Blue Moon Southbound from Alaska

Back in New Zealand

2012-01-22T19:16:00.000-08:00

After 16 years of cruising Blue Moon is back in McLeod Bay. And celebrating....

AAARRR!! On Sunday Jan 22 thar be a gathering not to be missed!

It be 30 years since that old pirate Rob tied the clove hitch with his bride Jo, and the good ship Blue Moon was conceived in the pirate infested waters of the Caribbean (AAARRR). In celebration of the event, they be gatherin’ for a Sandbank party and piratical games at low tide on the McDonald Sandbank (that be the one in front of the Penthouse pirate cave in McLeod Bay). Thar be hardtak and grog, and some mighty fine pirates once the waters abated. Thar be a treasure chest full of prizes fer the games – treasure hunt, cannonball tossing, walk the plank and blow the man down.

Thanks be to the weather gods fer a fine afternoon, had by all. AAARRR!

Blow the man down...

The treasure chest be where Blue Moon is moored....

The Pirate and his Treasure...

AAARRR the pirates cave be found under them thar hills....

Last to leave the sandbar at high water...

Farewell to French Polynesia

2011-07-18T12:56:00.000-07:00

Our time in French Polynesia is almost up which means we will have to move on from this amazing place. Most people would be ecstatic at the prospect of a 2 week holiday here, but for me the remaining time seems infinitesimal and I feel we have rushed through the whole country. If you have been able to keep up with us on http://www.sailblogs.com/member/bluemoonnz/ you will know that we spent a month in the Marquesas, a month in the Tuamotus and now our last month in the Society islands - each with many islands and very different from each other. Too much to see within the time constraints of our 3 month visa!

My most memorable experience in the Marquesas was the ‘tattoo’ I now have on 3 fingers as a result of a rather nasty bite from a Moray Eel. I was lucky it did not get infected, but nonetheless it was frustrating to be kept out of the water, especially while Rob was off snorkeling with manta rays. There was plenty to do on land, though, and the rock spires and pinnacles that these islands are famous for provided a visual feast. The most famous of these is at Fatu Hiva, in a place now named the Bay of Virgins. When the missionaries arrived, they renamed it from the original Bay of Penises, but as we watched the gyrating hips during the seductive dances here, it was clear that nobody was fooled.

The Tuamotus, just 300 miles away are quite a contrast with not a rock in sight. These sandy atolls barely rise above sea level, a ring of tiny islands of swaying coconut, surrounding impossibly blue lagoons. Finally my moray eel bite had healed, but now Rob was unable to enjoy the crystal clear water due to an infection under his toenail, as a result of just a tiny nick. It was not until he pulled the toenail off (eeewwww!) that it began to heal. I reassured him that he would not have enjoyed the snorkeling anyway, since there were always sharks present in these waters, something he is not comfortable with. I admit that my normal tolerance for these creatures was stretched and several times I retreated to the safety of my dinghy. I never tire of the gorgeous water colors in these atolls, and despite what some people say they not all the same. We visited 4, large and small, some uninhabited, and some with pearl farms. A fitting image as we sailed away was the last sliver of moon at sunrise, with the entire sphere outlined like a Tuamotus black pearl set on a gold crescent.

Tahiti was our first shopping stop since Mexico, and we were glad we decided to spend our time there right downtown. We were on the spot for the Hieva Festival events. Canoe races were held right in front of our boat, so we sat in our deck chairs on the wheelhouse roof to watch the ‘river’ of 140 canoes at the start line. Dance shows in the evening were a spectacle of fire, feathers, glittering mother of pearl and intricately woven coconut fibres. The scent of the brightly colored flower lays and elaborate flower crowns worn by the audience was intoxicating. One of the most moving experiences for us was the unveiling of a monument at the nuclear testing memorial site. We had no idea what was happening – we just heard drums at sunset and went along the waterfront for a look. A small well-dressed Polynesian crowd was gathered, and speeches were all in Polynesian so we understood little. Forty-four beautifully carved and painted drums were arranged in a circle. The drummers were oiled and tattooed, wearing traditional costumes with shell and feather headdresses. The sound of these amazing instruments reverberated right to my soul. Although the words were meaningless to us, the emotions were clear and we both felt something important was occurring around us. Later we read the inscription that dedicated this lovely wooden sculpture to those affected by nuclear testing.

The Heiva festival is winding down now, a month long event leading up to Bastille Day. The small, non-touristy island of Huahine was a great choice for the parade and dancing on the national day to party. It was a real community event, and a visiting group of professional dancers from Wallis livened up the show. We will spend a few more days here before finishing our travels in French Polynesia with a visit to Bora Bora.

We anticipate being back in New Zealand by the end of November, spending the remaining time in one of our favorite places, Tonga.

Fatu Hiva and Ua Pou

2011-05-18T00:29:00.000-07:00

On our way back to New Zealand. First stop - Marquesas

2011-05-18T00:10:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Hiva Oa after a rather idyllic 18 day passage from Mexico. The only major event was almost killing Rob with a Portuguese Man of War when he jumped in to tighten up the rudder bearing which was vibrating loose whenever we went faster than 9 knots. This will tell you what sort of wind we had, at least for part of the trip. We had only a short patch of doldrums, one night of lightning and nothing big broke. Rob recovered from the jellyfish sting after massive doses of vitamin C and antihistamines.

After a few days exploring the island of Hiva Oa, we sailed south to Fatu Hiva. These islands are all made of volcanic rocks, which so remind me of Mt Manaia behind our little cow shed in New Zealand – on a grand scale! We never really saw the top of the mountain at Hiva Oa since it was always shrouded in mist. The striking pinnacle rocks around the anchorage at Fatu Hiva seemed like a birds of prey to me, watchful and a little bit menacing. One in particular reminded me of an owl. We swam in the pool at the base of an awesome waterfall there, where yabbies crawled up my legs in the shallows. Perhaps their timid nips made me complacent about snorkelling at Tahuata Island, our next stop. A possessive moray took exception as I reached out to touch a pencil urchin that was cunningly camouflaging his hole, and chomped down rather hard on 3 fingers. His jaws were like a vice, so thankfully he somehow missed my pinky altogether. The back molars sort of crushed the knuckle on my ring finger, and the long venomous fangs shredded my first two fingers pretty thoroughly. If this ever happens to you, remember bleach. I soaked the wounds in a diluted solution before sticking it all back together with steristrips. The doctor we saw yesterday admonished me for not leaving it open - apparently all bites are prone to infection and must not be stitched so they drain. I guess the bleach worked, since it seems to be healing ok so far. Having use of only one hand, the one that is not connected to my brain, I have not been able to do much. The next morning Rob was in swimming with manta rays that were circling the boat and I could barely even work the camera, relegated as I was to watch from the dry deck. It will be a few more days before I can get in the water.

From Tahuata we stopped at Hanamenu Bay on the north side of Hiva Oa hoping for a fresh water swim in a spring. Just as we were about to step into the surf to get ashore, a fin appeared beside the dingy. I had no desire for another encounter with toothy sea creatures, especially since this one was as long as the dingy and seemed to be following us. We emailed friends who we had hoped to meet in that bay to let them know why we had left in a hurry, and they sent a note back to say they had not let their little boy jump in to swim with a manta ray there because of our note. They later saw the shark when they tried to land their dingy and were glad of our warning.

We had only a short visit at Ua Pou Island, with its totally amazing visual feast of volcanic spires. It seems that all these places deserve a stay of several weeks to get to know them, but we have just a 3-month visa for the entire French Polynesia region, which includes the Tuamotus and Tahiti. Our last stop in the Marquesas is Nuku Hiva, the capital of the Marquesas, before we set off for the Tuamotus in a few days.

We are amazed to find out that we can update a blog using our marine radio, so have been posting on a regular basis to our ‘sailblog’. Check it out using the link on the sidebar.

Follow us across the Pacific...

2011-04-07T21:12:00.000-07:00

We have started a new blog that we can update from our SSB radio while we are sailing from Mexico to New Zealand. If you want to follow the trip, check on http://www.sailblogs.com/member/bluemoonnz/

We will continue to add photos and stories to this page when we get to an internet cafe again.

Chiapas Images

2010-12-27T14:30:00.000-08:00

Sumidero rock formation

Sumidero Canyon

Here are some photos from our inland trip to chiapas...

howler monkey

highway ladies

Rob on crocodile watch

amber mask

Los Nubes waterfalls

Los Nubes from above

Chiapas del Corzo belltower at sunset

San Cristobal Cathedral

textile sellers

Chinkultic mayan ruins

Crossing the Bar

2010-12-10T13:15:00.000-08:00

Here are some images of our entrance into Bahia del Sol, El Salvador. We were followed in by 'Rapscallion'.

Thats us in front of the surf..

And Rapskullion on top of it!

Shopping in El Salvador

2010-12-10T13:07:00.000-08:00

A raft of garbage drifts past the boat on its way out the estuary. It will return when the tide changes, but ultimately it will make its way out the entrance and likely end up on the wide sandy beach at that lines the Pacific coast of El Salvador. We walked over to the beach today to find it completely changed from when we last saw it, more than 4 months ago. Except for the acres of garbage, which is as prolific as ever. No recycling here. Now, though, the beach looks more like the Canadian coast with the remnant limbs of dismembered trees piled thick as far as you can see. These would have been the ones that bumped their way past our boat during hurricane season as the flood waters roared out, lodging the occasional unruly tree across our mooring line and creating a mini waterfall in the strong tide. We worried about that during our long absence but found Blue Moon to be in good shape when we returned.

Reprovisioning was a priority when we returned so I tagged along with friends for a shopping day. There are few shops nearby so they had decided to rent a car to get around and bring their groceries back to the boat. The day began with a 2-hour bus ride to San Salvador to pick up the car. It was my first experience of the local busses. The inside was decorated with pink and purple paint, glitter, mirrors, stuffed animals, a Barcelona football scarf and lots of hanging, dangling things. Latin music was playing at full volume and everyone was chatting and laughing when we boarded. The driver honked his horn, one that sounded like a train whistle, at every opportunity. It was like a party. I found a seat and settled in to enjoy the scenery. Tropical jungle vegetation flanked us, dotted with an incongruous collection of flamboyantly painted stucco mansions that are the holiday homes of the rich city folk, and the rusty corrugated iron lean-tos where the majority of the local residents live.

