Hogmanay - Edinburgh, Scotland
Christmas in England
Warwick Castle
Octoberfest in costume
Grossglockner Highway
May Through mid-August 2010
This is now March 2011 and I haven’t written in the blog for some time. Our future plans/options are as varied as they are numerous. I last told you that if ITCHEN didn’t sell, we would head south through the Panama Canal and cruise the Caribbean. We would then head into the Intercoastal Waterway (ICW) and do the great loop (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Loop). Alas, ITCHEN has not sold and we have added options, which included bashing back to San Diego and;
have the boat trucked to Texas where we would splash in the Gulf of Mexico;
sail around southern California for the summer, fall and winter season and then head north to the Pacific Northwest and do the Inside Passage http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inside_Passage) in the );
return back south through the Panama Canal, Caribbean and sail up to the ICW; or,
leave the boat in either California or Mexico to be sold and buy a trawler on the east coast and begin the ICW from where we buy the new boat. We have yet to make up our minds. Cruisers have a saying that all plans are written in sand at low tide.
The summer in Mazatlan was hot and humid. It was bearable until mid August, which is when we turned on the air conditioner and disappeared into the boat every afternoon. Until that time, Julie would dutifully walk every morning to her health club for her workouts, while I did boat chores; I, in turn, would leave in the afternoon and walk about town while she did her chores. We took advantage of the happy hours, pools and movies at El Cid and in town.
mid-August through the end of October 2010
On August 15 we departed Mazatlan for Denver. We are headed back to Europe but we are going through Denver for my 40th high school reunion. I, along with two others from my high school (Fairview High School, Boulder Colorado, Class of 1970) and three from the cross-town high school, were asked to speak at the reunion (which, for the first time was a combination reunion for of both high schools in town). These reunions really are high points in my life. I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t feel that way, as those school years are so fundamental and formative to what we later become in life. It is where we experienced almost the first of everything that is to come later … from first grade though senior year ... what an incredible period! All of my classmates, each one a deep and precious memory, profoundly influenced my life. Many of them, I’ve known since first grade. I was deeply honored to be able to share with them my feelings and if you’ll indulge me, I will enclose what I said here;
Forty years since our graduation … it doesn’t seem very long at all … the mere blink of an eye. I come to these reunions and I see you and I instantly remember how young and fresh, straight and tall, bright and beautiful, you all were. To see you now … to talk with you now, 40 years down the road is singularly extraordinary. I only wish I could see and talk with everyone from our class. Make no mistake, all of you (those in attendance and those not) retain a fond presence and occupy a special place in my heart.
From those years so long ago, I remember casual glances and greetings in the hallways; an unexpected smile, a unique squint or a particular shrug of the shoulders ... all within the hustle and bustle of adolescence. Sometimes in the half-light of my memory one of your faces will reach out to me. For a moment, your image is as precise and conspicuous as a razors edge … one fleeting, glorious moment. I have volumes of memories stored within me, some of them are about you and some of those are my fondest. I can’t think of a life more fulfilled that doesn’t include my memories of you.
We, this class, have a relationship, a bond that stretches back through the years, for some of us of over half a century. I am in awe of that unspoken and unintended pledge, to which we remain faithful. This relationship gives me a sense of belonging … a sense of home … no, really … a point of origin.
Our class has been thinning for some time now … sadly from even before the time of our graduation. Indeed, I suppose these reunions, in addition to reaffirming our bond with each other, may especially serve as a testament to our deceased classmates … our collective resolve to keep them with us, if you will. I expect by the next reunion our class will be smaller yet. But until the last of our classmates depart, and with him or her we cease to exist as an entity, we exist as a complete class ... where everyone is accounted for and everyone belongs. Eventually, we will all merge into one … until that time thank you for being a part of my life. I’m humbled and honored to have been a part of yours.
I never had so many friends as I did when I was in high school ...
The reunion was a resounding success (at least for me) and I would do it everyday if I could.
From Denver we caught a commercial flight to Newark and then a limousine to McGuire AFB in New Jersey. We waited five days in the McGuire terminal to catch a hop to Europe before catching one to Charleston AFB, NC, then Ramstien AFB, Germany and finally to Lakenheath AFB, Mildenhall, UK. We spent the night on base and the next morning caught a bus to Heathrow and the train to Brigids house in Harrow-on-the-Hill, London, UK. We stayed with Brigids a few days until our cruising friends BRENDON arrived.
With BRENDON we flew to Frankfurt, Germany where we rented a car and commenced our European travels. We went to many of the places Julie and I had been the previous summer so this time we were more seasoned. We went back to Bacharach on the Rhine and stayed in the castle; to Nuremberg and toured the nazi war museum and Regensburg where we sat in a gasthause, ate sausage, drank beer and played Mexican train while the hostess kept our mugs full and the locals raised their own sort of hell. The following morning was spent getting my cancelled debit card un-cancelled. Try doing that with a German pre-paid phone card (purchased at the German post office), using German pay phones, talking with German operators, with everyone only speaking German. I've learned almost everywhere I go, someone will speak English, except when it is absolutely, positivly critical.
