15th February, 2026

Sometimes You Win, Sometimes You Lose

Saturday, January 31, 2026

We are anchored in the bay at Punta Ipala at 3pm. It is a calm day with no wind.

The trip south was uneventful. Thankfully. On the way down, we saw a few whales close up. (Last night we saw two whales jump straight out of the water. Always a treat.) One lone turtle popped his head out of the sea, only to quickly duck and hide when he spotted us. We watched as dozens of dolphins swam past our boat seemingly intent on a mission. They didn’t stop to swim on the bow as they did so often when we sailed in California.

Tucked in the bay is the tiny village of Tehuamixtle. I’m not even sure you can call it a village with a population of 81. Maybe settlement might be a better word. We have been here many times before but only once have I taken the paddleboard in and explored the one-street town.

The cobblestone street runs along the beach and up the side of a hill. As the road curves around the hill, it turns to dirt, and the dwellings disappear. It continues up and around the mountain. This is the only road in and out. There is no internet or cell service. Several pangas are anchored in the bay telling me their livelihood depends on the sea which is quite common in these coastal communities.

I can’t help but wonder, who lives here and what must their life be like?

I would guess that most who live here were born and raised here. What would that be like to be raised in a neighborhood with little access to the world? Innocent and carefree? Simple?

I notice the children playing on the beach. Their front yard is the beach. A boy chases another boy with a stick. I hear their laughter echo across the water. Some are playing soccer. Others are swimming. They probably swim every day after school. Where is their school? Are they bussed to a nearby town? Do they have a one-room schoolhouse? Are they homeschooled? Is that even a thing in Mexico?

So many questions. I regret not having a command of the Spanish language.  What a loss to not be able to communicate properly. It would be fascinating to sit down over a café de olla and ask them about their lives. So different from mine.

Not only is the village tiny, so too is the bay. It is best to make sure the anchor is secured because it is a rock-strewned harbor, and it is difficult to find the sand to hold the anchor properly.

When the sun sets and we close our eyes, we hear the waves ricocheting against the rocks on all sides. Spooky. It feels like they are closing in.

Sunday, February 1, 2026

8:00 am – I have said this before, but I love the scent of sage that wafts off the land here at Ipala. It is refreshing and sends any negative energy away with the wind. It is a new day.

What a spectacular morning! The mist rises over the sea. A whale spout shoots out of the water not 50 yards alongside Cadenza. Her tail waves good morning and goodbye all at once. Eight knots of a cool breeze blow from the east. Gentle waves, not more than one foot, roll under the boat from the west. It will be a long day underway today. Fifty NM at an average of five knots should take us about ten hours.

Monday, February 2, 2026

Whew! Yesterday was rough. Around 12:30 PM the wind picked up. First 15-17 knots. Then, 17-19 knots. We kept watching the anemometer creep up until it hit 20-22 knots with gusts of 25 knots. The seas were 5-7 feet and very close together. (It reminded us of the square waves in the Sea of Cortez.) The wind and waves were on the nose (SE). This was not predicted. This went on for seven hours.

Marshall said he learned we went an average of 4 knots. So often, when we looked at the knot reader it said anywhere from 1.9 to 3.5 knots. It was exhausting. And frustrating. Spray was hitting us in the face. We forgot to close the ventilation hatches and some of the interior was getting wet. Including Marshall’s bed.

The sun set around 6:30, just as we were arriving outside of Chamela Bay. Darkness slowly descended. Jay put on the radar and overlayed it on the chart. We were looking for the full moon to rise hoping it would aid us in our navigation. We all turned toward the east and, as if on cue, saw the bright orange moon peeking out over a mountain. We cheered, assuming it was a good omen. We entered Chamela cautiously. Luckily it is a big bay. And there were no other boats in the anchorage. Or so we thought.

Now, where to anchor?

We found a spot not far from the western end of the cove. Jay dropped the anchor. I was at the helm. Marshall was our lookout and relay in case Jay and I couldn’t hear each other. (Our headphones – also known as “marriage savers” – weren’t working.)

The swells were still knocking us side to side and somehow as Jay was lowering the anchor, it got caught between the bobstay and whisker stay which put it on the wrong side of the bobstay. Not good.

“We have to raise the anchor,” Marshall came back to tell me.

Meanwhile, we learned we were infringing on tuna pots that could barely be seen. The only markings were clear plastic water bottles bobbing on the water. Probably a good thing to move anyway.

Jay instructed me to drive to the center of the bay where it would be safe, and he could take a minute to figure out how to get the anchor back on the proper side of the bobstay.

“Do you see that boat over there?” Marshall asked.

“No. Where?”

“It doesn’t have its anchor light on.”

“Oh, great.”

“See the mast?”

“No!” Now I’m angry at this person who is jeopardizing our safety by not putting his light on.

“There is one little light,” Marshall tells me. “It looks like it is coming from the cockpit.”

This is not easy to discern with all the other lights shining on the beach.

“Okay, I see it. I think.”

Marshall went back to the bow to help Jay wrestle with the anchor. Most of this had to be manual lifting. The electric windlass wasn’t able to help maneuver the anchor in order to get it unstuck.

I didn’t want to move the boat as any movement (other than what was going on with the waves) might affect what they were doing. However, we were slowly drifting to shore.  The depth was 20 feet, 19, 18, 17. I saw a four-wheeler riding along the beach and realized we were way too close to the shore. I quickly moved the boat into deeper water.

One hour after we arrived, we were safely anchored, and properly. We sat amongst the wet and salt-stained cushions, having our drinks and breathing freely. Chamela Bay is open to the south, and it was expected that the swells were to continue all night. We all agreed that anything would be better than what we had experienced. Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

I made a quick dinner (An egg scramble. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast) and we crawled into bed. Sleep came easily and gratefully.