We’ve crossed major milestones in Totem’s refit, and I’ve included the highlights here. But first, a shout-out to the guy making it happen. Jamie is at the boatyard seven days a week, virtually without fail. Refit realities don’t make for sexy social media posts. What is sexy, though, 

is the commitment of this guy to getting the job done, and done right, as we bring Totem into the 21st century.

The work is hard on his body. It’s repetitive. It’s not fun. It’s emotionally wearing. We’ve passed major milestones, but there are days that forward progress feels thwarted. There seems to be a natural law about boat projects taking more than the expected time—at more than the expected cost—and we are internalizing it with our slow progress. Yet, ultimately, there is progress, and it is awesome to see. I’m excited to share the updates. But first, I want to tell you about one of our favorite roles on board.

The Happiness Engineer

Who is your “happiness engineer?” At some point, every boat needs one. Typically, we use this moniker during the transition from land to living aboard to describe the person for whom cruising was “the dream,” and upon whom it is incumbent to ensure that their partner has a positive reality. Right now, the happiness engineer is a role I take on to make sure that Jamie’s laser focus on finishing the refit includes breaks to enjoy life, heal his body and soul, and stave off burnout. Sure, I’m working hard, too—long hours in other roles. But it’s easier to be a keyboard warrior. Recently, I stole Jamie away from the yard for a three-day trip out of town so we could remember what it’s like to be living as travelers instead of refit grunts. 

Getting away was more than a break from work. It was reconnecting to an important way we find our joy in cruising: by engaging with, and learning from, the different cultures we intersect with. The best of those experiences are what I refer to as “walking on the moon,” because they transport you so thoroughly into another world that sharing the experience defies explanation. (How can you effectively explain to someone what it was like to walk on the moon?)

An Indigenous New Year 

A few weeks ago, I had learned from a friend that the Comcáac (first nations people from the northeast coast of the Sea of Cortez—also referred to as Sierra Seri) New Year was in the last days of June. Our friend, Ruben, organizes small-group trips. He planned a trip for us all to witness and participate in the New Year ceremonies, bringing along an indigenous guide to help us understand. We went, and we walked on the moon. From the moment we arrived, we were enveloped by reminders of a very different way of life. Pressed by adversity, Comcáac people have held tightly to traditions and language, and we had much to learn. 

At the ceremony, red, white and blue ribbons, the color of the Comcáac flag, fluttered from bent cactus armatures on the beach. The chanting of elders was carried over loudspeakers, accompanied by the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. 

Blazing sun and temperatures in the triple digits beat down upon the women and girls who wore vibrant, ankle-length skirts and flounced, long-sleeved blouses. After crossing the channel to the sacred Isla Tiburón, a Comcáac shaman included us in the traditional face painting and spiritual cleansing. It was some marvelous moonwalking.

We returned to the mainland to join in the feast and enjoy the music. As sunset turned the sky from gold to purple and then black, the beat of gourd drums, the rattle of shell cuffs on the legs of the dancers, and the jingle of bells hanging from their belts filled the air. We watched the dancers’ movements mimic the deer they represented, while mounted deer heads were strapped to the heads of the Yoreme brothers who were invited to join the event.  

Deep in this moonwalk, fresh artists soon stepped in and worlds shifted. The crash of modern rock music wasn’t that jarring, but what seemed at first like a collision of cultures leveled up into something mind-blowing. The musical was familiar, but the lyrics were being belted out in Cmiique iitom, the Comcáac language. Those same women and girls in head-to-toe jewel tones now jumped up and down, singing along, screaming song requests and Comcáac of all ages and genders threw themselves enthusiastically into the celebrations. 

It was spectacular.

The music capped off a day steeped in tradition, and it demonstrated how Comcáac are finding ways to bring their cultural roots forward into the modern world. Hamac Caziim, the rock band, was founded on the belief that rock music will to help foster an interest in retaining the indigenous language. To our experience, I’d say that they have been wildly successful in engaging more than just the younger generation.

Back to Totem: Interior Finishes

Back in Puerto Peñasco, Totem’s interior work has reached major milestones. We didn’t start this refit thinking we’d resurface the whole interior. We just knew that the cabin sole was suffering in a few areas, that some bulkhead rot needed to be addressed, and that the Formica in parts of the galley had worn through to particle board. Those tasks were addressed, and they made it easier to add on some voluntary cosmetic work. 

We realized that the dinged-up, 41-year-old veneer, the junky headliner, and horizontal surfaces such as the table and countertops would all need replacement. Jamie crafted a simple, elegant solution for the headliner from insulation, thin plywood and alder battens—oh, and a lot of epoxy! We replaced the horizontal surfaces, originally wood veneer, by bamboo, which seems to glow from within, restoring some natural warmth to the cabin.

Suddenly, the huge undertaking to look nice, stay more comfortable and be ready for faraway cruising feels like it’s coming together.

We’ve learned so much along the way. When Jamie first rebuilt a bulkhead on Dogwatch, his 22-foot S&S Sailmaster, around 1984, it felt significant. Now he’s rebuilt entire cabins. He’s learned about fillers, materials and how to apply accumulated years of knowledge about Totem along the way, making her our long-term home, and now hopefully easier to maintain—at least as much as any boat can be.

Want to learn more about Comcáac?

• NY Times: An Intimate Look at Mexico’s Indigenous Seri People
• Video: Seri turtle songs of survival (Spanish with subtitles: Comcáac history in <15 min)
• Video: Hamac Cazíim | an indigenous punk documentary (29 min: the Comcáac rock band we heard)
• Creative Pinellas: Seri Tribe (konkaak / comca’ac) of Sonora Mexico
• Sonora tourism: indigenous people of Sonora
• Mexico Escultura: Seri New Year 

Totem Talks

Our free, monthly livestreamed talks cover topics of interest pertinent to cruisers. Coming up this month: Tools and Spares. It’s tempting to bring everything you might need. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to bring everything you will need. How do you decide what’s essential to have on board for tools and spares? Register here to join the session. Other recent topics include getting sails for your boat. How do you know when it’s time to replace your sails? What is the process like? What should boat owners know about evaluating options? Also, don’t miss our adventures while anchoring. This talk covers key anchoring techniques and discusses how to figure out where you can anchor and how to deal with anchorage politics.

The post State of Our Totem appeared first on Cruising World.

To invite or not to invite? In the matter of having guests aboard for days at a time, cruisers mostly belong in one of two camps. It’s either “You bet!” or “No way!” 

My wife, Rebecca, and I understand all the reasons why other sailors say no (sharing small spaces, always needing to be “on,” herding cats, fixing heads, feeling responsible for other people’s happiness and safety). But we invariably say yes. 

We both have a hospitality mindset, honed through years of working professionally as yacht crew. We take the business of having fun seriously, and we genuinely enjoy sharing our time, talents and toys with others. Having friends and family visit our own modest cruising boat is a challenging yet rewarding game we enjoy playing together. 

When planning our trips with guests, the first thing we look for is consistently nice weather. If people are flying in and have moved heaven and earth (and that hard-to-get dog sitter) for these few precious days, you want sunny skies and fair winds. You don’t want to wait out a norther that’s blown out all the best anchorages, or deal with days of rain and squalls. So we try to find a place that, in season, provides day after day of nice conditions.

Next on our list is places to provision. Beyond weather, the other thing that makes the trip, as any pro crew can tell you, is what’s on the table. Rebecca loves to make and serve good food, and she needs the ingredients to do it.

We also look for a variety of experiences, with relatively short distances between anchorages. Part of what we love to share about the cruising life is the contrast between civilization and the wild, between relaxing and exploring. We have learned that long days of sailing burn out the guests, leaving little time for eating, socializing and land excursions. And we like to cruise downwind and one way if possible. If you’re going to deliver the goods, why not go for the best sailing conditions? One-way travel shows off the best anchorages while economizing precious time. 

It’s also important to have cell service and/or Wi-Fi. Most of us cruisers know how to carve out blissful days and weeks of being unplugged. But expect your guests to need to stay in touch. Another must-have is transportation hubs. Ideally, you will pick up and drop off your guests near a major airport, and you will meet them at a dock. Having made some insane surf landings in a dinghy filled with guests in nice clothes clutching their luggage and electronics, I can tell you that this is important.

Based on these criteria, we’ve found several places in our voyages that fit the bill nicely. Our latest favorite is the Costalegre, a sublime stretch of largely undeveloped Pacific coastline south of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.

