A Christmas Pageant, Barra de Navidad

The town square is alive, packed with families and vendors selling street food.  A Christmas tree of tall poles and lighted spheres stands in the corner of the stage illuminating the space. The celebration begins with Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters on the stage dancing and singing Christmas songs with the kids brave enough to play with the giant creatures until the characters are ready to collapse in the hot costumes and they take a break.  

   

Chairs are set up within feet of the five-foot tall stage. Moms, dads, grandparents and kids sit silently, listening intently to the characters in the pageant.  All of the traditional ones are on stage, angels with halos glowing, shepherds, wisemen, Mary and Joseph, and of course, baby Jesus in the manger.

We’re pretty sure that we know this story so our attention strays to mostly people watching on this balmy 75-degree night when suddenly this rendition takes a turn and grabs our attention.  The shepherds form two lines on either side of the chief angel.  It becomes evident that the good shepherds stand on his right and the bad shepherds are to his left as each side take turns explaining what Christmas is all about.  The chief angel is mediating their disagreement with a lot of “no no” or “si si” when suddenly firecrackers are thrown on to the stage.  Amongst the smoke and explosions the devil appears with a small, Peter Pan-like assistant devil so cute he almost steals the show. The big devil begins talking about presents and the bad shepherds pull out bottles of Tequila and start gulping.  The message was as clear as the empty bottles. Both sides argue over the meaning of Christmas while the adorable Peter Pan devil hops, jumps, skips and darts about the stage so light on his feet that you just know he’s going to fly away any minute. He had the time of his life. 

The evening ends with the good shepherds chasing away the devil and his accomplice as familiar Christmas melodies sung in Spanish blast from a gigantic speaker next to the stage.  It was a Christmas pageant like none other.

 

Another cruising season begins!

     We found Gitane just as we left her.  She was a peaceful, welcome sight for road-weary eyes. Her sun awning and dehumidifier kept her dry and cool during the summer hurricane season.  She calmly awaited the truckload of new parts and supplies that we carried with us over the 3,230 miles that we drove from the Pacific Northwest to her dock in Puerto Vallarta. 

 

     We went to work the very next day.  Cruising for two seasons along the Mexican coast had taken its toll resulting in a long worklist:  replace two bad injectors in the engine; replace the Racor filter system and engine fuel filter and bleed the system; replace a broken zipper on the dodger and reinforce the original stitching as well as the stitching on the bimini; install a new BBQ; re-attach the wind generator; repair the windless; install new running rigging; install a newly designed exterior reefing system for the main sail and attach the sail; retrieve a repaired genoa from the sailmaker with whom we left it in the spring and attach it; stow a new Honda generator and a new Central Pneumatic compressor and hooka system; install a newly galvanized CQR anchor; climb the mast to check the lights and install a new Windex; retrieve the electronics from the safety of the oven and install them; and last but not least, replace the shower bar and nozzle in the forward head and repair the faucets.  Our workday started in the cool morning air and ended in the heat of early afternoon when we rewarded ourselves with a swim in the pool. 

     Our workday routine lasted for 12 days when at last we motored through the channel to the open water of Banderas Bay.  We were thrilled when all systems worked as they should!  We raised our sails, turned off the engine and enjoyed a beautiful afternoon cruise in 85 degree sunshine and 15-knot winds to La Cruz anchorage. 

 

 

     We decided to sail differently this year while I get used to my new hip and do my darndest to prevent dislocating it: we’re staying local, spending windy days sailing this gorgeous 20-mile-wide bay and retreating to the anchorage with the setting sun.  The sailing in this bay is the best along this coast so we’re taking advantage of it.  We spend calm days cleaning, provisioning, taking Cheng to the vet for his weekly vitamin infusion and basically enjoying the amenities of this small town including free weekly movies at the marina and a fabulous Sunday crafts market. 

     Ken is happy as a clam at high tide using the new hooka to scrub off the accumulation of critters and grass that like to attach to the hull in this warm water.  His cleaning sessions also charge the batteries so we get a twofer for his efforts. 