As the bus got going, a pop can whizzed past my face and out the window to join the endless stream of garbage at the roadside. This is the normal waste disposal system in Central America. It all ends up in the estuary eventually. There are no real bus stops so everyone gets on and off where they like, although the main hubs can always be found by the carpet of plastic that accumulates whenever the bus stops for any length of time. Drinks are sold from the giant bottles, decanted into small plastic bags, twisted shut and served with a straw. Water also comes in plastic bags. Otherwise the bus stops might be atop a mountain of bottles, I suppose.

A conductor made his way down the aisle, clicking a handful of change in my face like castenettes as he collected the fare. When he reached the back door, he jumped off and ran to the front, hopping aboard as the bus gathered speed. The bus filled up and people jammed the aisle but the conductor still made his way through. Little kids, bright and shiny in every way, stared at me from eye level, and the rail-thin old man in a starched white shirt sitting next to me grinned toothlessly, genuine affection crinkling his eyes. More people crammed onto the bus, so that the kids had to lean over the old man, and the temperature rose ten degrees. Everyone was still laughing and the conversations got louder to be heard over everyone else, and the music. At the cross roads about 25 people were waiting for the bus. They all got on, past the driver who was standing on his seat yelling at those in the aisle to make room. At the next stop, a couple of extremely heavy women got on. The largest was pushed up the steps by the conductor, like being shoved into an over stuffed suitcase. Somehow, he made his way past them and clicked his castenette money down the aisle again. The three well dressed men who got on next had to hang out the open door. The conductor hung out behind them the next time he made his way forward. Unbelievably, food vendors came through with their baskets of gum or papusas, making sales all the way down the bus before getting off at the next stop, pocketing their takings in elaborately decorated lacy aprons, the El Salvador purse. Wrappers flew out the open windows. Only one old woman declined the bus, waging her finger in disapproval at the sea of faces pressed against the windows, her mouth a round ‘no’ as the driver slowed for her.

Finally, at San Salvador, the bus disgorged a small metropolis of people, we picked up our car and ticked off our list at a succession of stores. It was getting late we were done, but I had forgotten to buy bananas. So had Christi. Maybe we will pass a fruit shop, she suggested. Twilight was fading as I consulted the map to find the most direct route out of town, with Christie driving. Suddenly the road ahead transformed into a street market. We sneaked in behind a truck, hoping he would blaze the trail for us until we got through it but the truck turned off into a building and we drove deeper into the market. Carts and stalls lined the street with barely enough room for our car to pass, people wandered in front of us, and we were driving at a snails pace, attracting stares, dodging wheelbarrows and trying not to hit anything else. At first it was interesting since we had talked earlier about trying to find the city market. But as the market became more congested, people were shouting, although we couldn’t tell if it was at us or just to advertise their wares. Clearly we should not be driving through here. I spotted a cart full of bananas, and Christie stopped the car beside it. I rolled down my window to ask how much 6 bananas cost, inciting a lively discussion between several of the sellers and eventually we received a whole shopping bag of bananas for $1. I rolled up the window and we carried on, grateful to find a road to take us out of the market. We were thoroughly lost, but we had everything on our shopping list.

When I'm 64...

2010-10-16T15:19:00.000-07:00

at the penthouse...

New Zealand has undergone a cultural revolution in the 15 years that we have been away, similar to the one I noticed when I returned to Canada after 25 years. The concept of Whanau has emerged in a more integrated Maori and Pakeha society. This extended family is made up of the people who mean the most to us, regardless of ethnic background or blood.

We had a little party for Rob’s 64th birthday on a gloriously sunny afternoon, inserted like a bookmark in the pages of rainy days that make up Northland’s spring. More special than this was being surrounded by our New Zealand Whanau. Not a day goes by that we do not think of our Whanau around the world and we treasure those friendships.

Central America Images

2010-10-14T19:09:00.000-07:00

Did you just eat my button?

Hieroglyphic Staircase 1891

Hieroglyphic Staircase 2010

The Ancient Mayan Nation

muddy tuk tuk ride

Electical systems in Honduras!

School project at Tazumal

Santa Ana Theater

Volcano at Izalco

Guatamala Sinkhole after Hurricane Agatha

Exploring Central America

2010-10-14T18:32:00.000-07:00

back to June 2010...
Our first trip inland in El Salvador began ominously. We had chosen the coast road to take us to the town of Sonsonate, the beginning of the routa de las flores. This road was not well marked and after becoming lost several times we arrived at a standstill where a major bridge had been washed out. It was not clear how long ago this had occurred, but the result was that traffic was detouring through a ford. Busses, trucks and cars made their way across the river, water half way up the doors on the smaller vehicles, assisted as necessary by bulldozers pulling and pushing through the muddy water. I missed the photo op of this incredible scene and this was to be my first indication of how traveling with others is different from traveling on our own. The five of us unanimously decided not to risk it with our rental car and off we went up a secondary road through the mountains.

There was a lively discussion about where we should stop to eat breakfast, and after getting lost in the bustling capital city of San Salvador, which we had hoped to bypass, we suddenly swerved and screeched to a halt in the courtyard of a stone villa. The driver had made an executive decision. The parking attendant had what looked to be an automatic weapon slung across his waist but gave us a friendly ‘buenos dias’ just the same. Guns are a common sight in this country where most people still retain vivid memories of the bloody civil war that ended in 1992. Inside the restaurant, tables were set with linen and silver, pewter plates to put the china ones on, and at least 20 liveried servers hovered to look after our every need. The specialty that day was a buffet, which included a huge variety of foods, omelets made to order, and all the fresh juice and coffee you could drink. I was dreading what this might cost but the bill came to $14 including the tip for both of us.

On to Sonsonate, where we got lost again and Rob got out of the car to ask directions from a group of men gathered on a street corner. After pointing vaguely back the way we came, the group lurched after Rob demanding money, and there was a nasty scene as Rob tried to shove one man’s head out of the door so he could close it while our driver moved off and the rest of us hastily locked our doors. At about this point we read the warning in our lonely planet guide saying that tourists were ill advised to leave the main road.

The routa de las flores has nothing much to do with flowers but is a 22 mile scenic drive in the western corner of El Salvador. We didn’t expect it could possibly take us all day, despite the LP suggestion that we should linger several days in this area. First stop was a town known for wood furniture and crafts. We stopped to check the shops where the girls all purchased nice tapestry bags and exasperated the boys with our prattle about the bag store for several miles afterwards.

At our second stop it began to rain, so we prudently all bought big umbrellas at a shop on the little square where the ‘Black Christ’ church is. Next stop, the waterfall, and we found ourselves on a perilously rutted track on the outskirts of town. One of the guys enlisted the services of a local in the deserted parking lot to guide us to the falls, and he happily ran off to get his machete before we set off. About half way down this slippery mud path, and a good half hour later, I began to wonder if we had been wise going off into the wilderness with a machete wielding local leaving our car alone, packed with our belongings, and attended only by his friends. The rain became heavy. Little rivulets of water pooled in places on the path. We got soaked. The waterfalls finally appeared, we took photos, and marveled at the concrete troughs and tunnels that had been built as a water system for a nearby village. I was very relieved to find our car safely where we left it, and we set off in the now heavy rain to find a 25,000-year-old rock carving weighing 12 tons. A wrong turn took us to a delightful resort where we changed into dry clothes, drank beer and coffee, and discovered that the rock site was closed. The photos on the wall showed a moss-covered rock with faint lines carved into it.

The hotel we had chosen for the night was in the next town, and we did not arrive until dark. It was listed as ‘the luxury option’ in our guidebook, with breathtaking views of the volcanoes across the town. We were all glad we had splurged for the extra convenience of running water in the room, but unfortunately the view was lost in the mist and clouds. Our dinner that evening, at one of the 2 restaurants that were open in Ataco, was entertaining, delicious, cheap and beautifully presented by the chef who was a giant of a man and his vivacious Spanish wife in their eclectic shop- restaurant-home. I got a kick out of their question “Are you sleeping in a taco?” We explored the following morning, seeing some of the murals that the town is famous for and buying more suitable clothes for the now persistent rain. The little second hand store had just my size - $2 for pants and $1.50 for a long sleeved shirt.
Too soon, we were crammed into the car and on our way to visit some of the Mayan ruins that were scattered about this area. At the ancient capital of Tazumal we saw the remains of a temple pyramid and toured the little museum along with hundreds of school children. After our trip to Oaxaca in Mexico, I felt mildly disappointed by this site. We continued on to Santa Ana, where our troubles began.
We had parked our car near the town square, and decided on a whim to visit the museum across the street. It turned out to be very interesting, housed in a former bank, with a collection of old money in the basement vault, photographs of the volcano that destroyed much of Santa Tecla in 1917 and a display showing the wide variety of uses for the agave plant, ranging from tequila to baskets. We have now dubbed this Museo Regional de Occidente the museum of accidents, for when we returned to our car it had been sideswiped by a bus.

We went to lunch with the curator of the museum and he was extremely helpful, phoning the rental car company and translating for us. We were told to bring the car back that evening before 6. Ok. We continued our sight seeing. The theater in Santa Ana is a place that I would love to return for a performance. It was funded by coffee taxes - all beautifully crafted wood, leather, stained glass, marble statues, inlaid floors, frescos and chandeliers.

Our next stop was the Los Volcanes Park, with its breathtaking views (one could imagine a mountain out there under that cloud) and network of hiking trails for bird watching. We had spent a lot of time on the phone with the car company so we didn’t have much time left for hiking. Besides, it was raining. We settled for a quick photo against Mt Izalco, which last erupted in 2005, causing damage to the condemned hotel from which we were viewing the barren, gray, still-smoking cone.
We had no time left to see the ruins at Joya de Ceren, a city that has been preserved under layers of volcanic ash that sounded fascinating to me. We raced into San Salvador, got lost again, made it to the hotel just after 5 and phoned the car company. No answer, and the doors were chained shut when the guys drove over there. Here again, we might have done things differently if we had been on our own. But we were all booked to join another couple for a tour to Copan in Honduras the next morning at 5AM. So we left the damaged car at the hotel and fled the country (so to speak).

To get to Copan, we cut through Guatemala, taking 4 hours off the trip if we had gone straight from El Salvador to Honduras. So we had 2 border crossings, three countries and three currencies to deal with. Our tour driver was a Salvadorian who turned out to be very knowledgeable, and in hindsight, hiring him might well have been worth it in comparison to the hassles of this rental car. We arrived at our hotel in time for breakfast.