This cruising ground has fine weather in winter, with sea temperatures warm enough that swimming is enjoyable. There is plentiful marine life. The route has excellent marinas at either end, tranquil anchorages along the way, and miles of untouched golden beaches. And thanks in part to billionaire telecom pioneer Carlos Slim—whose 52-meter Feadship, Ostar, ­frequents these waters—there is cell service along much of the route. We have an AT&T unlimited plan, which gives us calls and data in Mexico at no extra expense. 

Our itinerary is planned well in advance. By now, we know better than to just wake up every morning and ask, “What do you guys want to do?” The plan must have regular mealtimes and a set schedule for everything. Otherwise, half the boat wants to do one thing, half another. Without some order, people neglect their sunscreen and forget to eat. Misery ensues.

“We just want to spend time with you on the boat,” your friends might say. 

But it’s unlikely they really want to do nothing at all. It takes a well-practiced layabout, far from the shores of deadlines and industry, to suspend all Type A impulses and just be. Anchor out, sleep in, eat breakfast sometime after noon, swim, sunbathe, read and repeat. Our ideal day is not for everyone! Nor do the guests want to wait out a three-day blow while organizing every locker to pass the time. 

“We’ll help with anything you need,” they say.

But that does not mean they want to scrub the bottom, replace the holding-­tank macerator, or polish anything. They definitely would not enjoy standing watch in a marginal anchorage and shining the spotlight anxiously on a jagged lee shore all night long. And guests should not be cooking or barbecuing on a boat in which they know nothing of its hazards, workarounds and idiosyncrasies. The duty of squeezing a pile of fresh, juicy Mexican limes might be a better fit.

Down Mexico Way

“South of the border”—as Sinatra crooned—on the Costalegre, we start the trip from Puerto Vallarta, where guests can arrive on any number of cheap daily flights. We dock our Beneteau 361, Liberte, at either Paradise Village Marina or Marina Village Nayarit at La Cruz so we can tidy up, do laundry, wash the boat, and fill the tanks prior to guest arrival. For provisions, we head to Costco, or the equally impressive big-box stores Soriana or Chedraui. Rebecca soaks the fruits and veggies in our sinks using Microdyn or BacDyn Plus, both readily available.

Prior to a trip, we have our guests fill out preference sheets, another carryover from our previous experience as charter crew. These list emergency contacts and passport numbers, along with any medical conditions and food allergies. We also remind them not to pack much. (Besides, we’ll need room in their luggage for that inevitable replacement boat part or last-minute Amazon order.)

When the airport taxi drops our guests at Liberte, appetizers and drinks are ­waiting. In these waters, it’s margaritas, guacamole and pico de gallo, all made from scratch. Our guests get a boat orientation, including the all-important tutorial on using the head. We talk about conserving water and power, how to charge their devices, and how to make coffee if you’re the first person up.

Banderas Bay is a destination in its own right, a fun place to spend some time before you head south. Begin eyeballing the weather forecast for rounding Cabo Corrientes, which like any cape, big or small, deserves respect. Mike Danielson, who runs PV Sailing, offers a daily weather briefing on the Banderas Bay cruiser’s net at 0830, Monday through Saturday, on 22A.

Check out the farmers market on Sunday in La Cruz and Tuesday in Paradise Village. The Paradise Village Yacht Club holds a regular racing series on the bay, with its amazingly consistent sea breeze that fills in every afternoon, bang-on schedule. And Marina Village Nayarit holds a steady stream of seminars on all things cruising.

If you’re in La Cruz, definitely wander the town in the evening and eat some streetside tacos. In Paradise Village, your guests can stroll the resort to see the resident tigers (rescued from private collectors) and swim in one of the resort’s pools. As you sail Banderas Bay, dolphins will certainly greet you at some point, and possibly humpback whales. Off La Cruz, you’ll often see Lasers from the International Sailing Academy, tacking and jibing crisply under the guidance of Olympic coaches. 

When it’s time to go south and you have a favorable forecast around Cabo Corrientes, consider an overnight passage. Technically, you can pull into Punta Ipala, just past Cabo Corrientes, but there isn’t a lot of room in the anchorage due to underwater hazards and fishing boats on moorings. So, a better landfall is Chemela Bay, which is 90 miles or 15 hours of sailing away, your longest passage on this trip. We like to depart in midafternoon to catch the tail end of the sea breeze, round the cape at sunset, and arrive in Chemela after sunrise.

RELATED: Sailing to Mexico with the Baja Ha-Ha

The prevailing winter seasonal breeze along the Costalegre is out of the northwest, which makes for a nice broad reach as you go. The swells are also pushing from astern. The sea breeze dies out around sunset, but if you’re lucky, a land breeze will come up by midnight. Now you’ve switched from starboard to port tack, sailing upwind but in mellow conditions. I’ve always enjoyed the contrast of booming along this coast in a rollicking sea breeze, followed by the subtleties of night sailing in a fragrant offshore wind.

Chemela Bay is a lovely place to spend some time. If the Pacific swell is mellow, find an anchorage amid the 11 islands in the bay, a protected nature sanctuary. The snorkeling here among the rocks can be grand, as is exploring by paddleboard. We keep two inflatable boards on Liberte’s deck for just such an occasion. If there is a swell and the anchorages look like they have too much surge, head for the northwest corner of the bay and anchor off the little fishing town of Punta Perula. 

Here, as throughout your trip, you will see pangas and their pangeros handling them with skill. Sometimes you might think that they’re passing too close and too fast to your anchored boat for your taste, but these are their home waters, and they know the way. The pangeros are a breed all their own: part Old Man and the Sea, part gondolier. If they see you in need, pangeros will come to your aid. If it’s fish you desire for dinner, wave them over and arrange a trade. Much like cruisers, these men enjoy the freedom of the ocean and are ­self-sufficient and super-handy. 

Chemela offers a chance to stroll the beach for as far as your legs want to go. If waves are booming and you don’t want to try your luck with a surf landing, head up the little inlet near town and tie up where the local boats do. If the cook needs ­something extra for the galley, you can buy it in one of the excellent small tiendas. Or enjoy a meal on the beachfront. For dessert, make sure to hail a passing vendor and buy their cocadas. These homemade candies from shredded coconut and condensed milk are pure heaven.

On Liberte, the pool is always open. We have a boat with a sugar-scoop stern, so once the ladder goes down (with a suitable briefing about currents or any other hazards), we have the world’s best swimming hole off the back of the boat. We also teach our guests the cruiser’s trick of rinsing off with the deck shower after the afternoon (or night) swim, so they’ve done double-duty and showered too. This helps avoid the water tanks running dry—one of the banes of having guests aboard.

From Chemela Bay, as you can see by consulting your cruising guide (we recommend the splendid Pacific Mexico: A Cruiser’s Guidebook, by Shawn Breeding and Heather Bansmer), you will see that it is 30 nautical miles, or five hours sailing, to the next major anchorage. But if you have an extra day or so, and especially if the swell is relatively gentle, there are a couple of stops, often overlooked, that will add some extra magic to your voyage. Paraisio is a wild little pocket anchorage that defies description and is good in south winds. Careyes is a little slice of the Mediterranean, and if you look at the charts closely, you’ll see a place to anchor in decent protection off this super-exclusive enclave. The reward is a backdrop of brightly colored homes on the cliffs, an excellent restaurant on the beach, and a far-out, sun-soaked vibe where polo players mingle with reclusive artists and world travelers.

Kickin’ Way Back

The next stop is Tenacatita, where a little community of cruisers anchors for months at a go. You can tune in to the morning cruiser’s net to give your guests a taste of this life. The cruisers have a daily afternoon social hour where they swim to shore, walk the beach and play bocce, and they would welcome you to join. Or anchor out at the nearby—and aptly named—Aquarium, where your guests can snorkel to the reef right from the boat.

Rebecca loves to fish, so we cruise this coast with a line in the water and a lure dancing in our wake. If the reel sings, it might be dorado or tuna. The most frequent catch we’ve had lately is Pacific crevalle jack, a fish that fights so hard that its local nickname is toro, for bull. Not everyone sees this mighty gamefish as food, but we beg to differ. The best advice is to treat it like beef, and so we do. Bleed the fish right away, remove the bloodline (dark area with a strong taste), marinate for at least an hour, then grill to medium on the barbecue. Serve with horseradish. There’s your sea-to-table sustenance, as fresh and local as it gets.