 

Life is good on the hook. 

The times they are a changin'

It’s autumn.  The fog hangs low in the morning, slowly dissipating with the warmth of the subdued afternoon sun.  Festive red, yellow and orange colors are eye candy as we walk the trails, drive the country roads, and rummage in the garden.  The fallen leaves that crunched under the weight of my bike now crunch under my crutches.  Pumpkin fields dot the landscape. How can I choose just one to carve?  Huge crates overflow with an abundance of colorful gourds enticing one to touch.  How many can I bake?  It’s a time to snuggle in, to stay inside where it’s warm and cozy with the spiced scent of pumpkin cookies permeating the space.  It’s a time to turn inward after our active summer, a time to let my new hip replacement heal, a time to catch up on good books, a time to plan our trip south.  I love this season.     

     

 

 

Strawberry fields forever?

Maybe not.  We rode our bikes on a 19-mile round trip over hill and dale along bucolic country roads to Sakuma Bros. Field #2. Large, red letters and an arrow spray painted on a sheet of plywood pointed into the dusty field.   Sakuma Bros. had just received notice from a local judge that they were required to provide housing for not only their migrant workers but also the families of their workers.  Sakuma responded that they could not afford the expense of housing families.  The workers disappeared and rather than allowing the jumbo, juicy, sweet, red berries to rot in the fields, Sakuma opened the fields to the public.  It was a five-day free-for-all.  Moms, dads and kids came to pick as much or as little as they liked without charge.  We rode to a row, took our containers from our paniers, bent over and started picking.  In less than half-an-hour our containers were filled and our backs were killing us.  Content with a couple of pounds needed for jam, we carefully layered our containers in our paniers, clipped into our pedals and turned west toward home. Riding past the deserted housing complexes, we thought about the migrant workers who used to settle in for the season.  Who will be around next year to do this back-breaking work day after day? Without a workforce, the fields won’t be planted and the thousands of pounds of berries that are flash frozen and shipped around the world will be a mere memory.  The company loses, the workers lose, the local economy suffers.  Surely we can figure out immigration laws that work for everyone.  Otherwise, strawberry fields will exist only in the lyrics of a once popular song.  
    

  

On the road again

We have a routine now, our second hurricane season in Mexico.  We tuck Gitane in her dock at Paradise Village in Puerto Vallarta with caretakers looking after her.  We remove the sails, dodger, bimini and all running rigging and lay out a canvas cover to protect her from the UVs and the rain.  We flush the engine with fresh water, wipe down all of the interior wood with vinegar, defrost the freezer, clean out the refrigerator, remove all dry food, and fill the water and fuel tanks before we say goodbye and hit the road.

We left PV in mid-May and arrived in Anacortes a few days before June.  It is a three-nights-four-days drive to the Mexico/US border.  We stopped at our favorite RV parks in Mexico: Las Jaibas in Mazatlan where the owner told me that whatever I wanted to pay was OK with him, Dolisa Motel and Trailer Park in Los Alamos where the caretaker rakes the dirt behind our every footstep; and Totonaka in San Carlos where we had our pick of the shady spots. 

Las Jaibas, Mazatlan

 

Restrooms at Dolisa, Los Alamos

As usual, we lagged far behind the RV exodus that occurs in early April so there were only a couple of RVs in each location except in Los Alamos where we were once again the only guest.  We were quite comfortable being the solo rig and only gringos in this small town where we look forward to dinner at one of our all-time favorite restaurants, Las Palmeras.  Their combo plate is to die for and their traditional wood and mirrored bar is a work of art.  It spans three walls and is stocked to the ceiling with who knows what libations in sparkling colored bottles in all shapes and sizes.  The family lives in the back; the girls come and go, food is delivered behind closed doors and we watch a Mexican drama on the big screen color television. Just like home.