From Germany we drove to Melk, Austria where we toured one of the oldest and largest operational monasteries (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melk_Abbey). The abbey was huge and took us the entire afternoon to tour it. On to Vienna, Austria to see the Vienna Boys Choir. It was touch and go for a while, as we could not find where the choir was to perform. We had tickets and the information on the location but the locals we asked did not, or seemed not, to know who the Vienna Boys Choir was, let alone the location we trying to locate. After much perseverance and stumbling around central Vienna, we found the location, which was in one of the many chapels in one of the many Hapsburg palaces. The performance was held as part of a Sunday morning mass (first time I’ve ever paid to go to church and listen to the same homily four times in four different languages) and the boys were four stories up, way in the rear of the choir loft. We couldn’t see them at all. After mass they brought the choir down (14 boys (?)… I always thought the choir was much larger) and they performed a couple of songs for us.
While in Austria we also visited Werfin, Salzburg, Konigsee Lake, Glossglockner Highway, and Graz (birthplace of Arnold Schwartznagar). Werfin is famous for its Castle as it was used in the filming of “Where Eagles Dare” with Clint Eastwood and Richard Burton. We toured the castle and the views are spectacular, but our real story lies in our introduction to Austrian economics. After touring the castle, we were looking for a B&B to stay in and obtained a map of the local facilities from the tour guide in town and commenced visiting the hostels to see what they offered. They all advertised themselves as B&B’s but many were more like hotels than houses. We decided we wanted to stay in a home and were only able to find the one we wanted with a little guesswork and luck. By that I mean, the house was identified on the map but there were no signs or any other indication that is really existed. After driving up and down the same washboard dirt road a couple of times, we finally stopped at a house that looked like the right place on the map, but there was no indication (a sign) that they took boarders. We tentatively knocked on the door and after some time (we were getting back in the car) the proprietress came out to greet us. We asked her if she rented rooms and she enthusiastically nodded in agreement. We asked her why she had no signs advertising her establishment. She thoughtfully looked at us and cordially (with a hint of Germanic authority) responded, “If they come fine … if they don’t come, this if fine too.” Oh … well … OK.
We spent the next afternoon in Salzburg and the following day we slipped back into Germany to visit Konigssee Lake (which is a Alpine lake noted for its stunning beauty and geological anomaly) then back into Austria and the Glossglockner Highway. The Glossglockner Highway is an Austrian National Park and, I believe, the highest Alpine highway traversing the Austrian Alps; it looks remarkable like Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. Additionally, they have, or at least they did, automobile and motorcycle races up it like they do Pikes Peak. Here, go see for yourselves (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grossglockner_High_Alpine_Road).
While driving through Austria we would occasionally stop at a McDonalds for quick bite to eat and something to drink (McDonalds is neither fast, nor cheap in Europe). They are also chincy on ice. One has to go into detailed explanation in an attempt to get a full cup of ice with a coke. The attendants look at you like you’re stupid … why do you want to replace the limited room in the cup with ice when you can have it full of coke … Americans!? This was a travail we would endure throughout our entire trip.
During our travels through Austria, we made little side trips to Hungary and Switzerland. At the Hungarian border, now unguarded, we walked across because the car insurance would not cover us driving across. That’s it; we walked into Hungary and back. It’s just like walking from South Dakota into Wyoming at the State line (just a whole lot of nothing … traffic is just about as heavy, too.) We kind of did the same thing in Switzerland (for the same reasons). We crossed the border at Lake Constance (which unlike the Hungarian border is very picturesque). BRENDON wanted to go to the post office for a stamp. Easy enough, but while there I had the occasion to ask of the post-mistress the exchange rate for the Swiss franc versus the Euro (as Switzerland does not use the Euro). She looked at me quizzically and smiling, helpfully pointed to something behind me (BRENDON and I were the only ones in the post office at the time). I turned thinking the exchange rates were posted. I saw nothing and turned back to her. She then enlisted her fellow post-mistress and together they adamantly, charmingly, engagingly continued to point at something behind me, at one point nearly crawling out of their stations in their zeal. BRENDON and I were both racing around the tiny space like retrievers responding to their master direction, occasionally looking up for further commands, but to no avail. We could not figure what they were pointing at. Finally, Steve looked at me and said, "the ticket machine?" (the kind that gives numbers for a turn in line). We turned to look at them and they both were nodding their heads vigorously ... just glowing. Steve and looked at each other (pleased but dumbfounded) that all this commotion had been about taking a number to ask a question. I did not take a ticket and I did not get my question answered. The Swiss are tough!
