Yesterday brought fair skies and a sweet breeze, so we pulled up the anchor and set sail for Magdalena Bay. If we’re lucky we’ll see baby gray whales nuzzling their mothers in this protected body of water. As we sailed out of Turtle Bay, whales spouted close in shore, the telltale sign of mothers and babies heading north. Hopefully a few late starters will be in the bay to greet us when we arrive (ETA before sunset on Wednesday).

We’ve had 24 hours of sailing, a mixture of “champagne sailing” in gentle rollers and a sweet, steady breeze, followed by long periods of harnessing the variable winds in confused seas (in the dark of the night, of course). An hour ago the sails started to slat and we started to wallow, so on went Mr. Perkins (as we fondly call our Perkins 4108 diesel engine) to power us through the confused seas and light wind. He’s loud, but a steady and reliable crew member since we had him rebuilt a few years back. (He had developed quite a drinking problem, leading to an unexpected refueling stop in San Simeon. Picture breakers, dinghy, fuel cans – not a pretty sight.)

I’m about to download the latest weather to see what the forecasters have to say about the chances of a sailing breeze. Ultimately we get what we get. The air is finally getting a bit warmer, so we can start to taste the promised land!

The storm we’ve been watching and preparing for arrived last night. We sailed across Turtle Bay to the southern anchorage and tucked behind the reef. This spot provides shelter from the surge generated by storm winds racing from the south, as well as the storm waves cascading through the entrance to the Bay.
Mark spent yesterday preparing the tackle for the storm anchor and improving the chafe gear and shock absorption for our primary anchor rode. Anson got out his fancy camera, lenses and filters to capture the drama of the stormy skies. Devon and I spent the day reading from “500 years of Chicana History,” Reyna Grande’s “The Distance Between Us,” and Spanish language study, with a break for Devon to make a vanilla cake with lemon curd and cream glaze (every storm needs a sweet spot). In the evening Anson launched the Algebra course by teaching Devon the finer points of exponents.

As we hoped, the southern anchorage provided the shelter we needed. We stood anchor watch during the wee hours of the night when it was blowing 27-30 knots and gusting to 35-37; fortunately our anchor managed to hold after the wind veered sharply to the West. Today promises to be squally, but the barometer is rising, so, as long as there’s no “sting from the scorpion’s tale,” we’re through the worst of the wind. The seas, however, will build through tomorrow, so I expect we’ll have a bouncy ride behind the protection of the reef. Pancakes are calling, so signing off for now.
Kim

From Ensenada the next safe port is 300 nautical miles south as the crow flies. With light winds along the shore we ventured out to sea, hunting for a steady breeze. We found it, and also the tail end of a cold front that wasn’t forecast to travel so far south. Not knowing how fierce the wind and seas might get, we kept sailing to sea as the rain began and the wind built. Open water is a sailor’s friend in a storm, and land the places of ship wrecks. Reefed down, we sped up with the gusts and slowed in the lulls.
Soon we found ourselves in a superhighway of cargo ships, and we tacked back towards shore to avoid the “beasties,” as we named these massive ships in the dark of the night. We spent two days and three nights at sea, surfing down 7 to 11 foot seas, finding the sweet spot of the wind and changing sails to maximize safety and speed. This coast is marked by off lying islands and reefs, requiring a careful reading of charts to notice the abrupt change in depth from 1000 meters to 35. Big waves become steeper as they meet these shallows, so our course shifted to stay in deeper waters.
Not wanting to enter an unknown harbor in the dark, our final night was spent slowing down to time our arrival for dawn. We drifted the last few hours, with a scrap of jib keeping us moving forward, charting our position to ensure currents didn’t sweep us into land. As dawn broke, the harbor entrance was dead ahead with whales spouting off the rocky coast. We glided slowly forward, not wanting to disturb their revelry, as backs dipped and flukes rose in gentle rhythms. With light illuminating the entrance we gratefully entered the quiet harbor of Turtle Bay.
This bay is providing us with refuge for the next storm coming across the ocean. We’ll be here for a week or so, practicing our Spanish, meeting people on boats and ashore, enjoying fish tacos, exploring the beach, reading Mexican history, studying math, making fishing tackle and reacquainting ourselves with our SSB radio and other cruising gear.