Copan is a cute, cobbled town with a collection of craft shops, restaurants, and tourist attractions all within a few miles of the plaza. In nice weather, I imagine it would be lovely to stroll the streets, poking through shops, sipping cocktails on verandas, taking long walks through the fantastic carved statues at the Mayan ruins, walking by the river, bird watching at the Macaw Mountain bird sanctuary, glimpsing colorful butterflies amongst the orchids at the butterfly gardens, horseback riding, tearing along the zip lines above the jungle canopy or burbling down the rapids in a raft. But we were there as Tropical Storm Agatha was whipping herself up to a fury and the rain just kept coming down.

We did get to visit the ruins and the bird sanctuary, both of which were excellent, although I thought the $104 cost for the day to be a tad expensive. Those that know of my sensitivity to jade might be interested hear that I felt that a large deposit of jade lay under those ancient stones, and when I mentioned the location to our guide after our tour, he told me they were still looking for a tomb they believed to be in that area. Oh how I wish someone would take me there to be their divining rod! The carvings that Copan is famous for were incredible to see, but for us the tunnels were equally fascinating. Visitors can see how the successive chiefs built new cities on top of the old ones as you make your way deeper inside the pyramids to uncover older carving styles and lines of floors. It was inside here that I had my second jade headache, even though at the time I had no way of knowing I was almost directly below the spot where I had first felt it.

At the perimeter of the ruins there is a nature trail with informative signboards explaining many of the Mayan beliefs, identifying birds, plants and animals, and one with a message for us all. The Mayan civilization, as great and advanced as it was, fell because of one reason. The people over-harvested their resources. Deforestation for fuel and crops resulted in erosion, and eventually this entire great nation starved to death.

By the end of our second day there we became worried about flooding. Our three wheeled tuktuk taxis were skittering around on the muddy hillsides, and there were no longer any breaks in the weather during which to walk outdoors. Rob and I had planned to go back the next day anyhow, but with Agatha brewing and a volcano erupting in Guatemala, everyone else decided to cut their trip short as well. We all shared a van to drive us back to our boats the next morning.

The 4-hour trip took us all day, although we did stop briefly for provisions at San Salvador. The rain came down in sheets, causing small lakes in the road. Rivers and creeks became raging torrents; trees, mud and rocks littered the roads. Traffic slowed to a standstill. We finally arrived back to find the outside pontoons of the dock at the marina had been taken off to relieve the pressure in the current. We are in an estuary here, and the extra water from the floods increased the current on the ebb tide, bringing the debris from the storm, including huge trees. We were happy to find Blue Moon safely at anchor where we had left her. However the next night as we were watching for logs in the water whooshing past us, we noticed a commotion at the dock. Suddenly all the boats were milling around and people were shouting. The entire marina had begun to break up. Everyone got off safely and they have set about repairing the docks but the floodwaters are still flowing.

We are lucky. 11,000 are homeless here now. I was happy we hadn’t chosen to visit Guatemala, where a 200-foot wide sinkhole appeared at an intersection in Guatemala City, and volcanic ash was turning to concrete in the rain.

As for the rental car, well that is another story.

The Penthouse

2010-10-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

Before ...

down the new driveway

...and after

Local Scenery:

the penthouse is bottom right

Ancient Mexico

2010-05-21T09:15:00.000-07:00

We stood on the spot where Hernan Cortez watched a ceremonial ball game almost 500 years ago and gazed at the terraced stonework rising from the edges of the ancient I-shaped court. By 1520, just 2 years later, the entire civilization whose ancestors built the magnificent city around him fell to the Spanish conquerors, their people reduced to slaves. It would be another 20 years before Pope Paul III declared these people to be human, despite the advanced technology they employed in their construction techniques, the fine artwork that decorated their buildings and their clothing, their skills in weaving, pottery, and jewelry making, their sophisticated knowledge of astronomy and much more we hardly know anything about.

We were visiting the ruins of the Zapotec capital at Monte Alban, founded in 500 BC and expanding to a city of 25,000 people over the next 1200 years. For some unknown reason, the place was then abandoned for several hundred years, before being taken over by Mixtecs, a tribe from the north, around 950 AD. These newcomers used the old tombs to bury their own kings, but the Spaniards later ransacked them for their gold, silver, pearls and precious stones. Only one tomb has been discovered with the burial artifacts intact, the treasure displayed at the local museum.
The sheer size of the ruins was impressive, a central plaza surrounded by pyramid style buildings. Each building has their own function, and all but one are aligned perfectly to north, south, east and west. The exception is a diagonally aligned observatory, which is covered in hieroglyphics, and the tip of the arrow shaped building points to the Southern Cross constellation at solstice. The ancient culture had 5 compass points, which included zenith. We were a few days short of seeing proof of their cleverness, when a shaft of sunlight would reflect briefly through a slot in one of the pyramids to signal the onset of rain and time to plant the corn. The high priests orchestrated such demonstrations to show the common people that they were in communication with the gods. They also had underground tunnels that enabled them to disappear from the central podium and reappear high on an outlying pyramid without being seen by the throng that was gathered to witness their magic.

Monte Alban, however, was not the place where the blood sacrifices were performed. These took place at other villages a few miles away, where the strongest young men, the winners of the games, conquering warriors and other successful citizens would be given the honor of having their still beating hearts torn out to appease the gods. Perhaps this had something to do with the doubts about their humanity.

We visited two of these outer villages. Mitla is an archaeologist’s worst nightmare. First, the Spanish built their San Pablo church right on top of a large section of the site. Then the town of Mitla sprang up, so that today pieces of the ruins are being excavated from under washing lines in someone’s back yard, or walls tumble into disrepair in a parking lot. The tombs and buildings that remain have been subjected to vandalism. This is a real shame because the finely painted frescos that recorded the history of the ancient village are all but lost. These must have been lovely set next to the intricate designs of the stone mosaics this site is famous for. Each wall is made up of millions of tiny, precisely cut stones, some with additional carving on their protruding side. Put together, they form the classic design patterns such as the Quetzalcoatl, a feathered serpent, or the eternal life square wave pattern. These and other designs are still used in their hand woven rugs and blankets. Despite the degradation, there were still plenty of halls, palaces, tombs and plazas for us to poke around.

Our third ruins in the Oaxaca area were at Yagul. Set at the top of a hill, well off the beaten track, the views of the valley below were stunning. A unique feature of this site was a labyrinth of interconnecting rooms. We wandered through this maze-like area until we came upon a bunch of workmen mixing the cement for the ‘original’ plaster on the walls. As with the other places, there were old men trying to sell us ‘genuine’ Aztec clay figurines, kids selling made-in-china looking toys, and women selling everything from local woven clothing to not so local shell necklaces.
The modern city of Oaxaca, nestled between these ancient neighbors, provided us with 4 days of markets, street fairs, music, museums, elaborate churches that rivaled any we saw in Europe, restaurants and food carts. The area is known for coffee, chocolate, mescal (a type of tequila), mole (a spicy chocolate and chili sauce for meats), embroidered clothing, black pottery, dot art wooden animals, as well as the lovely hand dyed and woven rugs. Many of the colors for the dye comes from an insect that lives on the local cactus, which are dried and crushed, then mixed with various compounds (lime juice, baking soda and others) to produce a surprising range of colors. Our ramblings took us to a ‘petrified’ waterfall, the minerals in the water calcifying on the rocks high in the cliffs to create the effect of frozen falls. We also visited the largest tree in the world here, a 2000-year-old cypress whose trunk is 14 meters in diameter – that’s the length of our boat!

This was to be our last side trip before our Tehuantepec crossing to El Salvador. It only whet my appetite for inland Mexico, and her ancient people.

Zapotec Ruins

2010-05-21T09:13:00.000-07:00

The Sights of Oaxaca

2010-05-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

Street Festivals include dancing and fireworks

Santo Domingo Church

Petrified waterfall

The biggest tree in the world

Oaxaca Markets

2010-05-21T08:54:00.000-07:00

Toasted Grasshoppers

Shopping Day

harvesting Mezcal

BBQ for Lunch

Oaxaca Handicrafts

2010-05-21T08:47:00.000-07:00

Mixing the dye from Cactus bugs

Books we like

2010-05-21T07:59:00.001-07:00

The Music of Mexico

2010-05-08T10:53:00.000-07:00

April, 2010

There is nothing as passionate as a young couple in love, and the Mexican songs capture that passion with words that cannot even be translated in to the English language. For the past three weeks we have been privileged to make the acquaintance of a group of musicians who gathered in Zihuatanejo for the winter. Our arrival was ill timed, unfortunately missing the annual guitar fest by one day. But my disappointment was soon forgotten as we strolled from bar to bar to catch a set with the resident performers.

Mexico is a land full of music. The mariachi bands can be seen in any town, strutting down cobblestone streets or along beaches in matching suits of black or tan adorned with silver and gold, complemented by an alligator belt and cowboy boots. The instruments they carry are as beautifully decorated as the musicians. Hand crafted guitars, violins and double bass have inlay patterns around the edges, deep curved backs and colorful strings. Trumpets of all sizes gleam, and the ancient accordions are intricate and unique, each one a work of art in themselves. The first time I encountered such a group on the street I stopped them to ask where they were playing, and thought my Spanish must be lacking when all I could understand of their answer was ‘aqui’ (here). I soon learned that these roving musicians will and do play anywhere, for anyone who will pay them, demanding up to $10 for one song. I saw on group singing into a car window as the vehicle pulled up at the lights on an intersection. Competing with each other or music from nearby bars and discos does not seem to worry them – they just play louder. If you are close enough, the trumpet will reverberate in your breastbone, and you may be hard of hearing for a few minutes afterwards.

Percussion groups are another common sight, their skin bongo drums and rattles mate from animal hoofs set up along any malecon or plaza. These folks seem to be perpetually traveling, whole families living out of a backpack, communing with nature through their infectious beat. We met one such group on New Years Eve, under a full blue moon, their drumming somehow insistent and peaceful at the same time, as if in tune with a higher vibration.

The story would not be complete without mentioning the floor shows that were part of our nightly entertainment in Zihuatanejo. Stages were set up in the street and plaza for performances by the cultural center and hotel dance troupes. Everything from the traditional Mexican hat dance to ballet and Tropicana style numbers were presented by little kids, old ladies and some very energetic professional dancers. Brightly colored skirts whirled, heels clicked, smooth brown skin writhed and glistened but my personal favorite was the platinum man, who moved his spray painted body in ways that I could never have imagined. Not even my most practiced yogis could jiggle a single butt muscle like he did! It was commendable for the city to instigate these events, which drew tourists and local families alike, but of real interest to me were the environmental messages that became part of each show. A few minutes each evening was devoted to topics such as protecting the waterways, promoting catch-and-release sports fishing as an option to stuffed trophy fish, or an invitation to visit the Potosi animal refuge. Our visit to this valuable conservation project will be described in another story.

