Life is Like a Box of Chocolates…
“You never know what you’re gonna get…”
​
When I open a fresh box of delicious chocolates, I scan the contents for Butter Cream or Truffle or Mint or Toffee or Caramel. If someone has already scammed the popular ones, an easily identifiable, plain old Almond Cluster standby will sufficiently satisfy; I’ll settle for Orange Cream; and I’ll tolerate the Jellies (barely).

But hidden amongst all that sweetness are imposters. Lying in wait. Biding their time. Pretending to be something they’re not. The instant my teeth touch that center filling, my heart sinks. Ptooey. It’s my worst chocolate nightmare.

Everyone has their least favorite…what’s yours?

Cheap Cherry Cordials with their fake and ultra-fermented foulness? Yeecck.
(Fortunately, those mounded tops are a dead giveaway, others are impossible to detect...like…)

Rubbery Rum Raisin sporting a gelatinous gluey-goo center, overpowered with acrid alcohol flavoring? Grross.

Rancid Russian Nougat filled with gummy walnuts and petrified fruit, basically 10-yr-old fruitcake? Blehk.

What if fate directed your hand towards Rum Raisin?
Ugh. One isn’t so bad though. You’ll power through it. Just pick another.
Rum Raisin. Hmmm, that’s weird. Pick another.
Rum Raisin. What the...OK, try the second layer.
Rum Raisin. Is this a joke? Factory mishap? Government conspiracy?

No joke. What if you ended up with an entire box of Rum Raisin? A Five. Pound. Box.

Sometimes, that’s just what life gives us. Whether we like it or not.
There’s nothing you can do now or in the future to transform that box into something more palatable; nothing you could have done differently to avoid getting the box. You can’t return the box via UPS (wouldn’t that be nice); you can’t re-gift the box in a Dirty Santa trade (wouldn’t that be cruel); you can’t hide it under your bed and ignore the box (like your taxes). Taxes and Rum Raisin boxes must be dealt with no matter how much we despise them.

So, what do you do when a loved one is plopped down in the midst of an overwhelming mountain of Rum Raisin?

You drop everything. You come home. And you help them deal with it as best you can.

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And so we did.

We’ve been in Michigan for three months. Intending to return to the boat in mid-January, it’s now well past Valentine’s Day (hence my box-o’-chocolate analogy). We took things day by day, assimilating all the new information, be it the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

I can’t tell you how many times we thought we were leaving in a couple days, only to cancel and remain for an important appointment or to help with a necessary project or to complete a major purchase. We’ve become fake news perpetuators: ”We’re leaving next week…wait, the week after that… wait, strike that, don’t ask me anymore.” Friends would text us…”You’re STILL there? What’s the deal?”

Well, we’ve been assessing and re-assessing, modifying and fine-tuning our future. During the last two months, we’ve changed our plan daily, sometimes hourly. Captivated by the recent Olympics, I can only describe our closing sequence as a high-flying, halfpipe-snowboarding, 1080-degree, life-altering rotation. We just hope to land on two feet and not face-down in the snow.

And the judge’s scores are in…

1. We are moving back to Michigan. Yup. Land of snow and ice. Who’d a thunk it? We’ve been here so long now we had to buy snow boots. Flip-flops? What’s a flip-flop? You know you’re getting used to the frozen tundra when 35 degrees is a “warm spell”.
2. We are moving back to our hometown. Back to the beginning. Where it all started. It feels really weird. It feels weirdly normal. It feels like the right thing to do.
3. We bought a house. Surprise! Once we determined this piece of the puzzle, finding our property (within a week and only 4 showings) was pure providence. That’s the good news. The bad news is I forgot just what a PITA it is to buy a house. And don’t get me started on unlocking our credit, rising interest rates and dealing with out-of-state-snowbird-sellers, sans printer or cell phones. The house purchase is a whole blog right there.
4. We are shipping Indigo to Lake Huron! Bay City to be exact. On a flat-bed semi-truck. From Mexico. What???!!! We could not bring ourselves to sell her and container ships don’t sail to the Great Lakes (not from Mexico anyway), so truck shipping is the only option. While we’ve done it before from Maryland to Cali, international shipping across the Mexican border adds a whole ‘nother level of anxiety. Fun stuff. Why don’t we sail back to San Diego and ship from there? We’d love to, but we’d want to wait ‘til July for weather purposes and that’s too long of a delay. Plus, since it’s currently out of the water, half the shipping prep work is already done.​ Why don’t we live on the boat in Michigan? Did you actually read #1 above? We’re not that crazy!
5. We are coming out. Of retirement that is. So all you people jealous of us “youngsters” retiring early can feel incredibly smug that we are headed back to the grind later this year. You’re welcome. Living on retirement income in Mexico on a paid-off boat is a piece of cake; but owning a house is a different story. And in Michigan, the heating bill alone is insane!​ What are we doing? That’s TBD. We’re hammering out steps 1-4 first. How many decisions do you expect in one month?

So what’s next?
Now that we have closed on the house (as of today, actually), we are free to leave Michigan to complete the next steps of our crazy plan. Geeze, how much more can there be? Well…

We still need to drive down to Mexico, prep Indigo for shipping (2-3 weeks), get her on a truck, follow her across the border to Tucson, get her on another truck, follow her to our new Michigan marina, get our stuff off the boat and move into the house, drive to Atlanta, rent a moving truck (no, we didn’t get rid of ALL our stuff) and drive it back. Whew.

Then, after living in limbo for a year, we can actually be in our own house, in our own bed. (Well, after we buy a bed.) What a concept. And then, of course, "normal life" will ensue, consumed with initial house projects like painting and flooring and cleaning and fixing and buying furniture we no longer have. And don’t forget about getting Indigo reassembled and back in the water. So maaaybe we’ll be done with all that sometime in July. Or August. Maybe. I can’t promise we’ll be anywhere at any given date for the next several months. Again, one day at a time.

Are you happy?
Yes. We are satisfied. We’ve made the right choice.
Except for the snow. This has been one of the snowiest winters since 1880 and it just keeps coming! We’re going to have to work on loving snow. And ice. And muddy, dirt roads. And potholes - Michigan‘s potholes are worse than Mexico! Not kidding.

Yes, of course we’re sad for our forfeiture of travel freedom. We treasured our atypical nomadic lifestyle. We absolutely loved living on the boat IN the natural world, exploring pristine anchorages & quaint villages. We enjoyed the financial freedom of not owning a house and chasing the bulk of society in a never-ending rat-race. And who really wants a JOB?

