The Taco Traveler

Well, at least I know my problem: I just don’t care enough to get up early enough, or trek far enough, to get the good stuff. I have come out pretty far today – 15 miles out of San Carlos – but I didn’t even leave San Carlos until 11:30, which was after all the yellowtail and dorado were biting, surely, and when only the disgusting black skipjack were interested enough to take my lure. I followed birds and drove through the bait balls they were dive-bombing, and got three strikes doing so, but every time there was a black skipjack on the end of the line.

For someone who loves good tuna as much as I do, this is an issue, but it’s probably not something I’ll ever solve with a sailboat, because I’m someone who doesn’t like short day-sails our “out and back” days, which is what a five-hour long fishing expedition ends up looking like (since I have the sails up, but am motorsailing in less than 5 knots of wind). I see having a nice fishing boat someday, where 15 or 20 miles out is nothing but twenty minutes and gas money. Another part of the problem today wasn’t the time I got up (7:30) but rather the need to take care of some things on the Internet / via email and a couple Skype calls before I could go fishing. Yes, I do still have responsibilities, to a degree. Pro-bono responsibilities for a company in which I’m now, for better or worse, fully-vested. The old VC line / investment impetus goes: “Do you want to own 12% [or whatever percent] of nothing, or 2% of a 20, 30, 50 million dollar company?” Well, I own 12% of….

So this first fish was damn big. I saw right away that he was a black skipjack so I started making plans to let him go, but I had to use the gaff to gently pull him up so I could unhook the hook. But when I “gently” put the gaff through his gill opening, I apparently sliced something wide open and he started bleeding like crazy (it might have been the hook too). I’ve seen fish blood before (heh), so no big deal. I pulled him up higher and started working on the hook with the pliers, but before I could start, he went into like convulsions – crazy blood-loss convulsions so quick and furious that they couldn’t have been voluntary, and with as much as he was bleeding, my entire back “fishing area” (including my legs and probably my face, too) turned into a gruesome bloody Jackson Pollack painting. I finally had to knock him on the head just to get the hook out, so I feel bad but that’s nature. We used to do that with undesirable fish in Puget Sound, too – the little bottom-dwelling sharks (I can’t remember their name) that would take our mooches when we were going after the king salmon. That big black skipjack will still go to good use for something down there. Already has.

Before I saw the birds, in a fit of goofiness caused probably by the heat and some cockpit exercise (stretches, standing crunches, “Karate Kid” crane technique, etc…), I had come up with some killer song lyrics that no doubt Jimmy Buffet will steal from this blog:

I don't see no sign of schoolin' tuna
No leapin' mahi mahi anywhere
There's no look of billfish in these waters
But I got my icebox and it is filled with beeeeeeeer.

Sing that in a totally over-blown twang (especially “beer” which should sound like “bear” so that it rhymes with “anywhere”) and you’ll have us a hit (Lyrics copyright 2009 The Taco Traveler – all rights reserved). Of course, all I’m drinking is water, but I do have a few Corona Lights down there chilling nicely, which is one of the reasons for coming out today, too – to get my icebox cold again. I carried the same 20lb bag of ice from San Diego all the way here to San Carlos, with the occasional motoring I did. That icebox chills nicely (below 0 degrees Fahrenheit, if necessary) when there’s enough engine-time at high enough RPM. But since I’ve been here I’ve pretty much let everything get warm, but there wasn’t anything left to lose, really. I’ve still got a few pounds of butter I’ll need to give away since I’m not getting any dorado to sizzle.

TT

I needed to get outta Dodge, today – to make my way to a quiet cove away from the bustle of San Carlos and the constant stream of sportfishers and tour/dive boats heading in and out of the bay. I’m at a cove called Caleta Lalo, less than two or three miles from the entrance to San Carlos Bay, just to the north.

This morning, though, before I left the Bay, I picked up my tanks, which Gary’s Dive Shop was kind enough to fill and even deliver back to their dock for me so I didn’t have to transport them on my bike to their shop a mile or so down the road. After I had the tanks back on the boat, I went “war boating.” With my laptop and wifi antenna, I took my dinghy around the bay seeking the best free Internet, and discovered that no one place was better than any other for the one signal I was able to consistently connect to. Still, I’ve been working so much, I needed a break from having Internet. Internet is a momentum grabber; as soon as I get going on a nice piece of writing (whether code or … writing writing), I feel this evil need to check Real Clear Politics again to see if any new battleground polls have come in.