The soul of Mexico, for me, lives in the singers. Their lightning fast fingers play flamenco and Latin rhythms as their clear voices pour out the passionate ballads of their country. Even without knowing their meaning, one can feel their love and their pain in the break of their voice or the expressions on their face. One evening, the singer’s lovely wife sat next to me, translating the words as I watched the performance. Her beautiful dark eyes searched mine, as if to convey more understanding as she told the stories, and when the songs had finished my emotions felt like raw nerve ends. There is no word in English for the way this music touched me – “me estremezco”.

We came to know several of the musicians and their families during our time here. We took them sailing on Blue Moon, and went out with ‘Rapscullion’ who is also anchored in the bay. We were delighted to watch one fellow learn to swim after bravely jumping off the back of the boat, and only later informing us it was the first time he had been in water where he could not touch bottom. One night ‘Rhumline’ hosted a jam session on their big cat, the first time the 2 guitarists had played together. We were all given one of the many interesting percussion instruments to play, although all of us together could not match the rhythm of the percussionist, who plays most of these instruments simultaneously.

The most magical experience occurred on our last night, when Luis Lara played a song that he wrote for us. This talented composer, singer and guitarist had a seven-year hiatus from writing music, broken only by a single song he wrote when he met his wife. The amazing thing was how intimately he portrayed our lives with his metaphors. Many of us had tears in our eyes when he sang the last refrain of this extraordinary piece of music. We sincerely hope the inspiration remains to continue composing new songs.

As for me, I knew a piece of my heart remained in Zihuatanejo as we sailed away, the tune of ‘Luna Azul’ playing in my head.

Luis Lara singing 'Luna Azul'

San Patricio Festival videos

2010-03-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

Hope you can enjoy the action as much as we did.

Surprises!

2010-03-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

We had heard La Cruz (near Puerta Vallarta) is a musical hub, and were looking forward to the nightly jam sessions in the many bars in town there. However, the day we arrived the weather turned, and we were pent up all day in our first real downpour in over a year. Happy that the mud had finally been washed off the boat, we failed to notice the signs of an impending hurricane force storm front, which hit us at 10pm. The wind rose from 10 to 88 knots in a matter of minutes, switching direction so that rather than being tucked nicely into a protected corner of the wide open Banderas Bay, we were set onto a lee shore with the fetch of the entire Pacific Ocean rolling in on us. The anchor never stood a chance of resetting in those conditions, so all thirty or so boats in the anchorage dragged. Blue Moon was flattened by the first gust and held down on our side, deck under water, green water washing over and into the boat, and unable to maneuver. With the high winds driving the rain at us like needles, there was no way we could go on deck to do anything about the anchor or the objects flying overboard. Luckily the motor intake was on the low side so we could run the engine, and eventually were able to hold our position about 400 feet from the beach by motoring in reverse, anchor still trailing off the bow. We somehow managed to avoid the other boats that were coming at us in the pitch black similarly stricken. Others were not so lucky and several ended up in a tangle, sustaining considerable damage. The worst of it passed quickly and within a couple of hours we had re-anchored with only minor damage. Our aft sun awning had split down the middle at the beginning of the ordeal, but remarkably the two halves remained on board and survived their flailing. Also, poor little Moonbeam, which we lift up alongside overnight, suffered a beating. As heavy as she is, she flapping against our handrail, bashing the outboard repeatedly against the stanchions. Eventually Rob managed to tie her up against the rail, but the outboard needed a bit of a rebuild afterwards. And there is a bit less junk on deck now. We made up for our lack of music at La Cruz when we bumped into our friends on Isis and Ladybug again at Tenacatita. There, we also discovered more water had found its way inside the boat than we first thought, with a repair to our shaft seal required. The resulting bilge cleanout netted two 5-gallon pails of shells and stones that were surplus to requirements. It just so happened that there were a bunch of kid boats in the anchorage so we arranged a treasure hunt on the beach, which easily amused 11 kids and several of their parents for the afternoon.

Our Saint Patrick’s Malarkey

2010-03-26T17:26:00.001-07:00

When we first visited the sleepy seaside town of Melaque a couple of weeks ago, the beach was packed with snowbirds escaping the Canadian winter. We stumbled upon their farewell party at one of the many palapa bars that line the shore, with thatched roofs and umbrella-ed tables perched in the sand just above the high tide mark. A transvestite floorshow had been arranged for the evening, and the image of an old gringo in a John Deer cap placing a folded peso note down the front of one of the performers somehow jars with my idea of the average conservative Canadian pensioner.

The intervening couple of weeks were spent anchored in front of the spectacular Las Hadas resort, enjoying the use of their glorious pool and other facilities. This was where the movie ‘10’ was filmed, and life there was quite like being on holiday in a movie.

We returned to take in the Fiesta de San Patricio, arriving on Benito Juarez’ birthday and found the 2-mile long beach packed with Mexican families enjoying the warm surf for the holiday weekend. People were burying each other in the fine golden sand, kids were building castles and toddlers were testing its nutritional value. Muchacos, the young boys, practice skim boarding here, running down the steep slope into the last lick of a wave as it recedes, jumping on their boards and riding it out to the next wave, then turning in front of the curling break to surf back in. The world champion comes from this area, which produces ideal conditions most days. The entire Mexican Riviera coastline which we are now following is subject to surf, making our dingy landings anything from interesting to somewhat dangerous, and often soaking us with the sandy froth of a mistimed launching.

Just before dark last night we negotiated the surf to attend the fiesta in the little town of San Patricio de Melaque. An amusement arcade had taken over one of the streets, with rides and fun-houses, shooting galleries and stands selling fast food (tacos, sweets and hot dogs). Parties don’t get going until late in Mexico, so the place was deserted as we wandered through with our friends from Ladybug. The main event, scheduled for 10.30pm, was to take place on one side of the town square where a tower had been constructed in front of the church. It appeared to be as haphazard as much of the Mexican architecture, and looked more like a roll of number 8 wire that had been draped from a telephone pole. Closer inspection revealed a cunning array of Catherine wheels. The rumor was that this would become a spiral of fireworks, and that a helicopter would take off from the top. Hmmm… I noticed another, similar looking structure on top of one of the shops nearby, but was told it was just a dead vine wound around a hot water pipe. Anyone who knows me might be wondering at this point why I would put myself in the midst of a Mexican fireworks display, given this country’s normal disregard for safety precautions of any kind. We picked a place on the opposite side of the square behind a palm grove, and sat to watch the people promenading around the square. I always enjoy seeing the variety of men’s alligator cowboy boots and matching belts, but even the little kids were decked out in cowboy outfits. The ladies were well dressed too, and only the gringos looked scruffy. The mariachi bands had particularly lovely costumes decorated with gold, as they strolled through the crowd hoping to play a song on their beautiful hand crafted instruments. I suggested that it would have been hard to hear them over the sounds of the brass band in the pagoda, the disco music and screams in the amusement park, squawking toys from the street sellers, and a mass taking place in the church, but they are used to such things and their melodic tenor voices carry above the ruckus if you are close enough. As the appointed hour drew near, the band retreated from the pagoda to a safer place on our side of the square. Their music grew more frenzied and soon a spark appeared at the tower. A chain reaction set off one row of wheels, which spun lazily and went out. Hmmm… Another spark appeared and this time a row began spinning with a few sparks flying off into the crowd. Despite a bit of screaming it seemed a fairly harmless display. I began to think it would be OK. The next row was a little bit wilder, people running this time, but still nothing too dangerous. The band worked itself up to full fury, and the rows of fireworks were whirling, some shooting sprays of sparks high up into the air. All of a sudden there was an enormous explosion right beside us and a 44-gallon drum ejected a massive skyrocket. The concussion rattled my bones, and we ducked for cover on the other side of one of the palm trees. There was another deafening bang and red-hot cinders floated down around us. Each skyrocket that went up coincided with another row of Catherine wheels, more boisterous than the last, generating a lot of smoke and sparks. People were screaming now and running in all directions. Finally, with the detonating drum blasting away beside us, a huge plume of sparks shot up and the spiral that we had heard so much about began spinning. As advertised, a revolving wheel of fireworks lifted off the top of the tower and drifted off above the crowd. It was quite heavy so it didn’t achieve much altitude before plunging amongst the onlookers, still firing out in all directions. Just as we thought we had escaped unharmed, we saw people running in panic towards us with sparks flying out at random from behind them. The epicenter of the pandemonium was a life-sized paper mache cow inside a cage of fireworks, held aloft by a man running through the crowd like some farmyard suicide bomber. The band carried right on playing as he enacted a running with the bulls, darting this way and that, spraying everything around him with fire. The muchachos joined the fun, running with him in a pack, while women covered their kids and ran for shelter, laughing and screaming at the same time. Mexican dogs are apparently used to this action, and jumped in to bite at the sparks. We were stuck now behind the tree, dancing around it to avoid the fallout. As soon as the chaos had passed by us we sprinted across to the shelter of a video store on the other side of the street. The stores here look more like a storage shed with a roller door for the front, so I huddled behind a rack of sunglasses, grateful that others soon crowded in front of me. Each time we thought it was safe to come out from our little refuge under the awning, the storekeeper would warn us ‘otre mas’ and another exploding goat, pig or sheep would gyrate through the crowd, with the band playing frantically the entire time. Finally there was a break in the pyrotechnics and we made a dash for the beach, surviving both the fire and the surf to get home a little after midnight. Although we missed the grand finale (another huge hour-long fireworks display at 5 am) and there was no green beer in sight, we ushered in Saint Patrick’s Day with a memorable party.

The Mitchener tour of Mexico

2010-01-19T11:17:00.000-08:00

James Mitchener’s epic ‘Mexico’, records the history of the country through a three-day bullfight. Although it has been fictionalized, many of the aspects depicted in his book are taken from real events, people and places. We were lucky to receive an invitation to visit the area where his story takes place, and spent a week wandering through the cobblestones and courtyards of the world heritage sites at San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, and Zacatecas in the Mexican Highlands.