But that kind of existence comes at a price. I’m not the first to opine that life on the water is not all cocktails and sunsets. Throw in the stressful sea-faring facet and the trials of living in a foreign country. To a certain extent, we thrived on knowing we could overcome any challenge. But sometimes economics don’t outweigh anxiety. And sometimes, family is more important than fun. This is one of those times.

It’s Never Over, ‘Til It’s Over
Ah, but fear not dear reader, the dream is not lost. Otherwise, why would we suffer the expense and difficulty of transporting Indigo all the way home? No, we’re just taking an extended pit stop. In fact, we are already starting to plan Indigo’s next cruising chapter. Our Mexican adventure may be concluding a bit earlier than expected, but our new Michigan adventure awaits.

Choices and Chocolates
Forrest Gump was right. Life IS like a box of chocolates. You never really know what you’re gonna get. But life is also a series of chocolate choices. We’ve explicitly chosen the ubiquitous Almond Cluster. For now. We know what we’re getting. It’s the right thing to do. But someday, we’ll again go in search of that elusive Butter Cream. We’ve found it before, and we’ll find it again.​

All cruisers contract it; severity varies, compounded by an increase in days spent in-yard.

Symptoms include:

• Minor fatigue. Escalating exponentially to severe bitchiness. (This may occur equally in both women AND men, no discrimination). Cured by a post-dinner Thrifty’s ice cream run.
• Sunburn. Mild to severe 1st degree blisters. Never fun.
• Dirty feet. Working in flip flops in a filthy boatyard. ‘Nuff said.
• Stuffy nose. Believe it or not, boatyard dust causes nasal havoc…sneezing and mega boogers.
• Wrenched back. Due to constant contortion of one’s body into small spaces, ie.”The Hole”.
• Persistent Paint Application Hunchback. Leaning over 90-degrees for 2-hour-periods results in this separate condition, reversible only by long bouts of lying in bed, watching back-to-back Hawaii 5-0 reruns.
• Tinnitus. From over-exposure to buzz-sawing, grinding and sanding noise. (Gimme the per owl. What? Er owl! Seriously, I can’t HEAR you! Pa-per Tow-el!!! Ohhhh. Here. I can’t hear you over that guy’s sander! Plus, it might help to take that black marker out of your mouth. Just sayin’.)
• Sore knees. From kneeling and squatting; kneeling, squatting…kneeling, squatting… typically from applying miles and miles of blue tape.
• Aching butt muscles. From scrambling up 9ft ladders. Ow! I forgot I had muscles there.
• Poor communication. (Hand me that wrench. Here. No, the black one. There is no black one. Yes, there is! You mean this dark silver wrench? It’s black! Um, no, it’s actually silver. Granted, it’s a darkish silver, but whatever. Words DO mean things.
• Forgetfulness. Did we lock the boat? Analogous to forgetting if you shut the garage door when you left for work, circling the block just to make sure.
• Exhaustion Blindness. Example: When we remove our cockpit engine cover, we undo and place the bolts in the same spot every time. After contracting BFS in the last hour of our otherwise productive workday, we lost one. How is that possible! At 3” wide, these are not easy to lose. We search for 5 minutes… FIVE!; I even looked in the garbage! It had rolled under the cover, hiding the entire time. Oy! Too tired to think clearly.
• Inattention to detail. Did you put Tef-Gel on those bolts before you spent ten minutes trying to insert them? Sh#$! Do-over.
• Stumbling and bumbling. One day, in the last hour, Brian hit his head twice on the bimini. As we were leaving the boatyard he stumbles and nearly twists his ankle. I place my hands wrong on the ladder and nearly pinch my fingers. OK. Time to go.

More and more, I find it a good idea to end a boatyard day on a good note. Before we contract BFS. After working in the hot sun for 5-6 hours, things can start to go awry. Miserably. If you’ve been at it all day and want to complete just one more thing, thinking it’ll only take 15 minutes. Just. Don’t. Stop while you are ahead!

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We worked on Indigo in the yard for just over 2 weeks…the right amount of time before boatyard boatwork gets vexingly tedious. The more days in-yard, the higher susceptibility to BFS. Normally, it would be high time to launch. Except… We’ve decided to go home for Christmas! We plan on coming back January…ish. See you then! 

It has been a long road, but we have finally overcome our varnish vanity. Well, mostly. We painted our rubrail, eyebrows and handrails. Yup, you heard that correctly…painted. With epoxy paint. Not varnish, not Setol, not even Bristol Finish. Paint.

I know what you teak purists are thinking…
“Oh, the horror!”

…and what you cruisers are thinking…
“Told ya so!”

Varnishing our exterior teak is no longer practical. No longer desirable. It has become a never-ending battle. Sun vs. finish. Sun always wins. Always. The severe Mexico heat is our nemesis; it was never this bad in Maryland or even sunny California. We cannot varnish enough coats enough times during the year to keep it looking nice. We’re just wasting our time.

We knew better. We were told. We just refused to listen. Why? Varnish Vanity.

There’s something exquisite about a sleek piece of freshly varnished teak. It’s, quite frankly, sexy. The rich caramel color… the divine dark grain threading through layers upon layers of sanded and applied coats… that lustrous wet-look despite being bone dry. Whoowhee! We appreciate its arresting appearance; we recognize the enormous effort expended. If a boat could be sexually harassed, varnished teak gets the brunt of our attention. “Oooh, honey, look at that teak!” (Insert head nod + chin rub + raised eyebrows + sly smile.) “Niiiiiice.”

We loved the look, we didn’t mind the work. Now… we are minding the work.

Shedding Snake Skin
Our teak rubrails (along the hull) and eyebrows (paralleling the cream cabin top) cannot physically be covered. Subsequently, UV rays beat them to death year-round. Each time we return from a 5-month hiatus, we witness the consequence of this constant solar assault…one flaking layer after another. Our beautiful varnish looks like sunburned, peeling skin. Maddening. And gross.

Zebra Handrails
Our handrails are covered during the hot summer and stay relatively intact over 5 months. But the zip ties securing the cover causes thin shadows while the remainder finish lightens in color. Ugh, zebra varnish. Sunbrella covers would only delay the inevitable. Because when cruising, we traipse around up top and end up stepping on or kicking the handrails, even if we’re careful; we secure the dinghy to them, cinching the ropes tightly and grazing the finish every time; we slide watershoes and wetsuits under it to dry; we grab it to steady ourselves, nicking it with the flick of a wedding ring; our poor rails get whacked by the kayak, the dinghy, paddles, gas cans, snorkels, even my camera (don’t tell). So WHY do we keep doing all this work to keep them pretty when they are so difficult to maintain? They’re handrails. They’re meant to be grabbed and used and abused. Not to be pretty.