We drive north from the humidity of the tropics into the “cool” mountain air of Tepic, and then descend along the shore at Mazatlán, before rolling into the dry heat of the high desert north. By the fourth day when we cross the border into the U.S. we are dehydrated and tired of the drive, the bad roads and high tolls. Our first night in the U.S. is pure bliss.  The De Anza Trailer Park is a converted dog racing venue that boasts an expansive club house with an indoor pool, Jacuzzi, restaurant, fitness center and game tables. I sprawl on a luxurious, over-sized leather sofa, my first feel of real furniture in eight months, and watch a huge television that I can see without squinting.  I take a shower in the immaculate restrooms with big shower heads that lavish hot water onto weary travelers.  I probably use more water in that one shower than I’ve used all winter.  I’m in heaven.

We’re lucky to have friends in Scottsdale where we spend a few days sequestered and slowly ease back into American culture.   My successful re-immersion comes to a screeching halt during my first trip to the pet store.  Browsing amid eight aisles of kitty food I am overwhelmed with the voluminous choices before me.  I can’t remember the brand that I used to buy so I look for a familiar label and don’t see it.  Perhaps the graphics have changed so I look at each brand searching for a key word that might jump out at me. My eyes won’t focus, my head hurts, my breathing becomes fast and shallow, and I’m suddenly paralyzed.  In Mexico, whether in a big national chain store or in a small town tienda there are two brands of cat food to choose from.  It makes shopping so much easier.  But here, the multitude of brands proves to be too much for me to absorb.  I pick a couple of cans and get out as fast as I can.  I climb back into the RV and slam the door, shutting out the vastness and abundance of America. 

We slip back onto the frenetic freeway and head north, stopping in Prescott, Arizona at Point of Rocks RV Campground set amidst the austere beauty of enormous rock formations; along the river at Big Mountain Campground in Nephi, Utah where kids are fishing with their parents; and finally at Mt. View RV Park in Baker City, Oregon where we stroll into town for dinner along a paved path that follows a gurgling creek.  It’s a peaceful and melodic end to a day spent speeding along the asphalt freeway. 

Our reserved space fronting a wetland buffer was waiting for us at Fidalgo Bay RV Park in Anacortes where we are spending the summer.  The air is fresh and clean and sometimes a little too cool.  We don sweatshirts rather than life jackets.  We marvel at the beauty of Padilla Bay and Mt. Baker as we ride our bikes to town along the Tommy Thompson Trail that borders the bay.  We are awed by the bald eagles in the tree tops and flocks of herons tip toeing in the shallows near their rookery.  We plan bike rides to the islands and camping days with family.  We buy fresh, local produce at the Saturday Farmer’s Market.  We perch our lawn chairs on the berm and read from the stack of library books.  Life is good here…with a different rhythm. 

Earth Day

Living on the Pacific Ocean we are acutely aware of the fragility of this enormous body of water. 

Usually, we are anchored in natural bays rocking gently, and sometimes not so gently, to the motion of the ocean.  We roll with the swells and bounce in the short chop.  The anchor rode is pulled taut when a squall blows through.  The sound of the surf on the beach lulls us to sleep and awakens us in the morning.  We spend most of our time outside, aware of minute changes in air temperature and humidity.  We look over the side of the boat and decide to swim or not based on the clarity and temperature of the water. 

We’ve seen dolphins and whales swim through an anchorage.  We watch as small fish clean the bottom of our boat by eating the algae growth.  Offshore, we marvel at the paddling turtles, dolphins frolicking across our bow, and breeching whales.  Pelicans and frigates are our constant air-borne companions. 

On this day about 25 of us gathered on the beach in La Cruz to honor Mother Earth by picking up trash.  We fanned out and walked about ½-mile to a natural breakwater and then retraced our steps picking up what we missed the first time.  Our bags fill with plastic caps, bottles, candy wrappers, paper, Styrofoam chunks, fishing line, all things foreign to a fish or turtle or bird that might ingest them. 

All of us who gathered have reduced our footprints. We make our own water, use solar panels and wind generators to create electricity.  We’ve chosen to live off the grid and feel good about making a minuscule dent in protecting our planet, making a difference in our neighborhood. 
 
When we finish, the organizers build a bon fire and serve us tacos on Styrofoam plates and beverages in plastic cups.  Amazingly talented musicians perform music written just for this occasion, celebrating our oneness with our plant.  The irony is not lost on us.    