Our journey began at the birthplace of Ignacio Allende, one of the leaders in the rebellion of 1810 that led to independence. In fact, all three of the towns we visited represent turning points in the struggle, for which the whole country is now celebrating the bicentenary. Pretty streets named for the leaders are lined with their homes, many of which are now museums. Their graceful carved stonework and iron fretwork is crammed together without yards or space between, creating an architectural canyon of their façades. Every few blocks, the narrow cobbled alleys open into typically European plazas, filled with monuments to commemorate people or events from that era.

We saw tiles, murals, spires, domes, fountains, frescoes, bells, arches, churches, and shrines that adorn almost every building in these lovely colonial cities. Guanajuato is particularly unusual, with its road system routed underground through elaborate tunnels. Above is a labyrinth of staircases and alleyways providing access to the vibrant, multi-colored homes in the surrounding neighborhoods. The steep hillsides, like those of Zacatecas, provide stunning views overlooking the town.

The weather had been cold and cloudy, and hailstones pelted us as we stood waiting for the bus from Guanajuato to Zacatecas. Whizzing past cactus shivering in snow dusted fields, we arrived at Zacatecas shortly after a small blizzard had dumped 5 inches of snow on the town. Children and grownups were all out making snowmen, since the last time they had the novelty was 13 years ago. The following day most of it had melted, and we were able to tour several of the excellent museums that had been closed in the storm. One provides an insight into the Huichol culture, their peyote hunting Shamans and beautiful beaded artwork. Another houses thousands of ceremonial masks, and the rebuilt 500 year old building also has a large collection of marionettes and some pre-Hispanic pottery. In Guanajuato, we visited the Museum of the Mummies, where hundreds of mummified remains are displayed in an eerie setting, the result of climate and minerals in the area.

The Spanish conquerors against whom the Mexican people rebelled 200 years ago transformed this area and defeated some of the greatest civilizations in existence. Their assignment was to bring silver and gold back for their king, and to convert the natives to Christianity. They accomplished both objectives with zeal, and the scars of their enthusiasm are just as vivid as the elegance of their cities. Murals in prominent public buildings depict the ruthless treatment of the indigenous Indians who worked the silver mines that produced almost half of the world’s silver. Carrying enormous weights of rock up primitive staircases until they were no longer able to make the journey, many spent their entire lives underground, and thousands died there. Young children were no exception, and many succumbed to the usual mining diseases of tuberculosis and silicosis. We toured the El Eden mine at Zacatecas, where the forth of its seven levels is open to the public. An interesting point in the story of Mexico, both as depicted by Michener and reiterated by a local fellow we met, is that the indigenous people could not be overpowered. Their downfall came through coercion when one of their own princesses believed the newcomers were gods that had been prophesied in folklore. Today, Mexicans are moving further out into the desert as their land prices skyrocket with the popularity of these towns with ‘Gringo’ homebuyers.

We wandered through markets stacked with fresh vegetables, scented with ripe aromas of spicy sausage, crammed with sellers of every kind of merchandise, we nibbled fresh boiled chick peas and fresh cut fruit drizzled with lime and sprinkled with chili. Indigenous rug makers demonstrated dye mixing for us, using as a base for their rich ochre tones the crushed insects that feed on cactus, lime juice, baking soda and indigo. We searched three towns for the illusive bull ring, and finally, at Zacatecas, found the ancient ruins of the stadium merged with the stone arches of an aqueduct, in the most unlikely setting of a 5 star hotel.

The snow curtailed our planned visit to the Aztec ruins at La Quemada to see one of the famous pyramids where human sacrifices were performed. There are many more of these ruins further south, so we hope that we will get another chance to glimpse this piece of the Mexican history puzzle.

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

2010-01-19T11:14:00.001-08:00

Guanajuato, Mexico

2010-01-19T11:11:00.001-08:00

Zacatecas, Mexico

2010-01-19T11:07:00.001-08:00

Snow!! in Zacatecas

2010-01-19T11:05:00.001-08:00

Museums...

2010-01-19T10:59:00.001-08:00

A Year in the Sea of Cortez

2009-12-25T22:39:00.000-08:00

After almost a whole year in the Sea of Cortez, and we are back to where we started, sitting out a 3-day northerly blow before we can get in to La Paz. Although it is less than 400 miles to the northernmost point we reached, and 75 miles across to the mainland, and despite spending 3 months on the hard in Guaymas, we managed to chalk up 1500 miles of sailing around here this year. Did we like it? You bet.

On first glance, the parched red hills seem unable to nurture anything but cactus. But any miniscule amount of moisture is sucked up and plants that appeared to be no more than a dead stick sprout the most beautiful flowers in gratitude. The seedpods and even the branches seem to belong to another planet, with spikes and thorns, patterns and colours that can’t be possible in the world I know. The cacti themselves are amazing – we saw some more than 500 years old, and visited one island where the barrel cactus (normally a squat little cylinder not higher than your knee) grew to 10 feet. Their sheer size compressed them so that they were as wrinkly as a pug dog’s face, and we imagined these prolific succulents hopping about in a sort of sack race on the hillside.

When you get out and walk around, you find the most remarkable things – crystals, geodes and obsidian apache tears, petroglyphs, 10,000 year old cave paintings, rocks that ring like kettle drums when you strike them (not just one but a whole mountain of them), salt ponds, oasis, birds and lizards and the most stunning views. My favourite walk was an 8-hour excursion to ‘Steinbeck’s Canyon’, a rocky slash almost straight up the 4000-foot Giganta mountain range near Escondido. It was after the hurricane had been through so the pools were running with clear cold water and everything was lush and green. At one point, the trail takes you through one of the ponds to a cave on the other side, then at the back of the cave you shimmy up a fallen log to emerge on the top of a huge bolder that sits wedged, 50 feet up, between the sheer rock sides of the canyon like a perfume bottle stopper. From there you enter another cave which leads to a chimney, where the rock face has split off, leaving a gap just wide enough to worm your way up the 20 feet or so to the next part of the arroyo, where we half expected to find Indiana Jones. The last part of the hike is a vertical set of catacombs with waterfalls. We scaled the first of these with some difficulty, sliding backwards on the smooth rocks towards the rocky ledges and pools below. Without climbing gear we were reluctant to make that final push to the top, where we would have seen the Pacific Ocean as well as the Sea of Cortez.

In the sea itself we were continually amazed by the abundance of fish. Gone are the giant manta rays of Steinbeck’s time, and the prolific invertebrate life of the intertidal zone. But the mid-range species are all still here and in vast numbers. We swam with a school of 70 baby eagle rays. We had numerous close underwater encounters with the beautiful and graceful whale sharks, the largest fish in the ocean at 40 feet, although ours were babies of about half that size. Inquisitive sea lion pups came to play with us. We caught tuna and dorado and even a rooster fish (on Thanksgiving Day). The schools of baitfish are so extensive they ring the entire shoreline in some bays. Pelicans and boobies dive-bomb them, hundreds of dolphins pack-herd them, and the Mexicans string their mile long nets pulling unbelievable numbers out of the sea, along with all other life in their path. It is a wonder there is anything left. The rays are in trouble, and the carcasses left by the fisherman on the beach get smaller and smaller. The sharks are all but gone – we didn’t see one at all. The giant humbolt squid seem to have moved to California. The squid fishery this year was pathetic, and one fellow I spoke to worried that it was a sign that the squid would disappear from these waters completely, as they did for 20 years in the 1970’s. So the fishermen have set their sights on other species. In almost every bay, the drone of the hooka air compressor could be heard for hours on end as divers harvested bucketfuls of scallops, lobster and clams. Last year, apparently, they targeted the lucrative sea cucumber, which probably explains why there are none here now.

The big news here in the Sea of Cortez was not the swine flu, although people wandered around with masks for a few weeks when it first broke out. Or the election, which most people seemed to think was responsible for the flu. It was Hurricane Jimena, which cut a path of destruction across the central Baja and through the San Carlos/Guaymas area. We were holed up in the far north with 20 other yachts, including, coincidentally, Neil, another Kiwi who Rob grew up with in New Zealand. It was the place to be, and although we could see the lightning flashing in the distance, and the sky was blanketed with a heavy mist from the frothing salt water whipped up by 100-mile-per-hour winds to our south, it was a non-event for us. Not so for those folks in Santa Rosalia, Mulege, and San Carlos. More than 29 inches of rain dumped in 24 hours, and the flash floods took out roads and bridges and power poles, washed away the contents of houses submerged by 3 feet or more of muddy water, and everything including cars was swept into the sea. We visited these places on our way north, and again as we returned, more than 2 months after the storm. It was amazing to see how fast the Mexicans can rebuild after such a widespread disaster, although power and water had only been restored in Santa Rosalia a week before we arrived. Evidence of destruction was everywhere, and along the foreshore of San Carlos we were saddened to see the wreck of one of our friend’s boats. Fourteen yachts had sunk or washed ashore there, but most were salvaged. Only four remained on their moorings by the end of the storm.

For us, missing Jimena meant that we missed the rain. For the whole year in the Sea of Cortez, only a few muddy raindrops made it all the way to our decks without evaporating in the desert air. The last shower worth shutting our hatches for was on Christmas Eve, last year.

Magic Moments

2009-12-25T22:28:00.000-08:00

Swimming with Whale Sharks
Swimming with Sea Lions
Skating on Salt Ponds
Full Moon parties....

Fishing - good and bad

2009-12-25T22:11:00.000-08:00

Murex harvesting is no longer viable in this village

Spider Crab are a by-catch

The mighty Rooster Fish

The birds are friendly

2009-12-25T22:07:00.000-08:00

Steinbeck's Canyon

2009-12-25T22:03:00.000-08:00

Wierd Things in the Sea of Cortez

2009-12-25T21:53:00.000-08:00

We found this guitarfish carcass on a beach

Flowers and Seeds

Our Favorite Cactus Photos

2009-12-25T21:34:00.000-08:00

Cactus patterns

This is a five hundred year old cactus

The largest Barrel Cactus in the world grow here

Our Chepe Holiday

2009-06-06T11:26:00.000-07:00

The Ferrocarril Pacifico (also named Chepe) in Mexico is said to be one of the world’s most scenic rail journeys, winding its way 650 km inland from Los Mochis to Chihuahua over 37 bridges, through 86 tunnels to a peak elevation of 2400 meters. Much of the journey skirts the impressive Copper Canyon.