From Austria we ventured back into Germany to visit Triberg, which you'll remember is home of the worlds largest cuckoo clock and a great restaurant that serves nothing but wild game. Onto Munich, Germany, to attend Octoberfest. While still in Mazatlan, Julie (who acted as our tour guide and made all the arrangements for us) made dirndls for herself, Denise on BRENDON and Brigid, and purchased for me a pair of lederhosen. We were to attend Octoberfest in traditional costume and so we did (except for Steve – Steve was costume less). Octoberfest is a huge fair with rides, beer tents where the beer served in two-liter mugs, German sausage and pretzels the size of your face. Somewhat tipsy, Julie and I mounted one of the centrifugal rides; the ones that throw you around like a rag doll attempting to force you to spew your stomach contents onto those foolish enough to be watching from below. During the ride, concentrating on keeping the beer and pretzels in her distended belly was too much for Julie and one of her breasts escape its courses; she got it back though, by the time the ride ended. When Brigid heard about it she likened it to an eight ball in a tube sock (I, of course, thought of the incident in terms of a cumulus cloud floating across a clear blue sky).
We then caught a flight back to England. It doesn’t matter where in the world one is, the airport security is always such a pain in the ass. Did you know all the airport security personnel (worldwide) are required to graduate from the School of Mindlessness for the Abrupt and Obnoxious? At Frankfort they wanted me to put a half ounce plastic bottle of shaving oil in a quart size plastic bag (which, of course, I could buy at the nearby convenience shop). Steve and Denny were really put though the ringer with Denny nearly having to submit to a strip search. The whole system is built to the weakest link and the employees act accordingly.
Back in England, we took a driving tour of southern England and Wales. We went to Warwick Castle built by William the Conqueror (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warwick_Castle) and Bath (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bath_england), both rich in English history. In Bath we toured the ancient Roman baths and observed the spires of the Bath Abbey on which the Angels were crawling down the outside spires of the church. We walked all over England on a map the size of a house, which had been placed on the ground for just such purposes. Bath is the site where arguably, legendarily (if one is able to sort through the whole Arthurian mess), King Arthur fought his greatest battle with Anglo-Saxons, slewing 960 of the enemy.
In Llangolen, Wales on a typical British overcast day with a light mist and gray skies, we rented a canal boat (properly known as a narrow boat) for a day. We walked, rode and banged our way along a narrow canals that included locks, an elevated, ancient roman aqueduct that traversed a deep valley and had hot lunch at the Poachers Pocket Pub. Being sailors and anxious to display our nautical abilities Steve and I, after receiving operating instructions regarding the boat, inquired about the life vests should one fall overboard. The vessels owner stood, turned and regarded us with sincere concern (obviously he’s spotted fellow mariners … men of the sea, if you will); after a thoughtful pause he nodded his head knowingly and said, “first thing you do is stand-up. The canal, at its deepest, is only three feet;” ... very well then. There are thousands of miles and hundreds of canals throughout the United Kingdom connecting Scotland, England and Wales. The canals were originally used for industrial transportation and irrigation but fell in to disrepair with the advent of the railway and improving highways. They are now enjoying resurgence due to pleasure craft. Narrow boating, like cruising, is often a lifestyle. The boats can be no wider than seven feet and no longer than 70 feet and they have all the amenities of a land based home. Live-Aboards carefully tend and decorate these cozy and delightful low profile gems as they meander through the waterways of the English countryside (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narrowboat).
Crossing the Severn Bridge from Wales back into England, we found ourselves in the village of Ludlow, where we experienced two examples of the English version of Austrian economics. On the way we stopped at McDonalds for something to drink. They would not sell us hot water (for our own tea). They would sell us their hot tea; they would sell us hot coffee, but they would not sell us hot water … go figure. Toward evening, we stopped at a B&B (this one at least had a sign) and Julie inquired of the proprietress if we could obtain lodging for the night. She looked over Julies shoulder at the three of us in the car, looked back at Julie, looked over Julies shoulder again and in inimitable British fashion said, “I do have a room, but it looks like you have quite a crowd in there. We have a family event tomorrow and I don’t fancy cleaning the rooms, so NO, we don’t have any rooms for the night.” ... delightful! With no other choice, we continued into Ludlow (another gem in its own right, rich in Tudor architecture) and on the other side of town we found a quaint little pub that rented rooms. It would’ve been just perfect. I asked the bartender if they had rooms and he checked with the innkeeper to see if a room was available. Indeed, one was, but the innkeeper was not in a mood for cleaning up the room the next day so he turned us down, as well. We wound up staying at the Travel Lodge (who apparently did clean rooms the next day) and had traditional English dinners of fish & chips, bangers and mash and pints of bitters at the pub anyway. The next day we arrived back at Brigids and the following day BRENDON departed for America. We stayed on one more day to visit with Julie’s brother and sister-in-law who were in from Uruguay.
