We’ve had our share of defining moments, Gypsy and I, since we set sail nine months and almost 4,000 miles ago. There are times when circumstances spin out of control, everything familiar falls away, and we are forced, come what may, to find our way forward. That’s the thrill and challenge of cruising-there are no ‘time outs’ on the high seas. No safe haven or nautical guru pointing the way. But with each new experience we gain confidence, and the aptitude strive further. That being said, nothing we’ve encountered prepared us for the Tehuantepec Gulf.
For cruisers sailing between Panama and California, the Tehuantepec is the most daunting passage. Boats wait for weeks on either end of the Gulf, fretting over weather faxes and radio forecasts-then plotting their window for the 350-mile run. Prevailing wisdom dictates one of two approaches to crossing the Gulf-sail 200 miles offshore to skirt strong winds and precipitous seas, or sail as close to the beach as possible, taking advantage of offshore winds and coastal protection from waves. The later tactic is known as “one foot on the beach,” and as Hoptoad and I plan our joint departure we agree that this is the way to go. There are no settlements or natural protection along this desolate coast (apparently civilization eschews perpetual wind), but we are told that anchoring is possible along the way, should the winds become untenable or exhaustion set in.
Fortunately, I am not alone. On my Guatemala excursion I met a woman named Barbara who has sailed all her life. She grew up in the Virgin Islands (her mother is Cuban and her father was in the navy), and she offers to crew across the Gulf in exchange for the ride to Oaxaca. Barbara has a quick smile and easy-going temperament that proves unshakable-even amidst the most discouraging conditions. Her courage and companionship make the crossing bearable.
We leave on a Tuesday morning-the latest weather fax promising moderate winds through the end of the week. Our first day and a half there isn’t even a breeze to sail by, and, lulled into complacency, we motor gradually offshore. At some point on our second morning we cross into Mexican waters, and at sunrise I start trolling a ‘Mexican flag’ (a flashy lure with red, green and white feathers). Within an hour the reel screeches to life, and I shout for Barbara, “fish on!” Behind Gypsy, a magnificent sailfish leaps several times in the morning sunlight. Before I can take the rod it snaps the line and dashes away -Mexican flag and all. Determined to ratchet up our firepower, I rummage through my tackle for heavy-gauge leader and crimp on another big lure. Not ten minutes later, the reel screeches to life and another sailfish leaps behind us.
When we finally get the fish beside Gypsy we’ve got ourselves a problem. I’ve seen plenty of pictures of landed sailfish-some buff guide gripping the bill while their clients pose, extending the scalloped dorsal fin. I’ve seen the pictures, but I’ve never seen how they do it. In fact, until this morning I’ve never seen a live sailfish. And let me tell you-they are an intimidating plaything. One hundred pounds of sleek, agitated energy attached to a three-foot skewer. Barbara and I hatch an impromptu game plan: she’ll hold the rod while I release the fish. But in the process of exchanging rod for gloves our fish gives a final rally-leaping beside us and landing with a splash that somehow pops the swivel and auto-releases. We are left staring, speechless, at the dispersing bubbles, unsure who is more thankful it didn’t come to hand-to-bill combat, us or the fish.
At sundown, a light wind rises from the northwest. Despite all prior warnings, we angle further offshore-given the prevailing conditions I’m confident we can shave some miles off our passage and sail on one tack to the opposite shore. As the night progresses, I start questioning this judgment. The winds increase, first to 15, then 20 knots, and the seas get steep and choppy. By two in the morning I make an executive decision: we’ll motor-sail back to the beach.
Morning dawns clear and bright, the Sierra Madres rising behind the coast to jagged peaks shrouded in white clouds. The wind has intensified, and at 8:00 a.m. I check into the “Amigo Net” (the Mexican cruiser net) for a Tehuantepec forecast. A woman warns that the latest report calls for 25-knots today and a gale (over 35-knots) for the next two days. Several people ask my position, still a few miles offshore and near the head of the Gulf, and insist I get back to where I can put a foot on the beach. Given that it’s already blowing 25, and the worst is yet to come, I am more than willing to oblige.
As intimidating as the Tehuantepec reputation is, there are two points along the Gulf that people who have been there describe in hushed tones. Along the eastern edge are several large inland lagoons, and the ‘bocas’ or mouths where they join the sea are notoriously windy-even relative to the Gulf at large. Motor-sailing across the wind, we reach the beach in the nick of time, about five miles from the first boca.
