Author: Kathy Scott

It’s been a while…well, just over two years to be more precise since I last posted an entry on our blog. As for so many others, our lives and plans have been interrupted by the disruption and uncertainty brought about by Covid 19. Sister Midnight has remained in La Paz instead of sailing across the South Pacific which was the original intention, and Paul and I have hopped back and forth from the UK to Baja California for the last couple of years, making the most of The Sea of Cortez and its beautiful islands. 

It seemed apt to bid a final farewell to La Paz as a new year began. We had just enjoyed a blissfully stress-free and relaxing Christmas there – our third one in La Paz – just the two of us, with as little fuss as possible but with lights, a tree, festive food and a few gifts we’d had a great time.

We left our berth on New Year’s Day to begin crossing the Sea of Cortez before continuing south along Mexico’s mainland towards Acapulco. Our neighbour Bob helped with our lines and wished us fair winds as we departed the marina that had been our base for three years. It had become something of a home from home for us, in that we’d become familiar faces to locals and fellow cruisers alike and we knew the town’s streets and locations so well. It was there, also that we had made the acquaintance of our dear friend, Arturo, who has himself moved on to pastures new. 

Some of the stops along the way will be places we (or Paul alone) have visited before but others would be first sights for both of us. This is one of the aspects of travel that I enjoy most: exploring new destinations. That first walk ashore to see ‘what’s there’ creates quite a thrill. Internet searches and travel guides tell you so much but they can’t account for a particular vibe a person can pick up from a place. As La Paz gradually faded from sight behind us, I counted the months since I had last been at sea and was surprised to discover it had been seven months. It was a warm, sunny and clear day and it felt good both physically and mentally to be back on the water. Our first stop, Isla Partida was only a short journey to an anchorage we’d been many times before. The cove, with its high sloping walls of volcanic rock provides ideal shelter. It is in fact the crater of a large, extinct volcano with an abundance of seabirds and we love to watch the pelicans diving as the sun begins to set. They position themselves above the water and descend rapidly, their bodies’ vertical when they hit the surface with a resounding splash, and scoop up fish with admirable speed and skill. It’s also a great area to dinghy around looking at manta rays and puffer fish in the clear shallow water. We spent two nights there, enjoying leisurely walks on the beaches. The familiar row of fishermen’s sheds, all locked up and deserted, appeared almost eerie. Tables and chairs outside them held knives, weighing scales and other paraphernalia, while fish skeletons littered the ground around them. It conveyed an impression they had abandoned the place in a hurry but that’s probably more to do with my imagination. 

The delightfully-named town of Topolobampo, could just be glimpsed in the distance from where we anchored a few days later in Isla Santa Maria. We were in no great hurry to go ashore, however. Paul had been to this anchorage before and had pronounced the surrounding beach as the best he had come across on his travels so far. It was easy to see why as I stared at what looked like more than a mile of golden sand encircling us, its edges decorated with lines of seabirds. Closer inspection revealed them to be pelicans, gulls and some that we couldn’t identify, but they were all positioned ready to catch fish. We were the only boat in the area and apart from their cries and splashes it was blissfully peaceful. We had arrived a little too late in the day to explore the beach, and inviting as it all looked it would have to wait until we returned after our trip inland. 

We had decided against a plan to book places on the famous El Chepe Express, the train tour where passengers can see the spectacular copper canyons across Sinaloa. After mulling over the cost, the logistics and the fact that it wasn’t permitted to take your own food on board (essential for vegans and veggies), we concluded that the cons outweighed the pros. Moreover, we had been lucky enough to visit The Grand Canyon last year during a three week trip in Arizona. Instead, we arranged to meet Arturo the following day to spend a few days with him in El Fuerte. His girlfriend’s family live there so he would be staying with them, while Paul and I would stay in the nice-looking hotel recommended by Arturo’s girlfriend Katia, who unfortunately had to work so was unable join us on the trip. 

We motored into Topolobampo Marina the next morning and had hardly finished securing our lines when one of the cruisers who had come to help, informed us that the town was more or less in lockdown. It turned out that the son of former drug lord El Chapo had been arrested the previous day in Sinaloa’s capital, Culiacan. As the leader of his father’s cartel, the action sparked a wave of violence and protests from armed cartel members across Sinaloa. The authorities had deemed it dangerous for civilians to be out on the streets and we were told to stay in the marina for our own safety. Some welcome(!) yet also rather exciting in a ‘Breaking Bad’ kind of way. Since meeting Arturo was out of the question that day, we mooched around the marina, which didn’t take long, and read up on the towns of Los Mochis and El Fuerte. Apart from Mexico City we hadn’t really been inland in the country and I was looking forward to seeing these new places, especially with the aid of Arturo’s Spanish and local knowledge. 

Luckily restrictions were lifted the next day and we were able to venture into the town for my first look at it. It was quite a contrast from the seaside elegance of La Paz. The short walk from the marina began by crossing a wide road and railway line that leads to the commercial part of the harbour where cargo ships and ferries are accommodated. From there, the streets become narrower and dustier with old sofas, broken down cars and makeshift stalls outside some of the houses. Every person who saw us greeted us with a friendly ‘buenas tardes’ and there were chickens, dogs and cats running free in the road. The main shopping street was very busy with pedestrians and cars. I noticed that despite the dilapidated appearance of some of the buildings they were all painted with very bright pastel colours as if to offset the condition. It was remarkably effective as your eye can’t help but be drawn to the vivid blues, pinks and yellows that adorned the shops, businesses and homes. 

The waterfront, or malecon, is a lot smaller than La Paz’s. It was lined with tour operators offering fishing trips or tours of the bay, and stalls selling the usual souvenirs and sun hats. We walked up and down it, taking in the fabulous views of the bay before setting off to meet Arturo, who had travelled from Los Mochis to meet us. We spent a pleasant couple of hours with him in one of the seafront cafes, catching up and making plans for the next few days.

One thing we all wanted to do was to have lunch at the acclaimed Stanley’s Bar and Grill which is situated at the top of a hill with sea views in three directions and a great birds’ eye view of the town. We opted to take a taxi up the hill with the intention of walking back down afterwards, as a way of avoiding the peak of the sun’s heat. Stanleys is a restaurant specialising in seafood and Mexican fare which is hardly surprising. It’s never a problem for me as there are always salads available and of course French fries. As the pictures show, the views, as well as the food, didn’t disappoint. The serving staff were smartly dressed old-style fashion in crisp black and white uniforms and the wine waiter insisted I try the wine before committing to a glass.

We took a slow walk back down the hill, all the better to appreciate the narrow, vibrant and colourful streets and the views from the trail. 

After a couple more leisurely days in the marina we set off for our trip to El Fuerte on the 10th January. This meant getting the bus to Los Mochis, just 11 miles from Topoplobampo. It’s a regular and efficient service with several stops along the way. For this reason, it’s not uncommon for sellers and people down on their luck to board offering tissues and gum for sale or asking for financial help for sick relatives via printed notes. We were not, however, prepared for the sight of a clown climbing up the steps and grinning its way down the aisle. I presume he (or she) was telling amusing stories for the entertainment of passengers but someone needs to point out that clowns today are viewed more as harbingers of horror than of amusement. 

Arriving in Los Mochis, a town much bigger than I expected, we met up with Arturo and discovered we had a bit of time to kill before our bus to El Fuerte. We decided to walk to a park he recommended, and I managed to get another picture in front of the town name structures for my ever growing collection, as shown in the pics below, along with our hour in Parque Sinaloa. 

The bus to El Fuerte was thankfully free of clowns. It was full though and Arturo, always up for conversation with strangers, encouraged Paul to engage in a chat with the young boys in the seats behind us. It’s a good way to practise informal Spanish and Paul’s been making great progress since I’ve been away. 

It took just over an hour to get to El Fuerte, a town which on first impressions, certainly seemed lived up to its guide book description of ‘a tranquil, verdant town of handsome colonial architecture and lush mango trees’ as we walked in the sunshine from the bus station to our hotel near the centre. Checking in, we were glad of Arturo’s help with some of the more convoluted questions at reception. Apparently there was a hard sell for us to book places for that evening’s Zorro show (for a hefty sum) in the restaurant and I think they thought they’d succeeded when Paul asked for the show times. We booked our table for the slot that avoided the time when the performances began; I swear their faces dropped. 

We knew the hotel made much of the character of Zorro. It’s claimed the legendary character had been ‘born’ in the building. Zorro, renowned for carving the letter Z into the clothes or bodies of his adversaries, was a fictional character created by Johnston McCulley. His story was the inspiration for tales, TV series and films about a masked bandit loosely based on real-life character Don Diego de la Vega, who is alleged to have been born on the site the Posada de Hidalgo is built. Merely the site then, not the actual building. You can’t really blame the hotel or indeed the town for capitalising on the association. It’s always interesting to have context when visiting a place. We just didn’t fancy watching a mini pantomime while eating dinner (especially as it looked like audience participation might be required). The statue is impressive though.

The hotel is beautiful. It was originally an old colonial mansion and was transformed into a luxury hotel with rooms tastefully fitted out in wood and marble. Ours had a high ceiling, large wooden double doors and long wooden shutters on the windows. A small balcony overlooked the leafy side street and a games court. Some pics below of the opulence and style we enjoyed there. 

After unpacking we headed to the bar for drinks and guacamole by the pool before taking a walk along the River Fuerte with Arturo, who has come to know the town well during his visits from Los Mochis.  

Dinner in the stylishly decorated restaurant was entertaining enough without the Zorro reenactments. Our waiter, keen to practise his limited English on us, discovered that he and Paul shared the same name and made reference to it every chance he got. This led to excitable mentions of Liverpool, football, and anecdotes about his wife – all while laughing and exclaiming as if this was turning out to be one of the best evenings of his life. With the tip we felt he had worked hard for, Paul said it was quite an expensive dinner…and we only just managed to escape before the unmistakeable sounds of the Zorro show reached our ears.  

Arturo arrived the next morning in his girlfriend’s car. We had made plans to visit the local museum before driving a few miles out of town to see a wildlife rescue park. The museum, handily situated next to the hotel was created in and around an old fort and the pictures and exhibits typically depicted historical figures and events connected to the area. The views from the top of the fort were spectacular on such a sunny and clear day.

The day had grown hotter by the time we reached the park at La Galera early in the afternoon. Set in woodland, next to the Fuerte River, there are picnic areas, nature walks and boat rides nearby, but to get to the animals you have to walk across the suspension bridge spanning the river. Before we did this, Paul and Arturo applied liberal amounts of insect repellent. Despite repeated entreaties and warnings from Arturo who had been bitten there before I chose not to, thinking myself immune to them as I hadn’t been bitten since my arrival in Mexico. That was a decision I would come to regret bitterly. The bridge was a bit rickety but we lingered a while on it to look at the fast-flowing Fuerte River rushing below us. 

As well as the very reasonable admission fee, the man who took our money encouraged us to buy little sachets of food and bottles of milk for the animals, which we did. This man runs the place himself and all the animals that are brought to him are treated, rehabilitated and released back into the wild whenever possible. It was delightful. We had a fantastic afternoon walking around and feeding goats, donkeys, parrots and even a raccoon, who slid the offering from the palm of my hand into its mouth with surprising gentleness – as did the parrots who picked the peanuts from my fingers with their beaks very courteously, as if fearful of hurting me. Now and again I felt slight ‘fly-like’ movements on my bare legs but just waved them away, too intent on looking and walking and petting the animals to notice that mosquitos were indeed feasting on my legs and ankles. No apologies for the amount of pictures we took from the afternoon.

It wasn’t until a full day later that the itching began. I had noticed the red bite marks on my legs, but still convinced myself they wouldn’t bother me. Just after we’d left the hotel  and had a final walk around the town before getting the bus back to Los Mochis, my trousers began to rub on all those red marks and I made the mistake of scratching my calf. That began almost 10 days of trying to resist the urge to scratch the intense itching. There were so many of them my legs felt like they were pulsating at times. I found a cream that provided relief – for the 10 hours advertised on the tube. I could almost tell the time by when it wore off and I had to reapply. Needless to say that was a valuable lesson learned. The pic below shows them at their worst.

At Los Mochis we bid farewell to Arturo. It might be a while before we enjoy his company again but we are certain that we will. 

Back in Topolobampo, we left the marina and spent a relaxing couple of days anchored in the lagoon. Now, we had the time to walk along those golden stretches of beach and sit in the cockpit watching the birds while enjoying the delicious guacamole Paul makes. During one afternoon walk, we were surprised to come across three cows grazing in the rough, bushy landscape. We hadn’t seen any cows at all in Mexico up to this point and to see three of them there seemed a bit incongruous. We spotted them again the night before we left, ambling along the sand by the shore.  

Our next stop along the coast was Altata. This meant an overnight passage. We’ve got into a comfortable routine with these now, whereby I take the 8pm until midnight watch and Paul the midnight until 4am (depending on conditions I can cope with of course). Dinners on these occasions are always simple, and in the comfort food style such as pasta or veggie burgers. For this trip I made empanadas with ready-made pastry circles we’d bought, and various vegan fillings I had created the day before. Checking the instructions, I was surprised to discover they should be fried in a little oil instead of baked in the oven. They turned out well (Paul had four!). We had thick fog on this passage but the radar on the iPad in the cockpit alleviated any anxiety about not being able to see other vessels and hazards. Swirling fog gave an eerie atmosphere to the night watch, especially when the book I was reading was about a haunted lighthouse. 

There was a notoriously tricky entrance to navigate before we reached the anchorage. Only a small break in the bay, which has almost landlocked protection provided by narrow barriers of sand beaches, allows boats through. Paul had tried once before to get in but the shallowness and breaking waves all around had put him off. From afar it looked to me as if the boat would have to skim over strips of land to reach the lagoon! With careful planning regarding tides and by closely watching the depth as we got close to the sandbars, we dropped the anchor and I breathed a sigh of relief (one of the very few fears I have on the boat is going aground).  

Our customary walk around a new place was marred a little by the limitations caused by the bites on my legs. They were so sensitive to anything touching them, that walking set off unbearable itching spasms. It wasn’t quite warm enough for shorts so I resolved to grit my teeth and bear it rather than miss out on an evening walk around the seafront. Altata is known for the unique design of the shrimpers’ boats. Colourful spinnakers are rigged on the pangas as they slowly drift in the shallow water with their nets alongside the boat. They make quite a striking sight when the fleet is out fishing. 

After getting a few essentials in one of the small shops in the town, we headed back to the waterfront to find somewhere to eat. The short row of bars and restaurants on the malecon were fairly empty and we chose the one which had a few tables occupied. We had the feeling it would probably be more busy at weekends and further into the season. We were approached during the meal by a man selling things. Discovering we were English, he urged us to buy some green beans he produced from his sack. They looked good and we agreed to have some. I didn’t realise we would get the entire big bag of them he was holding. Still, they kept well and lasted for a few meals. We spent a couple of days in Altata catching up on rest and chores. I found it a quiet but charming place, as the pictures show. 