Our journey began in Guaymas, with a 5 hour bus ride to Los Mochis. The bus was so comfortable that rather than finding a hotel there before our 6 AM train, we walked around the corner and boarded a local bus for the 2 hour trip to El Fuerte. This proved to be worthwhile, not only allowing us to catch our train at a more respectable 9 AM, but giving us a glimpse of a wonderfully quaint colonial village. The cobbled streets were lined with stone buildings. Our hotel was a series of little stone rooms around a flower-filled courtyard. A huge stone mortar in front of our door was planted with herbs - I would not be surprised if its age has a couple of 0’s on the end. We made it up to the replica of the old fort just in time for sunset, then set out for the tortillaria for dinner – less than $10 filled us up on gooey tacos of marinated meat and cheese. Wandering the back roads we tumbled into what can only be described as the locals pub. I am sure no tourists ever venture in there. We were lured in by the music, but the band packed up almost as soon as we entered. Everyone stopped to look at us. The room was filled with pointed boots, silver belt buckles and cowboy hats, and one large voluptuous woman in extremely tight clothes with many gaps swaying suggestively at the bar. We sat at a table and were immediately joined by one of the intoxicated patrons. He was very polite, shaking our hands and introducing himself and asking us where we were from. We ordered beer (there were no other options) and a second man came to sit with us, content just to nod and smile. A dominos game was taking place on a table in front of an enormous metal contraption. As I surveyed the room I saw several of these boxes, with ducting sprouting from both sides, apparently an air conditioner, possibly predating electricity. We extracted ourselves after one beer to avoid collecting the entire bar at our table and stumbled over the lady with one of her lucky customers having a quickie against the side of the building outside.

The following morning our intention to walk along the riverside was thwarted by the fortunate discovery that we were in another time zone. Had we missed our train, we would have had a 3-day wait for the next one, a fact that we were oblivious to until we discovered we had the wrong schedule for our return trip.

For the whole day, we were treated to stunning views as we rattled along. There were very few passengers. Without worrisome regulations about standing between the cars, we could hang out over the canyon for photo opportunities. Periodically, someone would come through the car with burritos or cactus fruit for sale, and at one stop we were greeted by the sight of the Raramuri Indian women selling their colorful baskets. Late in the afternoon we disembarked at Posada Barrancas with the owner of a guest house there who had also happened to be on the train.

We had chosen this place because it is right on the rim of the canyon. It is not a town as such, just a collection of houses with a couple of hotels and a small store. Our host was formerly a tour guide for the ‘fancy’ hotel, and spoke good English. He happily pointed us to the trail that took us along the rim to the hotel for happy hour, which we enjoyed with views across the canyon, surrounded by colorful birds. We returned in time for dinner cooked by his wife, and a pleasant evening fending off the neighbors who had jewelry, rocks and crystals collected locally, for sale.

The following day we succumbed to one of our host’s tours of the local view points and a visit to a cave dwelling. Looking out over the canyon, which is 4 times larger than the Grand Canyon and 1000 feet deeper, it was not just the majesty of the view that intrigued us. It was the spider web of trails that link the homes of the Raramuri. These brightly dressed people are the indigenous inhabitants of this rugged terrain. Their population stands at around 50,000 and even today they have resisted many of the trappings of modern life. This is more surprising given the notoriety they have achieved as runners, competing worldwide in their skimpy sandals laced at the ankles. They continue to live simply, using the many caves in the area as the basis for their homes, forming the rooms by tucking a mixture of wood and hand made bricks into these notches. They prepare the fields with hand made wooden plows pulled by horses. They weave beautifully designed baskets from pine needles and cactus fibers, dyed red with the bark of the Madrona tree, or colored like tea by soaking. Although most men have changed to western ‘cowboy’ garb, a few can still be seen with their traditional loin cloth, even in downtown Creel. The women are a flurry of color in flounced dresses of bright orange, greens, blues, pinks and purples. Their children are slung on their backs with an equally colorful woven scarf. We watched a tired kid walk up to granny as she sat on the curb, lean over her shoulders, and await the shawl to be slid under her bum and tied around granny’s front, effortlessly supporting her. The babies are apparently rolled in and flipped up and over. The tourist attractions we visited with our guide were all well attended by these ladies, with mats spread out to display their wares. Although they were clearly there to sell to tourists, they were so shy that if we approached them they would turn their heads. They quietly informed us of the prices only when asked. We had read that they are proud and private individuals, shunning contact with outsiders. Yet here they were, in the midst of all us gawking tourists, even allowing us to traipse through their homes. I felt an uneasy sadness for these people, who seem to be reluctantly seeking the money they need only to survive in our world, not theirs. Our tour finished with a ‘fast food’ lunch at Divisidero train station, 5 miles from our guest house. The excellent Gorditas and Chili Rellenos were prepared instantly, the vendors used to serving the masses that descend during their 15 minute stopover at the station. This is the highest point, the continental divide, with more spectacular views of the canyon, going on forever.

That afternoon was spent wandering the trails of the canyon. Eventually we found our way to the valley primary school, which we could see perched on a craggy outcrop of rock apparently miles from anywhere. As we picked our way carefully along the trail, we imagined the 20 or so children that attended here, running to school each day, from far and beyond in the valley. This trek into the surreal landscape was followed by another home cooked meal, which featured blue corn tortillas – a special treat!

We opted to spend more time in the canyon area rather than go all the way to Chihuahua. So we took another tour with our host, this time ending in Creel, 48 km further up the train line. Our guide once again showed us all the main attractions, including ‘the rock shaped like a penny’. He had mentioned this rock many times with a strange glint in his eye as he said it. The ‘penny’ dropped when we finally arrived at this location to behold a giant phallus, however you want to pronounce it!

We checked into a guest house in downtown Creel, and soon discovered that we would not be able to board the train the next day as planned. The economy class only runs 3 times a week. Posters in town advertised a program of events for the Creel Festival, so we decided to stay the extra day and take in one night of the 3 day festival. We spent the rest of the day generally wandering around, and visiting the little museum. A photo exhibition portrayed aspects of the Raramuri culture, with captions that were poignant for many of the indigenous races we have encountered in our travels. “It is wrong to say that Tarahumaras are not civilized, when their concepts are reduced to simple and basic physical needs and not to material amenities that they have always rejected.” Indeed some of the captions could apply to any culture. “Very soon our race will be sick. Time has grown too old for mankind. It can’t support us anymore.”

In Creel, as in urban areas everywhere, the Indians were more forthright about selling to tourists. Small children would run up to us first asking ‘Comprar?’ (buy) and then begging for one peso. Rather than poking though the multitudes of souvenir shops, we bought crafts from the mission craft store, whose proceeds would go towards education of the Raramuri children. They also have a program there to promote the preservation of the culture, and recommend purchase of the bright cloth for ladies dresses rather than donating used clothes. The dresses take 5 yards of material each, and the donor’s name is given to the lady who receives the fabric.

We went in search of someplace to sit and listen to music, and found a Mariachi band wandering the street. We asked where they were playing, and they replied ‘here’. It seems they would play for anyone, right there in the street, but did not actually have a venue. The only bar in town had sports on TV screens that could not be avoided. Finally we found a delightfully talented Latin/jazz band in a coffee shop and so finished the day with a cup of hot chocolate.

Although we would have liked to see the bottom of the canyon, this would entail a multi-day journey down (and back up) winding roads of dubious condition in questionable transportation. We made the most of our extra day with a 20k bike ride to the Valley of the Monks. This took us through more Raramuri homesteads, up a relatively flat valley of farmland. At the end of the valley was an incredible landscape of pinnacle rocks (the Monks) perched on the edge of another part of the canyon. Until then we had nothing but bright sunshine, but as we sat to enjoy our lunch, the sky became dark and we could see thunderheads in the distance. Before we knew it, a noisy wind whipped up, and large freezing cold drops of rain pelted us. The shower was brief, but several more chased us on the way back down the valley. We learned that the area was desperately dry, having received no snow this winter. The hotels had to buy water for guests and the farmlands were withered and cracking. They needed much more than these few drops.
Back in town we were in time for the band music, which was first on the program for the festival. It went on, and on, and on. We don’t know what happened to the rest of the program. However, we did enjoy watching the kaleidoscope of colorful dresses whirling past – the pace of their walk seems incongruous to their simple lifestyle.

Finally the train arrived, an hour late, to take us home. We were surprised to find it completely full, but eventually we were allocated a seat. With the delay for the extra day, it would be a long trip to get back in time to move the boat as required. We planned to go straight through to Los Mochis then take the overnight bus to Guaymas. A couple of hours out of Los Mochis the train stopped. It was 11.30 at night. The conductor came though mumbling something but of course we could not understand what he said. It turned out there was some sort of breakdown. We were all herded off into the darkness, and made to stand on a dirt road with our bags until busses could be diverted to take us to Los Mochis. The comfortable seats on the train looked so inviting, sitting there empty behind us. The bus drivers must have felt as put out as we did, and for punishment they turned on the air conditioning full blast. We had all our clothing wrapped around us and over our heads trying to keep from getting frostbite for the rest of the way to Los Mochis. How infuriating to drive right through town and on another 22 km to the train station, then taxi back to town to catch the bus to Guaymas. Luckily, this bus was almost empty so we could spread out and get some sleep. But at 3 AM, I was awakened by a woman speaking urgently in Spanish to me. I was groggy and couldn’t understand a word. She said something else and a man’s head popped up from under my seat. He asked if I had any guns or drugs. I said no. I realized then that this was a police check. They were dismantling the toilet at the back of the bus. When they were satisfied the bus contained no contraband, off we went again.

We had only been away 6 days, but it felt as though we had been to another world, one far back in time.

2009-06-01T15:29:00.000-07:00

Here are a few shots from our train trip up to the Copper Canyon...

woodpeckers and hummingbirds

2009-06-01T15:20:00.000-07:00

views for ever

2009-06-01T15:19:00.000-07:00

Canyon views

2009-06-01T15:16:00.000-07:00

Copper Canyon

2009-06-01T15:14:00.000-07:00

Check out the air conditioner behind these guys...

