La Bufadora.”

Based on his look, not his words, I am a little concerned that we might get lost, but still willing to give it a go when the older gentleman to my right interrupts our conversation with the man behind the counter. The man behind the counter says, “This man will give you a ride if you like.”

Much to my surprise, Jay immediately says, “Okay.” Then he excuses himself and finds the restroom before we leave on our journey.

The gentleman’s daughter looks at me and says, “Adios!” Off she goes to catch her bus, I suppose. I am left alone with the gentleman.

“Como se llama?” I ask. He tells me. I try to say it. He tells me again. I try to say it again. He pulls out his wallet and takes out his license. Now he shows me his name and says it again, slowly. I still am not able to say it nor do I remember it. I decide to call him Manny as it began with the letters Man.

Jay comes out of the bathroom and asks me what we are doing. I am not sure why he is asking this. He said yes a minute ago. I remind him.

“Manny is giving us a ride.” I tell him excited by this twist of fate.

“Um, okay.” He says as we follow Manny out of the bus station, across the street and to his truck.

His pickup truck is old and has a large propane canister tied to the roof of the cab. Not sure what that is about. Manny opens the door and quickly clears off the front seats, throwing everything onto the back floor. I slip into the middle seat across worn and torn seat covers. Jay slides in next to me. Manny’s door doesn’t shut and Jay looks a bit worried.

“It’s only his seat belt. It got caught.” I say. Jay relaxes. A bit.

What in the world are we doing, we both wonder silently to ourselves. Jay goes a bit further saying he is sure Manny is taking us somewhere and going to remove our kidneys to sell them.

But seriously, I was never worried. This man had kindness written all over his face. Manny spoke less English than we spoke Spanish but he talked the entire way. He was our tour guide, showing us the house of the “President de Ensenada” (He equated it with Obama, but is there a president of Ensenada? Maybe he meant mayor). He showed us where Estero Beach was located should we want to go there another day. I think he said something about flowers. And always, he made sure that we were paying attention to where we were headed and how the roads curved, so we would know our way back.

If we understood him correctly, he lives in Maneadero and was going there way anyway. He took us across from the Califax store where there was a small city bus station. He showed us the bus we were to take and wished us good luck. We tried to offer him some money but he truly was just doing us a favor and shyly declined. I left it on his dash anyway. I hope he wasn’t offended.

We stood outside the station for several minutes in front of a bus that said, “Bufadora,” but nothing happens. Finally, being the impatient American, I go inside the little room where three guys are sitting around gabbing and I ask, “La Bufadora?”

“Si!” They all three say at once and get up, speaking Spanish rapidly and get things moving. One of them comes outside. I go to the bus that has its engine on, the door open and says “Bufadora.” That seems obvious, right? No. Not that one, he says, and points to the muddy one over in the corner where the bus driver is spraying it with water to make it presentable for a ride.

We get in and pay our 30 pesos total for the both of us. The sign says 22 (kilometers, I am guessing) to La Bufadora. We sit back and enjoy the ride.

It wasn’t too long before we understood why the bus was so dirty. The main road was being worked on, so, for what seemed like a very long time, we traveled alongside the road on a very bumpy, dirt path. The dense city streets turned into a sparsely populated brown countryside sprinkled with shacks and taco stands. Every now and then there would be a nice house painted in bright colors, but most had peeling paint, if any, open holes for windows, and looked deserted. Were they? Or do families actually live in these run-down buildings? I am afraid they might.

Eventually we headed up the mountain and out along the Punta Banda peninsula. The homes there were much nicer as the quality goes up everywhere when there is a view. It was high atop the mountain that we saw the infamous tuna pens. And am I glad, too. We had heard we must watch out for these sea hazards and now I see why. These circular pens are huge and they are situated just off the coast and are spread out over miles. They have no lights. Not something I want to run into with our boat. At least now we have an idea what they look like and where they are. At least here, in Ensenada. I quickly try to photograph them through the window while we continue along the road. After several switchbacks going very fast in a bus that is driving along a cliff, we arrive at La Bufadora.

La Bufadora is simply a blow hole. A beautiful, big blow hole, but just a blow hole, nonetheless. Translated, La Bufadora means buffalo breath and I can see why as I lean over the canyon to catch a glimpse of the water rising up along the rocks. The tide was high and ebbing so we were hoping for a good show, but the small amount of buffalo breath was a little bit disappointing. It was a beautiful view though with stormy clouds gathering over the mountains.

As with most tourist places, the street leading up to the blow hole was wall to wall trinket/souvenir shops on both sides of road. This means we were inundated with Mexican merchant cries. Some try charm, “Beautiful lady! What ever you need, I have. Come in and look, beautiful lady.” and others try the comical approach, “Come! Buy something you don’t need so I can go home!” This is when I wish I had made that tee shirt with “No, gracious” printed on the front and back.

We found a lovely place to eat, sitting on a cliff and looking over the sea. It was quiet. We were the only ones there. Jay had Machaca and eggs and I had enchiladas. We both decided on wine instead of margaritas.

On the way out of the restaurant, we found our way into another one, attracted to it by the guy at the door who had a boa constrictor around his neck. Inside we find a Macao (parrot of some sort) and a baby flying monkey who wasn’t doing much flying as he was trapped inside a cage. We stayed only long enough for me to take photos until I noticed a guy giving me a dirty look and saw a sign that said NO PHOTOS. Stupid American!

Thanks to Manny, we easily found our way back to Ensenada. We ran into a bit of traffic due to a basura strike. (So that’s why the garbage was overflowing into the street.) Tens of trash trucks lined the road alongside the house of “President de Ensenada.” Hundreds of men, walking the sidewalks with picket signs yelling something in Spanish. People driving by and honking in sympathy with the strikers. Evidently they weren’t getting paid. Or paid enough.

When we could see that we were getting close to our marina, we jumped off the bus and walked proudly back to the boat. We did it! We navigated our way through a foreign country using public transportation with little local knowledge and with very little Spanish speaking skills. It was a great challenge and a fun day and it is true, what they say, “It’s not about the destination, but the journey.”

P.S. The next morning, leaving our marina and walking past the Three Heads, I noticed an orange and white bus labeled, Maneadero, and another that passed with the name, Zorillo. I hate it when Jay is right.