Sooner or later on this coast, all routes lead to Barra de Navidad. In our beloved Barra, you can anchor in a protected lagoon, or take a slip at the marina in front of Grand Isla Navidad Resort. The town is low-key, colorful, full of great restaurants, and fun to explore. The French baker comes around by panga every morning, delivering a boatload of deliciously tempting goods. There’s yoga on the beach at the hotel, and water taxis anytime you need a ride to town.

Barra has its own charming, miniature malecon, where we go to watch earth-shattering sunsets and bask in the perfectly warm evenings. There’s ­indigenous art for sale, a surf shop and a small surf break. The local kids have perfected the tricky sport of skimboarding, and it’s a treat to sit on the beach in the afternoon and watch them have a go. Rent a beach umbrella for $5, sip from a fresh coconut, and plunge into the ocean and the sun at regular intervals until you’ve achieved seaside nirvana.

If it’s time for your guests to say adios, they can easily depart from here. They can hire a driver to take them back to Puerto Vallarta ($100 and three hours), or fly out of ZLO Manzanillo, which is only a 25-minute drive away. Or, if they want a final dose of the good life, head south one more day. Take an afternoon cruise down the coast to Las Hadas, go for a swim, and watch the lights twinkle on in this fairy-tale resort. It’s an easy taxi ride to ZLO from here.

If you’ve done your job right, your guests have had the trip of a lifetime. On their fair-weather Costalegre cruise, they browsed markets, combed beaches, explored little towns, ate their fill of fresh tacos, and marveled at whales. They enjoyed star shows, epic sunsets and sparkling mornings. They practiced their Spanish and added a new reality or two to their world. Perhaps you even managed to con them, Tom Sawyer-style, into cleaning the bottom or shining a bit of stainless, after all.

We always take plenty of photos, and we put together a Google Photos album of the best to send to our guests. We’ve found that our brains enjoy a trip three ways: the planning and anticipation, the travel itself, and the recollections.

And, perhaps most important, don’t forget a little R&R for the crew. Because, as Rebecca and I can attest, there is a little hideaway, just around the corner from the bright lights of Manzanillo’s port city. Go there, just for you. It’s a steep-walled anchorage with caves where you can hear the sea inhaling and exhaling. Wait for the first stars and a sliver of crescent moon, and listen to water ebbing and flowing all around you. It’s like floating in the middle of a haiku. After dark, strip down and jump in. The bioluminescence flickers around your body, electric blue. The Milky Way glows overhead.

By now, your guests are somewhere back in the (un)real world, and you are immersed in the gentle rhythms of the cruising life again. Together, you have added another bright chapter to life, thanks to that most excellent memory-making machine that is your sailboat.

David Kilmer cut his teeth on nautical ­hospitality in the Caribbean, as colorfully described in his book A Peril to Myself and Others: My Quest to Become a Captain.

How to be a “Superguest”

So we’ve explained how to be a great host. But how does one achieve greatness from the guest perspective? Here’s how:

• Pack light. Leave room to bring boat parts, the newest issue of Cruising World, and treats. 
• Leave your troubles at home. Show up excited, curious and grateful. Sail in the now.
• Learn how the boat works. And help keep it in one piece. Don’t waste water or clog the head.
• Be a considerate shipmate. Go to bed when you see your hosts yawning. Take up a small space, and help keep a tidy ship. 
• Share your preferences. Be specific when asked about what you want to drink, eat and do. “I’m easy” or “I’m good with whatever” doesn’t work.
• Find a small boat job. Learn the ship’s method to do dishes or swab decks, or be the trip photographer. Know that the crew usually does not need help.
• Keep your eyes sharp. If you see, hear or sense something amiss, let the captain know.
• Express gratitude. Offer cash, meals ashore, or a reciprocal experience in your favorite vacation spot. Write in the ship’s guest book about what you loved most.

The post Inviting your friends to come cruising and hoping to host like pros without losing your mind? appeared first on Cruising World.

This land-travel business is complicated! We’re often asked what it’s like checking in and out of foreign countries by boat. After our Thanksgiving weekend adventure, it feels simpler!

One benefit of the Cabrales Boatyard, where Totem is located at the moment, is how close the boatyard is to the US — it’s only an hour from the Arizona border. We make runs up to Arizona for supplies, especially for things that are simpler to pick up at an Ace Hardware than they are to track down in the small town of Puerto Peñasco. Our path north towards Phoenix and back is familiar enough that some of the stately saguaro cacti are like familiar friends, landmarks along the way.

For Thanksgiving we planned a different route. Another benefit of the border proximity is the chance to visit family. Thanksgiving weekend prompts more travel in the US than any other holiday weekend and we were excited to meet up with extended relatives at Jamie’s cousin’s home in Carlsbad, California. The California scenery would be an added benefit.

We packed the car with our long list of things, including some Mexican specialties (like a little sipping bacanora – an agave product like tequila made only in Sonora; it’s a smoky, spicy treat) and a few of the ingredients and cooking tools we planned to use in the dishes we hoped to contribute to the feast.

Google mapped the route as a 6.5-hour drive but the trip ended up taking us more than 13 hours from beginning to the end. The biggest delay resulted from us driving two hours out of town and realizing we had forgotten our passports. Oops! We had to go all the way back to Puerto Peñasco, retrieve our passports, and get back on the road. Good grief. Aren’t we supposed to be savvy travelers? We all laughed about it but that was four hours we didn’t need to spend driving – and $75 worth of gas.

We’d decided to cross the border at Mexicali/Calexico — when we got close we had to locate the back end of the border crossing line, a line with cars stretched for about a mile. We discovered that the gate was running on holiday hours and was due to close in about 20 minutes, at 2pm in the afternoon! 

What?! This crossing is typically open until midnight! There was no way we’d make it to the front of the slow line by 2pm, so we kept driving west – knowing that no matter what time we got to Tijuana, at least that border crossing was open 24 hours.

Again, we laughed at the situation – but maybe a little less than we’d laughed after the passport gaffe, though. It wasn’t a big deal, just a different route. I wondered aloud would the rule of threes kick in? What was our third challenge? Two hours later, we found out. 

When we arrived in Tijuana, we aimed for the easternmost of the border crossings, as it had a shorter estimated transit time. Shorter, as in the predicted wait time on the Customs and Border Patrol’s website was for 230 minutes (yes, estimated in minutes) instead of 250 minutes (yes, that’s more than four hours) once you are actually in the line for the border station. And then, another twist: after following signs from the highway towards the border crossing, our route brought us to a point that intersected with the line of cars at a midpoint. We couldn’t cut into the line – we had to go around. The line wound out of sight, with no signs and no indication of where to find the end. We noted that event #3 had arrived: a trifecta! We wished we’d packed better snacks.

After an hour of searching and inching through Tijuana rush hour traffic, we still had no idea where the end of the line was. We worked our way through a back neighborhood, hoping to find a route parallel to the border crossing line. Somewhere in the side streets of Tijuana, Jamie spotted a street sign that said San Diego, 805 (the US border highway). We turned sharply to follow the arrow because, really, what did we have to lose? We found ourselves crawling toward the border with, again, no clear directions, all the while assuming we were inadvertently in border crossing lanes intended for people with pre-approved documentation (special RFID cards, or Sentri passes) which we did not have. I smiled and tried not to get discouraged, but I felt awfully discouraged anyway. I was prepared to plead our case with a border official and ready to plead to be allowed through instead of spending another couple of hours in Tijuana traffic.

And then, through sheer luck, our lane turned out to be general traffic line. A border crossing line for anyone! The border crossing patrol guards never even looked at our faces, although they wanted to know why our family’s passports differed from each other. All of our passports are United States passports, but their renewal dates span a few years of government changes in technology, I guess, and at least one is peppered with scores of immigration stamps.

I don’t think I have ever been so relieved to cross a border in my life, and we’ve crossed a few.

Clearing borders by sea is rarely the same twice. We enter the process having completed due diligence to the best of our ability, but with a meaningful portion left unknown. You get there, and you figure it out, with the best intentions possible.

When we arrived in Comoros it took three days of what felt like negotiations, all in a language we did not speak, for our unofficial agent to officially secure our formal entry.

In Namibia, we had our steps for clearance out of order but were gently redirected to get on track for the right offices in the right sequence.

