Vivo O Sonho

As our friend Bob Bitchin says, “The difference between adventure and ordeal is attitude.” And as his first mate, Jody, says, “Sometimes it’s just an ordeal!”

It was our last night in the tranquil anchorage of Ensenada Grande Norte, a cove located off Isla Partida in the Sea of Cortez, Baja, Mexico. We’d just spent four idyllic days snorkeling and swimming in clear, warm water and taking our dinghy to explore the rugged island shoreline and pristine beaches. Aaron had grilled pork chops and pineapple for dinner, as it was the first afternoon that the wind hadn’t blown in the cove.

That should have been our first clue. At this time of year, there seems to always be a late-day breeze that is just enough to keep the barbeque from staying lit. But not today. We had watched the sun set and were relaxing in the cockpit when a fast puff of wind suddenly blew through the cove. Then a lull. We looked at each other. Then another blast, a brief pause, and full-force steady wind at 18 knots came at us. No build up, just an all-out blow with gusts to 24 kts.

Aaron pulled up the weather model (which he had checked earlier and noted that there was a chance of a very light wind developing later in the evening) and checked our anchor watch app. For four solid days our anchor had held firm and we never moved outside of the scope of the anchor watch perimeter. Now, it appeared we were dragging.

Without another word he started the engine, just in case, and we went topside together.

The wind was gusting and we quickly opened the anchor locker and prepared the windlass (the mechanical system that deploys and brings up the anchor and chain) for use.

Kneeling on the bow, we looked at the chain. It was taut and obviously straining with the strong wind and current going against it.

“Look at the island. Do you think we’re moving?” he said

We both watched as Sonho went from being outside the point of land defining the cove to being parallel to the land and steadily moving backwards towards the very shallow shoal leading to the beach a few hundred feet away.

“We’re dragging. Let’s get out of here!” I answered. There was no time to spare or we would soon be wedged in the soft sand behind us.

Aaron went to the helm, putting the boat into forward. He needed to figure out how much rev to give the engine to take the strain off the chain so I could raise it, yet not allow the anchor to be positioned beneath the hull where damage could be done as it came up, all while fighting the wind and waves coming straight on our nose.

“Ready?” I yelled into the wind, then thrust out my arm with a thumbs up gesture. He replied with the same thumbs up and I pressed the up button with my heel.

As the chain pulled up into the windlass, I used my arm as a guide for Aaron to see the chain direction. Similar to an aircraft marshaller assisting the pilot in parking the plane, I extended my arm out, palm open and pinky down, and moved it up and down pointing at the chain. This allowed him to drive the boat at the speed and direction necessary to get the anchor safely up.

The 125 feet of chain came up easily and clean. (The beauty of anchoring in white sand as opposed to the mud of the Bay Area.) My heart beat fast as I anticipated the anchor breaking the surface and needing to control the windlass speed and motion of the chain in order get the 55 lb Spade anchor into the bow roller. This is important as you don’t want the anchor slamming against the hull or bow, and if it comes up upside down, it won’t properly secure.

Usually, I’d stop it after it cleared the water, then “bump” the up button until it was ready to be pulled into the bow roller. But we were in a hurry and I was full speed ahead as the anchor came up swiveled in the correct direction. Success! I snugged it in tight, turned to the the cockpit and gave another thumbs up gesture, yelling, “It’s up! GO!” This was Aaron’s signal to push the throttle up and get us out of danger of going aground as quick as possible.

I closed the anchor locker, came back to the cockpit, told Aaron the anchor was secure but I hadn’t dealt with the bridle, went below to turn on our navigational lights, grab our life jackets and harnesses, put Tiki’s life jacket on her, and turn on the VHF radio to channel 16 (the emergency communications channel).

We decided that the best course of action was to motor out of the cove into the deep, open water and reassess our situation. While Aaron drove, I clipped my harness line to the jackline and went on deck in the heaving seas to secure anything that might be blown or bounced off the deck. We had discussed removing the jacklines since they often get in the way when moving on deck and they really weren’t needed in the near future as we weren’t going to be doing any ocean crossings for the rest of the season. We hadn’t gotten around to removing them, thankfully!

Thankfully, Aaron had the good sense to hoist the dinghy and outboard engine onto the boat earlier that day to save us time the next morning when we planned to head back to our slip in La Paz. It could have been a real shit show if we had to pull the dinghy, especially with the motor attached, behind us in this sea state.

I went below and quickly secured anything that would crash and break or be thrown around the cabin. I usually can do this thoughtfully in 15 minutes. Tonight, it took less than five as items were tossed in sinks and cabinets and under the covers in our bunk.

“We’re good?” Aaron asked as I came back topside.
“Everything’s secure. Now what?” I said.

We don’t take risks with our lives or our boat. Ever. We have general rules that we follow and have kept us out of harm’s way all the way down the coast.

1. Never enter a port in the dark unless it is an emergency.
   If we have to, we will slow down or go in circles and wait until it is light enough to see exactly where we are going. The open sea is almost always the safest place to be, especially with the assistance of our electronic devices alerting us to other vessels underway. Most skippers turn off their AIS when at anchor so it wouldn’t be any help trying to maneuver through a field of boats.
2. Always allow for room for swinging and dragging when anchoring.
   We take into account the possibility of not only us, but other boats dragging. If we can easily overhear the conversations of another boat, we’re too close.
3. Don’t make rash decisions.
   Discuss the situation, buy time, if needed, and thoughtfully decide the best course of action together, in the safest place possible.
4. No questioning.
   If one of us tells the other to do something in a difficult situation underway, we do it quickly, assuming that there is a reason behind the direction. This is a lesson that was taught over and over in my Coast Guard training. Mere seconds could be the difference between saving and losing a vessel or life. (And for any of you that know me well, keeping my mouth shut or not offering my opinion is definitely not in my nature!)