Wait, what?
I said, they’re meant to be used! Not to be pretty!

AH HA!
So, after three seasons in Mexico, we had an “Ah Ha” moment. This is what we’ve finally recognized:
Our boat is now a cruising boat, not a weekend boat; she’s a workhorse, not a showpiece; an actual home, not a model home.

Except, painting over varnish in the interests of practicality is akin to digging out the grass in your front lawn and replacing it with fake grass because you’re tired of the one full week of work it takes to cut it every 5 months. We hate that we’ve stooped so low. But we’ve come to terms.

Brightwork Brown
We learned about this particular paint, a Pettit brand called “Brightwork Brown”, from our friend Dave, formerly of sister ship “Swan”. A durable epoxy, this paint is used on everything from fiberglass to wood to metal. At a distance, one can mistake it for varnish; its coloring is similar to a dark varnished mahogany. But up close, one can definitely tell the difference…it’s opaque. No more wood grain. No more lovely caramel teak color. No more compliments.  But the upside is tremendous. Our yard neighbor painted his handrails a long time ago. I asked him how long before he had to coat them again? Ooooh. ‘Bout 5 years.

5 YEARS! Done.

OK, I’ve come to terms after hearing that. Brian, not so much. Painting over our teak made him miserable. (Just like that initial faux grass installation makes your stomach turn, right? Same thing.) But after finishing, he decided it didn’t look half bad. I think he can live with the decision.

We even got compliments by several yardbirds: Hey, is that varnish? Looks great!  Oh, I love you for saying that!

We Aren’t Idiots - Paint Goes OVER Varnish
(Brian) It is important to note that we did not ruin the teak. Varnishing it 2 years ago was the first necessary step to protect the wood. And we kept it varnished for as long as we could stand. Painting OVER the varnish keeps the paint from soaking into the wood. This important step makes it easy(er) to strip the paint later on and bring the teak back to its’ brilliant varnished luster.  
(Marya) In other words…we could bring the teak back to normal… if we wished… someday… (but we won’t - shhh).

Admit it. Switch it. Stop Stressing.
Varnish Vanity. It’s OK to admit we have it, but confessing is just the first step.
Switching to paint is the second stage. It’ll be OK. Just do it.
The final phase? After you’ve done the deed, release the remorse. Stop feeling like you’re a failure…that you’ve somehow let the boat down…that you’re not a real mariner without a spiffy varnish job…that you’ve been beaten by the elements.  
Vanquishing varnish vanity…it’s freeing!

Weeellll...Allllllmost...
Brian still refuses to paint the caprail. Fortunately, our makeshift cloth cover is doing its job. But guess what we’ll be doing soon. Varnish! Arrggh.
No matter. I’ll wear him down eventually. (Insert fingers tent + evil laugh.) Meh, heh, heh.

Normal people run around like gobbling turkeys during Thanksgiving week… frantically driving, visiting, shopping, cooking, eating and more eating.

Us? We ran around like turkeys too…except on the boat. Up and down 9ft ladders, ducking in and out of companionway entries, squeezing in and out of tight engine rooms, reaching into inaccessible lockers…ah, the joys of boatyard boat work.

Preventing Undue Perspiration
We’d decided to begin our seasonal work detail a couple weeks later this year. Our aim? Avoiding the typical high-90’s late October weather, which about killed us last year. This slight delay worked in our favor, with high-70’s to mid-80’s all week. Jealous yet? Don’t be. Instead of sailing the high seas during Thanksgiving, we were in San Carlos…in the boatyard… working, working, working. Our Thanksgiving week looked like this:

Replace Prop Shaft and Cutlass Bearing
Why? We’re hoping to resolve Brian’s nemesis – minor engine vibration. A big job with many steps, this could either go really smoothly or turn into a complete nightmare.

• Disassemble the steering quadrant (chain under the wheel linking to the rudder).
• Remove the gudgeon (bronze piece holding the rudder post to the keel).
• Drop the rudder (not easy…it’s juuust a bit heavy).
• Pull out the drive shaft after undoing interior coupler (piece of cake, for once).
• Remove the cutlass bearing. (When pounding doesn’t work, hack it out!)
• Clean the bronze gudgeon, bolts & stainless rudder post. (Scrape, sand, polish, repeat.)
• Reverse: Put in new cutlass bearing, drive shaft, coupler, repack stuffing box, add new hose clamps to the rudder post (all 4 were cracked), put the rudder and gudgeon back, reassemble the quadrant.  Done!

This entire procedure took about 4 days. (OK, we did take a day off to go see Justice League.)

Fortunately, things went relatively smoothly, except for…(insert dramatic Monster Truck announcer voice)…Brian’s Cutlass Bearing Battle. This short metal tube fits through the hull, cradling the prop shaft perfectly in place (see photos). While the shaft spins, the cutlass bearing remains rock steady. Knowing its tight fit would cause difficulty removing, Brian welded his own puller tool this summer to assist in this procedure (yes, he really is MacGyver). But this bearing was practically fused to the hull. And its walls were so thin, his manufactured puller just made mincemeat of the metal. Yanking, tugging, jerking and twerking did absolutely nothing.

Frustrated, Brian was forced to slice it up. With a SawzAll. Veerry carefully. Try using a Sawzall blade inside a hole the size of your mouth…sawing through the bearing wall without nicking the skin below. Nice image, huh? He was not happy doing it; but he won the Bearing Battle.

New Steering Cables
Since we needed to undo the steering assembly to work on the drive shaft, we decided to just replace it altogether. After 23-years, it’s probably about time. This is the perfect example of how one project leads to another project because, well, “since we’re in here taking this apart, we might as well replace it, otherwise we’ll regret it down the road when it fails…all because we were lazy or cheap.”​

Our steering chain/cable threads up into the steering column and over the wheels’ gear mechanism. So, of course to replace it, we must remove the wheel along with the compass sitting atop the binnacle.  Again, another “might as well” project. Now, we may as well replace the bearing, circlips, plastic washers and o-rings attached to the wheel shaft. This was like doing an operation inside a 5“ hole. Flashlight in one hand, I played surgical tech with the other, providing Brian tools upon request. Needlenose pliers. Here. Dental pic. Got it. RoboGrips. Black or grey? Why does every boat project feel like a surgical procedure?
 
