Baja
February 21st, 2007, San Diego to Bahia de Magdalena
Tonight the sun sets over dirty desert streets as we three sailors walk beside blue water on green algae shores with maroon mountains silhouetted in the distance by an orange sky. Morning Star lies in the bay tugging gently at her anchor chain. Her crew in good spirits as we walk to Hotel Alcatraz for dinner, showers, and cervezas.
I have heard that on occasion the sea will rise up and remind you just how small you really are. I have heard that the sea that breeds life and beauty will also take it away. On the sea all is won and all is lost. I have known that my dreams were bred on the sea and were almost lost on her. It was a dark night. It was the evening before Valentines Day. Twenty four hours prior the barometer had dropped to 28.8 millibars. We were 200 miles from shore and making a good run for Zahauntenejo, so we had thought, until the first of the heavy swells began to test our resolve. It wasn’t soon after that we first felt the vessel slide down the face of an oncoming swell that we charted a new course to close with the shelter of Turtle bay in the lee of Punta Eugina.
Our provisions still fresh and our spirits good as we worked on the boat in the warm sun of Mexican waters. Soon after, the wind picked up to 25 knots, then to 30. The barometer remained low as we sailed through the day running down sea and towing a drogue to keep the stern to as we made repairs to a steering unit that was beginning to fail.
As the sun set and the stars filled the sky under a new moon the wind began to rise even more and I took the helm as we entered the beginning of the worst. The main sail was reefed, trimming it to half its size and a strong storm jib rode on the main stay. In the darkness I could not see the oncoming waves but they had seemed to decrease in size with the increasing wind. It was a strange and surreal thing, as though the sea were bewitched, cursed, the waves smooth and rounded despite the howling wing, as they rushed down from the north with a strange fog hanging just above the surface. We were fifty miles from Turtle Bay and safe anchorage when a series of events that overcame us happened suddenly and without warning.
As we rode the waves, the rudder leaving a phosphorescent trail in the water and bow wake moving us forward for land, the wind began to take control. The waves began to suddenly hit us from all sides pushing the boat off her course by 40 degrees to port then 40 degrees to starboard. I felt it before I realized it. The hull and rigging began to vibrate. The boat hummed like a church choir warming up on a steady chord. The wind whipped through my hair as we shot like a witch on a fiery broomstick shooting out of the gates of hell. It was an evil feeling, and one that I had never felt sailing, nor liked. It was beyond my comfort zone and foolishly filled me with a false sense of adventure. Looking at the knot log we were making 10 knots under the least amount of canvas we dared fly. She was beyond her limits, she was moving beyond all limits I thought capable, and that was what seemed so frightening. The sea had an unsettled evil feel to her. It was then that I realized that it was not an illusion of the wind to feel like we were sailing so fast but reality. That was why she hummed. That was why she altered her course. We were pushing her hull speed to her very ends.
The moment I realized this we began to take the waves. One hit the port bow shooting spray up as high as the mast, and one followed on the stern sending her beam to a breaking wave that filled the cockpit with water. Morning Star pushed on. I spoke to her, I cried for her to hold on. I told her if she would hold up I would as well, and we would make it together. Still we sailed to make safe harbor when another wave broke on the beam and sent her surfing down a long wave out of control. I knew, I had had enough. I altered course into the waves sending us north into Punta Eugina and shoals. I knew we could not change course without a risky tack or jibe or any other less desirable approach to the waves. Forrest took his navigational fix and confirmed. In four hours we would be in shoals. My hands were tied. Where could I go?
We decided to start the engine for more control, but the engine battery was dead. I felt I had two options and opted for the safer of the two. I was going to drop the sea anchor and start the generator to get the engine running. A sea anchor is a large underwater parachute that keeps you pointed into the waves of a strong sea. It creates drag and keeps you from drifting into a lee shore. The problem is that they are known to damage the boat with the stress they place on the rig. It is true. They place a lot of stress on the boat and work as well as they are said too. With the sea anchor out and secured to the capstan then wrapped around the mast we were able to start the generator long enough to charge the batteries, but Morning Star moaned with each wave. The capstan pulled at her backing plates and the line drew taught making the worst sound I have ever heard. It was the sound wood makes before it splinters and she made it with each roll. The wind still hauling, the sea breaking she paid a price to hold her position.
