Mazatlan

March 9th, 2007

As a kid I remember sitting at the edge of the driveway. I was looking down the road. That road met with Seminole, which met with Greenwood Rd, and so on and so forth. I thought about grabbing my back pack and walking from one road to the next for as long as I could until I reached the end. Perhaps at the sea. Perhaps somewhere around Valpraiso, or perhaps in Alaska. Perhaps it would have taken me to Mazatlan. I can’t say.

It is said that there are three Latin ports in which one must see if they are interested in such things. San Juan, Havanna, and Mazatlan. This is Mazatlan. This is where the desert meets the tropics. Coconut palms, and parrots line the streets. Shrimp as big as my hand. Pastel buildings clashing against the sea. Islands off the coast, and bull fights.

Plazuela Mechado sits in the middle of the city with cafe’s and bars around the square. Catholic school has let the children out for the day. They flood the square. The boys chase the parrots, two girls on the gazebo in the center dance to the salsa music radiating from the cafe. They are going to be dancers. The high school boys call out to the high school girls whistling, and the high school girls call to me as I walk on by with my camera, maybe they think they will get on the cover of National Geographic.

For every building that lines the streets as a business there too is a building beside with boarded windows and barred doors. Narrow streets wonder through Mexico’s oldest port of stature on the Pacific. The streets are cobble and brick. They make their way along the peninsula from the Mercado to the harbor and the sea. At the point of the peninsula two islands protect the harbor. A lighthouse, the highest in the world, rests on top of the larger of the two. Mazatlan is the proud producer of Pacifico Cerveza as well as their own taxi. It is best described as a relative of the VW Thing. An open vehicle, we ride through the abandoned streets in the night listening to the traditional old Mexican tunes. The cool wind blows off the water as we sit silently watching the passing windows of houses.

VW Beatles were manufactured in Mexico until a few years ago. In popular demand VW gave them the rights to produce the original Beatle. Havanna may have it’s 57 Chevy’s Mazatlan has it’s 1970 Beatle’s. It is an interesting town. With interesting history. It was the second town to ever endure an airstrike. During the Mexican Revolution single engine planes dropped leather pouches stuffed with dynamite and nails over the main street. They knocked a few people in the heads, but none exploded. Spanish fleets, conquistadores, and pirates this town has it’s history of them all.

We walked through the market. It was in a large warehouse downtown. Full cows laid out on the table, pigs heads and feet for you. People cleaning the fish. Crowded we push our way through the area being hackled from all sides. Into the open air of a busy street we walk by the cathedral. Jesus rests suspended in agony from his cross for eternity above the doors. We make our way into the park where the birds chirp over head and workers eat and smoke enjoying their break. We walk among the cars taking pictures of the pastel buildings, and the worn buildings with trees growing where desks once sat. We walk among the cafe’s. What happens to a town that causes it to grow and die then grow. Bad politics, revolutions. Is it that different than what happens in America. Down towns, beautiful building collapsing while we build Walmart’s over the countryside. Why doesn’t someone save what was once a great achievement of our grandfathers and build back these buildings? Or are we just numb to it. They have character, the kind you don’t find in strip malls.

We walk up the hill to the sea and the cove. The street follows the sea and on each side of the protected bay cliffs, and out on the water Islands. The waves crash against the retaining wall. Lining the streets are the tall buildings of the past with windows facing the water. Perhaps in one window a widow waits for a sailor that will never come home, watching the water patiently, she waits. The fishing fleet is on the water, you can see them by the clouds of birds over head. The smell of Carne Asada fills the air from the restaurants. Beatles, mopeds, and taxis drive along the sea. People hurry about their day. This is just another day in the life of a town, and I feel satisfaction in being able to witness it.

We sailed into the Marina on the other side of town. We pulled into the docks with the help of the Marina workers. Shortly after arriving I was walking to the office. To my surprise the Patricia Belle was in port as well. Captain Pat and Jeanie Hughes own Patricia Belle and they are the couple that sold me Morning Star almost two years ago. Pat built the Patricia Belle in his back yard in Washington State. It took him three years. He was working as a tug captain in the sound and raising two boys. He fashioned the hull and keel mounting an iron construction girder as ballast on the keel, a tractor engine and wheel as his propulsion and steering. She is an 82- foot black hulled schooner, the pride of his life.

Shocked to say the least to see me, we stopped in for a visit. We exchanged stories into the early morning, catching up on all that had happened at sea. He is now calling Mazatlan home, and setting up his charter business here. Jeanie was pleased with the work that we have done to Morning Star, and the projects we are undertaking.

The community in the marina consists of retired couples sailing around Mexico on their pension. Most have sold everything to chase this dream. There are happy to meet new young blood. We had a dock party with the couple next to us last night. Most of the marina came by with appetizers and drinks. They hung out on both our boats. Some were families raising their kids on the water, most as I said retired. The old tired men reminisced over my boat. They remember the days of wooden boats.

All were amazed at the simplicity of our travels with the ingenuity that we have put into practice in rigging her. I’m the youngest among the fleet by far, and by far the oldest boat, and the only wooden boat. They seemed to raise their eyebrows and laugh. Ambitious, traditional, romantic, these seemed to be the common labels placed on our method of travel. They took tours of the boat and half-envied her. As a proud captain, I gladly rattled off all the work and effort pointing out that the only reason she is 49 years old and still a fine vessel is because of the genius who designed her.