It was cold when we weighed anchor at 8am on January 19th. Accustomed as we were to shedding layers as the day went on, it was unusual to find ourselves adding them. Paul ended up at the helm with a full set of oilies and a lifejacket! 

Another overnight passage saw us leaving the Sea of Cortez and entering Pacific Coast Mexico. I was looking forward to seeing Mazatlan again. I had really loved our visit there the year before. It had that vibe that appeals to me but which is impossible to describe objectively. No fog on this leg but the cold temperature remained and the sea, although not rough, was choppy enough to cause rolling. Luckily the wind was in our favour and we sailed most of the way – always nice because it’s peaceful, saves on fuel and is obviously greener. The autopilot broke a few hours before we reached the old harbour at Mazatlan and Paul hand steered for an hour or so when we needed the engine on. It would need to be looked at and assessed during our planned week in Mazatlan before we could consider moving on from there. 

Our week in Mazatlan was great. We did the laundry, tidied the boat, ate out a few times, visited places we hadn’t been to last time, had lazy days on the boat and made several provision visits to supermarkets. More importantly, Paul successfully fixed the autopilot. We also watched a carnival procession the first night we were there, that played out a bit like a beauty contest on wheels. Its purpose was to choose a carnival queen and the women were perched atop cars and vans, each dressed lavishly in the colour they represented. Crowds of supporters followed behind the vehicles, dancing and flag waving and banging drums. Entertaining to watch but the music (very trumpet heavy) was excruciating to my ears. 

Our time in the Sea of Cortez now done, and I think we did it justice during our time there, it was now time to navigate the uncharted waters (for us) of Pacific Coast Mexico and to explore the coastal towns of Mexico’s mainland. February promised to be exciting. 

We had several obstacles to overcome before I could be sure of setting off on my journey back to the UK. I say ‘we’ but in fact it was Paul who took on the research and tasks for obtaining all the forms and documents I would need to present.  The hardest part for me was getting tested for the virus. A negative test result was one of the mandatory requirements for travel and it needed to be taken at a specific  time before departure. I was glad to leave it to Paul to work out the mathematics involved in that, considering time differences and the consistent confusing information emanating from the UK government.

The flight had been booked  just before infection rates increased to the extent that more and more restrictions were put in place, which culminated in the UK’s third national lockdown. My intention to resume work in schools for the employment agency I work for, as well as to see family and friends would once more have to be put on hold. As the weeks went on, there was every chance the flight would be cancelled, borders would close and Mexico would be added to the ‘red list’ of countries. The prospect of spending any amount of time in a quarantine hotel held no appeal at all and when the cost of it was revealed we decided it would be more economical to cancel the flight and rebook later if necessary. All this uncertainty was extremely frustrating for me; not least because I have a tendency of needing to know ‘what is happening when’ (not an ideal trait to have during a pandemic – I’m working on it 🙄). All I could do was keep up with the foreign travel updates and attempt to adhere to Paul’s suggestion to not worry about it until nearer the time.

The place we were in was ideal for this. We had been in the marina at La Paz since the beginning of December, and without regular access to local news, politics and television updates on the pandemic, it was easy to settle in to simply enjoying daily life in the charming capital of Baja California. We were obviously aware of, and heeded, the common sense precautions for avoiding risks, while still safely socialising with our friends, Arturo, and Dirk and Silvia. The weather was just perfect. The searing heat of summer had been replaced by temperatures that allowed for walking and cycling without collapsing in a pool of sweat.

The days were leisurely and relaxing, so I had no cause for complaint. Not until I had the test, anyway! From various sources, I knew it was likely to be uncomfortable but I hadn’t expected pain. The procedure was explained to me by the two female nurses in the tiny Salud Digna testing centre. The language barrier meant that we had to communicate via writing, a translator app and hand signals. When they were ready for me, I adopted my usual stance when undergoing intrusive medical tests – closing my eyes until it was all over. It was the nose swab that caused me to yell out. I thought it was going to give me a pierced nostril! With my eyes still tightly shut in a grimace of pain, they had to tell me it was finished and I could leave. Outside, I had to wait until my eyes stopped watering and the burning sensation in my throat cleared before we could cycle home. Maybe I was just unlucky or it could be that I’m a bit of a baby about things like this. My dad was fond of repeating the story of how I had frightened all the other children in the waiting room once with my yells and sobbing while in the dentist’s chair when I was 10.

Gradually we collected and completed all the forms and I had the necessary sheaf of documents, my bags packed, and a list of provisions for a 10 day quarantine period, ready for my daughter, Tess to deliver to my flat. Two self-testing kits for COVID-19 had been ordered for delivery at my address. No cancellations, and I was ready to go. I had mixed emotions on the day of departure. Although I have a return flight booked for September, it’s still not certain when we will be able to resume our nautical travels, or when Paul will be able to return to the UK. I knew I was going to miss him terribly (as well as our boat birds, Maria and Carlos). On the other hand, I still hoped to be able to earn some money and see much-missed family and friends once lockdown ends.

The journey itself was also causing some anxiety. The first part was easy. Paul had hired a car for the drive to La Paz’s airport, avoiding the risk of taxi delays or infection.  Once inside, we discovered that we had omitted to fill out the health questionnaire, required when departing from Mexican cities. We weren’t the only ones, judging from the amount of people we saw holding their phones up to capture the QR code to fill it out. Paul (again) took that task on while I queued at check in with my bag. Then it was time to say farewell, and I just about managed to hold my tears in until he was out of sight as I made my way through to security. Once on the plane, which was almost full, it was good to see that everybody had a mask on. I had an aisle seat and the couple next to me spent the entire hour and fifty minutes looking out of the window, thus creating a natural social distance for much of the journey. They disembarked us row by row and once I had collected my bag, I found myself in the enormous arrivals hall. It was a lot busier in there, and I kept getting jostled and bumped while I stood looking up at the vast array of signs, trying to work out where to go next. I couldn’t remember if I had to go to immigration then, or after checking in. The flight to Heathrow wasn’t displayed yet as it was still some hours away from departure time and no information desks were open. I messaged Paul, but in the half hour before he replied I had managed to find my way to the BA desks, which were totally deserted, and had taken refuge in a bar near to them until they opened.

By the time I went to check in there was a small queue at each of the two desks for the Heathrow flight. It looked as if Paul’s prediction that there probably wouldn’t be many people on the plane might prove correct. At the desk, I was finally asked to present my sheaf of papers for inspection, along with my immigration card and passport. I was pleased that they were all looked at after so much effort to get them. It’s always a relief to deposit the hold bag and I now had a few hours to kill before the 9pm flight. After clearing security I spent those few hours browsing the shops and then reading in a bar near to the gate. Not many people were in the queue for boarding, confirming that it wouldn’t be a full flight. As we entered the plane and I showed my boarding card I was greeted by name and given a hand sanitising kit by smiling cabin crew, and I hadn’t been seated for long before someone came to check that I had booked a vegan meal. Next, came an offer of a glass of prosecco (with top ups when empty) – and this was all before takeoff!  I had a whole row to myself and could have chosen to move to any number of empty rows. Along with the usual airline tannoy announcements, there were several COVID-related ones. The main and oft-repeated one was that masks were to be worn at all times, covering both mouth and nose except when eating or drinking, with no exceptions. Despite this, the lady in the row ahead of me by the window kept pulling hers down and was repeatedly told to put it back on until she got the idea. We were also reminded about the strict rules regarding passenger locator forms and proof of a negative covid test at the UK border.

It was relaxation for all of the 10 hours after that. I had wine, a delicious meal of rice with roasted vegetables and a savoury sauce and then stretched out to sleep. In the ‘morning’ I asked for a coffee and looked at the flight map on the screen, amazed to see what I recognised as the west coast of Ireland.  After breakfast and more coffee,  preparations for landing commenced and we were informed that the weather in London was ‘dull’ or ‘dreary’ – something like that. At least it wasn’t freezing or snowing. It felt fairly mild in fact for the short time we were outside before entering the arrivals building at lunchtime on the 16th February. From previous journeys I knew I had to follow the purple route for flight connections at Terminal 5. As we all made our way through the corridors it was a lot emptier than I expected, even for ‘these times’. Not empty of signs though – they were everywhere! Most of them held warnings  and information about prohibited actions, penalties for disregarding regulations, new quarantine rules and so on. Frequent announcements about passenger locator forms were played, and ‘requests’ to keep a mask on at all times.  At one point we passed a solitary man holding a sign much like a lollipop man or tour guide bearing the handwritten words ‘passengers from red list countries this way’. No one went that way.

As people began dispersing towards various other gates and onward destinations, a few of us were left following the flight connections route towards A and B gates. By the time we reached the train terminal for transporting passengers to gates, there were only about a dozen people in front of me. They stopped and looked at a sign and then strode on.  The sign had arrows pointing to the train on the left for A gates, as well as straight on. A tannoy announcement made me jump, stating that passengers should board the train to get to gate B and remain on it for gate A, leaving me undecided about what to do. After a couple of moments the trains remained stationary and nobody was inside them, so I decided to follow the the route the other people had taken. They had all disappeared by this time and a long and empty corridor stretched before me. For five minutes I didn’t see another soul as I trudged along and it felt really eerie. Finally a member of staff came out of a lift and I almost pounced on him to reassure me I was going the right way for A gates, poor guy! I must have missed something about why the other passengers had shunned  the trains.

When I reached the passport and immigration area, that too was deserted. I could only see tall Perspex screens at the front of the row of desks but no one was seated at them. A Tensa queue barrier was in place but with no people there it was tricky to find the way in. In the distance to my right, I caught sight of an arm coming from one of the kiosks there, indicating for me to go to the end desk. There, I saw a man  – his head was bent down so I waited politely on the line until he would call me. After some moments I shuffled and coughed to make sure he knew I was there and he eventually beckoned me over. Tiredness and confusion was making me feel a bit irritable, and the thick Perspex screen, along with both of us wearing masks made it hard for me to hear what he was saying to me – and he had a surly manner – so I just pushed all my documents under the screen for him to inspect. Finally, he signalled for me to pull my mask down to check my passport, got me to confirm I had arrived from Mexico and waved me on. More Tensa barriers to navigate made it feel like I was hemmed in when I tried to move forward and the lady who had signalled to me earlier helped me find the way through. She showed me where to scan the passport and told me the way to security. It was something of a relief to be among people again (not something I feel very often 😉). Now it was time to prepare for flight number three, to Manchester.

The departure time had changed from 2 30 to 3pm but it hardly mattered since I was in no rush. From memory, the A gate area was normally a bustling hub of activity with shops, bars and cafes filled with travellers. Some food outlets were open but the shops were all closed apart from Boots and the Duty Free one. I didn’t have long to wait or far to go once my gate number was announced and was pleased to just flop into a seat and wait to board. I was immediately joined by a member of BA’s staff who asked me if I would mind answering a few questions for a passenger survey. I didn’t have the heart to refuse as I was the only one there at the time. The ‘few’ questions took at least 5 minutes, which is a long time to pay attention when you’re  tired and frazzled, –  I could barely focus on the answers!  As we queued to board, it began to rain and once seated we were told that the weather in Manchester was showery and chilly. I pulled an extra layer out of my carryon bag in readiness. The flight was only 35 minutes long, and was more than half full so I was surprised to hear them state that the in-flight service would be commencing shortly. This turned out to be a bottle of water and a bag of crisps. While they weren’t exactly chucked at us, you can imagine how swiftly they were delivered.

The late afternoon air of Manchester was the coldest I had felt for months – and it was raining harder there. Procedure at arrivals was a smoother affair, though and once I had collected my bag, I just had to walk to the station to get the 5 o’clock train to Liverpool. The first thing I noticed outside was that fewer people were wearing masks. It seemed strange to me after 5 months in Mexico where it is compulsory. It seems that if you are given a choice people will make up their own mind despite the risks. At the station, I was paying for my ticket when the cashier alarmed me by shouting at someone to ‘stay away’, ‘stay away’, ‘social distance’. I looked round and saw that a guy was standing right behind me instead of on the 2-metre line. He probably won’t make that mistake again!

On the train, it was a similar story with the masks: not everyone was wearing one. Signs on board state that masks must be worn by all passengers, unless they are ‘exempt’. I gather that you can buy badges and lanyards in shops stating that the wearer is exempt, so if people don’t want to wear them they just won’t.

A short, 10 minute walk from the station and I was home in my flat. It hadn’t exactly been a dramatic journey but it was definitely different. I have taken my first test and the next one is due on Tuesday (23rd Feb). Hopefully it will be negative like the first one. I have also received a telephone call from a government official to make sure I am at home and adhering to quarantine regulations. My self-isolation ends on 26th February so at least I can take daily walks and go shopping then. The view outside is quite a contrast from the sunny one in Marina La Paz. I can see Lidl’s car park in the drizzly rain and the only birds I spot now are the huge seagulls who like to perch on the lampposts. Paul has been keeping me up to date on marina life on our daily chats (videos and pics of our birds are always welcome). I do miss it all and I know I will be back there at some point. Hopefully it won’t be long until I can travel to see family and enjoy drinks in a pub with friends. In the meantime, lockdown life consists of reading, watching dramas and documentaries on Netflix and listening to the radio – not such bad ways of spending time really.

Kathy

I couldn’t resist the temptation of using words from John Steinbeck’s work The Log from the Sea of Cortez. It seemed particularly apt because I have been reading it while we’ve been cruising around the places he and the crew of Western Flyer visited some 80 years ago. I referred to it briefly last time, how they documented their findings from tide pools and littorals with detailed descriptions of a plethora of creatures, flora and fauna, along with some deep and – it has to be said – complex, intellectual theories on the philosophy of life. I skipped over those parts, but it was interesting to read his perceptions of places we had been such as La Paz, Puerto Escondido and Loreto, and his observations of life on board a boat. It was slightly disconcerting to learn that many of the creatures they retrieved from the water were poisonous and that he came across lots of snakes, worms and urchins with lethal spikes. I tried not to think about those when Paul was encouraging me to give snorkelling another try! This entry covers our second venture into the Sea of Cortez, the main aim of which was Sister Midnight’s haul out in Marina Puerto Escondido on November 23rd.

It was only a couple of hours to our first anchorage at Ensenada Grande Cove, Isla Partida, which sounds more like a luxury resort than a tiny anchorage spot. It was pretty, calm and sheltered, however when we set the anchor just before sunset, which covered all our needs for a one night stay.

