Even now, Mexico is a blur. Six weeks into our marathon passage, the coast is a rush of rolly anchorages, random searches, rude bureaucracy, and rustic beaches stretching unbroken. We have traveled 1,400 miles from the border, and however brief our layovers, we have glimpsed the best and worst this country has to offer. Many of the ports I could do without: Huatulco with its pre-fab colonial charm, Acapulco with its 'spring break' decadence, and Ixtapa's nuevo riche exclusivism among them. But occasionally you happen upon an unexploited gem like Bahia Sacrificios and realize why hordes of North American cruisers have flocked here for years.
In many ways, Mexico is a victim of its own success. As recently as two years ago, annoying paperwork was de rigueur, but out-of-pocket costs for cruisers were negligible. Now the government and local authorities have ramped up the bureaucracy and enacted multiple entry fees and surcharges. Costs have grown prohibitively expensive (not to mention time consuming)--and they are snuffing out enthusiasm for this coast. Administrative fees are higher in Mexico than any other country I've visited, by an order of magnitude, and most cruisers are consequently shortening their stay and hiding in anchorages the authorities don't monitor. On our recent voyage, the pace and route was dictated largely by thrift and convenience.
In Escondido I meet Ian, an Australian surfing beside me on the ‘Mexican Pipeline’ (during my visit it was more garden hose than pipeline). When he tells me he is heading to Acapulco with his girlfriend, I offer them a ride on Gypsy. The extent of Ian and Vanessa's nautical experience entails standing upright on surf boards, but they take to cruising like a hungry pelican to water, and we enjoy a lazy, 36-hour trip. The brisk wind and choppy seas on our second night seem a fitting finale to their indoctrination-- it's hardly blue-water cruising without a little spray over the bow.
The overwhelming draw to Acapulco is the cliff divers. I vividly remember watching them as a child, Saturday afternoons with Kurt Goudy on Wide World of Sports. The dizzying plummet and treacherous entry into the surging tide seems the kind of reckless bravado that expensive litigation has all but eradicated over the past few decades. So when I hear that not only are they still diving, but that they do so every day, with the regularity of church services, I steel myself for a letdown. Maybe the cliffs aren't so high, or the rocks so jagged as I remember. Maybe witnessing the divers will be like visiting a former grade school-- everything scaled down and anti-climactic.
Ian is a closet cliff-dive fanatic as well, and we spend hours building each other up for the show. By the time we reach the Quebrada heights, and wind our way through throngs of spectators to a rocky promontory front row and center (not, technically, sanctioned seating) we've worked ourselves into a frenzy. We opt for a night show, and the divers jump from beside us, swim cross a spot-lit chasm and scale the rock face directly across. They climb to the top, 140 feet above the water, and pray, each of them, at a flower-draped shrine.
The young divers go first, boys really, from lower perches. They are apprentices, a warm-up act, and they execute their dives-- a swan, then a tandem-with rote precision. The crowd responds with polite golf clap. Then the main attraction, high above, at the top of the cliff, a grizzled veteran (with unexpected paunch) waves to the cheering crowd. The lights dim, a bonfire is lit, and our man plunges, arms outstretched, 140 feet down, into the surge. He hits the water with barely a splash. The crowd goes wild, Ian and I high five, then the lights come on and everyone clears from the tiered terraces above us. Undaunted, we wait an hour for the next show and relish it with undampened enthusiasm.
My friend Graham meets me in Acapulco, at La Marina, and after a few days lounging in the luxurious pool (the only amenity the bankrupt establishment has to offer) we provision at the world's largest Wal-Mart and motor for Zihuatanejo. We have a laid-back passage, long hours of conversation in the cockpit as the coast creeps past, and reach Z-town in a day. There is a sizeable cruiser fleet in the bay-- 60 at least-- and with reconnaissance from Hoptoad we fall effortlessly into a routine of frisbee, beach volleyball, and inter-boat socializing.
