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After a nice rest day it was time for some windsurfing. Now here was the solo sailing I was used to. Around 1pm the wind picked up to 20 knots in the bay, quite enough for my 120l board and 6.0m sail. As usual I could only go back and forth for so long—say…. 5 minutes. Then I headed out to sea. YaaaHaaa! Pelicans, cranes and kites swooped around me, thinking perhaps that I was some sort of kindred mother ship. Schools of flying fish and small rays swarmed and jumped as I sliced overhead.

Five miles out I decided to turn around. Or course by now the tide was in full flood, rushing downwind into Bahia de la Paz at 3-4 knots; it was all I could do to get back into the safety of Balandra where a few short tacks brought me right back to Jangada and a nap in the shade.

A while later I inflated the kayak and went for an exploratory paddle along the coast. Every few minutes I’d put on my dive mask, slip into the warm water and swim around to cool off and check out the underwater scenery. Along the beaches it was stark, an ‘underwater desert’ as I recall Jacques Cousteau describing it. But along the rocks and cliffs the sea was teeming with colorful fish, darting in and out of hidden crevasses and holes, then peering out with big eyes to see if I was about to eat them.

Back at the boat I went for a swim, diving under Jangada and scraping small barnacles from the water intakes under the hull. It’s amazing how these tiny creatures can adhere and quickly grow on a boat. I checked the props, rudders and saildrive seals, making mental notes of what to replace when I haul her out of the water next week. Evening brought a cool breeze, another spectacular sunset, and a 3/4 moon that illuminated the bay with a shimmering glow.

Next morning it was time for my first trip up the mast. This was something I had been planning to do for….ever. Something I should have done the day I bought the boat. But… oh well. Now or never. I rigged my climbing harness, ascenders and prussiks and headed up the main halyard before the morning breeze started up. Along the way I inspected the spreaders, shrouds, mast track, radar dome and everything else which got in my way.

At the very top I discovered the main reason that the mainsail was so damned hard to raise: the main halyard was wrapped around the topping lift (a line from the top of the mast to the boom end used to support the boom when the sail is down). I couldn’t see this from the deck (indeed it was hard to see from even 5’ away) but with tension on both lines it clearly added a huge amount of friction, especially when raising the main the last 10’. Yup, shoulda gone up there sooner….

As I pondered this latest discovery I felt a slight breeze and looked out of the bay to see a nice fat windline racing towards me. Oh great, just what I need. I was about 6” from the top of the mast when the gust hit and Jangada starting rolling. Now granted a cat doesn’t roll anywhere near as much as a monohull, but on top of a 60’ mast, a 10º roll turns into 15’ of sideways travel (I knew trigonometry would come in handy some day….)

The mast pitched from side to side as I desperately tried to cling to whatever I could, at the same time trying to loosen my ascenders and work my way back down the halyard. When my legs (which were wrapped around the mast) slipped off I went careening wildly into space, slamming soundly back into the mast on my return trip. This continued all the way down until I was finally back on the deck, pumped and bruised. Mission accomplished. Time for a hike.

I paddled to shore and headed up a long, wide ridge above the bay. From the top there was a 360 degree view of… the world, or at least my part of it. I hiked along for an hour, traversing the entire bay as the sun beat down mercilessly. Back at the boat I swam languidly in the cool water and drank two quick beers before siesta took over. There are rules down here you know, siesta being one of them.

The following morning I decided to leave my idyllic setting and go for a sail. I wanted to try one more trick to see if I could really screw things up good: sail off the anchor with no motor. No power. Nada. Nothing but me and the wind.

I rigged up the manual anchor windlass and began the laborious task of winching in 90’ of chain holding my 14,000 pound boat. Fifteen minutes later I had gotten it all of 40’ closer. Time to hoist the main. It was a bit easier without all the twisting going on at the top of the mast, but still a chore. I tightened the outhaul and mainsheet to keep the flapping to a minimum, then let out half of the jib, my thinking being that I needed a bit of control once the anchor was up or within 30 seconds I’d be crunched up on the rocks 300 yards behind me. Luckily the wind was light, 5-10 knots; I continued hoisting the anchor. Suddenly it was free. Of course the problem was that I didn’t have time to get it all the way up so I left it dragging 10 feet in the water as I scrambled back to the helm to try to make headway. Luckily I have a cat, so a dragging anchor really can’t damage a hull. I’d worry about it later.

Rather than head upwind, of course, Jangada wanted to jibe. The problem with that was that there wasn’t room: to my right was the beach, in back of me were the rocks. The slightest miscalculation or hesitation and we’d be grounded. Or worse. But it was too late for other plans. I swung the wheel to starboard and prayed.

In what seemed like a timespan somewhere between a minute and a month, we swung around 270º and headed out of the bay just as tight as you please. The blood pounding in my head made my eyeballs hurt. I rushed up to the bow to finish taking in the anchor, 4” at a time. No wonder God invented the electric windlass.

I rounded out of the bay and headed on a beam reach across the bay. I tacked and jibed and did all sorts of sailing stuff, and gradually figured out how the boat worked and more important, how much thought I had to give to every maneuver before I started it. I have a looooong way to go before setting out across the Pacific, I’ll tell you. I anchored back in the bay for the night and slept out on the trampoline under an almost full moon.