In Australia, the clearance and immigration officer, Mortimer, swapped the lanyard IDs on his neck as he swapped clearance roles for our arrival, all the while cheerfully detailing the many ways in which local wildlife could kill us, and how sorry he was about the $5,000 fine being levied on another other boat in the harbor that hadn’t given enough advance notice of their arrival.

Why did these border crossings and so many others feel easier? Somehow, in each of these, there was an assumed loss of control: doing our best to be prepared, then placing faith in the process. And perhaps in the many months we’ve now spent more stationary instead of itinerant, some of the expectations of privilege have crept back unwelcome into our psyches. Winding aimlessly around Tijuana’s back streets in the dusk, then after dark, felt like an incalculably greater strain on us than wondering whether we should wait in the quarantine anchorage for Seychelles officials to arrive or dinghy in to meet them in the port.

It probably didn’t help that the Mexico border crossing came at the tail end of a series of travel mishaps. While in a hotel in Phoenix before our flight to Baltimore for the Annapolis Boat show in October, I realized that I’d forgotten all my underwear (it’s hard to swing a cactus in Phoenix without hitting a Target store, so that was solved easily enough). In addition, twice in the last few months we’ve been barred from crossing from the US back into Mexico due to registration, um, issues with our vehicle. This resulted in bonus hotel nights in Arizona before trying again. And on that last trip, when we tried to cross from the US to Mexico, the Mexican border officials tried to bribe us via a Google Translate text on the phone. They invited us to pay $200 for the opportunity of proceeding across the Mexican border instead of getting sent back to the US. We paid for a hotel back in Arizona instead.

Our family in Carlsbad refilled our cups, literally and figuratively, restoring balance and reminding us what’s really important. Some deep breaths later, the very short stretch of uncertainty and tension was forgotten. I cannot wait to navigate the clearance into French Polynesia (which will be a dream, as we’ll work with the excellent Tahiti Crew agent) and learn the processes for whatever other ports we may be able to seek out in 2022.For a primer on how we check into countries by boat, see Demystifying International Clearance for Cruisers.

The post Sailing Totem: When Well-seasoned Travelers Fail appeared first on Cruising World.

A proposed Trans-Isthmus Corridor project across Mexico would connect the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean by rail and highway, which could serve as an alternative to the Panama Canal. When completed, cruisers could potentially haul out and truck their boat the relatively short distance from one side of the isthmus to the other.

President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador is urging approval to build transportation along the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Nearly 190 miles across, the isthmus is the narrowest landmass in Mexico. Cargo companies and ­private-­vessel owners view the proposed project as an overland alternative to the Panama Canal, which many cruisers know can be intimidating, expensive, lengthy and sometimes dangerous. Mexico sees the Panama Canal as a ­monopoly, and this project as an opportunity to help customers with a new route to save time, distance and, potentially, money. By avoiding the canal route, the distance saved could be up to 1,000 nautical miles in either direction, although any cost savings is undisclosed at this time.

RELATED: Sailing to Mexico with the Baja Ha-Ha

The project would include a modern railway and highway to connect the Port of Salina Cruz in Oaxaca’s state on the Pacific with the Port of Coatzacoalcos in the state of Veracruz on the Gulf. Mexico envisions this project as a source of new jobs and increased competitiveness for its economy; it includes wind energy, business parks, telecommunications and services for the region. However, it is not without its critics, which include human-rights groups and environmental organizations. President Lopez Obrador cites a focus on helping the Indigenous people and the economy while protecting the environment—a tall order for a project of this size and ­complexity. If approved, the world will be watching to see that construction treads lightly because this region has one of the highest concentrations of biological species on Earth.

Historically, the isthmus was first used to haul ships by rail in 1907 when the American Hawaiian Steamship Company pulled its cargo vessels across on the Tehuantepec National Railway, carrying passengers and sugar from Hawaii to New York. This use ended due to politics between the US and Mexico, the Panama Canal opening in 1914, and World War I.

If this project is right for Mexico’s people and economy, let us hope that it will set a standard for major projects globally by also protecting Indigenous people and the environment.

The post A Panama Canal Alternative appeared first on Cruising World.

“It’s the world flattest anchorage!” Jamie quips from Totem’s main cabin. We’re propped on jackstands in the shipyard, and truly, it is so flat! On our last night afloat, I savored every lick of water whispering through the hull. It’s an unnatural feeling not to have that gentle movement, that soundtrack of life on the water.

Flat it may be; easy living it is not. Life on the hard can be, well, hard. The ladder to get on board, the inconvenience of having not quite normal use of water and holding tanks, our reluctance to use the yard’s community shower/toilet facilities before vaccinations kicked in. But we can deal with all of that, and we have—over six haulouts. Even when Puerto Peñasco hit the scorcher weeks of summer (did it ever go below 100°F from August until nearly the end of September? I’m not sure it did), we’ve always stayed on board while in the boatyard…until now. We have just become CLODS—Cruisers Living On Dirt.

Home sweet apartment

I’m writing this from an actual desk in an actual one-bedroom flat on a quiet street a short walk from Totem. It’s quite surreal. We’re still getting our land legs. Our temporary home is in a compound belonging to a family who has built out a number of informal units to let.

It’s an extension of this already social yard: every unit is occupied by another cruiser doing work at nearby Cabrales Boatyard! Passing along apartments here, cruiser to cruiser, has become almost a word of mouth tradition. We all appreciate the local-style ambiance: trees surrounding the compound mean our mornings are garnished with birdsong. In the evening we have dinner on the porch, listening to neighborhood children playing soccer on the sand road that runs to the east.

Adjusting to land

The first sign that we were, well, fish out of water was when we moved furniture around (comes with! Bonus!). Mairen used the descriptors fore and aft, and inboard and outboard, to give directions. We did have a discussion and determine that there wasn’t a way to have port and starboard sides of the apartment.

Then there are all the crazy new appliances. A few days in, Siobhan made chocolate chip cookies. (Tangent: it turns out that land ovens actually get really hot, and they do it really fast… cue pizza night!) She called from the galley, I mean kitchen, to say the process would have to wait a while so the butter could soften. I pointed out the miraculous properties of the microwave on the counter, and commenced the ancient mother/daughter ritual of transferring this valuable knowledge.

Some changes are easier to make! We don’t have to call a pumpout truck. There are a couple of air conditioners we’ll be especially grateful for soon. The freezer freezes things (laugh, sure, but we haven’t been able to keep ice cream hard since ever)! We will enjoy the coffeemaker and toaster, but do fine without them later too.

Why we’re moving ashore

It wasn’t necessary before—why now? We have plans that require turning portions of not just the exterior, but the interior of Totem into a workzone: it’s not really habitable. And the weather…  have I mentioned the weeks over 100°F?  One of my favorite sayings in life is “misery is optional,” and I think that might just qualify. That 2019 summer saw heat index routinely 110°+. It’s really nice to retreat to a clean, cool abode.

The last few nights we were on board, dust grinding fiberglass on the transom as Jamie cut in the swim steps had wafted through those mysterious routes air finds inside and settled onto our bedding. No. Just, no. I am OK with a lot of things, sleeping in fiberglass dust isn’t one of them, and we moved just in time to keep the happy factor at a reasonable level on board.

In other news

On the shortlist of things to catch up on once we settled into Puerto Peñasco were some routine checkups. Siobhan was interested in contacts and Jamie felt his prescription was changing, so we trundled up to get eye exams with more sophisticated equipment than we’d had locally before.

Surprise: Jamie’s left eye had a cataract! Double whammy: at a surgical consult a week later, it turns out both his eyes have posterior cataracts. WELL THEN. Add cataract surgery to the fun and games on Jamie’s docket. We’re proceeding with surgery ASAP and he’s excited about the prospect of clearer vision.

An ophthalmologist/cruiser friend pointed out that being relatively young for this diagnosis (a good two decades younger than the average age for cataract surgery in the US) means Jamie’s eyes should be easier to operate on. And I’ll call the circumstance of timing fortunate, too. Thanks to demographics, nearby Arizona has a saturated market for ophthalmology services. That means a lot of options when researching for a quality surgeon, and competitive rates (it’s all out of pocket. Ouch. And we’ll deal, as always.)

Maybe now the kids will wear sunglasses? Maybe.

