CHAPTER 15
Asloop in the Nuevo Vallarta marina had been sold, leaving crew to find another vessel. Jim 38, and his 27 year old mate Denise seemed to fit our criteria, were able, and agreed after interviews to a sea trial before the crossing. First they had unfinished business in Acapulco, so they would meet us in Manzinillo.
Jim was a licensed Captain and claimed to have operated Caribbean charters over the last five years—hard to verify from Mexico. Denise, a big woman, claimed to be a gourmet chef with a degree she couldn’t produce from some fancy French school. They both presented resumes. Tony and I agreed Denise would have adjustments to make because we take turns as chef of the day, and anything more complicated than a burger crimps our style. The couple only wanted a lift to Tahiti and was willing to post bond, which comforted me. Always cautious, I faxed their references to my Denise in California with instructions for as thorough and speedy a background check as possible.
Sailing out of Vallarta with only Tony and me aboard was refreshing and we felt normal again. We had chuckles and fun with guests aboard, but Tony and I had developed a relaxed synergy that came from being together, and working together. We knew what each other was thinking, knew what to do when things develop suddenly, as happens aboard boats. We’d even worked out ‘private time’ privileges for remaining socially acceptable aboard a sometimes very short 43 foot yacht. Tony threw himself into a large beanbag chair we enjoyed having aboard. It was permanently positioned on the aft deck where its occupant needs not be involved in ships operations, unless required. When I wore a beat up, old favorite Los Angeles Rams ball cap my crew came to understand it meant ‘don’t bother me!’
Tony quipped it meant, “me and the Rams—two losers hanging out.”
We were in perfect sailing conditions, moderate following seas, wind aft of abeam and the spinnaker pulling its load. Tony was asleep, content after beating himself in a hard fought game of backgammon. Sitting at the wheel, steering with one hand, my thoughts drifted again to Jim and Denise, our prospective trans-Pacific crew. I wasn’t happy with myself. The guidelines I’d developed for crew selection were sound, so I asked myself why, in some vague way, was I already marginally uncomfortable with having them aboard. I couldn’t put my finger on it specifically but sensed I had missed a warning when Denise didn’t show evidence of her fancy cooking school completion and Jim hadn’t produced a captain’s license. It was more a caution flag warning in my mind than a red danger flag.
I moved to adjust the jib, allowing Tony to continue sleeping. I was nagged with the sense there’s more to the couples story than I’ve been told.
“Damn…what is it?” I muttered to myself, gazing across the empty ocean still bothered but confident my Denise will do a thorough job checking resumes. We need extra hands for the crossing but there are so many stories floating around about crew who refuse to leave the boat after arrival. Some don’t post a bond so immigration officials won’t let them leave the boat, forcing the skipper to keep them for another passage, until some port authority relents, or looks the other way as his palm is greased. I won’t let this happen. I’m not known for the patience it would require.
Anyway, we had time to work it through. There was hope too, my Denise would have her sea legs—but I doubt it. Denise, as a nurse, understands the importance of being healthy and fit when medical care may be hundreds of ocean miles away, or simply non-existent. Trusting her good judgment, I abandoned my defeating thoughts to get back to reality.
“Chow time Tony—get up and get busy!”
And so it went. We ate, slept, fished, exchanged chuckles and marveled at the balance of nature God had created for our pleasure. The radios were quiet except for one often repeated broadcast looking for a seventy eight year old single-handed sailor two weeks overdue reporting in by radio. He, too, had been sailing from south to north along the Mexican Pacific coast.
Tony, after one missing man broadcast, suggested “His family should be concerned, south to north at that age. If they ever find him he should get a gold ‘dumb shit’ card.”
Our second night out we dropped anchor in a small cove between Cabo Corrientes and Ipala, Mexico.
We took a look around and there, a quarter mile away, was a dismasted, rough looking small sloop, sea grass clinging to its hull and decks a mess, answering precisely the description of the missing seniors boat. Minutes later there was a knock on our hull. Sitting in a beat up dinghy and hanging to our rail, was an able bodied, snowy white haired senior sailor, with a twinkle in his eye and a question on his mind, in search of a cold drink, someone to talk to and someone with a working radio. He was disabled after being dismasted and loosing his antenna.
