Southern Crossing

We motorsail 175 miles east from Cabo San Lucas to Mazatlan.  We are 24 hours into the crossing before we see another boat, a fishing boat heading west two miles from us.  After spending 15 days in the company of over 100 boats, it feels a bit lonely out here.  The VHF radio is silent.  A flying fish lands in the cockpit, the only companion on my night watch.     

The Milky Way blankets the sky and dust from the mainland blankets us.  It hangs in the humid air.  Carried in the light north wind, we smell it 50 miles from shore. A fine film settles on the dodger windows, streaks the sail, coats the deck.  In the cockpit it drifts onto the table and cushions.  When we stand to peer over the dodger, it blows onto our glasses, clings to our clothes and nestles in our hair. 

We talk excitedly about the fresh water washdown that we’ll get in the marina.  About how good it will feel and how refreshing it will be to slosh around barefoot on the deck with running water after the sand, dirt and saltwater accumulated in 15 days of sailing and anchoring off of beaches.  We’re going to hose everything down inside and out, including each other.

Whales glide by and sea turtles paddle past as we enter the waters of Pacific Mexico.  It’s by the skin of our teeth and Ken’s keen eye that we avoid getting a fishing net wound around the propeller.  A thick yellow line strung between clear plastic water bottles hangs just below the surface.  We turn sharply to starboard and sail parallel to it for miles before we spot a black flag attached to a buoy bobbing in the swell and marking the end of the net.  It drops deeply into the sea and traps everything in its path.  Fish jump into the air to escape its grip. The scene is hard to watch.

It’s mid-morning when Isla Pajores appears on the horizon, our landmark to the entrance of Sabalo estuary and our reserved slip at El Cid Marina.