Learning opportunities: routing and sails

Routing fundamentals. planning from the big picture to passages, with considerations for better efficiency and comfort along the way. Jamie and I are delivering this for the Salty Dawg Sailing Association; register for Route Planning Strategies – A Cruisers Perspective on their website ($12 for non-SDSA members).

Sails for cruising. Last weekend we held our latest TOTEM TALKS, and Jamie held forth on his area of expertise: sails! amie has a unique blend of experience as a professional sailmaker… who took his proficiency cruising, and learned a lot about how well-intentioned sailmakers sometimes miss particular needs cruisers have. The replay is now online! Listen in to gain no-nonsense insight on sails for cruisers.

The post Sailing Totem: Cruiser Speak—The CLODs appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

Stepping off the bow while Totem hung in the Travelift at Cabrales Boatyard’s slipway, Jamie and I wondered to each other how Totem’s bottom would look once we could step back and look. We’re three years into our Coppercoat application. It’s worked for us, but we had just spent more than three months sitting in a high-growth area. Parked in Santa Rosalia, the dirty harbor and cold water left us uninterested in jumping in to clean.

Coppercoat myths or misconceptions

Stepping back: our article in the recent issue of Cruising World – now online! – breaks down a number of the myths that exist around using this particular type of antifouling (don’t call it paint. It’s epoxy). We’ve been happy with it, but for some reason it’s…controversial? Misunderstood? It seems to spark opinions, at any rate. To understand the range of experiences, I spoke at length to a number of cruisers to try and get a handle on the critical success factors, and why it worked for some but not others.

The details are in that article linked above. The short version: there are two main factors in a happy outcome. First, getting it applied correctly, which isn’t as simple as slapping on fresh paint – that includes exposing the suspended copper, too. We outlined the step-by-step process on Totem. Second, the expectations from boat owners on how it works (it’s not magical! Less frequent, easier cleaning… not zero cleaning).

Ultimately, the DIYers tend to be happier campers. Nobody cares about getting it right as much as you do! We’re also more likely to be ready to pop into the water to wipe down slime. OK, except when it’s cold and we’re stuck in a dirty harbor… this was not a banner winter for our crew. Thus the touch of trepidation we had before getting a look at the bottom upon last month’s haul.

How Totem’s Coppercoat fared

Jamie and I stepped back from the Travelift, and checked out Totem’s bottom. The first look left us slightly dismayed; from a distance, we could see some three-dimensional striation on the hull. We looked at each other, shrugged, and got on with other tasks. To understand the range of experiences, I spoke at length to a number of cruisers to try and get a handle on the critical success factors, and why it worked for some but not others – although the story told is ours.

Realizing key benefits

Coppercoat has been a big win for us, and getting into our third year of cruising in a high-growth area gives us confidence in the results. We’re experiencing most of the major benefits first hand (hauling again is for other reasons!):

Cleaning less often. At first this was deliberate. We wanted to observe the rate and type of growth first hand. Now we know how much less cleaning is needed, at least in Pacific Mexico. It’s not just less frequently needed (about monthly), it’s mostly soft, and even if there’s some hard growth—cleaning is dramatically easier with the hard epoxy bottom compared to conventional paint.

Being kinder to the environment. This is such a big win, and where we value Coppercoat most: how it has allowed us to be kinder and gentler to the marine environment around us. I’m so happy about this!

Hauling less frequently. One of the real assets of Coppercoat is not needing to haul as often to repaint the bottom. Oops! We’ve hauled anyway, but not because we had to address bottom paint.

Is Coppercoat expensive?

There was no difference in cost for us to apply Coppercoat, in comparison to the second-choice hard paint we had picked out as a Plan B. But we had the benefit of starting from a bare hull. Bottom preparation can be extensive (we wrote about ours in detail), and it’s both important and necessary: this why people complain about the cost of Coppercoat. So the cost isn’t Coppercoat; it’s the level of prep you may (or may not) be required to do.

Four other Coppercoat stories

In preparing for the article in Cruising World, I spoke I spoke with a number of folks who shared their experiences. Here are a few that didn’t make it into the final piece; each highlights a different aspect of the antifouling to consider.

Complexity: overseas sourcing

Jim and Barbara Cole took a cue from evolving regulations when deciding what to put on their Hallberg-Rassy Complexity’s bottom in Malaysia. Standards were bending towards more environmentally friendly rules: they looked for a paint that complied with strict California law. While researching copper leaching data, Barbara learned that Coppercoat exceeded the California standards by a factor of 10!

Their international application had a few hiccups as they pieced together supplies. “The rollers that were available for the application had too long of a nap. This left a lot of texture in the finished surface. I spent many days sanding off precious copper. If I had it to do over again, I would seriously consider hiring the local spray painter to apply the Coppercoat.”

In 2020 they sailed from Southeast Asia to the Mediterranean, through the Red Sea. “Before each leg of our passages to the Med, our young crew cleaned the bottom. There was very little to scrape, mostly just slime. What few barnacles were on the bottom came off very easily. When our crew cleaned bottoms for other boats in our group, it sometimes took them several days to do one boat. They could always do our bottom in an hour or so.”

Soulianis: DIY perspective

Lauren and Kirk decided to DIY their Coppercoat application when they put it on the bottom of their Tartan 37, Soulianis in Florida in 2018. They cruise the warmer waters of the Bahamas and Florida, and have had to haul a few times for travel away from the boat. “I am super pumped I haven’t had to paint again each time before splashing. That for me is the biggest win so far.” But to hear Kirk’s description of the maintenance routine—”last year, we were in the water from Feb-June and only scrubbed it twice. There has been some growth but not much”—it’s sounds like a win on the antifouling front, too.

The couple are clear about the tradeoff of cruising kitty funds for effort: “…it absolutely IS a DIY job; you can do it with zero experience, and our hull is proof. But, be forewarned: It is one hell of a big job.”

Grateful: bottom prep blues

Jamie and Niki knew application was key, and decided to research experienced pros to put Coppercoat on their Fountaine Pajot Lavezzi 40, Grateful. “After stripping old bottom paint down to the epoxy barrier, our contractor insisted on applying an additional epoxy barrier prior to the Coppercoat. Six months after the Coppercoat was applied and on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean from our contractor, we found several areas where the second epoxy barrier coat had peeled off and others with numerous tiny blisters.” Coppercoat remained tenaciously adhered to the epoxy – but the epoxy was literally falling off the boat! They suspect a residual chemical contamination from paint stripping, but they’ll never know.

When hauling a year later, the fix was a low-drama event: they applied Coppercoat on the exposed, original epoxy. This has been problem-free in the years since.

Distant Shores III: incomplete initial application

Paul and Sheryl Shard know their way around boats, after more than three decades of living aboard and cruising—sharing their stories by videos first on TV, and now also on YouTube.

They decided to put Coppercoat on the bottom of their third and most recent Southerly, Distant Shores III. But the rush to launch and get the boat to the boat show in Düsseldorf meant that the application wasn’t completed properly. The cured epoxy wasn’t burnished to Coppercoat’s instructions, and it might have been snowing during the application. Antifouling fail resulted!

The couple later hauled the boat under warranty in Annapolis to have the bottom re-done and properly burnished. The difference in performance is striking. Sheryl says: “Distant Shores III was in the water in Panama for seven months of lockdown, but looked like new when we returned.”

Touching up Coppercoat

Totem is getting some spa treatment here at Cabrales Boatyard. Among the projects: hull painting. This means we could adjust the waterline slightly and it’s tempting. While we don’t need to raise the waterline, per se (a tactic used when boats are loaded down more than they should be), the fact that growth does creep above the waterline makes it tempting to push it up. The verdigris tint would be a fine peek of color below whatever we pick for our boot stripe… thumb wrestling on that choice is ongoing! Otherwise, our antifouling shouldn’t need work for many, many years.

The post Sailing Totem: Coppercoat, Three Years On appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

“Don’t make them like they used to!” One of the refrains about cruising boats is how newer vessels don’t have the desirable qualities of their older brethren. It’s not inaccurate to say they’re different, but it’s not right to suggest older boats built for bluewater sailing are better.

Totem is nearly 40 years old. Our current Old Boat Headache is rotting stainless steel. Yes, rotting!

This week Jamie pulled out our cockpit drains. They looked OK; just a little surface rust, no big deal. Except stainless steel doesn’t age well, and these are original. Knowing the stainless surface we can’t see is where stainless trouble happens, and having replaced nearly all stainless steel on board, it was time to upgrade this minor component. This would be an easy starter project to tackle as we got into the groove of shipyard life again. When the drains were pulled, this crumbling rust is what we found under that shinier top.