Movie night

It’s Thursday night which means free movie night at the marina in La Cruz.  A crowd gathers at sunset at the outdoor amphitheater.  It’s a BYO event, which includes your own cushions as the amphitheater is made of concrete.  If you prefer, you can purchase a hot dog or beverages from the marina deli.  They’ve set up a small table and hauled down two dock carts; one filled with little bags of free popcorn and the other filled with ice and cold beverages.  It’s quite a treat. 

You enter at the top of the structure where short two-foot wide rows sit atop five-foot wide rows.  This pattern alternates down to the base so you can choose to sit down and stretch out or sit upright on the short portion.  We choose to luxuriate in the space and toss our cushions down, stretching out every inch that we can, making ourselves comfortable enveloped in the soft heat of the day held in by the concrete.  A light towel over our legs wards off the mosquitoes. 

A large screen hangs between poles at the base of the theater.  Our view through the lines and around the screen is of boats safely nestled in their slips, the dim lights of the town and further in the background, up the hill clinging to the edge of a cliff is a restaurant with its patio lights ablaze. 

The movie starts as the stars hang in the dark sky. 

It’s the best movie house that I’ve ever been in. 

The night before Easter

Imagine this:  a hefty wire sphere say ten feet in diameter hangs from a thick, sturdy huanacaxtle tree. In the middle is a paper mache personage, no one in particular, just the familiar shape of a human torso.  Attached around the sphere are four wheels of wire each about three-foot in diameter. Strung along each wire are decorations that look like small light bulbs and glo-lite sparklers.  The entire sphere is fully loaded. 

This tree is in the zocalo or central square of La Cruz de Huanacaxtle.  The zocalo is jam packed with generations of families, the kids high on sugar treats readily available from an impenetrable ring of stalls surrounding the park.  Competing music blares and lights flash from carnival rides, the throw-something-at-something-for-a-prize booths, clothing vendors and food vendors.  It’s sensory overload.   

It’s hot and the Saturday night before Easter Sunday.  We’re sitting on a low concrete wall in the park eating popcorn.  We just happen to be sitting next to and below this sphere, unaware of its crucial role in this Easter celebration. Suddenly, everyone turns down their music and a man takes the stage with a microphone.  We don’t understand a word that he’s saying; we haven’t reached that chapter in our Spanish language studies.    A man walks out of the crowd to us, points up at the sphere, wags his finger back and forth and motions for us to move.  He does this with a  pleasant smile so we follow him to the other side of the street.  By the time I turn around, a guy has taken hold of what looks like a long extension cord dangling from this sphere.  I thought he was going to light it up, plug it in like the symbolic lighting of a Christmas tree in the mall.  Well, he takes out a pocket lighter and holds the flame to what is actually a very long fuse.  The flame travels to the first wheel and starts an amazing chain reaction.  As the wheel spins faster and faster smoke billows, rockets whistle and shoot into the crowd, sparklers hiss and drip and fly out of control.  The flame travels along the fuse to each wheel like dominoes on steroids, catapulting the ammunition into the chaos.  And just when the entire sphere is sizzling and whistling and popping and smoking, and you just know that the tree is going to go up in flames, the central paper mache personage explodes into pieces that fall limp in flames. It’s the coup de grace.  The crowd claps and whistles erupting in a rousing display of satisfaction.   

As we walk away trying to process this celebration there’s more commotion.  Kids begin screaming and scattering.  Suddenly, a guy holding a six-foot long wire bull is running through the crowd.  The bull is fully loaded and ablaze just like the sphere.  Rockets are firing, sparklers dripping, smoke billowing.  The bull chases the kids and the kids chase the bull until the ammunition sputters and fades leaving the frame dark and silent.  The crowd returns to eating, chatting, and playing. The music is turned up, the carnival resumes.   

OMG!  Every culture has its celebrations and I’m sure that this one has some meaning for which I am still searching.      