“Name’s Charlie. Would ya have a working radio—and maybe a cold drink?” he asked.
“You bet we do, Charlie,” I said inviting him aboard for all the drinks he could ever wish for, plus todays catch, mahi mahi for dinner. “Damn chubasco caught me,” explained Charlie, with fresh fish and a shot of scotch warming his innards. ”Happened so fast. Pitch dark, couldn’t see er comin. One moment everything was hunkey dorey, next I’m on my ear (sailing term for tipped way over). I couldn’t get the sails loose fast enough and the damn mast snapped.” “Anyone with you?” Tony asked.
“Naw, just me. Had a hellava time draggin the rig aboard and cuttin the rest free.”
“The radio’s been broadcasting about you a week now.” Tony said, looking at the seasoned senior with awe, “when did it happen?” “Don’t know how many days fer sure. I drifted—seemed like forever. Food was gettin sparse when this anchorage popped up. Used my outboard to get here. Be nice a you to radio my position.”
We talked well into the night. Charlie was mentally alert. He didn’t complain of injuries and we didn’t see any, so we arranged a ham radio link to his greatly relieved family in Oregon, notified the Mexican authorities and arranged for an early morning tow into Ipala, the nearest port with medical facilities. Tony escorted Charlie back to his boat, making certain he was safely aboard before reassuring him help would arrive shortly after sunrise.
“That was a good thing we did,” said Tony “but what I can’t figure is what was he trying to prove by solo sailing as an old man?” “Maybe nothing,” I replied, “and possibly a lot. We are all different. We all have our challenges. Maybe he liked solitude or was proving himself to his family. Heck Tony, a lot of people thought we were crazy, and what’s our reason for being here?” “Because we want to!”
“Point made.”
Shortly after dawn we watched Charlie be taken into tow by a Mexican naval vessel. All was well, so we headed south to our next coastal diversion, a tiny cove housing the only Club Med to be found on Mexico’s West Coast. By carefully maneuvering in shallow waters and narrow channels marked by flimsy buoys, we were able to anchor less than two hundred meters from shore, and within easy view of a constant parade of bikinis, a sight we believed we had earned. Club officials allowed us to purchase colorful beads used as money at their venues. We stayed several days. Had we wished we could have had some topless escorts to Manzanillo. It would have been tough to explain the crew list to Immigration. So again we sailed alone, but feeling good—really good!
We left on a setting sun and by morning were sailing very close to shore, just outside the wave line. The wind was taking a vacation, the temperature had risen, and we ghosted on a flat sea toward our final Mexican destination, Las Hadas Resort in Manzinillo.
Our solitude was interrupted when, out of the north a giant commercial airliner appeared, flying so low it skimmed the tips of palm trees lining the shore. Tony and I looked on in horror but heard no crash. We looked at each other, bewildered. Strange things were certainly happening, but this wasn’t the Bermuda Triangle. Then we heard the whine of jet engines being reversed, indicating a runway completely hidden from view, a major airport, undoubtedly serving Manzinillo.
“Imagine,” Tony grinned, “we are SO relaxed we didn’t notice an airport sneaking up on us.”
We entered the anchorage at Las Hadas resort under engine power and at low throttle and were assigned a “stern to” European style berth, meaning our bow would be pointed out and our stern facing the dock. Maneuvering to this assignment was tricky, especially with some fifty other yachts, mostly larger, watching and waiting for us to screw up. But we didn’t. We smartly dropped anchor in the middle of the small, tightly packed harbor at low throttle and backed with precision into our designated position in front of a ladies apparel store and a cantina with ample outdoor seating. Patrons intently watched our approach, possibly expecting us to screw up. We did a proper maneuver though, securing our lines to the concrete wall just as the sun went down and the music came up.
“This” said Tony, “is going to be fun.” Too much fun.