Classic bluewater or new production?

Totem is a Stevens 47 (later evolved Hylas 47s, and same mold for the long line of Hylas 49s); these are among the makes put on a pedestal for their suitability to offshore sailing. We wouldn’t disagree that Totem has been an excellent magic carpet to safely carry our family across oceans. But suggestions that newer, “production” boats are inferior isn’t fair, either. It’s a longer discussion (and one we get into somewhat in our TOTEM TALKS about what makes a bluewater boat: link from our Events page to watch the replay).

Taking this from the other side: the assumption that older bluewater boats are better, because of the build quality differences, isn’t accurate. Something buyers fail to appreciate is that older boats come with old boat problems—like those deck drains, along with chainplates, tanks, cleats, stanchion bases, standing rigging, steering chain/cable, and countless fasteners. It’s a small example but represents the wider problems that may not be apparent at purchase, despite a good surveyor’s efforts. Refitting core components can add up significantly, and may leave a hopeful cruiser struggling with a money pit instead of another fine sunset at anchor.

Boat listings commonly mislead

Sometimes, buyers are simply so taken by the promise of affordably buying their “proven” bluewater boat that they fail to appreciate the full investment required. Boat listings are often more marketing mud than truth: “ready to go,” “she knows the way,” “hop aboard and sail away!” Our new cockpit drains are only $59 each, an inexpensive DIY repair. Listings that don’t detail rigging age, accurate engine hours, weeping through hulls, or those glassed-in chainplates that seemed like a good idea in 1979 but now represent a serious PITA project may just keep you in the boatyard longer than resources support. There’s a good looking, highly-respected UK built bluewater boat near us staring down a rusty cast iron fuel tank (among other projects) and wondering how much time is left ticking on that bomb.

Jamie decided to follow up on the cockpit drains by removing Totem’s deck drains. These drains aren’t necessary with our perforated toe rail (the lip is about 3/16ths of an inch); water simply doesn’t accumulate. Totem originally came with three drains per side. He removed four of them in 2007, but not the final ones because it meant a cosmetic above the waterline patch job. Now that we’re staring down a paint job, out they’ve come – and the only way was in pieces!  Another case of seriously rotten steel.

Meanwhile on Totem

We’re still coming to grips with the scope of our projects for this haulout, but it’s been a very busy start in several ways. We had three trips to the USA in three weeks. It started with J&J COVID vaccinations at the high school gymnasium in Ajo, Arizona.

Then we road tripped with Salvador Cabrales, who runs the show for cruisers in his shipyard, in his big rig to San Diego. Salvador was picking up a boat to truck back to Mexico; we were picking up a car generously loaned by friends. We tagged in a bonus day to spend time with cousins in Carlsbad.

The subsequent trip to Phoenix got our youngest crew member on the COVID vaccination train (Siobhan couldn’t get J&J; that’s only 18+ currently). Last weekend was our “vaxxiversary” for the J&J shot. It feels very, very good to have our family on the road to all being fully vaccinated.

Little projects like the drains get us into the routine of shipyard life; we have a long haul[out] ahead. There are plenty of projects awaiting this 39.4-year-old boat. Of course, newer boats have their problems too; the newish Leopard adjacent is sorting out puzzling hull coating issues.

Maybe the dogma about the capabilities of new and old boats is a statement of crew competency more than actual capability.

Meanwhile, routines return: revisiting favorite taco carts, getting to know shipyard cat Dulce all over again, and sharing a drink with friends at the end of the day – and in this case, sharing it while we all muddle over older-boat challenges: rebuilding a rudder, replacing an engine, replacing rigging, galley remodel… And the list goes on.

In case you missed it

Last weekend on TOTEM TALKS: our topic was – get weather smart! We’ve heard so many sailors say “the forecast was wrong,” when usually it wasn’t wrong… it was mis-interpreted. Replay this session to hear how to avoid the typical mistakes in understanding GRIBs, and tips for downloading GRIBs offshore.

The post Sailing Totem: Hidden Issues in Older Boats appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

The passage was brief; just 250 nm from the middle of Baja to the top of Gulf. We broke it up over three days, spending the first night anchored and the second underway. As miles passed under Totem’s keel, the Sea of Cortez served up some of the best it has to offer, while reminding us of the worst.

Katabatic wind

The worst part, thankfully, was early and brief. This region serves up land-driven katabatic winds that are hard to accurately forecast; they earn every bit of respect you can give them. We knew there would be katabatic wind coming out of Santa Rosalia on Friday morning, and anticipated around 30 knots. Reality: solid 40s with a top gust at 52, right on the beam.

After two hours it abated, and the 20-knot range felt like a reprieve…until it clocked around to come out of the north. Of course, this was the direction we wanted to go. Unpleasant seas often go hand in hand with this wind, especially if current is involved; in the northern Sea, current is frequently involved. But within four hours of leaving the dock, the winds dropped to negligible levels and the seas flattened for the rest of the journey. Eventually, the horizon merged with the sky over geometric patterns of our wake.

Remote anchorages

The first day’s adverse conditions gave us a late arrival to our destination, Bahia San Francisquito. While we don’t like arriving after dark, we’d been here before: Totem’s prior tracks and anchor waypoints, and our familiarity with the bottom composition, made us comfortable slipping in in the dark hours before the moon rose. Not a single light winked out from shore. After the bustle of a village waterfront, the near silence of this bay amplified the smallest sounds: every rasp of water retreating from the rocks, every bird call, every distant coyote yip.

There was no need to rush off Saturday morning: we had plenty of time to go overnight and arrive in Puerto Peñasco before sunset on Sunday. Slow brunch matched the mood, and was the excuse to open a special jar of honey (yes, there are special jars of honey. Check out State Street Honey. Not just special because they are sailors!). Drizzled on cornbread toasted in the pan that fried up our bacon, it was a bit of heaven.

The girls called out from the bow to share critters they’d spotted in the water below. In the drift carved by our anchor chain, a pair of starfish appeared to have been spinning: perhaps they all found tasty treats in the disturbed bottom? Dozens of small stingrays—the little guys that whack you if you’re not careful—fluttered over the sand 20 feet down. A shovelnose shark—then a second—glided and grazed while the sunshine warmed our bones.

Friendly fisherfolk

Anchor up and underway, our northbound track wove between Baja’s mountains and the wild islands just off the coast. Bays we keep meaning to visit fall behind our wake with another promise to return, someday. Passing an island darkly named “Get out if you can”—Isla Salsipuedes—a panga comes charging up, the pangueros whistling to get our attention.

Jamie calls me to the cockpit, because my Spanish is better—but their universal sign for drinking is unmistakable. Agua, water, yes—we can help! Their stash ran thin, but we have plenty, and pass a few gallons filled from our tanks across along with a package of cookies. Would we like scallops? Why, yes, and thank you! With big smiles and gestures of gratitude on both sides, our boats part ways—and a kilo of gorgeous scallops remain aboard Totem.

The respite of being off-grid

Cell towers fade with the lights of Santa Rosalia; the northern Sea disconnects us from our internet tether in favor of connecting with the landscape and each other. Eagerly anticipating an internet break, we remain just in touch enough in contact with our IridiumGO. It’s welcome headspace to ruminate, to make plans, and to just share the space together.

Our progress is so smooth, Easter egg dying is possible. Dye concocted from turmeric (yellow), red cabbage (blue), and onion skins (chestnut) fills glasses nearly to the brim; one at a time, eggs lowered in to be steeped and tinted. They’re baked into a wreath-shaped braided loaf the following morning.

An organizational spurt strikes, and I turn around to find one of our pantry lockers has been emptied and is in the process of being cataloged. As much as wind to sail would be nice, the utter stillness makes it easy to see a distant school of fish, the centric circles marking cormorant’s duck dive or pelican’s cannonball. We look for whales.

On the whiteboard behind them, I spy the note tucked in with the honey: “May it sweeten the day, whether in a perfect anchorage, or heading into short interval seas on the nose.” It did exactly that!

Magical night watch

Northbound in the canal de ballenas—whale channel—we remember the fin whale that surfaced next to our dinghy in this stretch. The blue whale that paced next to us another year. The gray we heard was up this way not long ago. Several whales spotted early on the journey, but back in the windy stretch at the outset was hard to tell their spouts from spume; we couldn’t discern their direction, much less their number or species.