I left San Carlos Bay around 11 am, hoping to get anchored at a safe spot before the afternoon onshore breeze picked up – lately it’s been blowing up to 25 knots in the Bay. I popped the fishing line in the water for the short hop around Punta Doble, and then it was a straight shot to Caleta Lalo. As I was getting close, I started to reel in the line, and hooked a little “shaker” on the way in. It was a Jack of some sort; I didn’t see the black spots, so it might have been a good-eating white skipjack, but it was so small I didn’t want to mess with it. I just grabbed his tail and gently twirled the barbless hooks out of his mouth and tossed him in and away he went, and I was back to directing Chemistry into the cove.

The cove was (and is) completely empty, boat-wise, except for us, so I spun around at a good spot, backed down on the anchor in 23 feet of water, and within ten minutes I was in the water with mask, fins and snorkel to dive on the anchor and refresh myself in the warm water. The anchor was about as buried as buried gets – no worries at all. After I dried off, I grabbed my camera and took a trip into shore and for a spin around the cove. It’s a shame there’s so much trash on the beach. People…. I’ll pick up a bag full before heading back to the Bay tomorrow afternoon.

I remember when I was 9 or 10 and my sisters and I went and visited my dad at his condo on Maui. Just offshore, anchored right off the beach were these big beautiful sailboats. And I thought that must be the life. Now I see my own boat from the beach, and I’m reminded just how lucky I am to be here, to have this beautiful boat, and to be able to live such a life so relatively young. At forty I still feel 30, maybe 28, and the only thing I can imagine that would be better than this would be to have my boys with me and have no financial worries whatsoever.

It’s 8:45 and I just came in from the deck before I started writing this entry. I was laying on the bow, looking up at the stars, the planets, the bats flitting past my anchor light at the top of the mast, and it dawned on me that having young children makes it so much easier to imagine the immensity of everything around us because I consider detail-by-detail how I would describe it to G and T if they were here with me. In that context, it underscores the relative unimportance of all the things that make life distressing for so many. When you start to think about describing the universe to a child – the tens of thousands of stars just that we can see, the millions of others that create the light of the Milky Way, the thousands of galaxies contained within every small square degree of even the darkest part of our sky (with enough magnification) – it just intensifies the feeling of our smallness. For me, it makes it hard to consider wasting any time. It makes Wall Street stupid. It makes war even shittier.

But it really is luck that I’m here, and I appreciate that it’s the money of Wall Street (to a degree) that allows me to be here, the security of our world (to a degree) that keeps me safe here, and the cruising guide that brought me here in the first place. And this would be a less interesting place without the partiers on the beach, the music of my iPod playing in the background (Buddha Bar, Vol III, CD2: “Joy”), the book to read (Choke, by Chuck Palahniuk).

We are so alone, and yet still so dependent.

I was napping this afternoon (I’ve been getting up at dawn and napping after lunch), and I was awakened by a frantic call on the VHF. Someone from across the Sea of Cortez was taking on water, and though he’s over sixty miles away, he’s apparently got a good VHF. I heard his panicked, high-pitched voice yelling “MAYDAY MAYDAY” amongst the whine of his engine as he tried to give his location and somehow get help from someone. He was six and a half miles offshore, off Santa Rosalita on the western side of the Sea. One fellow, very calmly and authoritatively, eventually took control of the situation over the VHF, and in a very reassuring voice asked the man everything that anyone needed to know if they were going to help him and then relayed that information to the nearest marina and the vessels nearest this man’s location.

When you’re utterly alone and taking on water, you have to take a second to assess the situation. All this man knew was that he was taking on water, but from what I could gather with the noise of his boat and the static of the distant transmission, he didn’t seem to know why. I’ve never been in this situation, but with enough sailing I’m sure one day I’ll encounter something like it. First of all, taking on water, in my opinion, isn’t a “Mayday,” it’s a “Pan-Pan.” Especially since it wasn’t yet so high that it had drowned his engine. After alerting other vessels that you *may* need assistance, the very first thing to do (assuming you’re wearing a life jacket and your life raft is ready to deploy if necessary) is figure out why you’re taking on water. I’m not sure what ended up being the issue, but as he was approaching the Singlar marina at Santa Rosalita he seemed much calmer, as if he had the situation under control. One person - in the rash of confusion before the one man took control of the radio rescue - had suggested he feel the temp of the water, and if it’s very warm it’s probably an exhaust leak, and instead of expelling the warm water after using it to cool the engine, it was spilling it into the engine compartment (and therefore filling the bilge/interior). Solution: shut off your engine. The other likely possibilities were a burst hose below waterline (check all of them, close the seacock – because you know where every single seacock is on your boat), a bad through-hull (put a plug in it, literally, from outside if necessary), a messed up shaft seal (dive under, plug a bunch of crap in there to slow the flow, and pray) or, worst case, he hit something big (like a shipping container) and it put a big hole in his boat (get ready to deploy the life raft).