Around midnight the wind came up. Big time. But out of the south. It was gusting over 25 knots; the rigging was banging and clanging as the wind shrieked through the myriad lines surrounding the mast. Sleep was not an easy task. At 6am I gave up, brewed up a strong pot of coffee and watched the sunrise over the hills. Jangada had turned 180 degrees on her anchor (lucky for good holding ground) and the wind showed no signs of abating. Oh great, just what I need: I had to beat straight into the wind getting up here and now, instead of a sled ride downwind back to La Paz, I have to beat my way back there. Oh wait, I forgot: that’s the first rule of sailing: the wind will always blow in the wrong direction.

Around 10 o’clock, just as I was packing everything up for the journey south, the VHF radio comes alive: “Calling Jangada, calling Jangada…” Now who the hell can that be? Only one other person in the world knows I’m out here and that ain’t him.
“This is Jangada. Who is this?”
“Eric? Is that you? Is it really you? Where ARE you??? It’s Sue!!! We’re here at Marina de La Paz!!! I can’t believe we found you!!! Where are you???”

In a truly bizarre coincidence, two friends from Hood River were driving south through Baja, knew that I was supposed to be around here somewhere, stopped at the marina and asked, and someone told them to try me on the radio, that I might be out sailing somewhere. I hardly ever have the radio on but I had turned it on in the morning to get a weather update and had forgotten to turn it off. And the chances of finding me inside the cabin, actually able to hear the radio…..

And… it just so happened that I was in a bay that you could actually reach by car. So they drove north for a half-hour while I kayaked to shore to meet them (remember: I have no dinghy). I paddled Sue back to the boat while Bill swam, and we immediately decided that a drink was in order. After a couple of those I came up with the brilliant (at least for me) idea that they should sail back to La Paz with me that afternoon, then take a taxi back up to their car that evening. Sure… why not….

The wind had calmed down to 10-12 knots; we raised the sails, pulled the anchor and headed out into a lively sea. The wind had again turned 180 degrees and we had a delightful downwind cruise. Bill even decided that he should toss a rope overboard and get dragged along behind Jangada, which he did. Obviously he had a gross overestimation of my sailing skills in getting back to him should he let go of the rope.

We pulled into Marina Palmira around 5pm, they headed back to their car, and I started in on taking the boat apart so that it could get hauled out first thing the next morning. Sails down, lines stowed, bimini off, everything put away—lots and lots of chores to do well into the evening. Extra fun in 95 degree heat. At 10:30 it was still 89º; summer’s on the way. Time to head north.

Next morning I drove Jangada around the corner and up onto the big trailer which would haul her out for the summer; a couple hours later she was sitting ‘on the hard’, atop four big piles of wood blocks. She looked…… out of place. I started right in on the enormous task of getting her ready to sit out the summer of heat and hurricanes, both of which posed considerable concern, not to mention substantial preparation.

I lowered the jib off the roller furler and stowed it. I took the HUGE main down (managing to lose a handful of loose ball bearings from one batten car along the way, as expected), wrestled it to the side deck and lashed it tight. I pulled down all the lines and stashed them out of the sun (the chance of me remembering how to re-rig all this stuff again in the fall? Pretty much ZERO.) I waxed the decks and windows and put on sun resistant covers. I worked on the saildrives, motors and props. I cleaned and stowed, lashed and strapped, tweaked and sweated and worked non-stop for two days in the100º heat until I was satisfied that everything was in order. And yes, although you couldn’t pay me enough to do this work for pay, I was having a blast getting to know the boat. Unless you’re Donald Trump, that’s part of the deal. You’re not likely to find pearls in oysters served on a plate.

A final few margaritas with friends on the waterfront (of course in my parched, dehydrated state they pack a pretty severe punch) and I crash hard at 10pm. Tomorrow, home. The first part of my new life as a boat owner has begun. Who knows what the future will bring. I plan to put her back in the water in November and spend much of next winter cruising around the Sea of Cortez. I’ve already had friends from all over the world email me to say they want to come along, so I anticipate a busy winter as people fly in to join me on various parts of the journey; one week….two…four…. time seems to melt away when you’re on the water.

When I decided to buy a boat I figured I would give it a shot, see what happened and if I didn’t like it I’d sell the boat (undoubtedly taking a BIG bath) and move onto something else. As it turned out, I LOVE having a boat. It is everything I ever imagined, and much more. I love everything about it.

I think that everyone needs a passion in their life. For some it’s an art: music, painting, photography; for some it’s sports; for others it’s their family. I’ve had many passions during the past 40 years, mostly adrenaline related but some not: skiing, judo, climbing, photography, kayaking, biking…. and now, sailing. Actually, cruising. I have no interest or intention of racing. Competition: been there, done that. Now I just want to cruise around and indulge my long delayed passion—writing—free of the distractions of phones and wars and people wasting my time by asking for advice on how to get their lives together and then ignoring it.

I am back from a great adventure, both in body and in spirit, and about to embark on many more. My advice to all is to take your dream and make it happen. It won’t be easy, it may not work out, but you’ll never know until you take the chance. You seldom find pearls in oysters served on a plate. If you want to come along for a week or two next winter let me know. If you only have half as much fun as me you may never want to come back.