Cruising in the fast lane

The seas were the smoothest we’ve experienced in Mexico, like skating on a sheet of ice, as we motor-sailed north to Puerto Vallarta. We left Barra at 10:00 a.m. on Tuesday.  The light westerly winds that changed to southerly in the early evening joined with southerly seas and pushed us northward at a steady 6-7 knots, a mighty speed for us, which at the end of our trip left me feeling like I had travelled in the fast lane all day. 

Cabo Corrientes means “Cape of Currents”.  It is notorious for feisty, nasty winds and ugly, confused seas as north meets south at this point of land that juts out into the ocean.  Well, the point was smooth as silk as we glided around at 1:00 a.m. and we thanked our lucky stars for such fabulous conditions. You see, we left Barra in a huff, frustrated that we had waited ten days for injectors sent from our mechanic’s supplier that turned out to be the wrong ones.  Now, staying at this luxurious resort wasn’t a problem, but we did think that the new injectors would be the icing on the cake and would make the marina bill all worthwhile.  The ending was not exactly what we envisioned and we released our dock lines thinking that we would be better off making repairs in PV where we could also have our ripped sails repaired.  Leaving Barra in our wake, we knew that we would be cruising on two bad injectors but no problemo.  One has to adapt to challenges and so we headed out into the coastal ocean.  When additional engine issues reared their ugly heads early in the cruise, Ken began to baby the engine, checking it every hour, pouring in a little oil now and then, cutting off a piece of the fuel line to rid it of pinholes that were spewing fuel here there and everywhere (after the mechanic worked on it), and tightening loose bolts.  We crossed our fingers that the engine would get us the 188 miles to Puerto Vallarta.   

We dropped anchor in La Cruz in Wednesday’s early morning darkness.  Shutting off the engine was pure bliss.  We had traveled with the engine compartment open to vent the over-heated space and after listening to every nuance and ping for 18 hours, the silence was deafening. 

Now we spend quality time pouring over parts catalogues and researching Yanmar engine repair on the web as we create a plan to fix this puppy. Whew.       

"Stuck" in Barra de Navidad

    

     It was an exhausting 54-hour, 212 mile sail from Zihuatanejo to Barra de Navidad.  And that doesn’t take into consideration the 36 hours of our first attempt to make the trip the week earlier when we had to turn back to Zihua due to weather and engine problems.  On both trips, we endured 30-knot NNW winds that were not forecasted.  And both storms occurred in the same place, off of Caleta de Campo, 60 miles north of Zihua.  I thought that we were caught in a vortex that we would never escape.  
     On our second attempt, although we were again slammed with unforecasted 30 knot NNW winds we were determined to continue north even with damage from the second storm amounting to a blown out main sail, a jib damaged when the roller furler line snapped sending the reefed jib full throttle into the winds, an auto helm that failed, and a crippled engine.  And just to ramp up our stress levels, we encountered significant freighter traffic during the night.  At one time there were five ships bearing down on us from different directions.  I called every one of them on the radio to confirm that they had us on radar.  Two of them had not noticed us. We stood one hour watches after the auto helm failed, sleeping in the cockpit.  We were making 2 knots and had watched the light at Punto Campos for five hours when finally at dawn, we limped past it and into the anchorage at Las Hadas.   

Repairing the jib in Las Hadas

Later that morning, we called a mechanic in Barra who drove to Las Hadas and rigged a fuel by-pass system that got us to Barra  where we finally tucked into the lovely marina, the high winds and high seas behind us like images in a rear-view mirror.

We are now waiting for engine parts which will take a week or more to get here.  In the meantime, we are “stuck”.  Now, this isn’t such a bad place to be “stuck” with its five-star hotel, beautiful pools, hot tub and morning yoga on the beach.  I can think of plenty of other places that I would not to be waiting for engine parts, but this place restores the body, mind and spirit.  It’s a great place to recover our momentum.   

Scenes of Zihuatanejo

Whether strolling through town, walking along the beach, visiting a school built with SailFest donations, sailing in the SailFest parade or seated on the bow of Gitane watching the awe-inspiring sunsets one is gently surrounded by the color, texture, beauty and friendliness of this lovely town. 