Unlike the Caribbean or Panama, Mexico's Pacific coast is the exclusive stomping ground of American and Canadian cruisers. For the most part, they are cliquey, cautious, and highly averse to change. As a German cruiser Hoptoad met in the Caribbean put it: "American sailors are pussies." In the protected bays like Mazatlan and Zihuatanejo, scores of boats drop anchor and stay for months at a time. When they plan to leave, they talk about it for days - checking weather, questioning recent arrivals and debating departure times. They leave in tight formation, boats from the anchorage wishing them luck on the radio. They convoy to their next port, drop anchor and settle in for another few months.
Radio Nets are the glue that holds this community together--you could spend several hours each day participating in local and regional dialogue. It’s on the radio that you hear the crazy boat names--ones you wouldn’t believe if they weren’t repeated by Net junkies day after day. What follows are five boat names-- four of them cruisers we met in Mexico and one a joke name Neill from Margarita used on a Net one morning: a) Hard on the Wind, b) Neener Neener Neener, c) Morning Wood, d) Breaking Wind Too, or e) Moon Me (see answer at the end of the report).
Zihuatanejo marks the completion of Margarita's circumnavigation-- they set sail from here four years ago for the Galapagos and points west. The morning they arrive, they raise a multi-colored spinnaker and huge American flag and sail into the bay blasting Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Hoptoad has alerted the fleet, and as Margarita sails past people honk horns and shout regards. The radio is a constant chatter "congratulations". It's an emotional homecoming-as one woman tells me later, "I don't even know them and I was crying like a baby." Their accomplishment assures Margarita rock-star status for the duration of their stay. Graham and I are relegated to groupies when we visit-- mugging for passing fans and photo-takers.
To celebrate the circumnavigation, Hoptoad hosts a party at Rick's, a local hang-out. They cover beer and snacks, which ensures a large cruiser turn-out. The evening's entertainment comes courtesy of the Gypsy Toads, our make-shift band. I accompany Sonny, Jeff and Shawn on 'Sail Away' a Margarita tribute sung to 'Not Fade Away' ("Round the world on a ragin' sea-- Neill and Sarah and babies three..."). Then comes 'Margarita,' sung to 'Margaritaville' ("Some people claim the cruising life is insane-- But we know, it's as good as it gets...").
When the raucous crowd demands more, we belt out a few songs we've barely practiced-- the Hoptoad boys strumming along like seasoned pros. The night ends many hours and incalculable margaritas later, the adults from our trio staggering to our dinghies singing impromptu verses to tribute songs. Thankfully, circumnavigations come but once every five years.
From Z-town it's 200 solo miles to Tenacatita, a secluded bay ringed by beaches, palapas, and an upscale resort. My girlfriend, Aubrey, joins me, and her immediate affinity for boat living is a refreshing lift to the Mexico grind. Aubrey just returned from Afghanistan, where she was working for a relief organization, and we spend hours unwinding with backgammon, swims, and pastel sunsets. Her stories of disabled orphans, hurried evacuations, and hostile encounters on the streets of Kabul drive home, for the first time, just how far we’ve drifted from the outside world.
Together we enjoy a final few days bonding with Margarita and Hoptoad. We take a dinghy excursion through mangroves, spend a day sampling seafood on a nearby beach, and an exhausting afternoon round of ultimate frisbee. Then we have a final binge of festivities ('casino night' on Gypsy) before saying our last teary goodbyes. They will continue around Baja and up the coast to California, and we have five days to reach Mazatlan, 300 miles north, where my father will join us.
Aubrey's introduction to cruising is a plunge into the deep end. Our first full day out, we approach Cabo Corriente late afternoon. The Cape marks the convergence of the Sea of Cortez and the Southern Equatorial currents, and conditions can get intense. A month ago, a man was lost overboard and his wife and sailboat washed ashore. Rounding the Cape is regarded on the Amigo Net with the same respect as an Everest summit, but it is hardly extreme compared to conditions further south. None-the-less, with 25 knot winds and a nasty chop kicking up, we decide to tuck into Bahia Ipala, the last anchorage before the Cape.