After a peaceful night, we weighed anchor just after 9 the following morning. The day had dawned with a few more clouds and a northerly wind blowing at 20 knots. The calm conditions we’d had in the cove disappeared as soon as we were out on the open sea. We were about to have an extremely rocky passage! The boat immediately took on what I like to term the ‘bucking bronco’ mode as it ploughed into the huge waves coming at us head on. The bow plunged downward into the chasm and was then pushed up high as the wave rose, creating a lurching, up and down pattern which felt like we weren’t moving very far forward at all. It had been a while since I’d experienced that sea state and I hadn’t expected the need to stow things securely. Soon I had to deal with water gushing through the windows and hatches which, although closed, weren’t securely tightened. Not long after, there was an alarming crash from below when the air conditioning unit shot off the starboard bunk onto the floor taking the printer with it. They were hurriedly secured on the port side with the table stabilising them; it appeared that the planned three hour trip would take a lot longer.

Aside from that, Paul was largely unconcerned with the conditions as we sat in the cockpit watching the stern go up and down, changing the appearance of the horizon behind it at an alarming rate.

A couple of hours later when I had retired below to lose myself in a novel, I asked Paul how high he thought the waves were and was shocked by his response of ‘about 15 foot or more’. By then, he had begun to feel a bit seasick as the boat continued to pitch and toss its way through the relentlessly high waves. He stood with his back to the mast for the final hour, a la J.W Turner until the nausea abated. The journey ended up taking us 5 and a half hours, and even as we approached the bay at San Francisco, I found it hard to believe that conditions would improve there. The wind was just as strong and the sea was still bouncing us around, but it was with much relief that we dropped anchor at 3pm in calm, shallow water with the sun shining, and it wasn’t long before the wind became refreshing instead of strong and blustery.

There were a few other boats anchored with the usual assortment of kayaks, jet skis and inflatables but later in the afternoon we were joined by one with an extremely loud generator. The noise it made sounded like roadworks were taking place nearby and it stayed on all night. I’m so pleased we don’t feel the need for one.  

It was truly the calm after the storm the next day. The water was flat and still as far as the eye could see and so clear in the bay we could see hundreds of fish below the surface. It looked as if it could get hot later so we went ashore mid-morning, having decided to stay another day after the previous day’s not so smooth sailing. A deserted crescent-shaped sandy beach, surrounded by hills covered in cacti and the distinctive rose-coloured rock greeted us as we drew closer in the dinghy. Once ashore, Paul led me across the beach to a flat plain which glistened with dried sea salt. We were about to see Isla San Francisco’s salt ponds. These are rectangular, shallow beds in the sandstone which collect the sea’s salt after the water has evaporated over time. The picture shows how the salt clumps around the edges once the sun has dried it. The water has a delicate pink hue, which made me think of the expensive pink Himalayan sea salt I’ve seen on sale, but the salt itself is pure white. It looked like a sunken bath with rose-coloured water, and I found it quite fascinating.

The eastern side of the island was rugged, more like Cornwall’s rocky coast. Waves crashed over the rocks and big red crabs crawled away from us to hide amongst the rocks. Eagles and frigatebirds soared over the hills and there was no one else around. We sat on the rocks for a while just appreciating it all, until the heat forced us to seek relief with a swim in the crystal clear water.

Paul needed to go up the mast later in the afternoon to fix a couple of things. It made me dizzy just looking up to take the picture.

We left Isla San Francisco early the following morning. At 8am I was in the cockpit with a freshly-brewed coffee enjoying the warm breeze on my face; it really is one of the many pleasurable situations when at sea, especially just after sunrise.  We were bound for Bahia El Gato (Bay of The Cat). The name, according to legend, comes from reports that a family of pumas had come down from the mountains and taken up residence in nearby cliff caves. Apparently, a lone male puma was often seen fishing from the cliff ledges. This was over a hundred years ago, but it was easy to picture him on the striking pink cliffs at El Gato. The geology is spectacularly pretty: its sandstone has shades of colour ranging from peach-pink, mango orange, deep red and brown. Over time, wind and waves have sculpted the cliffs into shelves and ledges with patterns and strata caused by erosion, along with swirly striped boulders and smooth gigantic ‘pebble’ formations that we thought resembled a giant’s toes.

We spent an enjoyable hour climbing the rocks and peering into tide pools wondering if Steinbeck and Ricketts had looked into the same ones all those years ago. Walking along the beach, a lone fisherman from a panga came ashore seemingly for the sole purpose of asking if we wanted to buy any fish because when Paul said no, he went back out to sea and we immediately wished he’d bought some. I obviously took lots of pictures on El Gato.

A predicted three hour passage meant we were in no rush to leave for Agua Verde on Wednesday the 18^th.  Both Paul and Arturo had told me to expect beauty there so my expectations were fairly high. As if to confirm it, the views grew ever more picturesque the closer we got. When we entered the bay it was hard to believe there was a village anywhere, let alone the sizeable one Paul described.  I could only make out what looked like a few beach shacks set back from the sand. It was too hot then to go ashore to explore so we waited until after 4 and rowed the short distance in the shallow water.

The village reminded me of some we had been to in Thailand. The houses were single storey basic buildings and it was clear people spent most of the time outside. The shop had basic provisions – we had to hail for service from the adjacent house, which happened to have a very cute puppy. It came bounding over to me, and commanded most of my attention while Paul was inside the shop.

We walked around the edge of town as the late afternoon sun began to go down. I spotted huge black birds perched on the tops of the trees which I thought might be buzzards but apparently they are turkey vultures. There’s a line of them on the hilltop in pic below.

It was nice to see a group of children playing an old fashioned game of hide and seek among the trees and further on we passed a pig tied to a tree, and goats, chickens and horses roaming free. There was more to see but as we planned to stay a few days we headed back to the boat to watch the sunset from the cockpit. With the sun gone and no moon, the night was beautifully dark. Only a few twinkling lights came from the shore and later to my delight, some glorious phosphorescence shining under the water’s surface all around the boat.

Over the next few days we made the most of everything Agua Verde had to offer. It was hot and sunny each of the five days we were there so this involved a fair bit of swimming and snorkelling. I was slowly building up to overcoming my aversion to snorkelling but initially I enjoyed cooling dips in the clear, still, warm and shallow water (ideal conditions for me). Looking from the dinghy I could see fish clearly but I knew I was missing out on seeing the ones that are deeper. I also enjoyed ambling along the shore while Paul snorkelled the area. A large white house situated on the isthmus (or puertito in Spanish) fascinated me because I couldn’t work out if it was a seasonal dwelling or someone’s permanent home. I waved to the man who was always sitting outside in a chair every time I walked there.

We had to move the boat after two nights anchored near the main beach because the infamous Agua Verde swell made it too uncomfortable to sleep. Our new position was nearer to the isthmus and was more picturesque as well as sheltered and calmer. One afternoon I had a long swim from one beach to another – the longest I had been in the water for years and felt my confidence in the water growing. Later that day however, wimp that I am I had to face another fear: the surf. Landing a dinghy when the waves are rough can be alarming. You have to time it exactly right in order to get ashore without landing on your back in the water flailing around in an undignified way. In some instances the dinghy can overturn, although Paul insists I’m overreacting. Nevertheless I have developed something of a phobia about it ever since a particularly rough landing in America. I could see and hear waves crashing on the shore, and wondered if it would be less traumatising to swim ashore! Paul took us to the calmest part, though and I managed to scramble out unsoaked.

One day we went in search of the farm that Paul had bought goats’ cheese from last time he was here. When he described the route we needed to take, it went something like ‘take the rocky path until you come to the first mountain, carry on to the bigger, second mountain and when you reach the dried river bed, turn left at the top, follow the dirt trail…’, I couldn’t resist asking him if there was a rickety rackety bridge to look out for. 

We arrived there after a thirty minute walk that did indeed match those directions. The farm was in one of the most remote places I have seen – a few ramshackle buildings on a sloping hill and a distinct lack of goats. People were seated at a table outside and I heard a little girl shout ‘Mama, gringos!’ I have learned since I’ve been here that gringos is a word used to describe Americans, so we don’t actually come under that term but it’s an easy mistake to make I guess. Paul used his Spanish to enquire if they had any goats’ cheese for sale. They didn’t, and we worked out they were suggesting we try the village shop, but they had none either. It was a nice walk anyway, and Paul got to practise his Spanish.

Agua Verde is ideal for snorkelling. Paul enthused about the things he’d seen so many times that I felt it was time to leave my hang-ups behind and literally plunge in. Late one morning, fully equipped with masks and a snorkel and mouthpiece I felt comfortable with, we took the dinghy to a shingly beach on the opposite side of the bay.  All went well, I held on to Paul all the way and he pointed out the colourful fish, starfish and coral. I didn’t even mind the spiky sea urchins on the sea bed which were much larger than any I had seen before. Then I spotted a sea snake, looking for all the world like a fat, brightly-patterned colourful stuffed caterpillar – and that freaked me out. I learned then that it’s actually possible to scream with your head underwater while wearing a mask and snorkel! Paul quickly pulled me away to another area and the rest of the session was marvellous enough for me to do it again the following day, our last day there. Walking the shores we visit in the dinghy and beach combing is an activity that I particularly love. There are so many beautiful shells of all colours, shapes and sizes, along with intricately formed coral and it’s always fun to watch the shy little sand crabs burrowing out of harm’s way at our approach. Again, it was great to note that the beaches were clear of plastic and rubbish.

The haul out was booked for 1 o’clock on Monday 23^rd November. We left Aqua Verde before 8 and wasted no time putting the sail up to make the most of the wind. That was great, but when we switched the engine back on a bit later, the autohelm wouldn’t work. All Paul’s usual fixes didn’t work so we had no choice but to hand steer for the rest of the way. This we did in 30 minute stints each, and it was easy enough because the route was straightforward and the weather was pleasant. By the time we got to the boatyard at Puerto Escondido it was very hot and Paul had to struggle a bit to reverse into the area where the lift was waiting, not having expected the need to reverse. A man in a dinghy kindly helped persuade it in and we had to climb a wall to get off while it was lifted out of the water.

Once Sister Midnight was transported over to ‘the hard’ we took ourselves off to look around the facilities and then up to the marina bar while they made it ready for us to get back on board. There we enjoyed a drink and some guacamole and nachos overlooking the bay. The pic below shows how we entered and exited the boat for the week she was on the hard. The toilets were just around the corner but I made a point of limiting my liquid intake during the evenings. That ladder was steep!   

The marina had everything we needed. We ate in the restaurant a couple of times, used the laundry, shopped in the well-stocked, though expensive, shop and sat at the tables outside the shop using the Wi-Fi or reading while the men were working on the hull with noisy sanders and grinders. John Steinbeck had come to Puerto Escondido in 1940 and I wondered what it had looked like then. His description obviously bore no relation to all the modern conveniences around me but his account of the very shallow narrow entrance rang a bell with me, and the bright green mangroves he referred to are still there. Pic below of my vegan ‘buffalo wings’ which were battered cauliflower florets in a delicious sauce.

We were reunited with a couple of guys we met in Agua Verde, and one day I met Gerry’s sailing companion; Boomer the Bengal cat. He’s been travelling with Gerry on his boat for the last three years, is perfectly at ease on board and obeys commands in the manner of a dog (he even gets taken for a walk on a lead). He was very friendly too.

We had a fabulous day out in nearby Loreto when Paul hired a car on Friday 27^th. The temperature had been gradually dropping since we’d arrived and when we arrived at the pretty seaside town, it was like a typical blustery bright autumn day on the UK coast. The sea was choppy and people were battling against the strong wind on the prom. We joined them and walked to the breakwater to see the sea lion construction and sat a while watching the birds diving into the breaking waves for fish.

After browsing the shops and the town square, we found a great place to have lunch in a shaded flowery area of the plaza and then visited a couple of supermarkets to make the most of having a car to transport heavy items back. I didn’t look forward to carrying them up the ladder to the boat though.

Loreto lost its status as Baja’s capital when a destructive hurricane in 1829 forced the government to move the state’s capital to La Paz. Its other claim to fame is that it was the first place in the Californias to establish a mission. There is a lovely old church (Mission of Our Lady of Loreto) to mark the occasion in the centre of town proudly bearing the date of that historic mission (1697). We were headed for the second oldest mission, however which proved to be the highlight of our time away from La Paz (for me anyway).

San Javier village is a small community about an hour and a half away from Loreto and to get there we had to drive up a mountain in the beautiful Sierra de la Giganta range for most of that time. It was simply stunning.  Every time we rounded a corner on the climb, the view was another awe-inspiring one. It was all the more exquisite for there being no other vehicles on the road for much of the way. The landscape was arid desert land, cactus-strewn and littered with rocks. In some parts, sections of the road had tumbled down the steep cliffs, narrowing it considerably. Paul, who had visited it in the summer told me that a car had been visible at the bottom of one of the valleys due to the crumbling roads. I was glad I wasn’t driving! The higher we got, the more remote it became. Dried river beds and spindly, small trees and bare bushes were a sign of long periods of drought and I was finding it hard to believe there would be any village at the end of the drive, never mind one with a population of 200. When we got there I was surprised to find it a lot larger than I expected. Even though only one primary street runs through the village we passed signs for the school, cathedral, police station, places of interest and a car park. Several cars were parked and I wondered how we hadn’t seen any traffic apart from one motor bike on our way up. The street was lined with a couple of small shops, a restaurant and cafes and a few houses.

Before visiting the cathedral, which looked beautiful in the fading light, we walked the small distance to see the spring that supplies water to the village and to look at what purports to be the oldest olive tree in the Americas.

Noticing the entrance to the cathedral was open (it was closed on Paul’s previous visit) we went inside to be confronted with a well-maintained and very compact interior. A man approached us to offer his services as a guide (whether we wanted him or not as it turned out). He told us a little about the paintings on the ceiling and the dates of various things in his best English and then held his hand out for a tip. We felt obliged to leave then, so it was a fairly quick visit and I forgot to take any pics. I found the exterior to be more gorgeous anyway.

Back in the street we had a look at the shop where there was a display of locally made honey and wines and other crafts. I couldn’t resist the offer of a taste of the red wine and as it was pricey but genuinely delicious, bought a bottle for a Christmas treat. We didn’t fancy driving back down the mountain in the dark, not least because it would be a shame to miss the views. We stopped a few times to take in the expansive views before us. The pictures probably don’t do them justice. I kept marvelling at the fact that Jesuit pilgrims had climbed this mountain to reach the cathedral in blistering heat on a makeshift dirt trail. Their journey must have seemed endless.

We had a few more days to wait until the work was completed on Sister Midnight and then we would be making our return journey to La Paz, taking in more of what the Sea of Cortez has to offer on the way.

Kathy

Also known as The Gulf of California, the Sea of Cortez is the span of water that separates the Baja peninsula from the Mexican mainland. John Steinbeck and his friend, Ed Ricketts famously documented their 1940 exploration of its tide pools in a book called The Log from the Sea of Cortez. Their expedition was a 4,000-mile trip which combined marine biology, philosophy, ethics and art. Our trip would be less adventurous and although we have been known to engage in the odd philosophical discussion and converse about the arts, they won’t be documented here. Ours was a shorter, more leisurely trip but we did anchor in some of the bays that Steinbeck and his crew visited in their boat, Western Flyer. This is an account of my impressions of the islands and anchorages we stopped at on our journey north on the eastern side of the peninsula.