I come up on watch around 10pm after hearing voices in the cockpit. Jamie, Mairen and Siobhan are taking in bioluminescence: striking vibrance in symmetrical shapes that rise and expand and fade. My timing is off and only a few sparklers twinkle our wake. But the millpond sea offers another treat: it is so still, and so dark, that each individual star is reflected in it like a mirror. Gazing dumbfounded for several minutes at the beauty, I go below for my camera at last—only to find in those few seconds that a breath of wind ripples everywhere and the moment is left only to memory. Timing off again!

My watch passes uneventfully, with just a single shrimper. Red over white, fishing at night? This boat is lit more like a Christmas tree, but at least that makes it easy to keep clear! Darkness returns save a faint glow in the east that hints at pending moonrise. While waiting for it to peek over the horizon I simultaneously hear and feel the impact of a whale breaching very close to Totem. The night is so inky, I cannot even tell where it is—a boat length? Two? If there was any doubt, a loud exhale quells it. The whale—or whales?—breach five more times in succession. I listen breathlessly looking out in to the dark, simultaneously thrilled and terrified. The moon lights the surface of the water just a few minutes too late to assist.

Sunrise promises another day of gliding through nutrient rich waters in the northern Sea. We arrive in Peñasco and snap into a new reality. As soon as our anchor is set, jet skiers turn Totem into a target, and our view is a beach packed with holiday frolicking (this is the end of Semana Santa, Holy Week, the biggest vacation time of the year for Mexico).

Lying in our aft-cabin berth last night, the gentle rock of the boat and lap of water on the hull make me prematurely nostalgic. Today we’ll haul out at Cabrales Boatyard again, and will be propped on the hardstand for months. But this bittersweet edge on returning to the bustle and music of Peñasco, leaving our peaceful time afloat, doesn’t even register when weighed against how much we look forward to seeing our friends again. The miles we won’t make this year will wait longer, and meanwhile, the Sea has made us a gift of her finest.

Braided Easter Egg Bread

• 2.5 cups flour
• 2 Tbsp dried milk (optional)
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 package / 2.5 tsp dry yeast
• 2/3 cup water
• 2 Tbsp butter, softened
• 2 eggs
• 5 raw, dyed eggs (optional)

Warm water, and place in a large bowl with a tablespoon or so of the sugar; and sprinkle yeast on top to proof.

When proofed, stir in 2 eggs and remaining sugar. Add softened butter, 1 c of the flour, milk powder, salt, and beat well.

Gradually add remaining flour, about half a cup at a time, until you have a soft dough. Knead: you can turn it out onto a floured surface, but I usually just knead it in the bowl. It’s easier underway, and less to clean up! When the dough smooth and elastic, it’s ready to rise. If you’ve gathered the sticky bits off the side of the bowl, just add a tablespoon or so of oil and swirl the dough ball to coat it and the sides of the bowl. Cruisers don’t want to use up any more water on dishes than necessary.

Rise until doubled. Punch down, divide in two parts, and let rest for 10 minutes. Then roll each round into a snake, about a yard/meter long. Twist these two snakes around each other loosely, then form a ring – pinching the ends together. Place on a baking sheet (I have a silicone baking mat underneath; without you’d want to grease it). Pull spaces between the bands of dough and slide dyed eggs between them. Let rise again.

Bake. Who has a boat oven that actually can be set to a temperature? Feel lucky if you do! Just get it hot! If you’re trying on land, 350°F should do it. I brushed an egg wash on top; you could also use melted butter. Neither is necessary, but the make a lovely golden crust. Baking times are as ephemeral as oven temperatures, but it’s around 45-55 minutes. The eggs you’ve inserted in the dough bake in the oven to a nice soft-boiled texture.

The post Sailing Totem: Sea of Cortez Sendoff appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

Along part of the west coast of North America, hurricane season officially starts on May 15. That’s still just a date on the calendar; it’s unusual to worry about systems in the Sea of Cortez until sometime in August. Even so, we’re sailing north and hauling out next week.

Since learning at the beginning of the year that our engine had …issues, we have intended to get back to the Cabrales yard in Puerto Peñasco. It’s probably “just” a head gasket, but we wonder what other issues are looming after 8,00 hours of running it. It’s been reliable and we’re diligent with maintenance. But that’s a lot of transmission wear. And the seawater pump has recently started weeping. We believe a reliable engine is an important piece of safety gear on board, so it’s time for a Yanmar whisperer (if you know one, get in touch!). This could mean putting our engine into the back of a truck and driving it to San Diego; who knows. Expertise will help us determine if we’ll put money into our 76hp 4JH3-TE (turbo), or if we’ll start researching options to repower.

At a gut level we see this swinging towards a repower (and no, not even for a second contemplating engineless – in case you saw our April Fool’s Day posts on Facebook or Instagram). We would rather not repower further south in Mexico for a few reasons. Not because there aren’t good mechanics here. Actually, there are genius mechanics to be found! So, why the move?

First, we believe the process will be a lot easier with where we can drive new stuff over the border than shipping and importing it elsewhere. It’s only an hour to Arizona from there (Salvador swears you can do it in 45 minutes, we drive… more slowly!) And San Diego may be a good place to sell it for parts, if that’s the right decision.

Second, hurricane season isn’t THAT far off. Cabrales Boatyard is the only hardstand in the Sea of Cortez that is not impacted by hurricanes. Northerly wind events generated up in Four Corners, yes. These usually blow in the 30s, and we’ve seen 50 knots! That that’s not a hurricane. Over the years, historical tracks show tropical remnants that make it that far, and they have even less wind than the northers. Kansas has had more remnant hurricanes than Puerto Peñasco! If you want a safe place to leave your boat, this is it.

Third, that pandemic that’s on? Our family are all now eligible for vaccinations in north of the border. Why wait for our jabs when we could do it soon, as a number of other shipyard denizens have already done?

Fourth, we can visit friends and family so much more easily. Generous friends are again making a car they aren’t using available for us. Having wheels translates directly to quality time stateside to connect with people we love. We SINCERELY HOPE to be headed for remote islands in 2022, so those visits are extra precious. (Look out Castle clan, we are practicing our Chicago rummy!). Pictured here are my parents: known as Poppy and Plug to their grandchildren. Mum is in a residence for memory care, and after many months, Papa can finally visit her in person instead of through a pane of glass or a screen. She doesn’t know our names any more, but she KNOWS US, and it will be really nice to get some time with both of them.

Fifth, the prospect of time on the hard is making us look anew at other projects on Totem. While we refit in 2018 and 2019 with the intention of time in remote corners again (damn you, COVID!) as usual our spending was all on safety and reliability. This time, we’re looking at making a few aesthetic improvements. Totem is pretty scruffy, inside and out; while that’s not a big deal in the scheme of things, we’re all excited about a little spiffing up. I have a half-built workstation. There are two cabins with primer but no paint. There’s a stove on its last legs. Galley countertop wearing through. With help from the crew at Cabrales, we can affordably do a lot of sprucing up.

Finally, and far from the least driving our enthusiasm to get north—rejoining the excellent company of friends at the boatyard. Several of our bubble boats from 2020 are there, and others are coming. Our socializing has been very cautious during COVID, and we are REALLY READY for that to change!

The post Sailing Totem: Our Hurricane Season Plans appeared first on Cruising World.

I had a small adventure of the grandest kind in November 2019. I arrived by air in San Carlos, Mexico, where I launched my Beneteau 361, Liberte, into the northern Golfo de California, better known, perhaps, as the Sea of Cortez. For the next 10 days I sailed alone through one of my favorite cruising grounds on the planet. § The sailing began, like many good trips, with a pre-dawn start. I woke at 0344, just before my alarm. The tools of the trade lay where I’d placed them: headlamp, life jacket, personal locator beacon and harness. By the headlamp’s red light, I started the Yanmar engine, readied the North main and hauled the Manson anchor, all familiar allies I’d been away from for too long.

I paused for a moment to take it all in. There were dark cliffs on either side, with the sharp smell of guano from the rocks. The moon was just setting, and by its pale light I could make out the twin peaks of Mount Tetakawi above.