Raramuri Indians

2009-06-01T15:10:00.000-07:00

Its a Hard Life

2009-06-01T13:46:00.000-07:00

Guaymas is a fishing port of 134,000 people, about half way up the Sea of Cortez on the mainland side. The Lonely Planet advises, “Stopping here for any extended length of time had better be due to a catastrophic vehicle breakdown or massive coronary”. It has been our home for almost 3 months and we have enjoyed this friendly little city, most of the time. Blue Moon has a new coat of paint on the decks, topsides and bottom, a new dodger and lots of ticks on the maintenance list. We started investigating the various haul-out facilities 12 miles further up the coast, at San Carlos. A gringo magnet for yachties, RVs and condo dwellers alike, this beautiful area offers picturesque bays fringed with white beaches, tucked between red volcanic peaks. But one boatyard there would not allow live-aboards, and another dirt bowl in the middle of the desert that would not allow spray painting. So we got on the bus and headed for Guaymas. We pulled the bell when we could see masts, and tumbled out onto the curb as the bus slowed slightly, as one does on Mexico transport. As we were looking around to get our bearings, a fellow rode up on his bicycle and proclaimed, “You look like losers”. His English was ‘almost’ – a word that I would come to use often in the coming weeks. What he was trying to say is that we looked lost, and insisted that a visit his shop was just what we were looking for. That was how we came to eat lunch under a Mona Lisa smoking a big fat joint and acquire a bottle of almond massage oil. After lunch we found the brand new marina with a concrete hard stand. Previously there was no marina here and no real facilities for yachties so they had special deals to attract customers. We estimated about 3 weeks out of the water but the special rate for 3 months was about the same, so here we are, finally floating again after 8 weeks on the hard. Everything at the marina is still shiny and new but it’s all a bit like my grasp of the Spanish language - some days I can ‘almost’ communicate but a lot of the time the point is missed completely. The showers were awesome until they ran out of hot water. The new fuel dock has no license so is unable to dispense fuel. The finer points of electrical systems and drainage seem to be as elusive as Spanish grammar. The swimming pool and Jacuzzi were enticing features, but alas there is no functional heating or filtration system, and in reality it is a giant birdbath. When we hauled out there were only 3 boats in the yard. But as time went by, the yard has filled up and the travel lift operators gained some valuable experience, at the expense of one prop and shaft, one depth sounder transponder, one log paddlewheel, one VHF aerial, and most of the back end on one boat that slid out of the slings. It seems the entire waterfront is being transformed to attract tourism, with a new Malecon (boardwalk), benches in artistic shapes such as dolphins, crabs, and anchors, and a spectacular fountain with a light display set to music. Just outside the gate to the marina is an antiquated amusement park complete with Beebe gun shooting gallery, bumper cars, and rides that look as if they would have been condemned about the time I was born. The whole thing is parked on the construction zone for the partly completed Malecon, with the usual Mexican electrical wiring system snaking through it. If the rides aren’t exciting enough for you, there’s the thrill of avoiding personal injury from these hazards. I really like the marionettes – there is a mechanical bull ride, an accordion player whose foot stomps, and one with a bunch of dancing skeletons. The outlook from the pool deck overlooking the harbor is beautiful, and makes a great spot to do yoga in the mornings, surrounded by the birds. I have particularly enjoyed the Vermillion Flycatchers, who are so tame they will sit on the railing beside me and sing. We have been here so long that I have watched the whole life cycle of these cute little guys from courtship to hatching. One of our neighbors has a nest with 4 eggs in the back of their boom. We had our own wildlife on board - a type of bee put their eggs in the holes in our decks where the fittings were taken off. They are amazing works of art - skillfully wrapped little packages of bright pink bougainvillea leaves. It seemed a shame to destroy them when we put the fittings back on that I fiberglassed a couple and made earrings. Our spot was beside the canal where the fishing fleet is moored, bringing in shrimp and squid each day. It is fascinating to watch them flipping the Humbolt squid bodies up onto the dock. These huge squid grow up to 7 feet long, and have been known to attack divers and fishermen. In fact we were so close that one day a disabled trawler being towed out got hooked up on the rail behind our boat. To help support the mast while the chain plates were off, we had tied our halyard off to this rail, so there was a tense moment when we thought we would lose the rig. It was the first time we have had to fend off from a hard stand. We never did get used to the stench of the fish canning operation right outside our aft cockpit that assaulted us day and night, but we seem to be used to the noise. A popular form of advertising here is cars or trucks driving around with loudspeakers. There is a karaoke bar at the marina, at least 3 other sources of music from the fishing boats, security guards and the malecon, and we have the lights and sounds of the city and the amusement park to complete the cacophony. I remember going to ‘the ex’ in Toronto as a kid, and it pretty much is like living in there. As for the paint job – it’s … almost. We should have stopped our Mexican painter right at the beginning when he began attacking our hull with orbital discs. But we were relying on the recommendations of others, assuming he was a professional. Apparently he is occasionally capable of acceptable work, but not often. Since we have been here, we met another boat owner who is lucky to be alive after the keel repair Francisco did delaminated underway. We watch in horror, as he is butt-joining plywood onto gaping holes in another boat in the yard that was suffering from rot. Insisting he can spray paint without over-spray, no respirators are used, although it is not unusual to see one of the workers holding up a Mexican blanket with a cloud of paint billowing around him. His home-made trailer collapsed on the ramp as he was hauling out a 4-ton catamaran. It seems there is no end to the skills of this man, who happily will tell you he can do anything that involves your dollar bills. Right at the start of our job there was the loss of his glasses - first one lens, the next the other, so that for the duration of our job he turned up wearing just the frames, which he insisted he did not need. The quality of his work would suggest otherwise. Suffice to say that we had someone ask us if our boat is concrete! It would be easy to lose your sense of humor some days. In the words of Jimmy Buffet, “if we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane”. But is there ever a good place to spend 2 months on a hardstand? As this chapter is drawing to a close, we have well and truly left winter behind us with temperatures in the 90’s most days. We had our first rain shower of the year (what great painting weather we have had!). While most of the boats here are hauling out for hurricane season to fly off ‘home’, we are making preparations to sail further north into the Sea of Cortez for summer, hopefully out of the hurricane area. Over the next few months we would like to see one of those giant humbolt squid, a whale shark, and maybe the vaquero dolphin. We have also ticked off one more thing on our list – a train trip up to the Copper Canyon.

New deck paint and dodger windows

Fishing fleet behind us, amusement park out front at Guaymas hardstand

....more photos from Guaymas...

2009-06-01T13:29:00.000-07:00

Vermillion Flycatcher

Bee Larva Earings

Amusement park at Guaymas

2009-06-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

Shooting Gallery and Marionettes at the amusement park

Toy seller and kids

The rides at the amusement park

Changing The Sea

2009-03-04T16:10:00.000-08:00

We are sailing north into the Sea of Cortez, along the same route that John Steinbeck traveled during the expedition that was the subject of his “Log from the Sea of Cortez”. We did not plan to follow him, and we have made many more stops than he did along the way. We are experiencing winter in ‘The Sea’, with the brisk ‘Northers’ dictating when we can move and which anchorages we can shelter in. These wicked windstorms can pack gusts of up to 50 knots, sending small tornados through the bay and slamming Blue Moon flat on her side. Steinbeck apparently enjoyed milder temperatures and lighter winds during his visit in March 1940. But the weather is not the only thing we have found different from his account. I wonder what he would think of the place now.

Steinbeck wrote about Cabo San Lucas 69 years ago “To a man straight off a yacht, it is a miserable little flea bitten place, poor and smelly.” Rob passed through here on a yacht delivery in the 1970’s and found it not much different. He recalled a port captain, a small store and a tiny cobblestone fishing village. Rounding the Cape at midnight in 2009, with bright lights stretching far along the shore and up the hillsides, he said it felt as if he had been in a time warp. Passing up the opportunity to stay in the most expensive marina in the world, we visited overland from La Paz. Down by the waterfront, the locals hustle tourists to buy trinkets, take tours or go out game fishing. We watched the boats bringing in the marlin, dozens of them. A 6 year old girl adopted me as we walked around the malecon, imploring me to buy her wares with big pleading eyes and well rehearsed lines (‘make my day’ and ‘its almost free’ and finally just ‘please, please please!’) This seems far removed from “the Indians who sat timelessly on the rail, so used to the spiritual transaction that they had difficulty translating material things into money” portrayed by Steinbeck.

In Steinbeck’s time, foreigners were a curiosity, but today we are just another of the many yachts and gringos passing through. Only a couple of fishermen in their fiberglass long boats with big outboards have come to see us, asking for water and gasoline. Gone are the ‘seaworthy and fast’ double-ended canoes described by Steinbeck. “Sometimes a sail is set, but ordinarily they are paddled swiftly by 2 men, one at each end.” I wonder if there is still anyone alive who knows how to make these craft, ‘carved from a single log of light wood, braced inside with struts’. The Indians in the last century carried iron harpoons, wore traditional clothes and went barefoot. Everything we have seen here so far has been very modern and westernized. As prophesized in his book, “ A local 110-volt power unit and a winding dirt road may leave a people for a long time untouched, but high-voltage operating day and night, the network of wires, will draw the people into the civilizing web, and there is no escape from it.”

Steinbeck’s expedition was a scientific one, collecting and cataloguing the multitude of species that live in the inter-tidal zone. His findings seem incredible to us – ‘tide pools ferocious with life’, schools of airborne fish ‘like a silver blanket’, great long lists of the many different species found in each location, some bays containing ‘literally millions’ of specimens. We did not do a thorough investigation, although we heard that there was a similar study done a couple of years ago to determine what species could be found here now. It would be interesting to know the results of this.

Far from being scientific, we have taken a haphazard tally in some of the places we visited, and it seems to us that a pitiful few hardy samples are what remains of the prolific life along the shores of the Sea of Cortez. We wonder if the health of the ecology can be measured by the number of skeletons of fish, sharks and shellfish found on the beaches. For a great many of these remains litter almost all the bays, and seem particularly plentiful in the parks and bays where commercial fishing is supposed to be banned. Perhaps they have been fished elsewhere, and taken there for cleaning. The pile of precisely filleted carcasses leaves no doubt that these creatures did not die of natural causes. One bay contained hundreds of heads of the strange looking Angle Shark. In another we found a pile of Trigger Fish skeletons. There were mountains of Thorny Oyster shells, Pearl Oyster shells and Scallop shells in various locations. Every beach on one small island in Bahia Concepcion was piled with small Manta Ray skeletons. As depicted in Steinbeck’s Log, there were fish of every type in great numbers, but in skeletal form. He was equally shocked by the Japanese shrimp trawlers that he encountered at Guymas. He watched six of these 150-footers dredging in an overlapping pattern, ‘literally scraping the bottom clean’.” Each dredge came up with many tons of animals. The fish were thrown overboard. The sea was littered with dead fish. Only a few recovered. The waste was appalling.” He called it ‘the complete destruction of a valuable food supply’.