New Cockpit Drain Hose
Our cockpit drain hoses were original to the boat. So we planned on replacing them this season. (We tried last year but couldn’t find the right hose, so we brought some with us). Upon removal, we discovered one of the two cracked. Good thing this project was high on our list! Each hose runs from the cockpit, through the engine room, and out the hull to the ocean. So any water running into the cockpit (from washing the boat or from boarding seas) will leak right into the engine room via a split hose. Not good. Engines and water don’t mix.  Sinking is even worse.

Doing The Hard Stuff First
We decided to complete the above hard projects first. The ones that involved Brian awkwardly wedged in the engine room (“the hole”) for a week straight. The ones that could become super-complicated if everything didn’t go smoothly. The ones we didn’t want to do.

Our thoughts: get ‘em over with now and we won’t be too tired or too irritated or too lazy later, ultimately determining “well… we can wait ‘til next year.” Our plan worked.

We have at least another week of boatyard drudgery, but it’s all stuff we’ve done before. Painting, painting and more painting. Hard work…but easily done. Would I rather be watching the Macy’s parade and eating every hour with naps in between? Yes, please. Would I rather be shopping or driving in the Black Friday mayhem? No way. I’ll actually take boatwork over THAT.

Before proceeding south to Mexico, we indulge in a 3-4-day “time-out” in Tucson. It’s a combination post-driving-cross-country and pre-boatwork mini-vacation. During this self-imposed sequestration, we do… absolutely nothing. Except this time, I decreed one day as tourist-day. Where did we go?

Pima Air & Space Museum
For aviation enthusiasts, the Pima Air & Space Museum is a must-see, with over 300 aircraft displayed on over 80 acres. Some reside in hangars; many more live outside in the scorching Tucson sun … row after row of bombers, fighters, trainers, transports & tankers.

What did we see?

• Cats…lots of cats: Tomcats, Bobcats, Cougars, and Wildcats.
• Winged creatures: An Osprey, a Blackbird (SR71), an Owl… even a Quail, a Bumblebee and a Grasshopper!
• Intimidating aliases: Invader, Liberator, Commando (hmm), Superfortress, Avenger (best name).
• Experimental aircraft, foreign aircraft and Presidential aircraft.
• Eye Flight: a retired hospital plane designed to teach eye surgery in developing countries.
• The “Vomit Comet” - astronauts practiced weightlessness in this high flyer.

Unfortunately, you cannot go inside any of the aircraft, but you can get right up close and personal. Docents prowled about ready to answer questions, most of whom were retired pilots who flew this or that plane over there, in this or that war. Pretty cool. Take the $6 tram tour…your veteran/pilot guide is chock-full of facts on the exterior displays…plus the hour-long sit-down is a welcome respite after hours of standing!

The Boneyard
Adjacent to the museum, The Boneyard consists of multitudes of carefully stored, older and modern planes sitting on 2,600 acres! It is accessible only by a separate tour requiring a 10-day notice (they run a security clearance on you). Brian hovered over it once after obtaining permission from air traffic control. He remembers it as fields upon fields of planes... some intact, but many missing key components. These old birds are, in theory, able to be returned to service in case of national emergency. In practice, the planes are more valuable for parts that are still compatible with current aircraft. Due to our impromptu visit, we were unable to take this extra excursion…maybe next time.

6-Hour Tour
This is the 3rd largest aircraft museum in the US, behind the Smithsonian in Washington, DC and the Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson AFB. I had no idea. So I originally planned on a 2-3 hour visit. We spent six hours! Mmmm, slight miscalculation. I should have known better. (Brian. Pilot. Duh.) But even he was overwhelmed by the number of aircraft to peruse. We could have spent another 3 hours, but were both so exhausted from standing and walking and reading, we had to quit before we fell over.

GO HERE
If you are flight fanatics like us you will spend all day here; but even a non-enthusiast will enjoy touring the vast variety of viewable aircraft and listening to their expert veteran docents for a couple hours. Enjoy lunch at the Flight Deck too – get the tuna melt!​

I love Texas. I love its polite people (yes ma’am), its fried food (chicken fried everything), and its independent, cowboy soul. But I hate driving across Texas. It’s the worst part of our trip back to Mexico. Boorrring. 600 miles of flat earth…dirt, as far as the eye can see… vast, vacant fields trailing in telephone poles… dotted with oil derricks, giant windmills and truck stops. UNinteresting.

So this time I decided to MAKE it interesting. I perused TripAdvisor for “things to do” that were cheap or free and didn’t take much time, without straying too far off the I-20. So, what did we see in this vast expanse of nothing from Dallas to El Paso?

1. Frontier Texas, Abilene
In the quaint town of Abilene stands a museum dedicated to the formation of the Texas frontier. Holographic “spirit guides” portray real frontiersmen and women, Native Americans and soldiers, narrating their points of view along our route (so realistic I wanted to pinch them). Well-crafted exhibits described the region 13,000 years ago up through the Comanche Empire, both Mexican and American pioneering efforts, clashes between those settlers and the Comanches, the military’s peacekeeping arrival and eventual shift to war, the buffalo trade craze leading to near extinction, and the subsequent segue into cattle ranching. We certainly got a feel for the hard-scrabble life on the frontier and the tough-as-nails people who populated what is now West Texas.

2. Chris Kyle Memorial, Odessa
Several miles off the highway in Odessa, a small memorial commemorates the Navy Seal of “American Sniper” fame. It’s pretty much just a statue, but a nicely crafted one. There’s just one problem. A giant tarantula guarded the entrance…aackkk! Good thing he was slow and didn’t chase me. Otherwise I woulda been outta there!

3. Stonehenge, Odessa
Just down the road is Stonehenge! In full scale replica. Unusual, right? Not exactly. Did you know there are at least 7 other Stonehenge reproductions all over the USA? Like this one, most are built using gigantic rock slabs. But one version is actually made out of cars – Carhenge; another of foam – Foamhenge; one is even made with refrigerators - Stonefridge. (Refrigerators? Really?) Well, THIS stone Stonehenge isn’t quite so quirky. While 14% shorter than the original 22ft-high megaliths in England, these 20-ton limestone slabs do form an impressive scene. But knowing this imitation was built in literally 6 weeks vice 2000 YEARS, using modern equipment… well… somehow that dampened the intrigue.