Hearing the engine turn over was music to our ears. She purred with all gauges reading well. We motored to the sea anchor. Now was another task before us. Retrieving the sea anchor was another daunting task. Imagine pulling fifty gallons of water vertically up six feet in a rolling sea. She spills the water as she comes out and above the waves, but with each roll she takes on more. Sea anchors are last resort options. I began to understand this at the last minute. Tied to the boat and bracing myself against the seas I wrestled for ten minutes with her. At the last moment before I pulled my knife to cut her loose, she rose enough for me to pull her from the deep. Every muscle in my body seemed to tear as she slowly spilled the water. Then instantly she was on deck. I lay on the bow tangled in nylon mesh and looked to the stars. I could not move. I could only yell for Forrest to drive on towards shelter. My arms like concrete blocks laid useless by my side.
I stared in wonder at the beauty of the night above me and the hell that lie below me. Was I in over my head? No I thought. We were motoring for a safe harbor. Forrest went below to take a fix and Dave to get some rest as I sat back at the helm. We were getting knocked about and the course we made was hard to keep when something did not feel right. A noise, a smell, a feeling, something was wrong. I looked behind me and we were blowing enough exhaust to tripple the pollution of LA. I heard a screeching sound then kicked on the light for the gauges. The oil pressure was falling, and it was falling faster than Icaras from the sky.
So we cut the engine with only one option left. Its hard to believe that you can park your boat at sea, but its true. If things get bad put on the emergency brake and park her. Its simple. You backfill your head sail so she is being pushed to down sea but keep the helm hard to the wind so she pushes the head into it. Now you have a controlled drift. She creates a slick so no waves will break over the side and points the bow into the wind. Its called heaving too. So we hove too early in the morning hours of Valentines Day.
The sun was rising over the troubled sea when all was set and we gathered in the cockpit staring at each other in the eyes. Where were we, and how did it get this bad? Where did things go wrong? I stayed awake through the sunrise to see the sea we had been battling. She was a confused sea. Meaning the waves were coming from every direction without any rhythm to them. The wind blew at 40 knots and the waves rode at 15 feet sporadically with no reason to their direction. So Morning Star fell helplessly into the trough her bow sprit piercing like a dagger through the water then rising up steep walls of water turning them to her beam, then sliding sideways heavily down the steep canyons. This continued for over 24 hours. We took watches and tried to sleep since we hadn´t slept in two days. We tried to eat since we hadn´t had a full meal in 3.
Exhausted and tired I watched as the wind hauled through the rigging like nails on a chalk board and my boat lie helplessly rising and falling into the sea. It was hard for me to believe with each rising wave that she would survive the fall. I think at some point we all questioned if she would hold up. The question was on all our lips and when asked ¨How long can she take it¨ I would stubbornly reply, ¨She´ll take it and more.¨ but I too was afraid. I sat at the helm listening to the screeching wind and unbelievable waves. This was my work. I had restored her.
I had fixed the hull and re-rigged her. 40,000 dollars, my savings from the service and all my energy over the last 2 years had come to this point. Were the shortcuts I took going to sink us, or would she hold up? Was every upgrade in gear worth it and how much of a craftsman was I? All these questions were answered in time. I thought about those at home and friends from the summer and from school. I thought about my mentors. Thinking about all the people that cared that I was here and worried, it brought the tears to my eyes. I knew people were cheering for us and praying, and I was afraid of letting it all go, and not accomplishing what I had set out to accomplish. To cross another sea.