We entered Ensenada in thick fog, our electronic charts guiding us to the harbor entrance as we listened nervously for breakers. Anson peered from the bow to sight the lines of rock that make up the breakwater to the small, but protected harbor. Gently we motored in, marking each bouy as we navigated blind into the marina.
Once inside and safely tied up to a dock, we saw the boat Nareida enter a slip off our stern, with Jeanne Socrates stepping ashore to secure her lines. For sailors, Socrates is a rock star: one of the few solo circumnavigators of this world, someone who rounds Cape Horn and sails in fierce seas. Now in her 70s, she is among an elite group of older sailors continuing to voyage alone. A bit timid, we watched from afar.
The next morning, while checking in to Mexico at the customs and immigration office, Jeanne Socrates appeared again. Still shy, we watched surreptitiously as she followed the routine of filling in forms and paying fees, one step behind us. (Checking in was effortless. Despite Trump’s endless insults and pervasive racism, we were welcomed into Mexico by the marina staff and the immigration officials alike. We couldn’t have asked for a more gracious or efficient entrance.) By the time we ran into her outside the Telcel office (where we bought phone service), Mark gathered his courage and introduced himself. We offered for her to be served first, and soon we were talking about her latest circumnavigation attempt, aborted due to a failed drogue (the sailor’s equivalent of a parachute). Quickly our lives intertwined with technical discussions of drogue cones and line, intermixed with her assistance in buying phone service. We invited Jeanne to join us for fish tacos and walked the ten blocks through town to Michelle’s (a staff member of the marina) favorite taqueria. Ensenada is home of the fish taco, and this small stand run by three women was filling a constant stream of orders. Cars drove up and took their prize away in plastic bags, while the rest of us ordered and ate, sitting on overturned buckets, then going back for more. Divine!
Jeanne took on the role of introducing us to cruising in Mexico, providing helpful tips about buying more cell service, and where to buy baked chickens for an easy dinner. She accompanied us to a restaurant where we watched CNN recount the surreal world of the new world order of Trump while waiting for our chickens to be cooked and bagged.
We sailed away from Ensenada that evening, as there is no anchorage in the small harbor and marina prices are far too high for our cruising budget ($100 per night!). We departed dazzled by the presence of a star and filled with the delicious food of Mexico.

On the morning of the eighth of February, in Catalina harbor, I got the rude awakening of an engine starting up. After the fact I was promptly yelled at to come on deck where we were leaving the mooring. My family (Anson, Kim, Mark) and I, (Devon), motored on out onto the sea, and I went up to lounge on the foredeck. With my back on the spinnaker and the sun on my body, I soon felt drowsy and fell asleep.

About an hour later I woke up and went back to the cockpit where I applied sunscreen and sat down. At this point I was starting to feel a little queasy ,as I had not quite recovered from my sickness, and wanted to go down below.
The fog loomed around us, but my mother insisted that there was enough wind to sail. My parents and Anson put up the sails and we were going a roaring 6 knots in only 5 to 7 knots of wind, for about twenty minutes. Then we had to go back to motoring for another hour or two.

For the rest of the day we had our sails up and were going anywhere from 3 to 7 knots, blowing our fog horn every five minutes or so. At around six a clock,(or 1800 hours as my brother insists we call it), we were picking up several boats and a military ship on our radar that gave us a bit of a concern, as it was jumping around and looked like several ships.
While everyone else was up on deck or lying in their berths, I made a dinner of bean and cheese tortillas with salsa and guacamole. At nine o’clock Anson and Kim took the first watch, (9 to 12), while Mark and I rested. Then the watch switched and Mark and I were woken up to take the next 3 hour watch. This repeated until 9 a.m.

The fog finally lifted at around 9:30, but came back at 1:00. We arrived at Ensenada around 3:00 and went to check in at the harbor office. After the ordeal of the foggy sail, we had breakfast for dinner and took showers. Now I am writing this update in the marina lounge. Devon.