We left Brigids and flew Ryan Air to Athens, Greece. Ryan Air is a low cost airline in Europe and they really are low cost, no frills airline. In saying that though, I believe we got as good a service with them as we did with any full service carrier and for a whole lot less. As Ryan Air has no pre-arranged seating they thoughtfully open up both ends of the aircraft when embarking and disembarking passengers; this makes loading and unloading a rapid, painless process. They have hefty charges for any checked baggage, but if you can travel light with just a carry-on, they’re unbeatable.
We joined two other cruising couples (SERENDIPITY and DECADE DANCE) in a repositioning charter in the Aegean. They were kind enough to invite us as they chartered a Bavarian 44 up the Cycladies from Paros to Athens, stopping at Sifnos, Iydra, Kithnos, Poros and Agina on the way. The sailing was spectacular. We were able to leave our ports-of-call at a reasonable hour (without having to worry about tides or currents) and arrive at our next destination early in the afternoon, ahead of the rest of the fleet. Each of us was captain for a day and each of us took our turn med-mooring (backing the boat down with the stern to the quay while dropping and setting an anchor to hold the bow off). All of our island stops were delightful in that they all had their own special charms; our hotel in Paros had a graveyard dating back to 400 B.C. in the back yard; we rented a 50cc scooter ($10.00 for the day) and drove all over the island; and, I tried to eat a grape straight off the tree. They're pretty bitter. We crossed the shipping lanes on our final days passage back to Athens. Shipping and especially the ferries were thick as fly’s and they moved nearly as erratic. The bigger ships are all business and have little tolerance for pokey sailing vessels toddling about. We left Athens but not before we toured the Acropolis and the street markets in Athens; we also caught a short afternoon snooze on a park bench below the Parthenon.
From Athens we caught a late night flight to Gatwick airport, UK, where unknown to us, all public transportation had closed for the evening. We were stuck in the airport until early morning when we caught a train to Victoria Station; a mistake on our part because while the train from Gatwick to Victoria Station had commenced running, no other public transportation had started, because it was Sunday. Victoria Station is outside and early mornings in London, in late October are cold and wet. We shivered in the large, cold, history filled, poorly lit station along with the homeless, the late night partiers, drunken revelers and the poor planners (like ourselves) waiting for public transportation to begin for the day. We finally caught a bus and two transfers and three hours later we arrived back at Brigids. All told it took us eight hours, a train ride and three buses to get the 40 miles from Gatwick to Brigids … Attitude, it’s the difference between an ordeal and an adventure. Brigid gave us a ride back up to Mildenhall and from there we caught a hop to Spokane and then a commercial flight to Denver and onto Mazatlan.
Southern Europe and Northern Europe are quite a contrast. Northern Europe is neat as a pin and very orderly. The countryside is placid and even voices seem more hushed. The general attitude is very somber and days usually end around 6 pm; stores close down and very little is left open. It’s quite a shock to go out in the early evening and to find nothing open. Southern Europe by contrast is far more earthy and boisterous; neatness is not a priority and everything is open to all hours of the morning.
November through mid-December
We returned to the boat for six weeks at which time we bought a new dinghy, removed the old bimini and Julie sewed a new one that fit on the solar panel struts. We went through the boat and sold off the things we had not been using like the air-conditioner, a seat pedestal I was going to use for a new table that I never built, the old dingy, the old bimini and the a couple of backpacks and suitcases. The boat is in outstanding shape and there is nothing more we can do to it. We’ve had lots of lookers but no offers yet.
mid-December through mid January
We returned to England to spend Christmas and New Years with the kids. Tim won’t make it, but Molly and her family (Bodhi and Keelyn) and Brigid and her fiancé (Justin), two of their shipmates (Ryan and Mark) and Justin’s Dad (Dave), will. We arrived a little early but all the others were caught by the snowstorm that hit Heathrow and stopped all inbound air traffic. Everybody’s airline got the word except for Ryan’s. Ryan was left high and dry in Washington D.C. for five days. Most everybody arrived just a couple of days prior to Christmas or on Christmas Eve. The snow at Heathrow was not bad at all (4 inches), but for some reason the British just froze (no pun intended) and were unable to cope. They simply shut everything down and did not move until the snow stopped. I can’t imagine what they’re going to do when they host the Olympics in 2012.