SailFest 2014 raised over $80,000 US for Zihua schools.  (www.zihuasailfest.com)

Lively beach scene



SailFest sail parade



A breezy afternoon sail

Lunch counter - central market



Vegetable stand - central market



Indoor/outdoor living

Fabulous color!

Students supported by SailFest donations

Por Los Ninos day at the beach - soccer!

Street vendor

Colorful wares for sale

Ahh...the life of a sail kitty

Magnificent Zihau sunset

 

Weighing anchor

After watching thunderheads build the night before, we weighed anchor in the early morning sun of Tenacatita where we enjoyed three weeks of swimming, playing bocce ball on the beach and afternoon conversations at the palapa. 

 

We had Santiago Bay on our minds.  We heard that clear, warm water awaited us and a sunken ship offered fantastic snorkeling.  We dropped anchor along Playa la Boquita, 34 miles and five-and-a-half hours later.  We were not disappointed.  We immediately loved the place. The palapa-lined beach wraps around the bay for miles all the way to the town of Santiago.

There were just five other boats anchored in the bay and we were invited ashore for sundowner cocktails and delightful conversations. 

In the morning with brilliant sunlight penetrating the clear water, we donned our snorkels and explored the 300-foot steel cargo ship San Luciano which was sunk in a 1959 hurricane.  The living reef is home to hundreds of colorful fish.  Not afraid to swim near me, one school with 6-inch silver/gray bodies and pursed green lips swam right up to my mask to blow me kisses.  As cute as they were, my favorite was a 3-inch yellow and black striped fish with a flashy fuchsia tail, a real fashionista.  We spent hours in their fishbowl and only when a group of tourists on paddleboards invaded our tranquility did we decide to swim into shore.  After a shrimp ceviche lunch we walked the quiet beach in the afternoon sun before swimming back to Gitane. 

The next morning, we waved adios to our friends as we began the 190-mile coastal cruise to Zihuatanejo.  With our jib and staysail raised we pointed high into the south/southeast winds and swell during the 41-hour trip.  The sunsets were spectacular and we watched evening electrical storms in the distance as clouds piled up against the mountains. 

We turned into Bahia de Zihuatanejo around midnight on the second night, dropped anchor in light winds, opened up the hatches for fresh night breezes and slept soundly.        

Happy New Year!

The Pineapple Express rains from the Pacific have soaked Costalegre (Happy Coast) for the last six days leaving behind rainfall records, deserted campgrounds and lush, green hills. Between squalls we were swimming, scrubbing barnacles off the hull, making wet dinghy landings at Tenacatita beach or playing bocce ball.
 

To celebrate this first day of the New Year about 20 cruisers gathered at the beach palapa for a festive lunch.  The restaurant’s specialty is a fish filet wrapped around fresh shrimp, smothered in a decadent almond cream sauce. It’s a meal that is to be enjoyed slowly, each morsel savored for it fills you with satisfaction.  Nora Ephron once said that when it comes time to have your last meal you may not know that it’s going to be your last meal and you won’t want to make the mistake of ordering a tuna melt.  Well, this thick, sweet fish filet and its rich sauce would never be a mistake so if it had turned out to have been my last meal, it would have been worth it.

This morning, the fleet celebrated the return of the sun by holding the annual Biathalon consisting of a swim ashore from Harmony, the boat of Tenacatita’s Unofficial Mayor anchored about 1/3 mile from shore, a run along the beach and back, then a return swim to Harmony.

 

I teamed up with Coral, the almost six-year-old granddaughter of the Unofficial Mayor.  As I swam into shore, I tagged her and off she splashed down the beach and back at top speed, her legs nothing more than a blur and sending me off with a head start for the last leg of swimming.  Her awesome performance propelled us to a noteworthy finish.

 

 

We began this New Year with our favorites: exercise, good food and good company while anchored in a lovely bay.  Likewise, we wish you a New Year filled with all that brings happiness and contentment to your lives. 
Feliz Ano Nuevo 2014!