We weighed anchor from the bay in La Paz at the end of October and I experienced the delight of being back on the water after months of city life in the UK. The conditions were ideal: sunny, a fresh breeze, a gentle swell from the previous night’s storm and a cloudless blue sky. We were heading for the delightfully named Balandra Bay which sounded to me like a location straight out of a children’s story.  The swell increased as we drew near to it, however and we were unable to anchor there because it would have been far too rolly. It looked stunningly beautiful, and as Paul has been there several times he knows there is a sea lion colony there. We hoped to be able to stop there on our return journey.

The main event of this passage was Paul’s successful attempt to catch his dinner. It’s still a fairly rare occurrence but he does seem to be getting the hang of it now 😉 .

We anchored at 4pm in Partida Cove. The water was beautifully clean and clear. I was delighted to see turtles popping their leathery necks up, and it’s always entertaining to watch the diving antics of the pelicans. We had one fishing boat as a neighbour when we dropped anchor but a bit later a large catamaran and a few yachts arrived. Soon, the noise of family chatter, children’s shrieks and music broke the silence but not in too obtrusive a way. Just before sunset we dinghied near to the shore to check out the pelicans diving for their evening meal. Some of them came close enough for me to see the bottom of their feet as they soared down to their prey. One of the boats had released a drone to capture the scenes from above and I wondered what the pelicans made of the strange, noisy bird in their air space.

We stayed another day at Partida. The weather was perfect, and I had quickly got used to being without the internet. In fact, I found it emancipating to not have all the negative bulletins and news rolling in, both verbally and through social media. Such information saturation tends to predispose you to worry and anxiety I think. Out on the water, we were literally and emotionally removed from it all. Also, there was no need to wear masks as we were naturally socially distanced from people. We felt free to merely appreciate the beauty of the sights and sounds of the scenes around us.

One of those sights was the seasonal fishing village on the shore. The tide was so low that we were able to get out of the dinghy and pull it quite a distance to the beach. In the clear shallows we spotted more turtles, manta rays and the ubiquitous tiger (black and yellow-striped Nemo) fish. The village was deserted, either through Covid restrictions or being off season, so we were able to amble freely around the wooden structures which reminded me of allotment sheds. It’s odd how a few deserted, padlocked huts and shacks, with their outside chairs and fish gutting tables left in situ, convey something of an eerie atmosphere, especially as the ground was littered with skulls and bones and fish skeletons…or maybe I just had Halloween on my mind. I hadn’t taken my phone to capture the images unfortunately. At least there were no plastic bottles and empty cans littering the area, and we ended the afternoon with a cooling swim and snorkel.

Next morning, I was up early, sitting in the cockpit watching sea turtles. Their heads pop up periscope-like, revealing their striking green and yellow necks and coal black eyes for a brief moment before they sink out of sight below the surface. Our destination that day was just a short hop away to Isla Espiritu Santo and we were on our way there by 10 enjoying the mid-morning sun and sea breeze. Candeleros (Candlestick) Cove had been closed to visitors for a few weeks when Covid struck but Paul had been there with Jim just before the pandemic and latterly with Arturo as restrictions were relaxing. During their visit in August they had been the only two there and had seen goats all over the island. We joined several tourist boats as well as catamarans and yachts when we anchored early in the afternoon. Umbrellas on the beach were sheltering picnickers, and dinghies were frequently ferrying people back and forth. The goats, who had probably made the most of having the place to themselves when visitors were banned must have retreated back into the hinterland. The striking rose-pink rock formations and tall mountains surrounding the long sandy beach made an attractive vista from the boat, and didn’t disappoint once ashore.

We made straight for the trail behind the beach, passing this huge chair-shaped rock which has no doubt hosted hundreds of bottoms before ours.

It was blisteringly hot by then but luckily it wasn’t too arduous a walk, although there was a bit of climbing involved in some places – not the easiest thing to do in flip-flops. The landscape, with its stereotypical cactus plants, boulders and arid scrubland couldn’t have been more Mexican. I was thrilled by it. Hearing movement near a tree, I could just make out the distinctive horns of a goat. Sadly, it remained behind the tree despite our attempts to stay still and quiet, so we left it in peace and walked on. Ahead, we saw a group of people higher up the trail. The shrieks of delight we could hear turned out to be due to the fact that buckets of water were being poured over the heads of three young ladies. They were gathered round a square hole and an older man – an American tourist we learned – was drawing water from it to pour over the heads of the willing volunteers while his wife looked on with glee. They introduced themselves, telling us they were on vacation from Santa Rosa, north of San Francisco and invited us to join their ‘baptism’ fun. We politely declined, despite assurances that it was nice fresh, cold water. Later, I read in our pilot book that it’s an historic well but is usually disused and dry now, so perhaps they brought water ashore to pour in there. The girls were impressed anyway. We didn’t go much further because Paul couldn’t remember the way he had walked before, and the heat was beginning to get to me. We headed back to immerse ourselves in the welcoming cool of the sea.

We stayed another full day at anchor. Sunday 1st November brought a stronger breeze which blew through the cabin as effectively as any air conditioning system. A tourist boat heralded its arrival at midday with the sound of loud dance music. We could see the DJ at a mixing desk on the top deck of the super yacht and the music got louder according to the direction the boat was swinging. They didn’t hang around long enough to be too intrusive, though.

I was keen to do more of the walk we had cut short the day before so we dinghied over to the beach in the afternoon. It was a bit cooler, and I was better prepared for the rocky terrain in rubber soled shoes. The ubiquitous cactus plants are so like the images from the cartoons and comic strips I enjoyed in my 60s and 70s childhood. I haven’t got tired of marvelling at the size of them yet.

Huge birds soared over our heads as we ascended the hill, lizards of all sizes scurried away at our approach and we passed caves and caverns and dry, spindly trees and bushes. We hadn’t gone very much further than the previous day when we came to another sudden stop. It was beginning to look like we would require crampons and ropes if we wanted to get any further. Paul still couldn’t remember the way he had gone on a previous visit, and since it was beginning to get hot again, I was content to take a few more pictures and head back to the beach.

We were able to visit Balandra Bay on our return journey. The wind had allowed us to sail some of the way and we arrived there mid-afternoon, pleased to discover that it was calm enough to anchor without the swell that had been there the week before. Balandra Bay is famous for its mushroom-shaped rock. Tourist boats ferry people there so they can pose in front of it, especially at sunset. It does resemble a mushroom but we had noticed that the coastline has several of these geographical formations along the peninsula. This one must be profitable in terms of distance and provides an ‘Instagram-friendly’ photo opportunity due to there being a convenient signal for phones. So much so that it has been repaired from several ‘topples’ and now sports a vandal-proof rebar framework and tinted cement! It seemed appropriate to capture the image for our own album. Disappointingly, we didn’t see any sea lions this time either. Pics below of the rock and beach at Balandra.

We made it back to La Paz to catch all the excitement of the results coming in for the US election. It was both enjoyable and fascinating, and with the best of all results, so it was well worth returning to signal range to watch that, and to catch up with friends and family. We were at anchor in the bay for just over a week and discovered that like many places around the world, restrictions were being tightened up in response to rising infection rates. One of these is to separate young and old shoppers in Chedraui supermarket. As I approached the entrance, I understood enough Spanish to realise I was being asked for my age. It must have perplexed the guy when I answered him in Italian, which is similar enough for him to understand I was telling him 58. Yes, I took two years off my age because I had a feeling 60 might be the cut off year (also, I couldn’t remember how to say 60). I felt sorry for him actually, having the job of asking everyone’s age and then allowing or refusing them entry accordingly. I was permitted to enter but Paul wasn’t, so I once again found myself in that supermarket with no bags and a certain amount of frustration about what items to get because I couldn’t consult with Paul. We tended to favour Soriana Supermarket after that. Below are pics taken in the Soriana car park showing what happens when a bike lock key has been left on the boat! Paul had to walk off to find a shop that sold hacksaws while I stayed by our bag-laden bikes. I hoped our sign language and halting Spanish had been enough to convince the security guard that we were the bikes’ owners as he watched Paul cut the chains to free them.

We had a pleasant, chilled out week back in La Paz, provisioning and preparing for our next Sea of Cortez excursion. It was good to see Arturo again and to meet Dirk and Silvia, who were anchored near to us in the bay and called over to say Hi. We met for a coffee on the Malecon to swap journey and places experiences – one of the many joys of sailing, or of travelling in general for that matter.   

It became gradually cooler while we were there. So much so that we retrieved the duvet from its summer storage. It won’t get really cold here but the evenings now often require an extra layer or jacket. On Friday 13^th November, the evening before we left, we met up with Arturo to have a meal on the Malecon. It was good to see that the already-struggling bars and restaurants hadn’t been subjected to more restrictions. The promenade itself has been limited to only being accessible during the week; at weekends people are only allowed on the far side of the road. This does tend to force people to converge on just one street but at least most are still wearing masks.

We had a great meal in the Bismarkcito Restaurant on the far end of the Malecon. Arturo kindly explained to the waiter that I was vegan and they prepared a delicious salad for me. We bade farewell to Arturo, who will be joining us for the Christmas period when we return to La Paz after a further venture into The Sea of Cortez.

Kathy

It would be a very dull post to merely report the general day by day routine of our stay in Marina La Paz. A general daily summary would consist mainly of: get up (usually late in the morning), have toast and coffee; tidy up; laze in the cabin; Paul has a two-hour Spanish lesson while I read or write, and then we go shopping and have the odd evening walk or cycle along the Malecon. Such a general account, however, leaves out the finer details of our month here. When I left for the UK earlier this year, I had only spent a couple of weeks in this charming coastal city, so I’d had little time to explore it properly. A leisurely month allowed me to get to know it better.  Once my self-isolation ended, I was able to accompany Paul to the local supermarkets so that I could refamiliarise myself with the available products.  As a ‘veggan’, (which I have discovered is the recently made up word that describes someone who is mostly vegan but still eats eggs), I have a few favourite staples I like to use in the dishes I prepare. With fewer choices in the pre-prepared vegan range here, compared with the wide range in the UK, I knew I would be making more of my own meals on board. I had a list…I always have a list, and my list is written on actual paper with a pen, and it goes everywhere with me.

Over the course of the month I was able to cross items off my list through spotting them in the local markets and stores. I’m referring to things like nutritional yeast flakes, semolina, Worcester sauce (without anchovies), red lentils and vegan pesto. Sourcing and procuring these became something of an enjoyable mission when we were out – a bit like a culinary treasure hunt. We saw places we probably wouldn’t otherwise have seen and one day we met the North American owner of a natural food store who has been living here for 20 years. She runs a food cooperative, and had an intriguing array of products in her shop, including eggs from her vegetarian-fed chickens, organic fruit and veg from her ranch, and tubs of cooking oils and flours which she dispenses into recycled containers. She told us that a lot of her custom is from the American community in the marinas. Unfortunately for us, on this particular day they had cleared her out of eggs, so I came away with a small jar of sesame oil and a bag of semolina, which Paul has promised to make pasta with, so watch this space.

La Paz has great cycle lanes throughout the town, which makes for an easy and pleasant way to get around. I’m sure more people would get on their bikes in the UK if they felt safer and not in the way of road traffic. There are no steep hills to worry about here but the intense heat made it quite challenging to pedal to the supermarket for mad dogs like us, who get up too late to avoid the midday sun. Paul is more used to it, but the first few days I accompanied him I struggled to keep up. Our bikes are doing remarkably well, considering we bought them almost five years ago in Malaysia. We thought we’d make use of them there and ditch them when we moved on because they were relatively cheap, but I had got quite fond of mine and thought they might come in useful in other places. We’ve now used them in Malaysia, Japan, Canada, America and Mexico; through torrential rain, extreme humidity and searingly hot sunny days, and nights when we weren’t sure where we were on dark, unfamiliar streets. Folded up in the quarter berth, they crossed the North Pacific Ocean with us. Apart from a bit of rust, and a few punctures, they have proved excellent value for money. Wimp that I am, however, I only cycle when I can follow Paul. My cycling proficiency test was several decades ago and I’m not confident enough to cycle on the main roads on my own. It’s nerve wracking enough as a pedestrian until you get used to the crossing places and pedestrian rules here. I walked to Chedraui a couple of times and took a few pictures on the way.

The staff appear to have become familiar enough with Paul to allow him in with his shopping bag. When I entered alone, I had to hand my backpack in to the customer service desk, thereby losing access to my shopping list, water and bags to pack the shopping in. Hot and flustered after the 30 minute walk, I’d had to step on the rubber foot-cleansing mat, hold out my arm for temperature checking and then my hands for sanitiser, so obeying the instruction to hand my bag in was just part of the stress-inducing entrance permit. Next time, I scrunched a bag into my handbag to avoid the laborious task of putting the shopping into the basket, and then having to collect my bags and hurriedly pack the items in the small space next to the customer service desk.   

More pics taken during our cycle rides around La Paz.

Sundays after quarantine became Mogote excursions. The sandbar a short distance away from the marina has always been a popular leisure spot. As restrictions gradually lifted, Paul tells me he’s noticed more visitors than when he first began swimming there. People whizzing around on jet skis have returned, along with water-skiers and excursion boats. Groups of people gather for afternoon barbecues and picnics on the beach. All this activity made for a pleasant atmosphere, however – even with the engine noise and shrieks coming from the various skiers. Arturo joined us for dinner each Sunday and it has been a pleasure getting to know him better – especially as he is a fellow book and arts lover. One of the dishes I made was a veggie shepherd’s pie and Paul and I must have bemused poor Arturo by explaining that he was being served ‘guardian of the sheep’ pie. The various translation and language incidents have given all three of us much amusement.

As October went on, it very slowly began to get cooler. We noticed we were turning the air conditioning off more often. Nights required an extra cover on the bed, and mornings came with a refreshing breeze, albeit only for a brief period. We had arrived here just before Christmas last year and had been trying to remember what the temperature had been like then. Paul remembered having to wear a fleece and I know we had been using a quilt on the bed – which seemed hard to imagine when the afternoon sun beat down relentlessly and we were keeping cool under the fans in the cabin. The daily morning ‘net’ broadcasts from Club Cruceros informed us that the risk of a hurricane was decreasing rapidly and that it was a good time to visit the islands a few miles north of La Paz. This was indeed our intention. Our time in the marina was up on the 27^th so we left our berth on the afternoon of the 28th and anchored in the bay. We had stocked up with provisions in preparation for a trip up to Puerto Escondido where the boat is due to be hauled out later in November, but because we were keen to find out the result of the American election (so glad we did, to see Biden’s victory), we returned to La Paz for a few days after we visited some of the ‘must-see’ spots Paul had been to. It was the first time I was without access to the internet for 10 months. I followed the news avidly when Coronavirus first struck. I watched every government briefing, and was in daily touch with family and friends via social media. With so much still developing and alarming statistics being revealed in that area, along with the (seemingly) daily global political farcical events going on at present, it was a test of my addiction to be without instant access to information about ‘the outside world’. I wondered if might also prove to be a welcome relief from such information overload. The islands in the Sea of Cortez were as good a place as any to find out how I would cope….