Problem was, this man seemed more intent on crashing his boat at full speed into shallow water to “save” it, or hustling into the safe, waiting slings of the Singlar haul-out yard than actually finding the problem he needed to fix, and it was frustrating to all who were listening from around the Sea.

We all hope we’re cool when it happens, so ready, so level-headed, so well-spoken and efficient and just... together. But sometimes we need that reassuring voice on the line to help us lower our own pitch, to remind us that yes, we know what we’re doing and we’re ready for something like this. Somewhere, out there in the stars, amongst the millions of galaxies and the trillions of stars, it’s nice to think there might be other things – to think that maybe they’re listening, that maybe they’re someday going to tell us to calm the fuck down, to stop killing each other over different beliefs and stop fretting about the stock markets, and that somehow they know us well enough, and it’s in our nature to get through this.

TT

Chemistry and I are back on the water. Drop in went well, though at the dock the engine didn’t want to turn over. There’s an electrical issue I’ve been struggling with for a while now, but this is the first time I’ve had a problem starting her when she’s cold. Usually it’s a warm start problem. I was concerned about getting her back in the water since I replaced a through-hull and seacock – the first time I’ve done that – but it’s holding steady and dry. I also had a disconcerting fresh water leak after filling the tanks last night; if one of my tanks is corroded through, that would suck. Inspecting all the water tanks is one of those things still on the to-do list, along with a thorough cleaning. I’m very slowly but surely getting things in order again, but she’s so dirty all over it’s hard to know where to start. And so few provisions, tools in a jumble, etc.... I've also been having to do quite a bit of work, so I've spent nearly every meal the past couple days over at Club de Capitanes, where they have good food, cheap beer, good service, and free wifi.

Anyway, it’s been howling here on the bay since early this afternoon – blowing 15 to 25 knots. The water is a beautiful light-blue and warm. My speed transducer / water temp sensor is saying 88 degrees, though that seems a bit high. I need to buy a cooking thermometer anyway, but calibrating the temp sensor makes a stop by a big-city grocery store even more important. I’d guess the water is 85 degrees. I asked the man at the fuel dock how the fishing was, and he says they've been coming in with a lot of fish - dorado, yellowfin, marlin.... So the warmer water is definitely going to mean some good free meals once I get out there.

Anchorage-wise, I’m deeper than I’d like in about 35 feet and with only 5:1 scope out, but the anchor has a good bite and the wind is starting to settle down to a reasonable, cooling night-time breeze. I just finished eating dinner and watching last week’s Mad Men (the Internet rules). I’ve got a decent signal here on the bay thanks to my excellent 10db wifi antenna.

Tomorrow is more cleaning, more working from el Club, drop off the scuba tanks at a dive shop for a fill, then bike to a hardware store and grocery store for some necessities.

Still haven't decided where I'm going, but the strong winds from the north were telling me to go south towards Mazatlan or east across the Sea towards Santa Rosalia. But I'd really love to head north and across to Bahia de los Angeles (LA Bay). I'm not sure I'll be back up in the Sea, so I want to be sure I see a lot while I'm here. But who knows what business and / or other trips might be necessary to distract me from sailing. Business may be another factor in where I go this trip, as I need to have Internet for some key teleconferences coming up. This is a critical time with the business and not a good time to be far from Internet and Skype.

At this time, the plan is to fly out of Guaymas again on November 14 back to Florida to see the boys. I'm not sure when I'll be back after that - no plane ticket yet. But there will probably be a few more weeks of sailing in early December, then back to Florida for Christmas, then back again to hit the Gold Coast (PV - south) in January / February. I'd love to get all the way to Zihuatanejo this year.

