JangadaCat.com

Even with all the tourists, the tip of Baja—Cabo San Lucas—is a very spectacular place. Of course there is now a mile long stretch of $2-$5 million homes lining the coast on either side of town, but don’t worry: most of them will be gone when the next big hurricane comes. Especially the ones built 20’ from that beautiful white beach.

We pull into the fuel dock and bribe the dockhand into letting us give Jangada a quick washdown with fresh water as we’re filling up; t-shirts and hats work great for those kinds of things. Then we have to move off the dock when a 120’ mega-yacht shows up—I guess they must give those guys Brooks Brothers suits instead of t-shirts.

We snag a mooring in the bay and head to town to explore. Gary, Becky, Joyce and Steve are leaving us here. Originally we had planned to get here sooner but then decided… what’s the hurry? Now their flights are leaving and they have to get back to their jobs, something I wouldn’t know anything about. We drink a bunch of farewell Margaritas—a big bunch—offload their gear into a water taxi piloted by “Sumo”, a jolly 400# Mexican who nobody messes with.

Three of us left. In the hot afternoon sun we dinghy out to the point to explore. I go rock climbing while Rod tries to drown by diving into the pounding 6’-8’ shorebreak, somehow making it through. Of course there’s no chance of him ever coming back in so he ends up swimming around the point, appearing a half-hour later at the opposite beach.

Meanwhile I was not about to see someone attempt suicide without me to help, so I scrambled up a hundred feet of 5.7 – 5.9 rock in an attempt to get high enough to watch Rod get swept out to sea and eaten by a monster shark or something. Much to my amazement, I would say that the rock climbing here is as good as anywhere I’ve seen. In the world. The rock is solid and the holds are incredible. I longed for either a rope or a LOT more confidence. Slowly I worked my way up and back down a few tricky sections to be sure that I could descend if per chance I didn’t find that hidden escape route which I KNEW was just around that next bulge….

Finally I reached a section which I knew I could easily climb up…. but not so easily climb back down. I inched up and down it for 5 minutes as the sweat rolled into my eyes and dripped off my nose in the afternoon sun. Matt sat on the rocks below me watching and plotting about how much fun he would have on his new boat when I died. Finally my tiny brain overcame my foolish pride and I back down. I was NOT a happy camper. I coulda been a contenda! I coulda BEEN somebody!! I vowed to come back and spend a couple days climbing. What a place!

Even though the place is swarming with teenagers and kooks on jet skis, bleach-white and scorch-skinned tourists, drunken college kids and Mexicans hawking everything from sombreros to seaweed, it is still beautiful—especially from a nice boat out on the water. So many times I have been in similar places, looking out at the boats peacefully anchored in the turquoise water, their unknown occupants undoubtedly have some sort of secret pleasures known only to those lucky enough to be in their situation. Well, now I was one of those enviable people, and I was loving every minute of it.

The next day we headed north, straight into “El Norte”, the wind that rips straight down the coast for 4-5 months each winter. 20 knots right on the nose: this was not my idea of fun. We made a few big tacks as the wind increased and the seas built.

We made it as far as Bahia Frailes, 50 miles north, pretty much the standard stopping place for anyone sailing north into El Norte. The forecast was for more wind tomorrow. Oh great.

We were up early to try to make the 50 mile push by dark. But of course with all our tacking it was more like 80 miles and at dark we were still 20 miles and a LOT of tacks away. We turned on the radar, tucked a reef into the main and settled into a long night. We beat hard up the coast in total blackness as the huge swells, having traveled 500 miles to greet us, rolled up over the bows, ripped through the trampoline netting and slammed into the cabins. Woohoo! Now we’re REALLY having fun!

I could just imagine the round-the-world solo sailors doing this in 40 knots and 40 degrees for a month straight. I closed my eyes and pretended it was me slamming into those icy seas; then I opened them, got pasted by a big cold wave over the top in the oily blackness of the night, and it was me. No imagination needed.

At 2am we eased into Bahia de los Muertos: Bay of the Dead. We could tell from the bobbing mast-top anchor lights that there were a few other boats anchored so we gingerly picked our way closer. I got out my big spotlight but the darkness easily ate up the beam. I stood out on the bow guiding Matt closer to shore, even though I had no idea where it was. That’s the captain’s main job, you know: pretend you know something that the rest of the crew doesn’t so that you become indispensable.

I picked a hole between two of the anchored boats and we dropped the hook (sailor talk for anchoring). No sooner had we got it set than there’s a voice from the boat next to us: “SIXTEEN.”
“Excuse me?”
“GO TO SIXTEEN!”
I go inside and turn on our VHF radio.
“This is Jangada. May I help you?”
“This is Buttface (or some such—I never could understand what he said). You know, I assume, that you woke me up?”
“Well I’m terribly sorry Mr. Buttface.”
“Why didn’t you anchor somewhere else – across the bay? There’s lots more room over there.”
“Well Buttface, it happens to be pitch dark out and I haven’t been to this anchorage before; but I’ll be sure to do that next time. Jangada out.”
“Well Jagander you should study your anchoring etiquette before anchoring again. Buttface out.”

Now I have to say that this is the VERY first time that a yachtie has been rude to me. Granted I’ve only been doing this for a couple months, but it was a surprise none the less. We were beat tired and instantly turned in, leaving Buttface to stew in his anger.

In the morning we saw that we had given him more than enough room, more indeed than any of the other boats had given each other. In a similar situation I think I would have first asked if the boat which was anchoring in the dark (after an obviously long journey) needed assistance before complaining that they had woken me up. But looking at the decrepit rust and mold-stained scow that Buttface owned it was no wonder he was not happy. We pulled anchor and moved a few hundred yards away so as not to be bothered by the sight of his rusting and frayed rigging. I don’t think it’s good anchoring etiquette to be near a junker boat, especially in the Bay of the Dead.

We decided a lay day was in order, particularly since the wind was still howling and the sea was a maelstrom of confused chop and contorted swells. Rod went off to hitchhike to nearby La Ventana to go kiteboarding while Matt and I went for a hike up a nearby mountain and back along the coast, past the amazing brightly painted 30,000 square foot villa of one of Mexico’s wealthiest men. I did some more climbing, picking the most difficult route I could find through the sea cliffs. Not enough adrenaline lately.

Rod returned in the evening saying that he was going to stay in La Ventana and kite for a couple days while Matt and I continued up the coast to La Paz. The crew was dwindling, but Matt and I felt confident that we could handle the boat with just the two of us (well-weathered seamen that we were) so we agreed.

We set off at a reasonable hour the next morning with 18 knots of wind on our beam and blue sky above. Perfect. What a change from two days ago when we were getting beat up like Rocky Balboa; this was more like the Sound of Music.

All day we sailed north in shifting winds, riding the puffs and going from tack to tack like pros. We took in a reef when the wind reached 25 knots for an hour, deciding that with just the two of us neophytes on a fast, feisty boat, perhaps prudence was the best of policy. Very unlike me. Just at dusk we rounded the tip of the bay and tucked into Puerto Balandra, a small, quiet bay just 6 miles north of La Paz, for the night.

The end was in sight. What a trip! Life… what a trip!