Taking all of this into account, we pulled up the electronic charts and started looking at nearby coves where we could tuck in safely to ride out the wind. There are many coves and expanses of beach off the islands of Isla Partida and Espiritu Santo, but most don’t offer any protection from the southerly wind that was blowing. We didn’t want to attempt any of the small anchorages such as the one we had just left due to the proximity of hard volcanic cliffs and shallow shoals.

Our first thought was the neighboring anchorage just to our south, Ensenada Grande Sur, but from our dinghy excursion earlier, we knew it was already filled with sail and power boats. Not an option. The next closest large cove, Caleta Partida, was just a few miles south, so we headed into the mounting waves to take a look.

We motored directly into the small craft warning wind and uncomfortable sea chop for almost an hour and then turned to port to poke our bow into the large anchorage. We could see a whole bunch of boats already anchored, both visually from anchor lights and showing up on our AIS. We had never anchored here, the wind wasn’t abating any, and neither felt comfortable. So back out we went again.

We don’t have a fancy boat with a huge cockpit and low waterline that’s great for entertaining but not so good at sea. Sonho is sturdy (and gets offended when we call her “fat”) and takes weather very well. The sea state wasn’t threatening to the boat or us, but it definitely wasn’t a joyride. Aaron noted that Isla San Francisco was showing on the weather model as being unaffected by the winds, so we did a 180 and headed north after a short discussion.

We now had the winds and waves on our stern and the ride was tolerable. Our enclosure was cozy and we took turns napping in the cockpit during the three hour ride. Auto was on and there was nothing for the one on helm duty to do except gaze into the pitch black horizon, looking for the lights of the island ahead.

On our approach, a string of lights came into view. We couldn’t figure out if they were boats or fixed on the island. And just before we started to round the point, we noticed a very bright light just above the horizon behind us.

“Light astern!” I said.
“No boats on AIS back there,” Hubby answered.

It didn’t pop up and down with the waves. It looked to be stable. But then it moved slightly skyward. It was the moon finally making its appearance at 1:00 am!

Isla San Francisco is a huge anchorage. You’ve most likely seen a picture of the cove as it appears on covers of Mexico cruiser’s guides and tourist sites for it’s iconic beauty. At night, it looks small and we reduced speed as we crept towards the boats on the outer edge of the anchorage.

“What are you seeing on AIS?” I asked. I had the binoculars out and was leaning over the port rail, scanning for boats.
“A big power boat to starboard. A few other sailboats,” he answered.

“Boat! Dead ahead!” I called, just as Aaron was simultaneously veering hard to starboard.

It was a sailboat in about 60 ft of water, about 100 ft away. The darkness was that dense.

“I’m not feeling good about this. And PredictWind lied. It’s still blowing over 18 kts in the cove,” he said.

We were once again headed straight into the seas and wind, and looking into the cove from portside. There were a smattering of anchor lights deep in the anchorage and more lights that we believed were on land, but weren’t entirely sure. We could make out just a few boats out on the edge of the anchor line, where we were.

“We can’t anchor here without going further in, can we?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Sixty feet was too deep for the amount of anchor chain we had and what would be needed to anchor in this blow and chop.

“No. I don’t think this is a good option,” he answered.

We were both tired. Our prior double-handed passages had been fairly uneventful and our only rough nights at sea had been with crew. There’s nothing more we wanted than to put down anchor and get some sleep. But that wouldn’t happen at Isla San Francisco tonight.

“So what do we do? There’s no where else to go,” I said.
“We just head back to La Paz. It’ll be slow and choppy, but we’ll arrive in daylight,” he said.

And so we did. We once again took turns napping and on helm watch while Auto drove through the night. There were many times when a swell would literally lift us up off our seats. We didn’t pass any other vessels. We watched a weak moon rise and not more than a handful of stars shine. The seas and sky were gray and boring.

After five hours of this yukky ride the sun rose. And as tired as we were we couldn’t help thinking that there really was no sunrise as beautiful as that at sea. We had cruised passed the the crowded coves we had tried to find refuge in the prior night, made the short open ocean passage before turning to starboard towards the La Paz channel, and … the wind died. Long sleeves came off, coffee and tea was made and appreciated, and I went below to straighten up all the stuff that had gone flying in the chaotic weather.

About 15 hours after the initial anchor drag we passed our friend’s Karen and Tim on Crow’s Nest. They had spent a secure night in our slip and were headed north to berth their boat for the summer. We waved and blew kisses, knowing we’d see them at Encinal Yacht Club in Alameda in a few months.

Thirty minutes later we were berthed in Marina de La Paz without incident, plugged in to shore power, climbing into our bunks.

“Great job on getting that anchor up fast and letting me know where it was,” Aaron said, as my head hit the pillow.
“Great job on doing what was safe,” I answered.
“We made the right decisions,” he said.
“Yes, we did. And now I am going to sleep,” I said.

That’s cruising. Others might have made other decisions. In hindsight, and after hearing of other anchorages that we could have tried, we might do it differently if it were to happen again. But for that night, alone on our home consisting of 42 ft of fiberglass and wood, in heaving seas and gusting wind and sheer blackness in unknown water, we did what was right for us.

It wasn’t a raging storm; it was a bumpy and inconvenient night. Our lives and our boat were never at risk because we made good choices. It was merely a drag. 😉