Brigids house was full with the ten of us, but we managed to share the chores and all of us got on very well. Christmas was quiet and enjoyable. The younger set (that’s everyone but me and Julie and Keelyn) went out a partied every night. New Years Julie had planned for all us to take the train from London to Edinburgh, Scotland for Hogmanay (Scotch New Year). The train ride was enjoyable and comfortable. Julie rented us a two-bedroom apartment for a week that we all piled into with abandon. Edinburgh is a castle town built on a high hill. It’s been around for centuries and has quite a rich history; Edinburgh has many famous sons; the story of Greyfriars Bobby really happened here; and, most recently, J.K. Rowlings authored her Harry Potter series in one of the local pubs (some of the characters names were even taken from the graveyard that is behind the pub). We spent a mad four days touring and drinking. We toured the castle and had lunch in one of the naves; took a whisky (scotch) distillery tour and had wee bit of the free samples; we took an informative and enjoyable walking tour of the city which is provided free by locals (who just love their city); we ate haggis, sausage, meat pies, Shepard’s pie and had meat on meat for dinner. We had deep fried Mars (candy) bars and visited thrift shops. At night the kids would cajole us into pub-crawls and trick us into playing their drinking games (kings cup was one I seem to remember). When they tired of us they dumped us at the apartment and made a be-line for the nightclubs where they would party ‘til five a.m. Edinburgh was a fabulous town and we’d go back there in a minute.
On News Years eve, after hooking up with one of Molly’s childhood friends, we joined in the festivities. We participated in a very long nighttime parade each of us holding a real fire torch and walking from the high street down to the waters edge where a Viking ship was ceremoniously burning. The parade was in remembrance of a Viking attack on the city (a millennium ago) in which the city was raped and pillaged. The citizens were able to rejoin, repel the invaders, killing them and burning their ships. After we had burned the ship to the ground and sent our Viking invaders to Hel (diferent spelling, same location), the parade participants milled about the low streets until midnight waiting for the fireworks display from the castle. It was spectacular; not the biggest and not the longest but certainly one of the best I’ve ever seen. Each display ignited below, in front-of, or above the castle bringing the castle to life, deftly illustrating a past glory. We all returned to London, via a New Years Day train ride, and within a couple days we had all departed London to whence we came.
Julie and I took a detour through Norway again on a Ryan Air. The fare from Gatwick to Oslo’s Rygge airport, terminating in Frankfurt, Germany was $30.00, each. We caught a bus downtown and checked into our tiny European hotel room. Oslo, too, is very friendly and easy to navigate. Our first night we went to dinner at a pizza shop. It was $60.00 for a medium pizza, beer and soda. Spendy no doubt, until we found out Norway has a 25% tax rate and unskilled labor makes wages equivalent to office personnel. Other things (health care and education) are government subsidized. Norway (as all the Scandinavian countries do) has a high tax rates, yet they are some of the happiest, and most prosperous countries in the world. We took rented sleds down the 1952 Olympic bobsled run; walked around Vigeland Sculpture Park; a sculpture park made as testament to the human condition - the largest of its kind created by a single artist (http://members.cox.net/c.kau/Vigeland/); walked by the royal palace; and, visited the local thrift shops.
We only spent two nights in Oslo and then flew out of Thorp Airport to Frankfurt, Germany. We had arranged for a hired car from Frankfurt to Ramstien AFB, but upon entering the terminal we could not find our driver. We found his van, but we could not find him. We looked up and down the terminal (it’s very small) and enlisted the help of the information counter, other cabbies, local constabulary and the office from which he was sent, all for naught. We looked for over an hour and a half. After beating his van with my fists thinking he was asleep inside, exasperated, frustrated and tired I went back into the terminal to find Julie with a German version of baby Huey in tow. It was our driver. He had been standing by the Ryan Air ticket counter (in the dark because it was closed) waiting for us. He had no sign identifying himself or placard with our names on it, as all the other hired cars did; he was not waiting at the terminal gate for our arrival as all the other drivers were; nor had he called back into his office to check on our status. I really think he would have waited forever. He provided us, I suppose as his revenge, one of the most frightening car rides I’ve ever experienced. It was night, it was snowing and cold, the roads were slick (icy in spots) and we were in a high-center-of-gravity van. He, this hired driver from hell, did not drop below seventy mph the entire two-hour trip. I have never been so thankful to get out of a moving vehicle in my life. After cleaning my britches and catching a good nights sleep we were able to catch a hop the next day from Ramstien to Dover, a hired car from Dover to BWI, and rent a car for the drive down to see Tim in North Carolina.
We drove down Friday and spent a couple of days with Tim at Camp Lejeune and catch up. He took us around the exciting burg of Jacksonville, NC and we had fried pickles for an appetizer one evening meal; read Tim’s facebook to see what he really thinks of NC. I was surprised it was so cold there and in one our forays between car and building I asked Tim why he wasn’t wearing a coat (he had his hands in his pockets and was shivering). We had picked him up at his barracks (where he had the proper clothing) so I thought it was an appropriate question. Peering at me over his shoulder, hands stuffed in his pockets he says with no inflection, “I have a couple layers of man on.” What is “man’ I ask myself, thinking its some sort of new gear issued? Then I say it out loud. He smirks and then I get it. Oh yea, you’re a tough guy, I forgot. I’ll give you a couple layers of man …
On Sunday we returned to Baltimore, turned in the car and spent the night in the airport. We’d arrived at the gate early for our flight with just the carry-on bags we've using since moving aboard ITCHEN. The gate attendant at BWI decided that that my backpack was too large; she immediately seized it and shipped it off. I was furious! I tried to show her how it scrunched down to fit within their parameters and explain to her and her supervisor that I had been using it for sometime without issue and on her airline, but in traditional airline manner they both thoroughly ignored me. I documented my complaint to US Airways customers service department and the response I received from them was they “had not yet implemented a procedure in which they could charge for baggage that is checked at the gate.” The airline people are absolute rubes! The lack of customer service is so ingrained that it has become culture. I would sincerely like to see the current batch of airlines go out of business. I have no doubt they would be replaced immediately by a more responsible and customer oriented faction.