Still, it seems the Sea of Cortez is yielding its wonders to the hungry fishermen. And there must be some fish left in ‘The Sea’ – we have seen schools of hundreds of dolphins, so intent on their fishing that only a few playful ones will break away to leap under our bow. The bird life everywhere is prolific, and we have watched for hours as huge squads of Brown Pelicans and Blue Footed Boobies dive bomb the small fish in the bay beside us. At night, both fish and birds perform a primordial underwater ballet in the light of the most amazing phosphorescence.

This has been a remarkable journey. Few boats come here in winter so we have had some of the most beautiful anchorages to ourselves. We have hiked up the arroyos (dry river beds) and to the top of the hillsides. We have seen giant cactus, and played a concert on a colossal pile of rocks that ring like bells. We swam with sea lions. We found petroglyphs, cave paintings, hot springs, cliffs made of fossils, a wide seam of obsidian, and a crystal cave where water has oozed through the cracks for many billion years to form quartz flowstone. The minerals in the rock faces along the shore have produced the most extravagant colors and patterns, and glow red in the low sun of early morning and evening. At that time, the water is oily calm and also takes on a vermilion hue. We have enjoyed the rickety stonework streets of Lapaz, Loretto and Mulege, where time seems to be caught in another era. We love the abundant sunshine, and the food!

Almost 70 years later, the Sea of Cortez has enchanted us, just as it did John Steinbeck.

Photos from the Sea of Cortez

2009-03-04T15:53:00.000-08:00

A patch of phosphorescent plankton 10 feet wide glowed in the dark behind our boat one night.

Piles of shellfish on the beaches.

Angel Shark carcasses, and a fossil rock – both creatures doomed to extinction?

Sport fishing boat bring in dozens of marlin like this one each day.

Manta Ray skeletons

Rock Art

Dolphins fishing behind Blue Moon

Can you find me in the cactus?

Concert on the Bell Rocks.

Blue Footed Boobies and Pelicans diving for fish.

Mexican New Year

2009-01-06T13:56:00.000-08:00

In between storms, we left San Diego for Ensenada, Mexico - just 60 miles away. Our first glimpse was the giant flag, which may be seen from space.

After 6 hours of grueling paperwork we had cleared in, and were on our way again. Next stop was Turtle Bay, 300 miles further down the Pacific coast of the Baja peninsula.

Although it meant spending Christmas Day at sea, we decided not to ride out an approaching storm in the exposed anchorage at Turtle Bay. Dolphins put on a great show for us all day, and a spectacular phosphorescent ballet all night.

Another 250 miles further south we came to Bahia Magdalena. We went hiking in the dunes, and found evidence of a storm with huge areas of shells up in the sand hills. The town of Puerto Magdalena hosted a great New Years Eve dance.

We left Bahia Magdalena for a 250 mile non-stop sail around the bottom of the Baja, past Cabo San Lucas and on up to Bahia de los Muertos,

We are just south of La Paz, our next stop.

2009-01-06T13:39:00.000-08:00

Although it meant spending Christmas Day at sea, we decided not to ride out an approaching storm in the exposed anchorage at Turtle Bay. Dolphins put on a great show for us all day, and a spectacular phosphorescent ballet all night.

Evidence of a storm– beds of shells 15 meters above sea level and a mile into the dunes…

The town of Puerto Magdalena hosted a great New Years Eve dance. The large building to the far right (painted with a sign) was the venue.

A quiet anchorage can be found inside the barrier islands at Bahia Magdalena.

Our first glimpse of Mexico was the giant flag, which may be seen from space.

Hiking the dunes with ‘Ladybug’…

The colored building on the left of the main street is the Turtle Bay school.

We bought oranges from the back of a truck.

Season’s Greetings from San Diego!

2008-12-14T20:08:00.000-08:00

We have thoroughly enjoyed our time on the California coast, thanks to the hospitality of the yacht clubs and the generosity of our friends here.

As members of the Devonport Yacht Club in NZ, we have been welcomed by many of the yacht clubs to use their facilities. Everything from docks, showers, pools, saunas and tennis courts have been made available to us - a very civilized way to go cruising, I must say!

Since many of our cruising friends have now completed their circumnavigation and are ‘home based’ here, we have had wonderful tour guides all the way down the coast. Not to mention catching up on the intervening years of stories.

We have been surprised to bump into several old cruising friends who are still cruising, also on their way to Mexico.

So it’s been a fun trip so far. Even the weather has been great!

A few photos of our California Coast Hop...

2008-12-14T10:15:00.000-08:00

Native California wildlife???

Pelicans at Santa Barbara Marina.

Sunrise over San Miguel Island.

Elephant Seal rookery at San Miquel Island.

View of the anchorage at San Miquel.

Malibou beach.

Blue Moon at Port San Luis Obispo.

Sleeping babay elephant seal.

Native Catalina Island wildlife???

Monarch butterflies stop over at San Luis on their annual migration.

Photos from our Alaskan summer...

2008-12-05T22:29:00.000-08:00

Totem Pole at Friendly Cove

Orcas beside our boat

Drying Kelp

Red Bluff Bay

Morning Mist - Somewhere over there is the gap we have to pass through to leave the bay!

Rob collects a 'bergy bit' - 10,000 year old ice for our drinks.

This motel - sized ice berg was in the middle of a very narrow channel.

Our record shrimp was 9 inches long.

Glacial water.

The Baird Glacier has receeded alarmingly.

Mom and cubs

Alaska is full of beautifull calm anchorages.

A Beaver at work here.

They Paved Paradise

2008-11-15T20:14:00.000-08:00

We have been in San Francisco almost a month. What a fabulous city to wander in. It reminds me of Sydney in so many ways – funky ethnic neighborhoods, a sprawling harbor with rivers leading deep into wine country from its basin, a classic skyscraper skyline with its landmark bridges and interesting architecture mixing old and new.

A visit to the Bay Model in Sausalito tells the story of how this once even greater harbor has silted up, to the point that much of it is no longer navigable and continual dredging is needed to ensure its viability. In the 1800s the gold rush dumped mountains of tailing into the waterway, then land reclamation altered the natural flows. The model itself was built in the 50s to assess the impact of a proposed dam - an acre and a half working model of the bay/delta area with water flowing through it, so tidal flow and current can be studied. Fresh water, too, is a diminishing resource as the ice fields in the Sierras are receding at ever increasing rates, and demand increases from agriculture and a growing population.

We also had to see the new California Academy of Sciences building (http://www.calacademy.org/) – designed by Renzo Piano. We have been fascinated with this architect’s work in Noumea, Sydney, Amsterdam and Berlin. The Academy is the world’s largest eco-friendly building now, with a living roof, solar power, recycled water and other features. The exhibits have a common theme of sustainability. The planetarium show, entitled ‘Fragile Planet’ demonstrates how unique earth’s conditions for life are in the context of the universe. An aquarium complete with a coral reef tells the story of coral bleaching. There are exhibits showcasing endangered species, and a living rainforest thrives in a huge sphere that you can walk through. Ongoing education and research about climate change is displayed in a major interactive exhibit. It has been said that to ignore the facts does not change the facts, and I would be surprised if even the most hardened skeptics could ignore the evidence of melting ice and increased CO2 levels that is presented here.

Not far from there is the Haight-Ashbury district, the hub of the Love-in and quite a trip down memory lane for us aging hippies. I bet some of these shops have not changed one bit in 40 years. It’s like a museum of misspent youth. Remember the Joni Mitchel song – ‘They paved paradise and put up a parking lot…. They cut down the trees and put them in a tree museum.” I find it ironic that the Flower Power Generation has managed to consume more fossil fuels, and produce more carbon emissions than all of the preceding generations combined. And now we are turning to flowers for power in the form of bio-fuels. Go figure.

Uclulet to San Francisco

2008-10-15T20:55:00.000-07:00

The whole fleet was there to see us off – as we left Uclulet, there were so many sea lions on the dock, it was almost sinking. In the channel, a huge salmon jumped out beside us – waggling his fins one last time – I am sure I could see his tongue sticking out, taunting us as if to say ‘nana, you can’t catch me!’ He, or one of his family, would do this, maddeningly, every time we put the line out in these northern waters. Out in deep water, the humpback whales came by to check on their suitcases, and a pod of Orcas came over for a look, too. Black footed albatross swooped at us from above, a school of porpoise swooped our bow from below. Puffins paddled around us, popping down at the last minute as we came close. The only one missing was Mr. Bear, - but we had seen him up the inlet a few days earlier, munching barnacles off a fallen tree – that very one we had contemplated picking up for a stern tie. He was oblivious to the rope coiled on the end for that purpose. I wonder what his reaction would have been with our boat tied to the end of it!
And so, savoring that taste of Barclay Sound magic, we set off into the remnants of the last ‘hurricane force’ low-pressure system, hoping to avoid the next one that would be marching across the Pacific in just a few days. All the way down to San Francisco, the weather forecasts warned of ‘hazardous seas’. And what a jumble of waves – some up to 20 feet – we had to pick our way through! There was no clear pattern or direction, as we would usually find in the open ocean. The winds were still strong – 35 knots – but from behind, so we had quite the sleigh ride down the coast.
We made landfall again 4 days later - on a perfectly clear morning, surfing down the waves at 9 knots (the GPS maxed out at 13.3!), with the sun rising over Navarro Head - a moment to savor. I had always wanted to surf in California! The only thing left to do was put our Dick Dale CD on at full volume and enjoy the ride.
It was another 24 hours before we saw San Francisco – with a big, orange, harvest moon setting behind us, slipping down Bonita channel in a light breeze. Beside us, the dark, barren cliffs were outlined against a velvety navy blue sky. The low hillside on the far shore was carpeted with a golden glitter of twinkling lights. Around the point, the Golden Gate Bridge came into view, silhouetted against the background of the rising sun - yet another magic moment. We sailed under the bridge as the pylons turned bright red in the early morning light, the excitement of the city awakening on the skyline and soaring pelicans to complete the picture.
Well, we are not exactly in San Francisco now, but up the Oakland Inner Harbor at a marina in Alameda. We had to come up this way to clear customs, and sort of ‘landed’ here in this friendly little spot, close to all the services and amenities that we could want to help us ‘de-winterize’ Blue Moon. The sun is still shining - we like it here.
After we regroup here for a few days, our plan is to make our way back out to ‘the Bay’ – probably anchor at Sausalito, which is, apparently, were all the cruisers go to. Perhaps we will find some of our friends here, although I would guess that we are so far behind that they will be half way to Mexico by now.
So we are on to the next part of the adventure…