As September drew to a close here in La Paz, I couldn’t help but reflect that Mexico is the third country I spent time in during that month (the fourth if a couple of hours’ transfer time at Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport counts). Not bad considering we are in the midst of a global pandemic. When I left Sister Midnight, back in January this year, Coronavirus wasn’t the word on everyone’s lips as it is today and facemasks were mainly seen in dentists’ surgeries and hospitals. It was at the beginning of its eventual progress to worldwide catastrophe. I had returned home to work for a few months and to see friends and family, yet for the majority of my eight month stay in the UK I did neither. Like most of the country I experienced the surreal state of lockdown and watched the government’s daily news briefings with alarm and trepidation (later to be replaced with growing disbelief, anger and total confusion).  Get-togethers, holidays, trips and birthday parties were cancelled and I was furloughed after just one month of employment with the education agency I’m signed up with. Adhering to the no contact with friends and family outside of my home rule, I prepared to sit out the lockdown alone. It took a couple of Zoom conversations to confirm my aversion to communicating via video calls and I promptly reverted to Facebook and WhatsApp audio or messaging as my preferred means of conversing with people. I ventured out every other day for walks and essential items and like many others, sorted out cupboards, clothes and drawers that had been long neglected. Finding myself in a not so ‘splendid isolation’, I read lots of books, watched several series and films on Netflix and managed to decorate most of my flat in that strange and ‘unprecedented’ period from March until July.

As restrictions gradually lifted I was able to fit in trips to see family in Swindon, Italy and Leyland and then finally to make the return journey to Mexico, two months later than planned, on September 18th. My daughter dropped me off at Manchester Airport to begin a journey that filled me with not a little trepidation. Having recently travelled to Italy where I faced a plethora of confusing and conflicting bureaucratic obstacles involving Covid self-declaration forms (these threatened to deny my permission to fly if incorrectly filled out), I was dreading more of the same. In the event, I was merely given a short paper form when I checked in, to fill out during the flight to Amsterdam. So far so good, but I still had my 23kg bag to put through the oversize luggage area. I’d been determined to get my money’s worth regarding the weight allowance, and since I didn’t need to pack many clothes, I had filled it with various grocery items that are impossible to get or are very expensive in Mexico, and a wide assortment of books and toiletries. To my delight, the scales displayed the permitted 23kg exactly, and as I watched it disappear on the baggage conveyor it felt good to know I wouldn’t have to tackle it again until Mexico City.

The first of my three flights was an uneventful 50 minute one. Passengers complied with the request to keep their face coverings on except when eating or drinking, and also to disembark row by row to limit crowding – something that hadn’t happened on the Ryanair flights to and from Italy. Schipol Airport was eerily quiet and largely deserted when we trooped into the arrivals hall late on Friday night. I wasn’t surprised to consign my self-declaration form to the paper recycling bin after presenting my passport. Perhaps there just isn’t the staff to process all these extra requirements. I managed to find one open bar near my departure gate and sat drinking a glass of wine, making the most of the strong WiFi to chat to Paul. As I queued to board the plane for Mexico City I knew that from hereon in, times for eating, sleeping and everything else that make up a daily routine would blur into a kind of ‘limbo’ period as we began the 12 hour journey across the Atlantic and through different time zones. I was pleased to see I had a row of three seats to myself, so after a tomato pasta dinner, I was able to stretch out and sleep for a few hours.

Reading, watching a film and listening to music took up the rest of the journey, and once again everyone kept their masks on and disembarked row by row. Toilets were disinfected at regular intervals and the crew wore masks and gloves for most of the flight. It struck me that it will soon seem strange to see people with ‘naked’ faces in public places. It was the early hours of Saturday morning when we hit the tarmac at Mexico City’s airport and I was surprised to see raindrops on the windows. Light rain was falling and the pilot announced the outside temperature as 20 degrees. People began pulling on coats and jumpers and it felt decidedly chilly as we walked down the steps. This wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting. Paul had been talking about the blisteringly hot temperatures he’d been experiencing and warned me to prepare for heat. It felt more like Merseyside than Mexico, however, as I splashed through puddles across the tarmac.    

Our flight was the only one to be processed, so getting through passport and immigration control was a relatively speedy affair. Waiting for our bags took much longer, and brought about my next spell of anxiety regarding the contents of my case. Nearby, x-ray machines were at the ready to inspect every bag passing through before it was allowed into the arrivals area. I knew from experience that the packets of coffee might arouse interest as they are a well-known way to disguise the smell of drugs. I also had large blocks of parmesan cheese, an assortment of vegan cheeses, pates and various dried burger mixes. It was no easy feat hefting the bag onto the machine’s conveyor belt and as expected, the operator nodded to the officer at the inspection table that it needed a closer look. The table was considerably higher than the conveyor belt and it took some effort to lift the bag up there but once in place I stepped back and let the lady and her colleague open it up. I wish I’d been allowed to take pictures to capture the look of bemusement on her face as she lifted certain items up and scrutinised the labels. She sought advice from a colleague about the parmesan blocks which were thankfully permitted, and for a moment I thought my precious jar of Marmite was going to be confiscated judging by the frown on her face as she set it aside. If she was intending to take every item out it would be quite a while before I would be going anywhere and I felt like the Chinese people on the Border Control programmes who get admonished for bringing in too much food. It was a relief when she smiled and nodded that I was free to go. After repacking it all and lifting it down I was at last able to reunite with Paul on the other side of the doors.

It was 4am local time by then and Paul had had to set an alarm to come and meet me from his hotel room. Luckily the hotel is situated in the terminal so it was only a short walk through the dimly-lit building to our room. We managed a few hours’ sleep before preparing for my third and final flight to La Paz at lunchtime on Saturday 19^th. By now I was feeling the effects of jet lag so I was relieved that Paul took on the task of filling out the required online Covid forms. The authorities were much more on the ball about checking them than anywhere else I’ve been recently. We were questioned, had our temperatures taken and presented the completed online forms for inspection via Paul’s phone. Plenty of staff were available for this mammoth task which might be a factor for the more lax attitudes in Europe.

The flight to La Paz took two hours, with a weather view totally different from Mexico City’s as we came into land. Bright sunshine, clear blue sky and a shimmering heat haze were visible from the windows. Heat wrapped round me like a cloak when I walked down the steps, reminding me of the tropical heat in Asia. This was more like how Paul had described it – a whole lot hotter than when I left in January. A short Uber taxi ride took us from the airport to the marina and by mid-afternoon I was back on board my second home, which now has a very welcome air-conditioning unit.  The photo below shows Paul the day after my arrival, in the one shower of rain we’ve had since my return. I’d like to state that he is expressing his delight that I’m back, but I was taking the picture primarily to show the state of his ‘work’ shorts to his children.

We made the decision to isolate ourselves as much as possible for two weeks due to our respective travels through airports and generally coming into contact with more people than usual. Paul makes the odd necessary trip to the supermarket, while I still have that particular pleasure to come. I spent the first few days unpacking, rearranging my ‘stuff’ and rediscovering things I’d forgotten I had left here. I also slept a lot, unsurprisingly and after a week my body clock had adjusted to the time difference. Getting used to the temperature might take a bit longer. It’s searingly hot outside, with temperatures often reaching 38 degrees and it remains warm well into the night.  We’ve gone for a few evening walks along The Malecon when the heat isn’t as intense, and last Sunday we had an enjoyable excursion over to the Mogote, a favourite spot of Paul’s and only a short dinghy ride away, for a cooling swim and snorkel. It was my first visit there and the surroundings are strikingly attractive: lush mangroves, sandy beaches complete with cute white lizards, and a backdrop of mountains in the distance. The local cruisers’ radio network we listen to each morning warns repeatedly about the ‘dangerously’ hot temperatures we are experiencing. I am reminded of this on the rare occasions I am outside in the daytime when I feel my skin start to burn during the shortest of exposures. It will be factor 50 for me well into October I think.

In other news, we have a couple of new additions to the medical equipment we carry on board, in the form of an oximeter which measures the oxygen levels in the blood, and a thermometer – the trigger kind now familiar in public places, which aims at the centre of your forehead – a bit like a gun! I have had my temperature taken more times in the past week than in the whole of my life I think!

The marina has taken all the usual precautions against Covid-19; hand gel, signs about wearing masks and keeping a distance and so on. Most people adhere to the mask wearing. Paul tells me he has seen police on the Malecon telling people to cover their faces, but there are always going to be some who flout the rules. This semi lockdown I am in currently, while not as restrictive as that in the UK from March until May has provided an ideal opportunity to acclimatise, catch up on sleep and reading, and to generally have a good excuse to be lazy. Next week I intend to ‘get out more’ as they say. I’m looking forward to cycling and shopping and to exploring more of the place I left back in January.  

Our first passage after leaving Ensenada was an overnight one, on Friday 22^nd November to San Quintin Bay. I didn’t know it at the time but we were en route to see a very different aspect of Mexico than we’d seen in Ensenada. The overnighter was relatively smooth, and the night sky had an abundance of stars; we even saw some shooting ones, or as Paul will have them called ‘meteorites’.  The moon didn’t rise until 2am so by the time of my watch two hours later it was high in the sky and although only a crescent, it shone a comforting glowing path on the surface of the water.

After providing us with a good deal of welcome warmth ever since we left the Tropics back in 2018, our heating system chose this passage to break, and this time even Paul’s best efforts couldn’t fix it. We had been using it less and less but it’s generally been after sunset that we need it. Outside temperatures are consistently mild, yet paradoxically it’s inside the cabin that it feels chillier. Paul explained this is due to the sea water being colder, thus causing the interior to cool while the cockpit still felt pleasantly mild after being warmed by the sun all day. Having the oven on for an hour or so emitted sufficient heat to keep the chill off and we had blankets if it was particularly chilly. Down below, checking the course and the AIS that night, I was amused to see one of Paul’s annotations on the open CPN chart we use to navigate; a circle had been drawn around a particular spot, along with the words ‘bigly bad rock’. I’m sure Mr Trump would have approved.

We spotted whales, dolphins, pelicans, sea lions and a variety of sea birds before we reached San Quintin Bay mid-morning on Saturday. There were only a couple of other boats anchored in the bay and it was such a blissfully peaceful spot to rest in we decided to stay until Monday. A full day at anchor in a calm bay provided an ideal opportunity for Paul to go up the mast to fix a problematic halyard.

Monday morning saw us weighing anchor at 9am on a cloudy but mild morning for another overnighter to Cedros Island. Ever hopeful of catching a fish, Paul put a line out over the stern and we were astonished (the fish included no doubt), when he hooked one – a big one at that. Unfortunately for Paul, though not for me and the fish, it got away. The afternoon then became all about catching one that wouldn’t escape. An alarming-looking hook was brought into play from one of the lockers in the cabin. Shortly afterwards I had to go and locate some plasters and a bandage. It seems sharpening a hook can be hazardous to fingers.

The second one he caught also lived to see another day, due (apparently) to the line not being strong enough to hold the fish’s weight. The third one stayed caught, and I saw more of that than I wished to. It was quite a gruesome event and even Paul felt sorry for it, realising that he needed to refine his technique in order to make it a quicker end for the poor fish. There were other more accidental casualties on this passage. A couple of squid met their end on the bow after landing there sometime during the night, and I spotted the sad sight of a dead bird under the dinghy as we sat enjoying the sun at the bow that afternoon.  

We enjoyed sailing with no engine for almost 24 hours on this passage. It wasn’t until early Tuesday morning that the wind dropped and we had to switch it on again. The peace through the night had been great. I don’t know why but it makes overnight passages easier without the thrum of the engine (as long as the autohelm is working that is). Anchoring at Cedros Island took three attempts – the holding wasn’t good and the anchor kept dragging but Paul declared it ‘good enough’ after the third attempt.

It was quite late by the time we dinghied ashore. My journal records that it was one of the bleakest, most depressing places I have ever seen. We tied up in the harbour an hour or so before sunset and were welcomed by two boys of about 10. I’d them spotted throwing stones into the water as we approached. They took a great interest in our arrival due to the fact that the wall had dangerously sharp shells and barnacles so it took a while to secure it to avoid the possibility of them puncturing the dinghy. Paul used a few phrases of Spanish to greet them but we didn’t understand their responses, much to their disappointment.

The pictures show the sights that we saw when we ventured into the town. It reminded me of scenes from war-torn countries. There was rubble, broken glass and abandoned and derelict buildings with lots of rubbish and debris before we even got to the main street. The people we met along the way were unfailingly welcoming – all of them greeted us with a smile and a ‘buenos tardes’. The houses we passed were small and basic and several had Christmas trees in the windows. The shops were compact, their facades brightly coloured with the distinctive colours Mexico uses in art and architecture and one of them was so festively and stylishly decorated that it wouldn’t have looked out of place in London’s Oxford Street. The side streets leading off from the main street looked intriguing with their higgledy piggledy houses and dirt track road but it was getting too dark to explore. Also, we appeared to be a sight of interest to the town’s residents and it would have been rude to amble down the roads taking pictures of their houses. We didn’t need to buy anything but went into what seemed to be the main grocery store and a lady showed Paul where the ziploc bags were located. When he went to pay, however, the note he proffered was apologetically refused because it was too crumpled. This has happened a few times in Mexico; they will not accept notes that are dirty, torn or creased.  

As the sun began to go down, the street took on an ethereal quality. The sky was multi-coloured, the pink and orange hues produced an atmospheric glow on the skyline, especially around the cross on the hill above the town. For the first time I felt like I was actually in Mexico.  

After a very rolly night from the strong ocean swell that drove Paul to sleep in the bunk where the lee cloth prevented him from rolling around, we weighed anchor from our Cedros anchorage at 9am on a cloudy, damp and chilly morning. We hadn’t gone far when we ran over a fishing line. Two brightly-coloured buoys were attached to the boat, dragging behind us and I was worried the line had tangled around the prop. Thankfully it wasn’t long before they drifted off but we were now alert to watch for more. It began to rain heavily just after this which hampered visibility a little but we spotted all the buoys and slowed down accordingly. At one point a fishing boat approached us, the captain concerned enough to point out the location of his fishing marks and in the end I went up to the bow to be sure of spotting them in good time.