But when we try starting the motor, nothing happens. I run through a checklist of potential problems-- starter voltage, fuel filters, fuel line-but cannot get it running. Frustrated, I start making mistakes-- like losing wrenches in the bilge. Aubrey does her best to calm me, but with darkness closing in and the weather getting worse, I know we've got a problem.
Still 12 miles from Ipala, I call for assistance on the radio. I connect with Dewey, a cruiser further north, who helps me troubleshoot the engine. We confront our options: round Corriente without a motor, drift where we are until daylight, or sail into Ipala in the dark. Despite the challenges, we opt for the anchorage. I need tools to fix the motor, and bouncing around until dawn will only exhaust us further. Aubrey calmly agrees, and I tack towards shore while she monitors the radios.
Dewey becomes our command center-- given that we need to conserve batteries for the autopilot and radar, he handles all incoming radio traffic (primarily advice from other cruisers). We check with him every hour on the hour, and when extraneous traffic interferes, Dewey interjects: "Attention! Emergency in progress-- please switch to another frequency." It is slow going, Ipala is into the wind and we are bucking a current. After six hours of hard sailing, we get within a mile of the anchorage, but our wind fades and then dies altogether.
We drop the dinghy and start towing Gypsy. Dewey suggests tying the dinghy to the stern and steering with the big boat-- which allows us to control our course. Aubrey and I take turns: one motoring the dinghy, the other steering Gypsy. Slowly, steadily, we creep into Ipala where, at 4:30 in the morning we finally drop anchor. We bid Dewey a final farewell-- after ten hours of radio contact it feels like we've stormed Normandy together-- and tumble into the bunk for some much-needed rest.
Later in the morning, I borrow wrenches from a fisherman, replace a leaking hose, and fix the motor. We leave at dusk, when winds typically ease, and motor-sail past Corriente in a bumpy, 20-knot blow. And that is more or less how conditions remain for the next 46 hours, as we beat our way to Mazatlan. The progress is slow-- three knots at times-- and the ride uncomfortable, but we are in a race now to meet my father.
Aubrey has brought along an arsenal of sea-sickness cures, and we are both amazed when she doesn’t need them. Late at the night I wake to relieve her wheel watch. She’s in the cockpit, swaddled in fleece (it’s getting cold!) with a bucket beside her (just in case). “You go back to sleep, Love,” she says when she sees my powder-puff expression, “I’m fine--I’ll get you in a few hours.” Tell me, will I ever be able to go back to solo sailing?
The next morning we are joined by a giant school of spinner porpoises, leaping and crashing all around Gypsy. Aubrey has an inordinate affection for all things small and cuddly--monkeys, sloths, puppies, toddler--and dolphins, though hardly snuggly, are like second kin. She sits at the bow and the dolphins swim below--connecting in ways I will never understand. We consider anchoring the second night-- but then I imagine Dad, waiting forlornly at the marina, and we agree to push on. Our arrival should coincide with his flight, and, relieved, I check my watch as we enter the harbor. "Look at that, Aubrey-- the date on my watch is a day off." The date is, in fact, correct. We knocked ourselves out, only to arrive 24-hours early.
We've made good time through Mexico, and I can't say I'm disappointed we didn't linger longer. There are some lovely beaches and quaint towns, but overall the Pacific Coast feels too packaged-- an expensive playground for tourists. It has been tough going, but our mad dash has a purpose. They say the Sea of Cortez starts to warm in April, and we will be among the first boats cruising its pristine waters. With Aubrey on board we are ready to settle back and soak up some real treasures south of the border. My feelings are summed up by John, a cruising veteran we meet in Mazatlan. "The Sea of Cortez," he says with a smile, "that's why we put up with the rest of this bullshit. Without the Sea, we wouldn’t be in Mexico."
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March 20 - The Gringo Coast