Visit Frontier Texas!
If you’re I-20ing and bored out of your mind, I’d recommend Frontier Texas for a great history lesson. It was worth our 2-3 hour delay. After examining the travails of living in & traversing this harsh land, we saw our I-20 doldrums in a whole new light: traveling in a fast, air-conditioned car, on asphalt roads, with convenient Flying J’s, clean Microtels and an Arby’s at every exit…thank goodness for the modern era!

Every cruiser has one…that interminable inventory of things to purchase (or make) when we get back to the States.

Why d’ya think we don’t just fly back to our boat in Mexico? Seems like driving our truck all the way from Atlanta to Tucson and back down to San Carlos, taking well over a week to do so, wouldn’t be worth it. Well, aside from the awesome convenience of a car during hauling out and launching periods…

It’s because of… THE LIST.

We need to get all that crap back somehow!

Another year, another LIST.
THE LIST begins the moment we arrive back in Mexico. It develops gradually as we travel… as stuff breaks and we need a new widget, or as we run low on this cleaner or that goop.
Nearing the end of the season, THE LIST balloons as we consider what we really want to repair, improve upon or outright replace next year… incurring mood swings as it ages.

• By the time we leave Indigo, THE LIST has grown into a spoiled child who keeps whining for more and more stuff. Think Cartman. “But Moooom.” Alright dear. You can have whatever you wish.”
• Once we’re IN the States, amongst every big box store imaginable, THE LIST turns into an almost-broke-but-who-cares millennial, “Oooh preettty, I totally NEED that pair of high heels”. Wait, high heels for the boat? It’s not on THE LIST. You’re joking right? Preeetttyyy. $$$ Ching, ching. Picture a penniless Kardashian.
• As the summer winds down, in preparation to leave, THE LIST evolves into an efficient, middle-aged, middle-manager. Every day, another order... 2 days later, another box. Check! Next item!
• In the last week, after 98% has been purchased, THE LIST devolves into a bloated, badgering wife…like Gloria on Modern Family (minus the bloat, keep the shrill accent)…  “But Jay, you already haaave 5 flashlights on the boat! Are you kiiiidding me?”
• In the end, THE LIST becomes Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino… a weathered 80-yr-old… economical, practical…and ornery. He requests things like paper towels because “Mexico cannot make a decent paper product if it bit them in the @#$.” And “For God sakes, how on earth can I never find chocolate chips, anywhere!”  Hey, it’s THE LIST talking, not me.

Reasons for adding items to THE LIST varies widely:

• Sometimes, we cannot find certain things in Mexico that are the right shape to fit a space (like trying to find a certain-sized jerry can (holds 5 gal. of diesel) to fit under our cockpit seat).
• Or when we do find it, especially boat maintenance stuff, the price is outrageous due to high import costs (special cleaners, paint, glue, lines… I can go on and on).
• Or maybe they sell it in Mexico, but they don’t sell the brand I want (certain powdered drink mixes like Gatorade and Propel or iced tea without sugar! Or lemon!).
• Or maybe it’s a highly technical part that we’d just rather have manufactured in the States to make sure we can communicate the particulars properly. Like our new, 3ft propeller shaft we had made in Michigan, a piece that must be made of specific stainless grade with zero tolerance for measurement error. Plus, we wanted it done before we got to the boat so we could install it right away. A timing thing.
• Or maybe we could get it done easily in Mexico, but we didn’t feel like (a) researching companies (usually word of mouth) or (b) waiting for them to get around to it once we finally got a quote. When we arrive at the boat in November, we are trying like mad to splash & beat feet out of there; conversely, we had mucho time to wait during the summer. So we loaded our 2, 7ft long sea berth cushions in the truck bed and had the 20-yr-old, crushed and uncomfortable foam switched out for new in Atlanta while working on the van.
• Or because it just may not exist, period. I searched all over La Paz looking for standard, rubber-backed floor rugs after the backing on mine crumbled in the extreme heat, finding squat. Hmmm, probably because the backing crumbles after a couple years in the extreme heat, ya think? OK, fine. But on a pitching boat, our rugs CANNOT slip-n-slide. And we need a couple rugs on our slick teak floor to keep US from slipping & sliding.

This last bullet point is key. While Mexico’s version of Walmart and Home Depot are great options for most everyday items, they OFTEN do NOT have what we want. Black zipties? Nope. Rug aisle? Forget it. Denatured alcohol (for our alcohol stove)? Always in Home Depot USA… never in Mexico. To be fair, without those big box stores, we’d be traipsing around each city five hundred times more than we already do, searching every mom & pop store for XY&Z. And while yes, those giants unfortunately contribute to the downfall of mom & pop stores everywhere… when you don’t have a car to do said traipsing, traipsing sucks.

Why don’t you Amazon?
Yes, Amazon is increasing its distribution in Mexico. But unlike in the US, most natives are wary of online purchases due to credit card and mail fraud…with very good reason. But if Amazon can make import purchases with guaranteed delivery & hassle free (declaring and paying customs fees online without having to trek to an airport to pick it up, praying it actually arrived, paying more “fees”, bribing an official to “find” it, or any other number of horror stories), sign me up.

Problem is… I have not heard nice enough things about UPS/DHL/FedEx Mexico to take the risk of our direct purchases getting “disappeared”.  Most cruisers we know use a local marine supply store to order their parts 3rd party… expensive & takes longer, but they handle the hassles. Until I hear more first-hand success stories on Amazon, I refuse to let my money be the guinea pig. Except for maybe the last season of Game of Thrones.

There Can Be Only One… OK… Two.
Actually, we have TWO LISTS. MY list, that I type into my iPad so I NEVER lose it, consists of VITAL matters like which season of Parks & Rec we need to acquire. BRIAN’s list (THE LIST) is written on a piece of paper (how old school) and consists of IMPORTANT STUFF to keep the boat maintained properly. He likes to scribble schematics on the back, so I get it, but that physical piece of paper always ends up MY responsibility somehow. Why is that?

SO, the worst thing that can happen…is LOSING THE LIST.
Holy hell.

Where’s the list? I thought you had it? I don’t have it. How come you don’t have it?

THE LIST’s proper place is in my computer case. It’s not there. I search all through the thing to no avail, only to find it in a pocket I already checked. Another time, after frantically searching, THE LIST was in my purse (we had taken it into Home Depot). Another time, THE LIST was laying in the truck’s console cupholder. When the door opened, THE LIST blows right out the door! Dear God, NOOOOO! We caught it, headed for the next town, and put it back in its proper place. But not after lots of finger-pointing.