We reached Turtle Bay at 3pm but it was too drizzly and dark to go ashore. The forecast had predicted the weather accurately and we woke the following morning to near gale winds. The rocking we’d experienced the previous day was nothing compared to this. It would clearly be too rough to go ashore and we wouldn’t have liked to leave the boat in such strong winds anyway. Paul had to secure the anchor with the snubber (I love that word) and all we could do was sit it out with the rest of the boats in the anchorage. This we did – all day and all night! The wind sounded like that you hear in horror films – whistling and howling as it increased steadily to speeds of 30 or 40 knots. Our position was perilously close to some jagged rocks near the shore which ordinarily wouldn’t have been a problem but in these conditions could have been disastrous if the anchor dragged. I didn’t fancy the hassle of moving somewhere else in such a choppy sea so there was nothing else for it but to do anchor ‘watches’ through the night. We took two hours each from 8pm, staying awake and checking that our position hadn’t moved on the chart. Paul said it was likely that all the other boats in the anchorage were doing the same and it felt like we were ‘all in it together’. The boat was pitching and rocking so fiercely at times that it was hard to believe we weren’t moving along on the water. The heavy rain that pelted down completed the stormy situation but it was warm and cosy in the cabin – not still and peaceful by any means but warm.

Just before dawn on the 29^th November, the wind finally began to abate, the rain stopped and by mid-morning the sun came out and we were able to go ashore. Turtle Bay was slightly better than Cedros Island – slightly. To be fair, these places are not tourist destinations, they are welcome stops on the long journey down the west coast, and Turtle Bay is renowned as the most protected harbour in bad weather, so we were lucky to have been there Naturally, the talk among the other boat owners we met was about their gale experiences the night before and we heard varying reports of recorded wind speeds but one man insisted he’d seen it get up to 50 knots. A local called Pedro greeted us on the pier and we gathered he is the ‘go to’ man for services such as garbage disposal, fuel enquiries and fee-paying for dinghy parking. His palm held out told us he expected a tip for all this information. Later we discovered he is related to the guy who seems to have a monopoly on the fuel for sale. It didn’t go down well that we didn’t require any fuel (Paul had read about the hiked up prices in Turtle Bay).  

There was a small sandy beach at the end of the landing pier, with a popular bar/restaurant above it. Before checking it out we took a quick look at the town. We’d passed derelict and graffiti covered wrecks at the end of the pier but the buildings on the main street were in better shape and as in Cedros, several were getting ready for Christmas. The town’s vehicles were in poor states of repair, however, which given the state of the rocky, bumpy roads was no great surprise. A good number of them of them had no number plates, some were missing doors and most were covered in dust and rust. At the bar, named Kuku, which had a pleasant view over the anchorage we had a beer and a coke hoping to catch up on internet things but I was disappointed there because the wifi wouldn’t work on my phone and there was no mobile coverage.  We caught up on the news on Paul’s phone but having read more about the December election shenanigans we were no better off really.

We had another full day in Turtle Bay and Paul was able to help a fellow sailor in need of advice regarding steering problems on his boat, Ikigai. Later in the bar, we met Mike and his friend Chris and had a beer and swapped travel stories with them. They told us of their plan to explore the Sea of Cortez after the Christmas break, but shortly after leaving Turtle Bay the following day Mike became a solo sailor when Chris decided to return to America. More pics from our day in Turtle Bay below – including some cats I spotted :-).

December the 1^st saw us back at sea for most of the day. We arrived at Asuncion Bay just before sunset after a sunrise departure. We had motored all the way, so made the most of the hot water the engine creates to have showers, and for me a much needed hair wash. Suitably refreshed and cleansed we set off for the shore in the dinghy to explore and to seek some wifi. There was no jetty to tie a dinghy to so it had to be a beach landing – always a stressful thing for me. The surf was strong, I could see huge waves breaking on the shore and I felt the dread building up at the thought of crossing those in the dinghy. Paul tried to get me to count the intervals in between each wave so that we could time our landing and get out without getting wet but nerves meant I couldn’t concentrate enough to do it. As we approached the shallows the waves pushed us roughly nearer the shore and sure enough broke right over the dinghy as I struggled to jump over them to the beach. I didn’t get too wet that time but the thought of the return journey was on my mind the entire time we were ashore. Turns out I was right to be worried.

Our first task was to get fuel from the Pemex garage so we carried our three containers there and once Paul filled them with diesel, we lugged them back to the dinghy. Asuncion proved to be a deserted and quiet town. It was a hot sunny day and we wandered up and down the street looking for the advertised internet café…or any cafe.

The internet cafe was closed until 4pm and there were only a few small shops open. One of these is pictured below, along with pics of the main street. It was 1 30 by then and we had seen pretty much all we wanted, so set off back to the beach for the return journey. We had three heavy containers of fuel in the bow and the waves were just as high. Despite Paul’s best efforts to hasten a smooth departure, a huge wave hit us full on before we had crossed the shallows and it soaked me from head to foot with cold water. It might have been a hot day but I was shivering in seconds, my sodden clothes clinging to me and newly-washed air doused in sea water. To say I was annoyed would be an understatement. At least the phones were safely wrapped in our dry bag so it could have been worse but it took me while (and a stiff drink) to calm down.

From Asuncion we went to a place called Abreojos which means ‘open your eyes’, referring to the treacherous rocks and reefs in the area. Luckily, modern charts allowed us to know exactly where these were in order to avoid them. Our eyes were open to the more welcome sight of porpoises and pelicans during the passage. We also had a sea lion accompany us for a good deal of the way. It was so obviously curious, popping its head up to stare blatantly before diving and leaping as if putting on a show especially for us. Our eyes also needed to be open for the many fishing pots bobbing on the surface so as to be ready to drop the revs and put the gear in neutral when we got close to one.

Abreojos is known for its opportunities to see grey whales who go there to give birth. Visitors can book a tour with a guide to see the whales with their calves and apparently they come close so that you are able to touch them. Unfortunately the weather was against us, even though we were there at the right season to see them. If we stayed to go on the tour it would have meant being stuck there for two or three days. It had been a rocky night, the day was overcast and chilly, and the swell was making it uncomfortable on board. We discussed options with Clay and Brenda and the consensus was to move on, even though it meant a further overnighter, to Magdalena Bay with a stop at Santa Maria Bay on the way.

I watched the sunrise during my watch on Thursday 5^th December and noticed that the scenes we were waking up to were becoming notably more picturesque as we draw further south. The anchorage was calm and peaceful in Santa Maria. Paul had been pleased to catch another fish on the way so he prepared and cooked that for his dinner, using the advice relating to the best way to ‘dispatch’ it. I was more pleased by the fact that we had picked up a phone signal on the way, meaning we were finally able to get online during our night there.

Mag Bay, as it’s popularly known, was a fascinating place – like I imagine a hippie commune might look like. Clay and Brenda came to see us not long after we anchored to tell us about the village (and to reassure me that the surf wasn’t bad for going ashore). It had the appearance of a makeshift summer camp, as the dwellings were so near (or on) the beach. We walked up and down the length of the shore, making me sorry that I hadn’t brought my phone to take pictures. The ramshackle, compact single storey homes defy description – think sheds or camper homes with no wheels. I would have loved to see inside one, they looked so cosy and homely and in such a fabulous setting. There seemed hardly any need for vehicles because you can walk the length of the beach in 30 minutes or so but we saw a fair few of them in the usual state of disrepair. We were amused to see dogs in packs chasing trucks driving along the uneven track near the shore.

We had a drink in the bar, which had an incongruous velvet-covered sofa and a rocking chair outside it. There, we asked for directions to the local grocery store and made our way to the quaintest shop I have ever been in. Outside, it bore no resemblance to a shop at all. There were no signs and the door was firmly closed. It was only by asking two men sitting on steps that we knew it was open. Inside, it was a little like a play shop constructed in a house, with a few items randomly placed on shelves in a side-room and some boxes with fruit and veg in the porch. The people were lovely, and so keen to help. We only wanted some soda water but they didn’t have any so, not wanting to leave empty handed we cleared them of their small stock of bananas before returning to the boat.

I never did get the chance to return to take pictures of the village because we moved the boat to a part of the anchorage further away the next morning. Instead, I took pictures of a walk on that part of the shore, where we were thrilled to see stingrays and crabs in the crystal clear water.

On Tuesday 10th December we arrived in Cabo San Lucas. It’s a busy, bustling and very tourist-focused city. It was great to make use of all the marina facilities, shops, and Wi-Fi etc but it was a bit…well I guess ‘in your face’ is the best way to describe it. A walk along the marina promenade meant being constantly assailed with loud requests to buy this, eat here, drink a margarita, try this moisturiser, book a fishing trip and countless other things we didn’t want. Some of them literally came up in front to be in your face and this happened every time we walked into town. Paul’s patience was a lot better than mine on these occasions.

Cabo San Lucas was where we last saw our passports, as told by Paul in his blog post. All I have to add is that I am so pleased it wasn’t me who lost them 😉 It’s a shame we have lost all the exotic looking official stamps from the countries we have been, along with our ten year US visa but after a lot of hassle we managed to sort out an emergency one for me to get home in January and have applied for new ones. The silver lining in that particular cloud is that we get to have an unexpected city break in Mexico City when I pick up my emergency passport.

We were in Cabo until the 16^th December and despite the touts and the passports, had an enjoyable time there with the people we had got to know on our travels. We had dinner with some of them in a great vegan restaurant, visited the market in the square to see the Christmas lights and performers, and Paul fixed things that needed fixing. Our Christmas would be spent in La Paz, taking in a few more places on the coast along the way. Pics below of our time in Cabo San Lucas.

Ensenada has the largest flag I have ever seen. It has pride of place at the centre of the small town square on the waterfront. We could see it billowing in the wind as we approached Ensenada Marina on the morning of Friday 8^th November after an overnight passage from San Diego. For most of the way we had been hearing frequent marine reports on the VHF from the San Diego coastguard, delivered in clear and concise language relating to weather, things to watch out for and the odd ‘pan pan’ call. In the early hours of the morning during my watch I was in the cockpit looking at the shoreline of Mexico in the far distance when I was startled by a cheery ‘Hola’ from one of the fishermen on a nearby boat and realised that the American broadcasts must have ceased at some point during the night. We were truly in Mexico now. By the time Paul came on watch at 8am more boats, or pangas as they are called here, had appeared and the shoreline was getting nearer so it didn’t seem worth going to sleep.

The flag was now clearly visible as Mexico’s colourful national flag and made a captivating sight high up as it was and moving gracefully in the wind. We hadn’t bothered calling in to report our approach because we’d already been allocated a specific berth. I was looking out for it through the binoculars, waiting for the pontoon letters to become clearer when I noticed two men standing on the one at the outside edge. They beckoned us over, took our lines and one of them bid us ‘welcome to America’ (just Victor’s little joke – he’s not a big fan of the US). Victor, the manager at Baja Naval Marina proved to be an efficient, friendly and helpful guy as we got to know him. It was he who, after we’d freshened up a little, escorted us to the places we had attend to check in for immigration, customs and with the harbour master. Victor acted as our interpreter, tour guide and instructor as we were hurried through the dusty streets after 20 minutes of passing forms and sheets of paper back and forth in his tiny office. First we had to visit a shop in order to change a bank note so that we would have the exact money to pay the various authorities. I hardly had time to take in my surroundings as he and Paul strode on ahead. I did, however, come to notice one of the first differences in Mexico from Canada and America on those streets. Crossing the roads was hazardous! If I fell too far behind due to taking photographs and Paul and Victor had crossed a busy road ahead, I found myself struggling to work out the ‘green cross code’ equivalent for getting to the other side without being mown down.  If no lights were in operation to halt the traffic you simply had to wait for a suitable lull and take a chance stepping out and hurrying across before the next car got too close. I also noticed the pavements were in a state of disrepair, with rubble, gaping holes and uneven concrete slabs providing more hazards to avoid. Victor appeared to know every stall holder and passer-by we came across, shouting a cheery ‘bon dia’ to them as he marched us forward.  

We chatted to him along the way, telling him where we were from, where we were heading and asking questions about where to find things in Ensenada. Arriving at the building slightly out of breath and sweating from the heat (I was anyway), Victor guided Paul to the relevant desks and told him what papers to show, translating and explaining and selecting the money needed to pay for permits etc. I was a bit superfluous to most of this so took the opportunity to sit and rest while watching the proceedings and marvelling at the fact that Victor has to do this several times a day for foreign boat owners, both for checking in and checking out. Small wonder he is so slender, but he’s also unfailingly cheerful, witty and appears to have endless energy. Our energy was diminishing rapidly by the time we got back to the boat. We hadn’t had much sleep and the heat, walking and all the bureaucracy had taken it out of us. We would have two weeks to explore Ensenada so were in no hurry to do too much on our first evening. A promenade runs along the length of the waterfront from the Cruise Ship Terminal to end of the harbour. This walkway is lined with restaurants, bars and shops, the square being roughly in the centre.

The square is lined with fast food stalls and has a stage for performances. As we got ready to go for a short walk the unmistakeable sound of brass instruments reached our ears. The mariachis were tuning up – actually they were playing tunes, it just sounded like they were tuning up to me. I’m not a fan of music with brass instruments, especially trumpets, and there would be no escaping this considering our position in the marina. It seemed every eatery along the prom had their own band or a recorded performance emanating from it, causing quite a cacophony of sound. As we walked along each and every restaurant had staff placed outside urging strollers to come in to eat or have a tequila/margarita/mojito/beer/.  Since this was to be our main route into town it looked like we’d have to get used to simply politely declining several times and hope they’d remember that one of us was one of those weird ‘veganos’ while the other was a ‘sin alcohol’ person.

Naturally, as in most of the places we visit on a coastline, the food on offer in most restaurants and shacks is predominantly seafood. One afternoon during our time there Paul decided to try the highly recommended tacos in a tiny outdoor cafe just off the main street. It was clearly popular with both locals and tourists and there was a man busily working behind the counter to keep up with demand, flushed and sweating from the heat of frying and ladling the various fillings into tacos. While we waited for Paul’s order I watched what other customers were doing with their plates of food. It seems there is quite a ritual involved in putting it all together. Once you have been handed the plate, you then add things like chopped onions and tomatoes, green chilli sauce, and a selection of various dressings to pour on top of it. It all looked a bit of a messy affair to me. I’m sure I would have ended up with a multi-coloured face if I’d attempted to eat one by hand as so many were doing. Paul enjoyed his chicken one with the aid of a fork – a pic of his dish below.

Ensenada’s Hermosa Beach is described in our National Geographic guide as a popular place for horse riding but goes on to state that the horses there look ‘rather miserable’. We saw those horses when we walked to the beach on our first Sunday in Ensenada. It was a hot morning when we set out for the 30 minute walk and we planned to find somewhere to have a drink once we reached the beach. The walk was adjacent to the main highway and we passed a ranch type establishment which had a group of horses tied to a fence near the road.  Horse-drawn carriages ferry tourists from the cruise liners on pleasure trips along the road so they are probably used for that purpose as well as beach rides.