Dave thought it would be a good idea to call the Coast Guard to make them aware of our situation. Our families helped tremendously by contacting persons and finding the information we needed to assess our situation. They called the Coast Guard and weather service, they called the churches and before I knew it prayers from around the country were going out for us and congregations were singing the sailors hymn for those in peril on the sea. I know that the prayers were heard. I sat my watch and witnessed the Morning Star take the worst beating the sea could throw at her. The blocks pulled tight on the cap rail the lines taunt with thousands of pounds of strain on them. And I began to plan the watches, and as I did I was unaware that I was planning for four people. I kept thinking that we needed to make dinner for four people. I felt another presence on the boat through the duration of that storm and that presence comfort. The ghost of Shackleton, a previous owner, or just the holy spirit -- whatever it was, and I do not say this lightly, God was with us that day.
Once again the winds howled and seas continued to build through the day, and as night fell they only increased to 50 knots. The seas to 20 and 30 feet. Helplessly we watched in the darkness of the night unable to see the waves until seconds before it broke on us. Uncertain of how much longer it would hold us in her grip, I could not take it anymore. I stood my watch calling out to merchant ships in the area notifying them of our condition, “What the hell are you boys doing here,” came one reply as I watched the dark waves rise. After my watch I had to sleep. I did not want to see it nor hear it anymore. I just wanted it to end.
SoI crashed. My exhausted body fell onto the rack and four hours later the sun rose over a calmer sea and when Dave woke me up he said he thought we could sail, and coming up the sea was navigable, the sun warm, and we turned the head through the sea and cast off the head sail and sheeted it home on our new tack and sailed away. It was hard to believe as we sat waiting through the storm that only days earlier we were sailing through calm seas. All of us happy. We were eating well, we were listening to music and laying in the sun to bake. It is hard to remember a time when I felt so at peace. Standing watches and listening to whales, and dolphins close by. Watching the stars in the sky and the sun rise and set over the blue water dreaming of the southern seas that we would soon be in. We were finding a routine and contentment in our days. We were looking forward to our watches. We were dividing up the chores and making great time. It was a peaceful time. How is that the sea can show two faces in such short time? She gives, and she takes away.
Now we lie at anchor in Bahia De Magdalena. After spending the morning checking into Mexico we ate, showered and slept after ten days at sea. Bahia de Magdalena, or as we gringos call it Mag Bay, is the size of San Francisco Bay. You sail in between two mountains and into the bay then up a channel to Puerto San Carlos. The Navy took me to many ports. I have been to the lush tropics as well as the third world desert. Now my boat lies at anchor amongst desert mountains alongside an industrial pier. We walk the same dirt streets as I did in Djibouti and Iraq. The same smells, and the same look. Now I am here on my on accord, and the people have been extremely friendly. We have our own cab driver, and the waitress at the restaurant takes good care of us. She has offered to sail with us as the cook half joking, and in all seriousness I would take her along. She made us a half gallon of salsa and then gave us some beans and rice to take with us, as well as did our laundry and made us coffee in the morning. The local fishing guides took our outboard to be fixed. The port security has been watching our dinghy. The people are accommodating and happy in their world here. All have smiles on their faces and in a palm shaded courtyard with a fire burning and French tourist all around, drinking margaritas, I now write of the trials of the sea. Now it seems like a dream. I sit on my boat a few hours a day feeling more tied to her now than ever, and watch gray whales spawning their young.
Mag Bay is the third largest bay for spawning of Gray Whales. They hide in the shallow water to avoid the killer whales. They spawn their young just feet from Morning Star and rise up next to the dinghy, and you can pet them. It has been an amazing journey so far. It had taken us through the worst waters I could imagine and now has dropped us into a world of hospitality among these desert streets. The three of us are content, and now I look forward to getting underway for our next port of call. This has been a rushed account, and I hate sending it because I feel it would take days to perfect the story of what we went through and where we are now. I am sorry, but I am restricted for time and must rush my thoughts into words. Hopefully I will have more time when we reach Cabo San Lucas to make sense of this mangled dispatch. I hope all is well and thank you so much for all your prayers and support.