Sometimes, I think THE LIST is trying to run away from his nit-picking, over-burdening parents. Have we given him too much responsibility? Weighing him down with our boat problems…piling on more and more until he can no longer breathe?

You think… maybe… you could take a picture of THE LIST with your phone? Just in case he disappears again?
​
Yeah. Good idea.

Now...where am I going to put all this stuff??

So, you haven’t blogged lately, what's up with that?

Well, let’s see if I can sum it all up…

We made it to San Carlos!
And without incident. Gotta love that. I pull into our boat slip without a scratch. Yay me!

We get the truck out of storage.
Runs great, but smells funny as soon as the air conditioning starts up. After a couple days with no dissipation, Brian investigates. A mouse had made a snug little nest in both the engine and cabin air filters. Awww… NOT cute. Judging from pee & pellet quantities, he’d moved in permanently. Ah, mouse urine, the new car fragrance. Nice. Our furry antagonist also chewed all the surrounding insulation stuffing to bits…tastes like cotton candy maybe? At least he left the electrical wires alone. Fortunately, AutoZone had the replacement filters and we were breathing free in no time.

12 days putting the boat away.
Wash. Wash. Wash. Remove this. Store that. Hard work. Hot sun. Ho hum.  See last year’s post for a detailed blow by blow. It was just like that.  Again.

Haul out day.
Motoring the boat over to the launch ramp, I thought I was gliding in just fine. It didn’t feeeel like I was going fast. Turns out, I misjudged. When docking, a boat’s side should kiss the quay, no more than a polite peck; air-kisses are best. Today, Indigo’s port belly collided with the dock in a lengthy, firm, 1950’s movie smooch, complete with sound effects. Ewwww. Gross. And right in front of everyone. So embarrassing. My mistake led to a nice 2ft long, white scratch. Argg. Expletives ensue. Poor me. 

BUT…That afternoon with the boat on land, I buff out my scratch. Took an hour of elbow grease; but no one will be the wiser. Whew. Don’t tell anyone.

Driving
With the boat put away for another season, we drove and drove and drove. Up to Tucson, veered left to California for a few days, then back across the country through 7 states. Driving is Dull.

Atlanta
3 weeks in Atlanta. Put truck away. Prep van for touring: added 2 solar panels, new solar controller, fixed a stubborn leak in the roof. Fixing stuff is boring. Get to the good part.

Northeast Georgia
4 days with Brian’s dad & wife and their friends camping in northeast GA. Middle of freakin’ nowhere. The campground is an hour away from the nearest town. Not due to proximity, but because one can only drive 10mph… for 7-MILES down a snaking, rutted, gravel road. Lacking 4-wheel-drive, I thought we were going to get stuck in the wilderness for days. But we made it. Primitive sites = no water or electric. But steps away from a babbling brook & fairytale forest, with hardly anyone around, a warm fire, good company and lots of beer. Relaxing. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Eastern Tennessee
Next, we spent 3 weeks and 2500 miles traveling Eastern Tennessee. OK, now you’re talkin’.
Wait, 2500 miles? Is that a typo? No. No it’s not.

From Ducktown in the southeast corner, west to Lynchburg in the south central area, then back east through small villages across the Cumberland Plateau, to the heights of the Smoky Mountains, as far north as Johnson City, back down to Knoxville, and as far west as Gallatin (Nashville outskirts). Our final map looked like a squashed Z. We basically tacked back and forth through TN.  Countless quiet country roads, multiple mountain ascents, oodles of S-curves, minimal highway-time. Here are some highlights…
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• Four days in Chattanooga. Loved this town. We visited the Tennessee Aquarium (best thing we did), Raccoon Mountain Caverns (a low-key, non-touristy cave), Rock City (cool ‘cause I love natural rock formations) & Ruby Falls (go early morning before the insufferable crowds, otherwise don’t go). 
• Factory tour of the Jack Daniel’s Distillery in Lynchburg. Fun tour guides. Well worth it. 5 stars out of 4000 reviews on Trip Advisor can’t be wrong.  
• Explored Falls Mill in Belvidere, a working grist mill with waterwheel and museum filled with antique machinery.  
• Sat IN a waterfall. How cool is that? Inside Fall Creek Falls State Park is Cane Creek Cascades where one can climb all over the rocks and slosh about in sparkling, ankle deep water. So fun! We hiked and viewed more waterfalls at Rock Island Park further north for a total of 9 waterfalls in 3 weeks.
• Camped high in the pristine Smoky Mountains for 4 nights. Lots of mountain driving and hiking.
• Spent a day in touristy, but cute Gatlinburg sipping too many free whiskey shots at Ole Smoky and Sugarland Distilleries…mini-golfed to sober up. Breezed straight through adjacent Pigeon Forge, the ugliest town in TN and possibly biggest tourist trap of all time.
• Visited Davy Crockett’s Birthplace near Greeneville.
• Toured the tiny Cumberland Homestead Museum in Crossville.
• Went for a quiet kayak on Watts Bar Lake.
• Lunched at an amazing restaurant in Gallatin called “Chocolate Covered Strawberry” (‘cause every meal includes them).
• Stopped by Mammoth Cave in Kentucky on our way up north.

Funny story #1 - The Great Escape
On a whim, we stopped at a large park alongside the Ocoee River. Lots of folks hiking, biking, picnicking, sitting in lawn chairs, watching the water. I aimed for the waterline and began climbing around on boulders, as usual. The water level was so low and calm; I could have boulder-hopped all the way across. And I was about ready to try it. Suddenly, the water at my feet started to churn. And rise. Rapidly. What the heck? As I moved toward the bank, a loud horn shrieked incessantly. It took a second for that warning noise to register…

Crap! The damn dam is being let loose! And the dam horn was delayed! I got the heck out of there. That water flow amplified from babbling brook to whitewater wipeout in 30 seconds. SO glad I did NOT attempt a cross-creek boulder-hop. I cannot imagine standing in the center of that idyllic, lazy brook and seeing a wall of whitewater barreling downslope right at me.  Heart attack!

Pretty soon, hordes of whitewater rafters & kayakers begin flying down the newly swollen river. Come to find out, we stumbled upon the Ocoee Whitewater Center - home of the 1996 Olympic whitewater kayaking slalom course. Who knew? Rafting companies proliferate ‘round these parts, ready to take you for a ride… whenever the damn dam cuts loose. Hmmm. Sounds like fun! Maybe next time.