Another piece of sage advice was to watch the fishermen-they know when foul weather will strike. Sure enough, as we pass a shrimp trawler they frantically haul in their gear and motor hard for the lee shore with their nets billowing behind them. With conditions deteriorating, it dawns on me that we are plunging headlong into the teeth of a brewing gale.
As winds buffet our beam-first 30, then 40 and then 50 knots-we shorten sail until we are running with bare poles. Still, Gypsy heels hard, her rail dragging in the water as we reach the boca. The quarter-mile wide entrance is lined with ‘water devils,’ spinning plumes of spray rising where the ocean surge meets tide from the lagoon. We are a few hundred yards from shore, but waves are stacked in this short fetch and cold water licks off the crests and lashes across our deck and cockpit. The trawler runs beside us, spray whipping from her bow in white arches, while the nets dance their wild jig.
Barbara sits beside me in the cockpit, hunkered under the dodger. Whereas I am a bundle of nervous energy, fretting that something will break or fail, I detect a smile on her face. “Gyspy’s doing fine,” she says, with no trace of concern. Her confidence helps quiet, if just a bit, the heart pounding audibly in my chest.
Past the boca, the trawler turns and pounds for shore, dropping anchor just off the beach. We try to follow, but Gypsy can make no headway hard to the wind. A gust catches her bow and spins us 180 degrees, while I battle at the helm to turn us back. We can only proceed across the wind, so I angle slightly towards shore and for another hour we creep to the beach.
Barbara and I debate, briefly, what to do next. I’ve never anchored in such strong winds, and though there are no waves close to shore we catch the full force of the gale spinning off the Sierras. There isn’t really a choice. Sailing is out of the question, motoring has become a contact sport, and I am completely exhausted. We drop two anchors in 25 feet of water, paying out plenty of scope. Gypsy shakes and shudders with the wind, but we hold. Once we’re set, and the motor is shut down, relief overwhelms my reckless anxiety. We fix a drink, cook up some food, and tumble into the bunk for a sound sleep.
At 6:00 p.m., I radio Hoptoad, about 20 miles behind, and warn them about the boca. They can hardly believe my report-conditions are still benign and they plan on running all night. After urgent pleading on my part, they agree to anchor for the night. I shudder to think what it would be like crossing through this gale in the dark.
By 4:00 a.m. the following morning, the gale has blown out and we are under way before dawn. As for staying close to shore, I’ve learned my lesson-if I could get both feet on the beach I’d be jogging beside Gypsy. It is a fine day, with clear skies, a fresh offshore breeze, the beach stretching uninterrupted in both directions, and the Sierra Madre rising majestically in the background. Around noon we cross paths with a humpback whale, swimming along the shore in about 50 feet of water. I believe it’s true, what they say about the intelligence of these gentle giants-here he was, crossing the Tehuantepec with one fin on the beach.
We reach the second boca late in the afternoon, and pass the entrance with barely a boost in the winds. Then we turn to the west, the worst of the Gulf behind us, and blaze towards Huatulco on a textbook perfect beam reach, doing better than eight knots as the sun sets in electric-pink glory dead ahead.
Our breeze fades after nightfall, and by midnight we are motoring across flat seas. The fuel situation is dire, and I figure we’ll continue until daylight, then wait for wind or find diesel. We have a chart for Bahia Ayulta; about 20 miles shy of Huatulco (our designated check-in port). Though the it appears uninhabited, we drop anchor at dawn and Barbara motors me to shore with the dinghy where I clamber through the surf with a five-gallon jug.
I wander along the beach, looking for a road inland, and eventually reach some pangas pulled above the high-water mark. Beyond the boats, past the sand dune, I discover about 20 Mexican fishermen lounging in the shade of some palm-thatch lean-tos. They seem tentative when I introduce myself-I imagine it isn’t every day a gringo wanders down their beach looking for fuel-but they quickly warm to my plight and say I can find diesel in their village. When I broach the possibility of walking inland-the village is five miles away-they insist I wait for them to retrieve their net, after which then they can give me a lift in their battered truck.
Having agreed on a plan, my new friends mobilize under the hot sun and I help them drag two pangas through the surf. They divide between the boats and one drops me on Gypsy on the way to their net- anchored in the bay. In less than an hour they are back, the men spattered with scales and the panga bottom filled with flapping fish. When we motor back to shore all the men except the driver dive into the breaking waves and swim to shore. I pull off my shirt to follow, but the driver stops me with outstretched hand. “Sit here,” he says, pointing to the seat beside him, “hold the handle-tightly.”