Six days earlier, Liberte had been high and dry. With help from local contractors—along with fellow sailors who were kind enough to offer rides to town—and several days of my own sweat equity, she’d been prepped, polished and provisioned. Liberte’s hull now wore fresh coats of Ameron ABC 3 antifouling paint, with extra layers at the leading edges and waterline.

I’d slept the first night on board in the yard, climbing a ladder, happy to find that my boat had weathered summer well under the landscape fabric for shade. There was the anticipated layer of Sonoran dust on deck. Below, everything was just as expected. I’d bought Pollo Loco chicken for the painters, and I took the leftovers down to the guard shack. The night guard and I spoke primitive Spanish, sat on overturned buckets and ate with our hands, watching bats fly out of the desert. We saved scraps for the boatyard cat.

After paying all those dues in boat bucks and labor (one boat buck = $1,000), I relished my first evening on the hook. My neighbor was an Austrian named Peter who’d just bought an Endeavor 35 and was as stoked as can be. I paddled over to his pride and joy, where we sipped well-aged tequila with sailors from around the world. It was a nice welcome back to the cruising life.

Now in the dark I waved at Peter’s boat as I passed; nobody stirring at this hour. I booted up the iPad mini, and a chart came to life. Time of departure: 0400. I hoisted the main hand-over-hand, leaving one precautionary reef. Today’s job was to take Liberte 74 miles west across the Sea of Cortez.

A wave rocked the boat. An inland sailor in summer, I felt my body adjust to the motion. More waves came, refracted around the headland, and then gusts of wind in the dark.

I grinned. Lately I’d made a point to pay close attention, moment by moment, to everything, including my response to those things. Sailing was a way to hone that attention. When I felt unsettled, I’d grin and be grateful. I’d look at everything, as author Betty Smith says, as if seeing it either for the first or last time. What was I grateful for right then? Freedom to move. The consistency of water. This boat and the ability to guide it.

Onward, then, trimming the main to the new wind as I cleared the point, looking back at the lights of shore, just once, then ahead into trackless waters, pretending I was bold Joshua Slocum off to hurdle the globe. Or any adventurer from the books I adored as a boy. I don’t lay awake longing for Arctic ice or infamous capes, but I’m crazy for outings like this. I love the planning, the preparation and the little voyage itself. Being solo, I was discovering, further sharpened everything.

A beam wind now, and I could unfurl the jib and shake out the main. The boat felt great in my hands. The wind instruments were acting up again, so I sailed seat-of-the-pants, sensing subtle changes and responding. I kind of liked it this way anyway.

Just days ago, these sails were in bags, lines bundled, Liberte lonely and landbound. Now she was on the move again, at play in the elements, and I was fortunate to be along for the ride. I shut down the engine, and it was just my boat, the wind and me.

Land was shrinking astern, with all its information, obligation and illusion. Now the only thing was to coax the boat along her cantering path and stay connected with her. Alone, with thousands of feet of water below me. Destination: unfamiliar.

Now was as good a time as ever for dread. Or, instead, to allow that separation from shore to strip away all the detritus of ordinary life.

I took some sharp breaths into my belly, ready for action. I checked on my little realm: harness clipped like I promised my sweetheart, sails trimmed and pulling nicely, lines flaked, and autohelm steering the proper course.

What would my mentor Gartly do? He’s the pied piper who first lured me to sea; he’d told me last night when I texted him my float plan, “Enjoy the stars.”

So I did. I stretched out on my back, hands laced behind my head, and contemplated the unspoiled night sky. I gazed up at Orion, Taurus, and those lovely and coy Pleiades. Then I saw a UFO. At first I thought it was a satellite, but it was moving way too fast. It stopped, jumped and stopped again. Then it was gone.

Dawn came under the clouds and painted the edges of everything. I grinned again, this time from genuine pleasure. After 15 years and plenty of cruising miles, I knew this boat profoundly. All her parts and pieces held their stories. I’d learned my way through systems stem to stern, and the rest would be on the punch list soon enough.

How beautifully she purred along! I knew better than to touch a thing. Instead I did some shadow boxing and cockpit calisthenics. I thoroughly enjoyed a bowl of homemade granola that had been tucked into my sea bag, my girl’s loving way of keeping some meat on my sailor bones.

The wind was remarkably steady, the right choice made to sail today on the tail end of a norther, between too much wind yesterday and none tomorrow. I felt, as always in prime conditions, as though I were getting away with something.

The sun paced me lazily behind clouds. Land began to appear in floating specks—there in the corner of the eye; gone if you looked right at it. I saw no garbage and no other craft, just the faint smell of an oil rig on the wind for a long time before I could hear its far-off rumble.

I shouted poetry to the clouds and belted vintage songs in a voice that would have scared Tom Waits. I considered, one by one, the extraordinary people I have been so fortunate to know. I thought about those I love and have loved, their presence close out here in the empty reaches.

The north wind was a steady companion, and Liberte ticked off 1 nautical mile after another. I was pleased to see stretches of 7-something knots for speed—a good day in any small cruising boat. I took the helm sometimes for the sheer fun of it. The only time I changed gears was for a couple of slow-moving rain clouds. “De rain kill de wind,” as the Bequia sailors used to say.

And then, there it was, the intended harbor, and I performed the rituals of arrival. A look at the charts, the dowsing of sails, and I glided into the wide and placid protection of Bahia Santa Inéz. The anchor touched sand at 1600 hours. A textbook passage, which is not always the case. The boat rocked gently as I tidied up the deck, lovingly rubbing down my little steed after such a fine gallop.

The sunset was transcendental. It began with chiaroscuro effect through the peaks of the Sierra de la Giganta. Then the light turned gold and slowly purple as beams shot skyward. That sunset continued to reach out across the water until it had engulfed my sailboat and me in an overwhelmingly beautiful moment. I forgot every bit of time, boat bucks and worry I’d spent to be here. I simply was.

For the next week or so, I stayed in that blissful state. I slept when tired and ate when hungry. Doing my simple boat chores, I chopped wood and carried water, as the Zen koan goes.

Heading south down the Baja coastline, there were dozens of great anchorage options. There are no ocean swells in the Sea of Cortez. The wind waves can be steep during winter northers due to fetch and current, but this time of year, I had stellar weather. I sailed every day on the afternoon sea breeze. I saw dolphins off the bow, whales in the distance and rays jumping out of the water.

It had rained more than usual recently, and the mountains were as green as I’d ever seen them. In San Juanico, a splendid anchorage of rock spires and long empty beaches, I rambled into the hills and found the desert full of life. There were flowers everywhere, along with butterflies, bees and birds. An osprey had nested on a strategic outcropping, the best real estate in the bay, and was working the shoreline for fish.

At Isla Danzante, near Loreto, I was tickled to find my favorite anchorage open: a one-boat corner of Honeymoon Cove. If I weren’t in an alternate reality already, this place sealed my fate. I spent hours clambering mindlessly around, watching the light change on the desert and the sea. Thumb-size cactus thrived in the cleft of a rock, and fish bones lay where something had made a meal.

There was another boat around the corner, and normally I would have stroked the paddleboard over to say hello, but I didn’t want to break the spell.

I saw huge schools of baitfish flashing in the clear water, with roosterfish hitting them from below while pelicans dived from above. Most days I could empathize with those fish, but today I simply felt a part of it all—predator, prey and curious observer at the same time. Cormorants took off, leaving dark rings in their wake. A yellow-crowned night heron waited. I was hopelessly enthralled.

Truth be told, I was perfectly at peace doing absolutely nothing there. I had guests to pick up soon, but I waited as long as possible. That last night at the island, spent with just the critters and me, will be with me always.

As I chugged toward nearby Marina Puerto Escondido the next morning, I saw that I had come full circle.

This harbor was the first place I’d ever stepped foot on a cruising boat. As a young man, I’d coaxed a battered Toyota pickup down Highway 101, stacked it high at San Diego’s chandleries, and hauled my contraband south to meet Gartly’s Cal 34, Marlin, at this very seawall.

From here, I’d helped him prep Marlin and sail her partway across the Pacific. My life had never been the same. In good times and bad on boats, I can always blame Gartly for that.

“Back to the scene of the crime,” I said out loud to nobody.

I realized it had been a while since I’d talked to anyone but birds and dolphins. Maybe I was due for some human contact. I swung the bow toward what we call civilization.

After several seasons of East Coast cruising, David Kilmer and Liberte are back in Pacific Mexico.

The post Solo Sailing on the Sea of Cortez appeared first on Cruising World.