Funny Story #2 – Doppelganger!
So we’re at the Jack Daniel’s Distillery, milling around the gift shop, waiting for our tour. I spot Brian holding a bottle of Jack, contemplating. So I sidle on up behind him, lay my hand on his shoulder and inquire: “Whatcha got there?” He replies without missing a beat: “I’m buying myself a birthday present.” Now, it’s WAYYY past Brian’s birthday. Not to mention, his voice is not right. And in that same second I look up and realize it is NOT Brian. It is Brian’s doppelganger! O.M.G. How embarrassing!

Fortunately, after my flustered apology, the guy brushed off my blunder without a care and resumed buying his present. I snuck a photo just to prove I wasn’t crazy. He wore practically the same red plaid shirt, shorts, ballcap, hair and build. Blame it on the whiskey. Wait, that was BEFORE the tasting!

25 Days and 14 Campgrounds
Over those 3 weeks, we stayed at 14 different campgrounds, a mix of private & State & National Parks. Usually 1-2 nights only. We camped in wilderness forest surrounded by trees, and also enjoyed on-water sites on Douglas Lake, Tim’s Ford Lake, Tellico Lake, Watt’s Bar Lake, the Cumberland River and Toccoa River. Tennessee State Park Campgrounds are all very nice, with level concrete pads & good bathhouses. Some even have internet! Many are on beautiful bodies of water with miles of shoreline. While we only visited Fall Creek Falls State Park for a day because their campground was booked, I’d recommend it above all others for the hiking & waterfall excursions.

Why so much time? And why so much criss-crossing?
Well, we are scouting towns…semi-looking for property, somewhere Brian can build his dream-pole-barn-workshop… eventually, not right this second, but maybe in a few years, when we’re tired of living on the boat and desperately yearn for a real bathroom with running water. We don’t yet know where that perfect location is, but Tennessee is high on our list due to low taxes and central proximity to family, specifically the eastern area for its beautiful topography and mild climate. We’ve never explored TN, always driving straight through on the 75 to Florida or Georgia. So we thought we’d take our time and check it out. We especially liked Chattanooga, Lynchburg, Greeneville, Johnson City, Rogersville and the area near Fall Creek Falls up high on the Cumberland Plateau sort of in the middle of nowhere. Eh…We’ll see.

Michigan
After our Twisty Tennessee Tour we slacked for two months in Michigan visiting my parents, Brian’s parents, our siblings, nieces and nephews. But we never really rested…

Our 8-week Michigan stint included: 10 (count ‘em, ten!) doctor’s visits between the two of us, 2 funerals, 1 awesome Disney-themed-adult-costume-birthday party, a family reunion, a Fowlerville Dawn Patrol Breakfast (local airport fly-in) and a trip to Uncle John’s Cider Mill for cider donuts. Brian sewed some stuff for the boat: 6 fender covers and a new dinghy cover. We spent one fun-filled week with Brian’s sister & family visiting from Wisconsin. We did 3 trips to Grand Haven to visit Grandpa before he passed, and two after. I spent two weeks sorting through old photos to produce a monster 124-slide, 13 minute PowerPoint for his memorial. Subsequent visits to Grand Haven/Muskegon involved the memorial and reconnecting with my Minnesota aunt, uncle & cousins. Busy, busy, busy.

During those couple months we camped 3 days in the Irish Hills of Michigan with my parents, 2 in Grand Haven, 3 in Muskegon. We fixed more leaks in the van, changed out some failing lights due to said leaks and completed a Winnebago recall. Oh, and don’t forget 3 days in Algonac, celebrating 22 crazy, unpredictable and adventure-filled years of marriage. Yee haw!

On Oct 8th we, headed back down to Atlanta by way of Huntsville (visited the Air & Space museum) and Ft. Payne Alabama. Why? Never been there. And I got to see two more waterfalls.

Official Stats:
Overall, we camped in the van for 39 nights, the rest with family. Stayed in 21 different campgrounds. 1 GA, 13 TN, 4 MI, 1 IN, 1 KY, & 2 AL.

Georgia…#2
Back in Atlanta now, we are working on the van, prepping it for storage. Brian made and installed shelves for the bathroom hanging closet to maximize storage. We had a leak under the fridge, pulled up the vinyl floor, cleaned and aired it out. We fixed yet another window leak. F-in’ leaks. So we bit the bullet and purchased a fabric car cover. Hopefully, it will remain dry all winter, cross your fingers.  Despite the leaks, we LOVE our “V-Ger” van. We still believe it was the best option, considering the amount of traveling we tend to do, moving every other day.

Meanwhile, Brian has been helping his Dad with the woodworking business…making wooden kids’ puzzles & savings banks, cutting boards & keepsake boxes for sale at local craft shows. 

It’s good for him… getting in some father-son time, yelling at his dad. Just kidding, Brian has to yell at him because he can’t hear worth crap. So every day for 8 hours, this is what I overhear in the workshop downstairs: the loud drone of sawing & sanding…mixed in with shouting out directions & questions, two or three times each. It’s like living a real-life Progressive Insurance motorcycle commercial…
”We did get an early start, took the kids to soccer practice.” 
"You want me to jump that cactus? Alright.”
“That lady’s awesome!”  
“ I don’t see a possum.”

On the Road Again
The 2nd week of November, we’ll drive cross-country to Tucson once again, hit my favorite Trader Joe’s store and head back to Mexico for another season of fun and adventure!

100 years ago this planet witnessed the birth of the greatest man on earth. My grandfather.

1917
Joe was the son of Polish immigrants, born in Chicago, the year America entered WWI. At the age of 3, his mother died. His father could not care for 6 children alone and sent Joe to an orphanage. After two years, his father remarried and Joe returned. The reunited family moved north to a farm in Grand Haven, Michigan.

Harsh Reality
At the age of 15, Joe’s father died…and his step-mother moved back to Chicago. The kids were forced to quit school and fend for themselves. So he and one brother got a job with a local family, the Thomas’s, who owned a small lumber operation.

Through three years of sweltering summers and frigid Michigan winters, he helped clear 140 acres of timber. 10 hours a day, 6 days a week. (As a teenager!) Payment was room & board, plus $2.00 a week. Next, Joe worked construction, putting up buildings and laying in gravel roads. After living and working with the Thomas’s for years, they became Joe’s new family. At 19, he began dating the boss’s daughter.