TT

Waiting now for the lowboy to get us to drop us back in the water. Slide is a better verb, as the lowboy with hydraulic “jackstands” will just back gently into the water until Chemistry begins to float. I was scheduled for 8am, but the swapped me with another boat because a couple spots of my bottom are still drying (after they moved the jackstands they painted the spots where the jackstands were). I like the people here at Marina Seca, but the overriding impression is that it’s a business first and foremost. The work yard is relatively inexpensive as work yards go (about $15/day if you do it yourself) but the labor rates are unreasonable. We’re a captive client – if we store our boats here what else are we going to do? You have to put at least one coat of paint on before you go into the water.

Yesterday at 8, I woke to the sound of rotary sanders taking off Chemistry’s top layer of ablative bottom paint. The two guys were done when I got back at 10 after coffee and breakfast, so at most it was 4 labor-hours of work. That cost me $215. Yes, I’d seen the quote, but the quote is called an “estimate” so I presumed it was somehow based on hours, when in fact it’s a flat rate for all labor based on the length of your boat. Rather than $5/hr for as many hours of sanding as was necessary, I was paying $5/foot * 43 feet no matter how long the sanding took or how gnarly my bottom was. My fault for not asking more questions before I pulled her out here, I guess.

For a three-leg trip, that was a pretty easy flight down. It took about 90 minutes to drive to Fort Walton Beach / Valparaiso (VPS) for a 6:40 flight, so I was up at 2:45am. VPS to Charlotte was about a 90 minute flight, then a 40 minute layover before a big plane to Phoenix. Charlotte and Phoenix are both hubs for US Airways, so it was a crowded flight.

I waited in Phoenix for a couple hours, and then hopped on a twin turboprop puddle jumper for the last leg to Guaymas. No problem, and I even slept on that leg, the loud hum of the props knocking me out almost as soon as we gained altitude. As the small group of passengers were walking to the plane, I asked a lady if she happened to be heading to San Carlos, and if so if she’d like to share a cab. It’s thirty bucks from the Guaymas airport to San Carlos, so I’ll save fifteen bucks when I can. Turns out she was planning on renting a car, and offered me a ride (bonus!).

All my luggage made it fine (I was worried about my checked backpack on a three-leg trip) and after no trouble with Immigration I put all my bags through the scanner for Customs, I stepped up and pushed the button for the red/green indicator that randomizes to decide whether or not they search your bags. For the first time, I finally got red. Red is bad. Luckily, however, on a flight with only about fifteen people, and no other flights around, it was a pretty casual search. Mainly, they’re looking out for gringos coming down here to take their jobs. “Tiene equipo para trabajar?” “No.”

The big disappointment came when I asked at the office of Marina Seca about the whereabouts of my boat. There was a lot of confusion, as I haven’t spoken much Spanish in four months and was obviously rusty, but even with the front desk girl who speaks good English, there was confusion. The problem was that when I emailed to cancel the work I’d scheduled to be done by the yard (because I decided to paint the bottom myself and save a few hundred bucks), they also canceled my move to the work yard. So the problem is that in the storage yard there’s no water, no electricity, and they don’t allow you to sleep there. So I had nowhere to sleep. I laid out the problem, and since it was their confusion that created the problem, they decided to allow me to sleep on my boat this time even though it was in the storage yard.

It will turn out fine; though I’d like to be able to clean Chemistry up with a nice rinse / soap, there are still tons of things I need to do both inside and out that don’t really require the work yard: light sanding of the bottom to prepare for bottom paint; interior cleaning and dusting; miscellaneous repairs including (so far) the accumulator pump which was leaking and blowing off water pressure and (most importantly) a bad seacock on a seawater intake through-hull.
_________

After a quick breakfast this morning, I made my way to the chandlery, where I discovered that the paint I could afford was crap (only 33% cuprous oxide – copper is poison to stuff that wants to grow on your boat). So I went back to Marina Seca and talked to Jesus again about his quote, whereby I could have his team do all the work of a light sanding and a coat of paint for around $850 with better paint. It’s painful to think about, as I know it’s pretty easy to do, but still, I have plenty of things to do and at $5/hr I can certainly contract out the dirtiest work while I get the other stuff done. I removed the seacock and through-hull and am on my way (after posting this, drinking some coffee) back to the chandlery where I expect I’ll find ridiculous prices for replacing it. I may end up taking the bus into Guaymas to see if I can find a better price, and if I can find paint for cheaper, I may still end up doing that myself, too.

So at this point I’ve got the boat scheduled to move into the work yard tomorrow at 10am, and then into the water on Friday at 10am.

More soon.

TT