We idle about 100 yards from shore, making small talk, when a surge crashes on the beach and he guns the 60 h.p. outboard. We race towards the beach, and as we gain speed and the distance shortens I can’t fathom what he’s doing. “Stop now-stop now-please stop-please please” is what runs through my head, but we don’t stop. We hit the sand full throttle and skid 25 feet beyond the breaking waves-the motor snapping upright with a revving whine. We’ve barely come to a standstill before fishermen surround the panga, sorting fish and filling plastic crates that they carry to the truck.
I help with the sorting, but before we’re finished I notice a ship pass about a mile outside the bay. It continues out of sight but then returns, stopping abreast of Gypsy. When I question the fishermen they confirm my fears: “patrol,” they say, shaking their heads. Given that: 1) I haven’t checked into the country, 2) the Mexican military is notoriously hard-core about searching vessels (the U.S. government pays a flat fee for every boat they board as incentive in the ‘war on drugs’), and 3) here I am hanging out with locals on the beach, I realize I could be in trouble should they choose to investigate.
Much to my horror, an inflatable appears, motoring quickly towards Gypsy with six soldiers standing in full battle dress. “Don’t wait for me!” I shout to the fishermen, plunging into the surf. Swimming out, I yell for Barbara, who meets me in the dinghy. But by then the inflatable upon us-and do they look pissed. No doubt they’re convinced they discovered a drug deal in progress.
“What are you doing!” shouts the senior officer. I try to explain my diesel run in broken Spanish, but he isn’t listening. He scans the beach with hi-tech binoculars, watching the fishermen watch him, dumbfounded, and insists: “We will search the boat.”
Four soldiers board Gypsy-two stand on deck, gripping their M-16s and scanning the horizon for the rest of our cartel. The officer and a young soldier, sweating profusely in his helmet and body armor, come below and search behind lockers, hatches and cupboards. The officer checks our paperwork, and listens to my sad tale of dwindling fuel (he also checks the fuel gauge). When it becomes clear that we aren’t stowing bales of marijuana he lightens up and radios his superior, telling him we look legit.
After lengthy deliberation we are cleared by the Mexican navy, and as our platoon casts off I broach the unthinkable: “can I go for diesel?” The officer nods, and before they reach their cutter Barbara is motoring me back to shore. The fishermen are waiting on the truck, and when I emerge, dripping, from the surf they let out a cheer.
We’re packed elbow to elbow in the back of the truck for the bumpy 20-minute ride to their village. They want to know what happened with the patrol, blow by blow, and I give it my best shot in broken Spanish. The old man next to me offers a slug from his whiskey bottle, the majority of which he has already drunk. Then he puts his arm around me and strokes my hair with what can only be described as tender affection. For the rest of the ride, I deflect the fishermen’s inappropriate questions (“who is the woman?” “My friend Barbara.” “Do you have sex with her?”) while I fend off the old man’s increasingly aggressive advances.
The other fishermen watch the courtship with amusement, and though they offer the universal “he’s crazy” gesture- finger twirling around their ears-they don’t interfere. “Don’t you like me?” pleads my suitor, his pungent breath in my face and his bloodshot eyes a vacant blur as he tries to squeeze my ass. “No!” I insist, shoving him away, “I’m not that kind of guy.”
In the village, it’s a long ordeal siphoning diesel from someone’s back-shed stash and then waiting for a taxi that will drop me back at the beach. My suitor staggers down a dusty road and reappears later, extending a cold beer as peace offering. At the fishing coop, I buy a six-pack and divvy it up among the remaining fishermen as they conduct their daily commerce. The larger fish are iced for delivery to a nearby city, and rest of the morning’s catch is dumped on a tarp. For the next few hours, women from the village troop in carrying baskets or pushing wheel-barrows which they fill with fish before. The going rate is about two dollars for a wheel-barrowful.
Eventually my ‘cab’ arrives-a beat-up Hyundai with a grinning teen at the wheel. He takes me on a different road back to the beach, through a cow pasture where he chases two obstinate bulls from the middle of the road. He stops at a river, and explains that I need to wade across, hike up the hill on the opposite side, and wind my way to the beach, somewhere to the left. By the time I reach the water, clutching my precious diesel jug and sweating like a pig, I’ve had enough of Ayulta Bay. Barbara makes one last dinghy landing, and within minutes we are under way-motoring to Huatulco and bringing to a close our Tehuantepec crossing.
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February 25 - One Foot on the Beach