mid January through the end of March
The winter remains unseasonably cold here in Mazatlan. We returned to the boat (despite US Airways) with not much to do but wait for a weather window south. We washed and waxed the boat and had the bottom cleaned. Within a week after waxing the topsides high winds came barreling down the Sea of Cortez (from a cold front in Colorado) and dusted the boat thoroughly with fine brown silt that seeped into every corner, crack and crevice. We hosed the boat down and cleaned it again including my going up the mast to clean the mainsail track and standing rigging. It’ll test a marriage when, suspended 50 feet in the air, clinging to the mast like a five year old clinging to his mothers leg the first day of kindergarten, ones pathetic and terrified screams fall on deaf ears as the spouse (who has your life in her hands controlling the halyard holding you 50 feet up the mast) is deep in frivolous conversation about whatever. It’s not as funny as you might think. I also pulled the running rigging (which did not require going up the mast) and soaked them in Downy fabric softener overnight. It makes the lines soft and pliable as a baby’s bottom. We watched our third Super Bowl here in Mazatlan. The righteous crowd that packed the bar at our first Super Bowl (in ’08) had dwindled to just a scattering of fans. The atmosphere was very subdued, but quite enjoyable.
We cleared Mazatlan and the boat ran perfectly. We did an overnighter to Bandaras Bay and arrived in La Cruz 27 hours after our departure from Mazatlan. We met ZEPPLIN (cruising friends from Mazatlan) in La Cruz and did a few nights on the town. La Cruz is growing steadily since we last visited two years ago. The marina has grown with the addition of more slips and a yard with haul out facilities (so far the reviews have been good); the plaza is cleaner and much more organized with a market every Sunday that has a variety of wares (straw hats, wool rugs and colorful bowls) and food stuffs (Cilantro Hummus, Amaretto Hummus, Raspberry and Tequila salad dressing, French Quiches, homemade baked goods, and an assortment of exotic condiments). La Cruz always had a a good selection of international restaurants but a few more have been added; quite cosmopolitan, this little village 20 miles around the inside of the bay from Puerto Vallarta (PV).
We departed for Nuevo Vallarta (a little further into the bay) and ZEPPLIN headed south for Panama and the Caribbean. Serendipitously, we docked right in front of a French acrobatic cruising couple. They perform acrobatics (for cruising funds) using their boat as the stage. We watched the two-hour performance from 30 feet away in the comfort of our cockpit, cocktails in hand. The couple used a long, narrow, white sheet, attached to the main halyard, which was hoisted up the mast as a central line and in all manner wrapped themselves in it; upside down, sideways, together, apart, hanging by one ankle then by one wrist; they scaled its white plumes then slowly spun, floated and careened their way down until they softly alighted on the deck. She (wisp that she was) tip toed along the top of the whisker pole while he (in a handstand) would reflect her every step, inverted, beneath her; altogether, a delightfully unplanned evenings entertainment. The next day we met with our boat broker to see if there was anything we could do to encourage the sale of the boat - during our six week stay in the PV area we’ve shown the boat fives times, overall between PV and Mazatlan we’ve shown it maybe 20 times in the past year. We think we’ve had more lookers than any other boat for sale in Mexico, but we’ve had no offers - he indicated that potential buyers report the boat is beautiful and they’re all are impressed with its beauty … go figure.
From Nuevo Vallarta we moved to the Iguana in PV thanks to PEPE (they were in the Baja Ha-Ha class of ’07 with us). We really had nothing better to do so we just hung there for a while, bothered PEPE, went to the movies, went downtown, and created projects on the boat. We changed the fender cover from white back to blue; I scrapped the paint off the deck handrails and cetoled them to their natural wood color; Julie sewed a new duvet for the back berth, pillow shams and a cover for the foam insert in the v-berth. We were walking around the malacon one lazy afternoon and as we rounded pooh corner (the name given to spot where the sewage effluent empties into the harbor and it smells like shit) we saw a 12-foot crocodile floating with his nose stuffed right up the pipe as the waste effluent trickled out (no wonder they've never evolved). We watched for a while and when the dull-witted beast refused to acknowledge our presence, or his rude behavior, we left. On our return we noted he was lazily swimming figure eights, a log in the water with nothing moving but his tail that waved monotonously slow back and forth (he was either burning off his recent meal or waiting for another). We were going to head south to Santiago Bay and Las Hadas but the reports indicated that it was awfully crowded and there were sixty boats in Bahia Navidad. The Banderas Bay Regatta was coming up so we thought we would stay put and catch any potential buyers that might drift by. At the last minute we wound up entering the Regatta.