As we neared Hermosa Beach, I could see that while there is a vast stretch of sand and the beautiful glistening Pacific, the similarity to California’s beaches ended there. This is mainly because of the lack of money to add ‘finesse’ to the surroundings. For example, the beach wasn’t tidied or maintained so although it wasn’t filthy, there was some litter and horse droppings to avoid. Deserted and industrial-looking buildings and barbed wire fences in-between the beach and the main road gave an overall downbeat vibe to the area. The sand was dotted with brown, palm covered tables for picnickers and the odd makeshift tent selling beers and drinks from a cool box. A line of passenger-laden horses was being slowly led along the edge of the beach, on a path set away from the people on the sand. I’m not sure about the accuracy of the miserable-looking description. The owners must make sure they are adequately fed and watered but they certainly didn’t look groomed or ‘perky’ with their heads down and their mottled coats…and some of the riders were not exactly slender.  

At the end of the sand there were a few buildings selling seaside articles such as buckets and spades and windmills but a distinct lack of anywhere to get a drink, apart from the cans being sold on the beach. We sat for a while watching families and visitors make the most of the balmy weather and decided to walk back along the sand. In hindsight, I realise I was judging Hermosa harshly having so recently left California’s pristine resorts, which isn’t really fair. The distinction between the two countries is obvious. America has money in place to make the most of its waterfront locations. Mexico’s economy has no budget for leisure like that of the US. We bought a book about customs and culture in Mexico and learned that 40 per cent of the population live below the poverty line and the majority are not far above it. Leisure is important in this hard working country, especially on Sundays which is, and always has been here, a day for families to spend time together. An afternoon on the beach is made the most of, however it looks. I would clearly need to refine my expectations if I was going to make the most of my time here.

I have never thought about owning a grain of rice with my name on it but we were constantly being asked to buy one whenever we walked past the street vendors. On Monday I ventured out on my own to get a few things from the supermarket. The streets were very crowded and without Paul’s expertise on crossing busy roads, I found myself pathetically sidling up to other people waiting to cross and tailgating them to the other side. Along with the rice sellers were the usual street touts, urging you to go inside shops and buy genuine Mexican souvenirs or into bars and restaurants. Several of the establishments in the town have signs outside welcoming cruise ship passengers, so I guess they are likely to be Ensenada’s main visitors. The supermarket shop was pleasingly cheaper than any in Canada and the US had been, although I hadn’t got used to converting pesos yet and I had to call on my very limited Spanish to understand what was being said to me at the checkout.

Our stay in Ensenada lasted two weeks so we got to know the town quite well. We paid a visit to the nearby museum and the cultural centre one sunny afternoon. We declined the option of a guide to show us around the museum, preferring to read the exhibit signs ourselves. It would have been churlish, however to refuse one young guide’s kind offer to lead us into one of the private balconies above a hall on the upper floor so that we had a view of the area where a casino used to be. He told us in his limited English that rich Americans used to flock there during the prohibition to drink and gamble.

The cultural centre had a Spanish-style square with stalls selling handmade crafts and gifts. We sat there after buying drinks in a very impressive old style bar enjoying the sun and admiring the products on sale.

Later that day when we’d just found a laundry recommended to us by the marina staff, a man approached us to tell us that it was an excellent laundry with lovely staff. He then produced a flower he had fashioned out of palm reed and asked us to buy it. He had a young boy with him and explained that he was trying to teach his son that you don’t get money just by asking. Paul told him he admired that, gave him some money and said he liked him. We were surprised by his retort; ‘well I don’t like you’. He followed with a laugh that it was only a joke, but there was just enough in his face for me to wonder, and then he held his hand out and asked for more money and we decided it was time to make a polite retreat into the laundry. Thankfully that was an isolated incident. We’ve mostly been greeted with smiles and waves and experienced good humoured interaction everywhere we’ve been.  

It was good to see the celebrations for revolution day while we were there. The weekend before the actual day on the 19^th, there was a performance in the square on the Saturday evening. We went along to have a look at the dancers which was very similar to line dancing. The music was quite good, too in that it wasn’t dominated by trumpets. We weren’t quite as keen on the female singer dressed up as a bullfighter who let’s just say, didn’t sing all that well.

We also saw the raising of the mammoth sized flag which was quite a sight to witness. Viewed from far below the flag looks like a giant silk handkerchief, very light and delicate. When we reached the square we saw men from various military groups lining the edge of the square armed with rifles and standing to attention. The flag was rolled up and being held by at least a dozen men in a row with their arms stretched out to support it. It was clearly heavy and we could see that the material was much thicker than it seemed. The strain of holding it up began to show after a while and I felt thankful for them that it wasn’t a sweltering hot day. Behind us on the main street, armoured vehicles carrying men poised with rifles appeared, much to my consternation. I don’t think I will ever get used to feeling comfortable when weapons are in such close proximity.  

Later that day we saw and felt the first rain for weeks; it gradually became heavy and lasted well into Thursday 21st causing parts of the town to become flooded. We were due to leave the following day and the rain had delayed our preparations a bit so we had to fit a lot in on that Thursday. The town was in the throes of preparing for its annual Baja 1000 car rally and our route to town in the morning took in the streets that had been especially prepared for the event. Stalls had been set up along every available space either side of the main road, traffic had been diverted and people were packed tightly on the road browsing the stalls and viewing the customised cars on display up to the starting line. We heard later that the rain caused the start to be postponed due to the flooding.

We had to make two trips to supermarkets, stocking up with food and drink since we would probably only have access to tiny village shops until we reached Cabo in the middle of December. Once we had bought and unloaded the provisions we had to check out of Ensenada, in line with the regulations of the Port Captain. This was basically a reverse of the checking in process, involving more form filling, more paper being passed across desks and another brisk walk to the port authority building with Victor. This time we had company in the form of Jordan, a solo sailor from California who would also be leaving in the morning. He kept me company while Paul and Victor marched ahead, and was kind enough to help me cross the road, too ;-).   

After two weeks in Ensenada’s naval bay, we were going back to sea in order to continue our journey south along Mexico’s Baja California coast. We left at our planned departure time of 9 30 and I watched that huge flag get slowly smaller as we left it behind.        

The city of Oceanside in San Diego County is located close to one of the largest Marine Corps Bases in the United States according to my guide book. On our way to its marina late on the afternoon of 28^th October we saw nothing of this but we did see and hear our old friends the sea lions – a familiar and welcome sight (to me anyway).

They have been allocated their own floating dock on which to ‘beach’ close to the marina berths. The day after we arrived, most of them had abandoned this little square dock and decamped to the floating platform at the end of our pontoon. I had heard them barking in the night and thought they sounded a lot closer than they should have from their dock. Below is the reason why.

Oceanside is a nice enough city, although not as pretty and compact as Redondo. It was a bit of a hike into town to get to the nearest shops and the beach and pier was an hour away on foot. We did a fair bit of walking in Oceanside for the short time we were there. Returning early on the evening before we left, Paul had another confrontation with stubborn sea lions. Two of them had laid themselves full length across the pontoon, blocking our path to the boat. Stamping his feet and clapping his hands merely caused them to stare disdainfully at him without moving an inch. Every time we made a move to walk towards them, though the bigger of the two raised its head and bared its teeth, emitting a warning growl for good measure. I couldn’t help laughing. Eventually we had to resort to the water hose treatment – much to their disgust – before we could get past. Images of Oceanside below.

To add insult to injury, they were more vocal than usual during the night, barking and splashing very close to our hull, yet from the moment we got up to prepare to depart from our berth, they went quiet. I think they are more intelligent than we’ve given them credit for! I still love them though. We were on our way by 9am bound for San Diego with the Santa Ana wind blowing sufficiently to allow us to put the sails up and have a bit of peace from the sound of the engine for an hour or so. As we motored towards our berth in San Diego just before 5pm we could see people on the pontoon ready to take our lines. Two of them were Brenda and Clay who we had met in Monterey. It’s always nice to see familiar faces when arriving in a new port.

During a chat with the Uber driver who took us to the DHL collection office the morning after we arrived, Paul asked him if he could recommend some places we should visit in the city. One of the areas he mentioned was one that I had read about and liked the sound of, so after collecting his parcel we headed to San Diego’s Gas Lamp Quarter.  Our guide book describes it as the epicentre of urban ultra-cool: quaint and romantic by day and rocking by night. We had no wish to go clubbing in its ‘hip’ clubs or trendy bars, so opted for the quaint daytime vibe instead. The district used to be San Diego’s main thoroughfare but descended into sleaziness in the late 1800s when legitimate businesses moved away from the wharves and warehouses. The gas lamps at that time illuminated streets populated with seedy saloons, brothels, opium dens and gambling halls (legend has it that Wyatt Earp operated at least three of them). The area only just escaped the wrecking ball in the 1960s but local preservationists were keen to protect the historic district and The Gas Lamp Quarter Association, formed in 1974, ensured that its oldest buildings remained untouched. Still, it was hard to imagine how it was in the 1800s when we strolled around it. The red-brick streets are dotted with trendy bars, and pavement dining is set up outside the modern bistros, while several fronts of historic buildings have recently been decorated with old fashioned facades. The street lights have been tastefully recreated in 19^th-century style though, it was just a shame we didn’t get to see them in the dark.  

As it was Halloween there was no shortage of people dressed up, parading the streets in horror costumes sporting painted faces and brightly–coloured fright wigs. Passing one restaurant we were startled when a man bounded out in front of us and asked if we were ‘in need of a hug’! I assumed him to be one of the staff but he could just as easily have been another passer-by because the combination of Halloween and the district’s reputation for attracting eccentrics ensured that there was plenty of colourful characters around. We politely declined his kind offer – he wasn’t to know he couldn’t have picked two people less likely to eagerly accept an embrace from a complete stranger.

From there we walked to the waterfront, another ‘must see’ according to our Uber driver. The maritime museum located there incorporates three historic ships and would have taken hours to do it justice. We contented ourselves with gawping at the huge aircraft carrier, (USS Midway Museum) on the Navy Pier in San Diego Bay.  I had never seen a war ship before and marvelled at the fact that such a huge vessel – which frankly looked a bit higgledy piggledy with parts and platforms jutting out at angles all over its top decks – could move at all let alone with several aircraft on top of it. Apparently it was the largest ship in the world when it was built in 1945 and was too big to fit through the Panama Canal. We resolved to visit it before leaving San Diego. The other thing that caught our eye was the 25-foot ‘Unconditional Surrender’ statue on the promenade next to the warship.  This iconic image of a sailor embracing a nurse on VJ Day in 1945 was captured by a photographer during the celebrations and as we would say today ‘went viral’ when it was published. The sculpture seems to be very popular with tourists who flock to replicate the image. I was interested to read that the sailor who claimed to be the one in the photo, died in 2014 aged 86 and was purported to have spent the last years of his life charging women $10 to photograph themselves kissing him on the cheek!

We spent a couple of days anchored in the charge-free area of the marina a few 100 yards from the pontoons to make room for the boats booked on the annual Baja Haha Rally, so it wasn’t until Sunday 3^rd November that a space became free and we moved back to the pontoons for a four day stay. We were now able to make use of the bikes again. San Diego is well set up for cyclists with designated lanes allocated on its main roads and it’s not too hilly a city. It makes shopping for provisions easier and we get to see more of the area.

On Monday we, along with others from the marina, gathered on the green expanse overlooking the bay to watch the start of the Baja Haha Rally. About 200 yachts were positioned on the water waiting for the starting gun that signalled the beginning of their journey to Mexico. The ceremony and humorous interactions coming from the participants and the organisers on VHF reminded me of the start of our adventure on the Atlantic Rally crossing back in 2006.

San Diego’s Old Town was our next sight to see. Another value for money Uber took us to The State Historic Park, the site of San Diego’s original settlement (America’s first on the West Coast), known as The Birthplace of California. Anything focusing on 19^th century life is of interest to me and this attraction recreates the city’s beginnings and has historic dwellings, reconstructed and original buildings, museums, and a Mexican-style market place with old style shops and restaurants. Paul did some Christmas shopping of all things in some of the shops there. It was fascinating to see the reconstruction of early settlers’ homes and to look at a genuine Wells Fargo stagecoach. There was even a haunted house! Whaley House is southern California’s oldest two-storey brick building (1856) and people have apparently reported seeing members of the original family still ‘living’ there along with a boat thief who was hanged on the site before the house was built. Paul said it was all nonsense and it was too late to go in there anyway. Shame – I would have enjoyed seeing a genuine 19^th century ghost. Pics below of the day.

California operates daylight saving time too, but the clocks went back a week later than in the UK. The period between Halloween and Bonfire Night in the UK always heralds the start of the Christmas build up for me. The shops in San Diego had been full of Halloween cards and decorations and now cards for Thanksgiving on November 28th lined the shelves, with a small area given over for Christmas stuff. The sunny warm days meant that it didn’t even feel like autumn to me, let alone a need to begin preparing for Yuletide festivities. This didn’t stop Paul heading off to the Post Office on November 6^th to post the Christmas presents he had bought and wrapped for people back home. He wanted to make sure they went from the US and we were still uncertain about our departure date for Mexico. We needed to leave our berth on the 7^th but still hadn’t secured a place in Ensenada. With only one free day left, it was time to visit the USS Midway, so after the parcels had been sent off we got on the bikes and cycled all the way to the waterfront – a distance of about five miles. This was mostly on flat roads thankfully, and we stopped a few times to look at things so it wasn’t too arduous despite the warm day.

The warship itself was expensive but it was undeniably good value for the admission fee. Everything you could possibly want to know about life on board the gargantuan vessel and the fine details of aircraft carriers was covered. Audio guides narrated by Midway sailors were provided and it was possible to sit inside fighter planes and play with the controls. Kids and adults of all ages were lapping it all up on the day we were there. I must admit it was quite thrilling to sit in the cockpit of one of the actual World War 2 fighter jets, and to sit inside a helicopter. Some of the staff were men who had served on the ship and they welcomed the chance to answer questions and chat with visitors about their time in service or on statistics and engineering queries. We read about the character (Maverick) that Tom Cruise played in the film Top Gun – interestingly there are special Top Gun Movie Nights when the ship hosts a party for people who wish to watch the film under the stars. Home to 225,000 sailors, The Midway was finished just a week too late to serve in World War 2 but it was used in the Vietnam conflict and during The Gulf War where it was the flagship of Persian Gulf air operations in Operation Desert Storm.  

We were amused by the robotic character placed behind a desk who acted out a scenario to inform visitors about the stresses involved in the busy day to day running of life on board. His narration could only ever come across as corny.  A gift shop and a café has taken up part of the enormous main entrance deck – the goods on sale were very highly priced but I guess if anyone wants a bomber jacket like the one Tom Cruise wore, it’s worth every cent to buy it on the Midway and in the city where it was filmed.