The night before Forrest left for Knoxville we hiked to the lighthouse with our sleepingbags and sat looking out over the waning moon on the gentle sea, tropical islands like shadows against her sliver glow. We sat up under the rhythmic tick of the light passing over head facing south into oceans yet to be traveled. Silent we thought of the miles traveled and the miles to go. The cliff dropped off into the ocean where we slept and awoke to the sun rising over the mangroves far below. For years, I thought, I had climbed mountains and watched the sun rise over the water from high above alone, and had wanted someone to enjoy it with. My brother, and I, we are two great traveling companions. We seem to get along best while exploring and I am sad to see him leave as necessary as it may be, also temporary. It was sad knowing he would leave. He provided for me a sense of security. Having my closest friend with me by my side through our many trials has been a blessing, and although he will return I am sorry that he will miss the rest of the Pacific transit. We had breakfast by the Plazuela and I watched him hop into the open taxi. There were no words necessary, just “Be safe, “ on both accounts. I used to sneer at those words, be safe. I used to think it was stepping into harms way that made the greatest adventures.

Although challenges and risks are great adventures, I now say it with reverence. Be safe, it is a dangerous world. Fear is not to make us afraid, but warn us of danger. Since then I have spent some afternoons in the beach side bar and dinner dinning under a waterfall running down a cliff into a sea side restaurant watching sun sets and preparing myself and my boat for the next leg of the adventure.

I am sorry to be leaving this town. Sammy is our security guard here. I found that sleeping in the hammock strung between the masts is the most comfortable way to wake early. At 6 in the morning Sammy strolls by whistling Amazing Grace. “I am sorry senior Reid, were you

sleeping.”

“No apologies Sammy.”

“Where is Senior Forrest?” Sammy makes it a point to know everyone’s name and the name of their boat.

He met Forrest for five minutes, and five days later he was concerned that he had not seen him. He insisted I write my name for him, it is a hard name for Mexicans to remember since there was never a saint by the same name. If he is not whistling hymns he is whistling Christmas Carols. I have been waiting for Felice Navidad, but instead he opts for the slower Away in a Manger.

Paul and D are a couple of retired hippies next to us. They invited us to dinner then opened their Grateful Dead and bluegrass selection quizzing us on our John Prine knowledge. I was walking to the store and they were coming from the beach. Paul was wearing nothing but his Hawaiin towel and carrying a broken buggy board. “How was it?” I asked. “Great, lost my trunks and broke my buggy board, but you should have seen the wave.”

They like the many we meet are retired and spending their years traveling and just living. Personally, and this may change, but I can’t understand it. If the purpose of a mans life is to produce, for growth of mind and spirit alone, how can one sail around on a boat that requires no maintenance to speak of and boogy board. Can I hope to do this for retirement, I hope not. I would think that as long as I live I would at least continue to fix old classic boats. Like I said, who knows, I am still young.

Our greeting party came from the boat in front of me. An old retired man sitting on the flying bridge applauding. I thought the landing was disastrous. The wind was astern then to our beam as we made our turn so I planned on putting the nose into the slip and letting the wind push the stern even with the slip. He applauds as we man handled her in.

“Most try to make the turn late and get the stern blown halfway to shore. Good to see young blood that can drive.” He says as he throws us beer from the flying bridge welcoming us to Mazatlan.

During the party a couple that had spent time in Knoxville came aboard. We chatted and the subject of our power supply came up. He offered to sell me his wind generator for 200 dollars. These machines generate power from the wind, and charge the batteries at 10 to 30 amps depending on the wind. That is phenomenal, meaning I can run a refrigerator, which one man sold me for 30 dollars (A cooler with a refrigeration system hooked to the back.) I asked him what was wrong with the wind generator. He said nothing they were upgrading to a quieter one. His wife was tired of the noise. Sure enough it was only a few years old and runs good charge but has a little chirp to it.

Yes the people are nothing but friendly and we are sad to be leaving. I think everyone is eager to help out the young travelers. Perhaps they remember the time they were young and chasing dreams. Perhaps, it’s charity. I don’t know but I do know that with the work that was done here and the knowledge acquired over the last month I feel perfectly capable of sailing Morning Star single handedly around the world if I felt the urge. Not this trip, one day though. Once your boat is equipped this is a pretty reasonable way to travel.

On the wall in the office there is a picture of the world. It was taken from space and spans the west coast of California, Baja, to Mazatlan. I look at this picture every time I go in. I point to Guadalupe Island, then run my finger down to Punta Eugina, Bahia Magdallena, Tip of Baja, and the Sea of Cortez. Each place a memory, and I can still see the water of each area, the sunsets and rises alike. I cast my hand over the vast blue of the world. “I did that.” I say. I traveled that 1,500 miles using the force of nature and the winds in my sails, self sufficiently on the water. I coped with the sea. In order to command nature you must obey her, and although there were times she could have taken us, we survived, and this is where we are. Once again we have reached another milestone, we are in the tropics.