Neither one of us had raced before nor did either one of us want to put the boat in jeopardy. We decided we would hang back and just watch … right! Julie is now not afraid of the boat listing and she has discovered a new side to her personality … she is really quite competitive. We had the bottom cleaned at the Iguana the day before and our sails are stiff, still practically brand new. I knew our Cherubini Hunter was a solid boat with a good turn of speed, but I had no idea how fast she really was or how high she could point. That said, on the first day we were 10 minutes late crossing the starting line and on the last day we were nine minutes late crossing … crossing the starting line in a timely manner is trickier than you might think. We were receiving the countdown on the VHF and our plan was to time our crossing at the very same instant the starting gun fired. When the gun fired we were half mile from the starting line going in the wrong direction. It was so bad that the committee boat called us and asked if ITCHEN was going to scratch … (ha-ha). We did cross the starting line and soon passed two boats, and before crossing the finishing line we had passed more. We were the last … the very last … to cross the starting line that day, but we were not the last in our class nor the last overall to finish. On that day we finished in fifth place.
In the third race, after carefully reviewing our mistakes, we were able to cross the starting line only nine minutes after every other boat in the fleet had done so; however, with our superior boat and mediocre sailing skills we were able to catch the entire fleet and pass many boats that had started in earlier classes, including all but two in our class. That day, the last day, we finished third in our class (two minutes behind the second place finisher). When the results were totaled we wound up third in our class and we received our very first international racing trophy.
After finally crossing the starting line on the right tack, on that final day, the boat heeled over nicely at 15 degrees. As it became apparent that were not only going to catch our competitors but pass them Julie began screaming, as she was standing (nearly upright) feet on the starboard seat, hands holding onto the port rails, “faster … faster!!! Catch those guys!! C’mon ITCHEN … Go girl! “ A sixty-five foot Macgregor slid up next to us, gunnels buried in the foaming sea and together we sailed toward the mark. As we approached the first mark for the second time we were in the center of the fleet, surrounded by sailboats; expensive and not so much so, long and short, one hull and more hulls, large crews and small crews all meeting at the buoy at the same time and we all wanted the shortest course around it. We could see fully into the cockpits and on the decks of the vessels closest to us; others we could only see the dark globes of their barrier painted hulls. The scene was surreal; looking in any given direction one could see the various working of a racing sailboat.
On our port, a burdened vessel pulled up to give right of way, bow crossing stern only feet and seconds from catastrophe. The sun midway through the afternoon sky created a collage of twinkling white clusters reflecting off the roiling sea and glistening hulls. The only sound to be heard was a distant beating of the wind as it furiously howled through the rigging and slammed into full enveloping sails. The crews were strung out along the decks in anticipation of the next heading, acting as living ballast. Each boat had dug a hole in the water equivalent to its displacement, heeled hard over, sails full and the sea next to the gleaming hulls still and listless moments before it erupted into a crashing wave. The vessels with a myriad of lines, sails, rigging and spars were at flawlessly opposing angles to each other … perfect symmetry ... frozen for just that instant. SNAP! An untended boom swung violently around, the clamor returned and vessels juggled for position and within moments we were all around the mark. Most sailed, I think we were swept around in pure exhilaration.
The second day of the regatta was canceled due to the Tsunami in Japan; eight-foot waves were predicted for the marinas in Banderas Bay. Each skipper had to make his own decision regarding the safety of his boat, but the general rule is almost any boat is safer at sea than in a harbor. The Mexican Port Captains in typical confusing fashion closed all the ports; then we found out that the closure only applied to commercial vessels. Many of us left the harbor, but just as many stayed. In the bay we could not feel the Tsunami wave as it rolled under us, but those who stayed in the marina noted first the turbulent currents in the harbor entrance followed by a rapid increase then decrease in harbors water level. In La Cruz marina the water rose then dropped 8 feet in 10 minutes. One pier was damaged, floating off the top, breaking the cement and wood finger like a toothpick and bending the thck iron pilings to which it was attached. It was an end pier with no boats moored to it, but had there been it could have easily created a domino effect causing much more damage than it did. That is the only damage we heard of to either boats or marinas in the bay.