It was dark by the time we emerged from the bowels of the ship so it was a ride home in the dark and as always when the sun sets it was a cold evening. The effort of cycling this time warmed us up rather than made us sweat. When we got back to the boat it was time to plan our departure the following morning for Ensenada. We would be in the Mexican part of the Pacific Ocean sometime on the 7^th November. Another new country for me.

Kathy  

So the song by Albert Hammond goes. Well it hasn’t – rained that is. I actually can’t remember the last time it rained. The song does go on to say that it pours; ‘man it pours’. However, since we will be leaving this part of America in a few days’ time I think it’s safe to assume we’ll see no rain. The days have been delightfully clear, bright and sunny, with chilly mornings and evenings but bearably hot during the day. I think I’ve discovered my ideal climate here. We can now congratulate ourselves on completing a voyage down the whole of the west coast of America. Mexico beckons shortly, but we made the most of our Southern Californian sojourn. It began with a little bit of drama during the night of October 16th.  We’d left Morro Bay that morning with an early fog that cleared after a couple of hours. No engine, the sails were up and moving us along at a good 5 knots of speed so it began peaceful and economical, if a little bit rolly. We’d bought ready-made burritos for dinner in case conditions were bumpy. I’d never had one before, not being a fan of Mexican food and the burrito didn’t really convert me. Furthermore, it burned the roof of Paul’s mouth after being in the oven for an hour as directed. It made me laugh when he remarked that nothing vegan should need that long to cook. Maybe they’ll be better in Mexico…

The autohelm had been repeatedly steering us off course and had clearly developed a fault, but the wind vane had been doing a great job all afternoon. The wind began to drop while I was on the first night watch and without the wind it struggled to keep the course. Paul’s watch, therefore, had to begin earlier than it should because I had to call him to sort it out. I was dubious about going below to sleep considering that the autohelm was having a problem steering. I figured we might need to take turns hand steering on shorter watches for the duration of the trip. Paul said we’d see how things went and without expecting to, I did fall asleep. It was a fitful sleep – the combination of the bouncy motion and the noise of the engine filtered through my dreams so that I felt I was being thrown around in a tumble drier. I woke to hear the wind blowing hard and rattling the sails and sheets around up above but I couldn’t see or hear Paul. I lay there trying not to panic and was just about to go up when he appeared in the cockpit, calling my name and telling me he needed me on deck. I knew it must be urgent but had no idea what was happening. The boat was listing to starboard at a sharp angle so I struggled to keep my balance getting my outdoor gear on. Paul was battling with the headsail sheets and I could feel that we were speeding along too fast. I couldn’t stop myself asking if we were in danger which didn’t go down too well, but I was half asleep and he did look anxious. I asked what I needed to do and received the answer that I could either sort out the furling line on the bow or take the helm to steer us away from an oil rig! I stepped into the cockpit, and a wave hit me side on as I stood to look ahead (that woke me up). I was confronted with the surreal sight of a huge and extremely brightly-lit oil rig seemingly a few feet away from us. It was like something from a science fiction film – think giant robot – and I had to take the wheel while struggling not to fall onto the starboard guard rails which were almost in the water from the angle we were at. The noise of the whistling wind and the flapping sails was frightening but not as scary as the oil rig getting ever closer. While Paul was on the bow I lost sight of him and had to keep screaming out for him to let me know he was still there. After what seemed like ages he returned and managed to get reefs in the main sail while I steered but I soon became disorientated by the oil rig’s bright lights and the sharp listing and before I could correct it the course had gone awry which culminated in the boom shooting over to the other side – a crash jibe!  This minor disaster necessitated more steering and instructions shouted above the noise of the wind before things finally settled down. We still had the faulty autohelm to deal with, but Paul effected a temporary repair and the rest of the journey passed relatively smoothly. There were no other vessels around and no more oil rigs. The gale abated and I was never as pleased to see the sun rise that morning 😉

Despite the alarming events of the night, I agreed to steer us across the choppy bar at the entrance to Oxnard Marina, but it was such a small one we were across it and in calm waters before I even had a chance to worry. The day was sunny, clear and calm and the marina, complete with resident sea lions was a welcome sight: it was hard to believe we’d experienced such rough conditions the previous night. It’s a huge marina so the passage to our berth took us along a long stretch of water with pontoons on either side of us. I was amused to see a group of sea lions basking on the stern platform of a posh super yacht (the ‘For Sale’ sign it sported didn’t specify that it came complete with sea lions).   

Once berthed, we left further exploration until we’d caught up on sleep. There was also a fair bit of sorting out and a few faulty things to fix, so apart from our customary provisioning trip it wasn’t until Saturday 19^th October that we set out on a full day of sightseeing. The sight I particularly wanted to see was Spahn Ranch in Chatsworth, about an hour’s drive from Oxnard. No longer a ranch (it burned down in the 1970) it used to be a movie set where Westerns such as Bonanza were filmed in the 50s and 60s. The site is notorious for being where the Manson family lived for two years from 1967-69. Given this, it’s hardly surprising that it isn’t advertised or indeed signposted. It took a combination of research and (my) existing knowledge to locate it on a map. Paul had hired a car for a few days so our trip began once the location had been programmed in to the satnav. We drove off later that morning with the air conditioning on, sun visors down and the car radio tuned in to…I would have loved to say a station playing suitable music for a road trip in the LA vicinity but unfortunately the ones we found didn’t really meet that description – too many irritating adverts. 

Despite our careful planning, it proved very difficult to find Spahn Ranch, even with the aid of other crime boffins online who had visited the spot and uploaded pictures and videos to YouTube. Looking at the landscape surrounding us, it was easy to see why it was ideal for Western productions. Rolling hills and valleys in a remote spot with creeks, caves rugged terrain and lush wooded areas – it also provided the ideal out of the way place for Manson’s hippie commune. The almost blind owner was unaware of their more malign intentions and activities. Eventually we parked the car in the car park of a church as near as we could possibly be sure that the ranch had been situated, and followed a path through the woods across the road. Paul studied pictures and videos on his phone of a group’s previous visit and we actually matched some of the images with those we were seeing. We found foundation stones and other clues that we were in the right area and spent an hour exploring and taking pictures, seeing no one else the entire time we were there. It felt a bit eerie to be in such an empty and abandoned spot which had once been full of action with people and horses and old wooden buildings. Now it is more like a woodland trail in the countryside but not unpleasant for that. As we left the site and emerged onto the road a man in a car parked there stopped us and asked if we knew the way to Spahn Ranch as he and his daughter were having trouble finding it. His daughter, who looked about 15 was the one who was keen to find it and listened intently as I described what we’d seen. It seems the fascination with Manson is ongoing.

The next day’s road trip was to a place associated with the more positive aspects of the hippie era. Venice Beach is where Jim Morrison of The Doors used to hang out, along with several other notable musicians, poets and performers. It had been the centre for The Beat generation from the 50s and has gained a reputation as a place for the creative and artistic, which naturally includes delightful eccentrics. I had actually been there in 1983 but at that time, to my shame, I was unaware of its cultural relevance to so many of the things that I came to admire and revere later in life. To get there we drove some of the way along the Pacific Coast Highway which overlooks the Pacific Ocean from great heights with stunning views. We also went through the scenic beauty of Malibu with its affluent neighbourhoods, magnificent houses and picturesque boulevards, a mere stone’s throw away from golden beaches. Again, it was a perfect day weather-wise to see all these things; sunny, clear, and warm.

We headed straight for the famous boardwalk, arriving there around 2pm when it was thronging with people. I found it captivating from the outset. There was so much going on and so much to look at it was hard to know what to do first. Stalls, shacks and shops lined either side of the boardwalk – the beach side was interspersed with street artists and performers and vendors selling handmade crafts and jewellery, while the park hosted skaters, dancers and skateboarders. The air was filled with the aromas of traditional culinary beach fare along with a wide variety of fast food to satisfy every taste. There was an almost celebratory atmosphere all along the two mile boardwalk and in the park. Upbeat music drew us to an area where some roller skaters were performing so we sat on the grass and watched them for an hour but I could easily have stayed there all the rest of the day. The music was great and there were some spectacular dance moves from some of the characters. Paul took some video footage of them which he edited for a great piece that captures just how entertaining it was (link is included in his blog).

Venice has other delights to marvel at which I had missed on my last visit. We walked to the inland part of town and found ourselves in the canal district. Pretty little bridges spanned the waterways and almost all of the elegant houses in the streets alongside the water were tastefully decorated for Halloween. We took lots of pictures as we meandered through this Venice – named for the more famous Italian city but which has totally different charms to admire. We stayed long enough to enjoy the sunset, which as can be seen below was pretty amazing.  

Ventura is only a short drive from Oxnard so while we had the car I couldn’t resist suggesting we go for a drive on ‘Ventura Highway’. This is the title of a song I used to play a lot in the 70s by the band America, who also had a hit with ‘Horse with No Name’. The beach at Ventura is a much more sedate and understated affair than Venice. Fewer people and miles of quiet, largely empty sandy beaches.  We saw a few strollers and some children enjoying the late afternoon sun.  

From Oxnard we motored to Redondo. The journey took most of the day (23^rd October). There was no chance of sailing  on this windless day and we hadn’t gone very far before a police boat motored up to us to advise us to change course as we were heading for a region used as a firing range. We didn’t need telling twice! We were joined by dolphins leaping either side of the bow for part of the journey which Paul managed to capture on film (again, on his blog). Around 5pm we could see the breakwater where the mooring buoys were located and once again the unmistakeable sound of sea lions honking reached our ears and made me smile. The mooring buoy we grabbed was different to those we usually tied to. These had poles with ropes attached so the pole had to be hooked first in order to tie the ropes to the boat. I steered us to it and Paul made quick work of securing us – close enough to the sea lions’ pontoon to smell their fishy aroma.

As we make our way further south we are nearing the Tropic of Cancer and it’s definitely feeling warmer in general; well the butter is getting too soft to keep out of the fridge anyway. Considering such Mediterranean-like warmth it was a case of another day, another beach on Thursday 24^th. Redondo Beach didn’t get much of a write up in my Lonely Planet guide. It’s described as an ethnically diverse, working class beach town notable for its pier before going on to recommend its two wonderful adjacent ‘sister’ South Bay beaches. We liked Redondo Beach. The dinghy park is near the ‘notable’ pier and the wharf was a typical fisherman’s wharf with fishing boats and people working on them, except that the surrounding boardwalk was lined with cafes and bars that appeared to be aimed at locals as opposed to tourists. The pubs had character – one we passed was full of men who could only be workers and fishermen. Similarly, the beach itself was lined with residential buildings on its promenade with the main hub of bars and restaurants in a spot near the town centre. I guess this is what the guide meant by a ‘working class beach town’ but for us this was a positive factor. We had lunch in one of the town bars overlooking the beach before our usual supermarket trip.

Redondo Pier took on an enchanting aspect once it began to get dark. There are over 50 dining, shopping and entertainment venues on it and the subtle, pretty lighting and vibe emanating from them act like a magnet. We dinghied over to watch the sunset and have an evening walk along it. (Pics below).

Our next stop proved to be something of a disappointment. Santa Catalina is an island approximately 30 miles southwest of California and is only 22 miles long and 8 miles across at its greatest width. It’s a nature reserve and a popular getaway for Los Angeles residents and is purported to have great hikes, cycle routes and wildlife. The journey there had been one of the smoothest and trouble-free yet, despite some concern about the Santa Ana wind hampering our progress. In fact, there was no wind at all so we motored for the six hour passage and picked up a mooring buoy at 2 o’clock on Friday 25^th. No sea lions here. In fact there wasn’t much of anything! Looking at it from our buoy, positioned on the remote west end of the island at Two Harbors, I could see a tiny cluster of buildings in the middle of the isthmus, and parched low hills on either side of it. There were no signs of life on the boats moored around us and we were directly opposite some lorries and trucks in a small industrial quarrying site. Two Harbours is admittedly the ‘second’ centre of population with only a few hundred people, while Avalon, the main town is the more ‘happening’ resort with a larger population. We planned to check that out the following day.

Meanwhile we got in the dinghy for the short distance to the shore and had a look around. With very few cars on the island, it was very quiet ashore. We walked along the path to the centre of the isthmus, passing closed up and empty buildings and the usual signs forbidding you to do lots of things. First, Paul went to check us in at the tiny harbour office and came out visibly shocked at the coast of an overnight stay on the mooring. At $60 it was more than some marinas, and we were told we’d need to ‘check out’ of the buoy area by 9am. Walking around didn’t take long. We looked at a house that had been used for a film starring Joan Crawford in 1932 (pictured below), and read about the bison that inhabit the island. Fourteen of the creatures were brought over for the filming of an American Western in 1924 and had remained there afterwards. Apparently the scenes with the bison never made it into the film and it was deemed too costly to transport them back. There are about 150 on the island now but we didn’t see any. We didn’t see any other animals either. A sign told us there are island foxes, Californian ground squirrels (ah, so that’s what the squirrels are here), and four types of mice. We might also spot a Southern Pacific Rattlesnake; I’m pleased to say we didn’t see that! Apart from some resort facilities, a few late-in-the-season holidaymakers and a small shop, we didn’t see much else and I felt the place lacked atmosphere. We went back to the boat, hoping that Avalon would be better.   

The next day was spent a few feet away from the mooring buoys in the free anchorage area. Paul explored the shorelines in the kayak while I had a relaxing day on board. The VHF kept broadcasting alarming ‘pan pan’ updates about people getting into trouble at sea. There were reports of boats drifting uncontrollable towards rocks, life jackets seen floating in the water and yachts that had gone aground and been abandoned. I found myself captivated by the updates and thankful that no one died. Part of those dramas had been down to the infamous Santa Ana wind, which Paul had been keeping up to date with on the weather forecasts. His feeling was that it would be fine for us to move around the corner to Avalon the following day since it was only a short distance and we could always return to the anchorage if conditions got rough.

On Sunday 27^th that was exactly what we did. We woke to a chilly and blustery morning and heard warnings for small craft thinking of journeying in the area. The advice was not to go anywhere. Paul said it would be fine as we would be within the shelter of the island for the short distance so we weighed anchor late in the morning and motored out onto waves heavy with swell and 18 knots of wind. I couldn’t help thinking of the yachts who had got into difficulties the previous day. Not long after we’d set off Paul said we would have to go back. The coastguard had broadcast a report stressing the dangers for vessels heading to Avalon due to the severity of the Santa Ana wind. Since it was cold, rocky and very windy, with yet more vessels calling in with distress calls to the coastguard I wasn’t sorry to return to the sanctuary of the anchorage. Unfortunately this meant we had missed our chance to see Avalon because we had a berth booked at a marina at Oceanside near San Diego (Santa Ana wind allowing).