More pathetic were the events that occurred after the Tsunami. For the regatta we had all been instructed to remove our anchors so they didn’t catch in the opening ceremony, which included a parade of the sixty boats in fairly close quarters with minimal maneuvering room. Other boats removed propane tanks, anchor chain and other heavy items that might slow the boat down or be in the way. The Regatta is billed more as a rally where “cruisers can race their homes,” but we all know if there are two sailboats on the water you can bet they’re in a race. Many of the racers are serious and had flown in crew from the States and elsewhere. Many vessels were flat out race boats and had crews of nine or more. The prediction was; the tsunami would arrive around 1300 (local). The assumption was; we would be able to return the harbor soon after. That was not to happen; while the tsunami arrived right on time the return to our respective harbors was anything but timely and orderly. It was reported that the sustained currents in the harbors entrances had strong undertows and they sometimes reached 12 knots (faster than most sailboats are able to power out of). Even so, Marina Vallarta opened their harbor entrance around 1700 and the boats in that harbor were able to return to their slips, without incident. La Cruz tried to open but quickly shut back down, due to the strength of the undertows, currents and dock damage. Nuevo Vallarta and Paradise Village marinas (where we berthed for the regatta) were the most dysfunctional. We were headed back to the marina later in the afternoon and saw several vessels enter the harbor. They had no trouble and we put ourselves in position to follow. The harbormaster came over the VHF and announced that the harbor was closed. Puzzled as several boats had entered without difficulty, vessels radioed back inquiring why they were not being allowed to enter. The harbormaster took umbrage to their inquires and soon the communication became fractured and the harbormasters credibility was shot. Eventually, boats tried to enter the harbor again and the harbormaster was heard screaming on the VHF for them to stop and turn around. He or his staff was seen frantically waving on the jetty at boats that violated his edict. He actually forced those boats to turn around in the narrow harbor entrance with stone jetties on either side and currents that, according to him, were un-navigable. Turning in a harbor entrance is a daunting task for any sailboat under the best circumstances. We talked with those boats as they returned to the bay and asked them the conditions on the harbor entrance. They said they had no problem going in and only turned around because the harbormasters antics on the jetty, his vehement screaming over the VHF and the fear of a fine or legal problems. To listen to him scream on the radio and demean the skippers was truly pitiable. After a time, most boats left to anchor off La Cruz. At 1930, the harbormaster very quietly, over the VHF, announced the harbor entrance was open. We went in, at dark, in absolutely calm water. Many of those vessels that left (to anchor off La Cruz) were without the needed equipment and had few provisions for their crews. They spent just one more cold and hungry night at sea.
The rest of time in Banderas Bay was split between the Iguana and La Cruz visiting and catching up with fellow cruisers JAKE, SAUCY LADY, MOON DANCE and HOULIGAN.
We departed La Cruz (despite the fuel dock not having any fuel) and headed north. Our first night we anchored behind Isla La Pena (a tiny rock island) off Jaltemba in Guayabitos Cove, just around the bend from Banderas Bay. It was predictably rolly (not as bad as La Cruz) but irritating enough. We departed the next morning (with overcast skies) for Mantanchen Bay (just south of San Blas). We’ve never stopped in this area coming down, so this is all new for us.
Mantanchen bay is large, shallow, surprisingly protected bay and reminds me a little of Skagit Bay in the Puget Sound. We anchored there at 1430 and four other boats trickled in throughout the afternoon, but we didn’t talk and the anchorage was uneventful. From Mantanchen Bay we motored two hours around the corner to San Blas. Natives have inhabited the San Blas area for thousands for years. It was founded in 1531 and reestablished in 1768 by none other than Father Junipero Serra of California Missions and Camino Real fame and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in the poem The Bells of San Blas immortalizes the town. Singlar has a marina here and we’ve wanted to stop before but were discouraged by reports about the entrance being tricky and the place being really buggy. The bugs are no-see ums or jejenes and get their name because they are so small you can’t see them to kill them; they bite you, lay their eggs just under the skin and when the spawn hatch it cause’s a terrible itch. They don’t do any damage other than the irritating itch and the good size welt they leave. We entered the clearly marked channel after crossing a five-foot sandbar without event and encountered hardly any bugs. Serendipitously, we met cruising friends, DECADE DANCE, whom we had sailed with in Greece this past fall and spent two days catching up with them.
After wringing the good times out of San Blas we sailed up to and anchored off tiny Isla Isabella, a Mexican national bird and wildlife sanctuary. It’s a very small island (about a mile long), which has been documented on film by Jacques Cousteau and National Geographic. It is billed as a must see for cruisers sailing in Mexico; in addition, it is used as an anchorage in the long trips back and forth between PV and either Mazatlan or La Paz. At 0230 the next morning in the windless, moonless dark we quietly hoisted the anchor, slid our way between the nine other boats anchored there, and gingerly picked our way amidst the myriad of fishing buoys as we set course for Mazatlan. Julie took the first watch and I relieved her at 0600; fifteen hours after making weigh we arrived Mazatlan. We hope to be here briefly for bottom paint and then sail north into the sea for Puerto Escondido and Loretta Fest; but the yard may have a different idea. That will be another posting
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