Sweethearts
Joe and his childhood sweetheart, Ollie, married in 1938 and successfully raised two boys throughout the course of WWII. He owned a bakery route then bought the Thomas family general store. In 1942, he began working for Continental Motors Company (now known as Teledyne) in Muskegon. During the war, Joe worked seven days a week, feverishly churning out engine cylinders for wartime vehicles and aircraft. Meanwhile, Olive managed the store and the children and obtained her real estate license. After the war, they bought a Christmas tree farm and flipped houses, toiling non-stop at these outside endeavors after-hours, on weekends and foregoing vacations.

The Golden Years
After 32 years of dedication at Continental Motors, Joe retired. In 1979, they moved to Florida but returned to Michigan & Minnesota each summer for extensive visits. For decades. I grew up during these Golden Years, as they traveled via motorhome around the country, living the “snowbird” lifestyle; I wanted to be just like them. Funny how life works out.

Dynamo Do-ers
“Daylight in the Swamps!” I can hear Grandpa cheerily bellowing his wake-up call. Before 60, hard work was the norm. After 60, playing hard became the new normal. Each day brimmed with activity, up at the crack of dawn… go, go, going.

Golf was a given. Grandpa played 9 holes of par-3 golf darn near every day. And up until his 90’s, he WALKED the course. At 96, he won the senior tournament at his retirement community course. In his lifetime, he achieved a whopping 5 holes-in-one. FIVE!

Aside from golf, Grandpa loved fishing, often arising before dawn, out on the water for hours. In their Florida senior community, Grandma & Grandpa swam in the pool by day and played cards with a passion at night. They were shuffleboard champions, square-dancing experts. Their daily calendar overflowed with meetings, classes, tournaments and potlucks. 

Superman
In professional interviews, when asked who I most admired in life, “My Grandpa” was the answer. It was not a cheeseball reply; it was the truth. He was Superman. Not just to me, but to his entire family and the many others who had the gift of knowing him. His easy-going demeanor was such that everyone loved being around him. Inexplicably, we also hated to disappoint him. A man of few words (Grandma was the social butterfly), he was quick to laugh and rare to reprimand. His presence exuded a warm kindness and reassuring calm. Think… Grandpa in The Princess Bride movie. Born to be a doting grandfather, his positive influence on us all goes beyond words.

A Fighter
In youth, he was a fighter…figuratively and literally. Grandpa fought his way through the Great Depression via the back-breaking labor of a lumberjack, making him tough as nails. Consequently, he boxed for a stint in the Golden Gloves. I imagine he relished the competition aspect, but personality-wise, he was more of a fight-squasher than instigator. Think…Roy Rogers. So when friends went out at night, they asked him to go too… no one would mess with them if Wood Choppin’ Joe was around. Judging from early 1940’s photos, his tree-trunk physique and thousand-yard stare probably quelled many a barroom brawl.

A Penny-Pincher
With merely an 8th grade education, my grandfather rose from humble beginnings through hard work, honesty, dependability… and extreme frugality. He wore his favorite red cardigan sweater for probably 40 years; a grey Member’s Only jacket from the 80’s; threadbare, shake-your-head-plaid golf pants circa the Parcheta Dynasty. Success followed, allowing them to spend their Golden Years on family, friends and experiences… not stuff.

Show White & Prince Charming
My grandparents were like Disney characters - perfect in our eyes. They loved each other, like nothing else. Married 67 years, I never heard a raised voice in anger. If Grandma got frustrated, she’d huff and say “Oh, Joe.” Grandpa would emit a gruff “Harumph”. That was the extent of their fight. They never complained. They were always content. Snow White and her unassuming, unruffleable Prince Charming. Bluebirds sang on their shoulders; deer followed them around like pets. Angels on earth.

Perseverance is Key
But life wasn’t always rosy. He lived through two World Wars, the Great Depression, more war, hard times and prosperity. 18 Presidents came and went. He suffered through skin cancer, vision problems, diabetes-related foot pain & numbness, a broken hip and unbearable digestion complications. His beloved passed away of a pervasive stomach tumor 12 years ago. And yet he persevered. Maybe with abundant sadness, but with just as much pluck. “By golly.”

Fond Memories
When they weren’t out seeing the world, come June, Grandma & Grandpa would venture north to Michigan to get out of the Florida heat. For our family, the anticipation of their arrival date was akin to waiting for Christmas or the last day of school. That monstrous motorhome pulling in our driveway transformed us perfectly proper kids into screaming sirens. “They’re here! They’re here!”

After resting at our house for a couple weeks, they’d move two hours away to a favorite campground in Grand Haven where they could reconnect with local long-time friends and relatives. Our frequent visits there involved a flurry of activity… swimming in Lake Michigan, fishing and boating in the local bayous, walking the boardwalk to the lighthouse, attending the Coast Guard Festival, and viewing Grand Haven’s renowned musical fountain light show. After a busy day, we’d sit around the campfire, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows and playing cards for hours. In addition, we always arranged a camping trip together each summer somewhere else in Northern Michigan or the Upper Peninsula. These extended summertime visits, along with Christmas road-trips to Florida every few years, created idyllic childhood memories.

My recollections are scrapbook snippets. I wish I could remember stories and one-liners… it’s more like a movie screen flipping from one scene to the next:

• Playing cards for hours at our dining room table. Euchre, Continental Rum, Hand & Foot. Grandpa and I were partners more often than not. Extremely competitive, he’d correct my strategy in his easygoing, slightly Yooper accent, but never once got flustered if I made a mistake.
• Trips to the pool at their Florida house. Their 55 and older subdivision required an adult escort for all visitors under age 35. It became a running family joke… “I’m 35 now, Grandpa… a real adult! Old enough to go to the pool by myself!”
• Swimming. Always swimming. Pools, lakes, ocean. Grandma in her white swim cap adorned with plastic flowers performing her side stroke; Grandpa floating effortlessly, eyes closed, brown body soaking up the sun. I swear he could simultaneously sleep and swim.
• Wading in the Atlantic Ocean, scouring the sand for cool shells. My seashell-hoarding syndrome was Grandma’s fault.
• Riding in the overhead compartment of their motor home while Grandpa drove. Performing acrobatics on the internal roll bar in the back seat of the Suburban. Before seat belt laws.
• Receiving postcards as they traveled, gifts of a straw doll from the Bahamas, a sombrero from Mexico. Their travel bug became my own.
• Fruit-picking excursions: blueberries in Grand Haven, strawberries in Fowlerville and cherries in Ludington.
• Camping all over Michigan: favorites were Burt Lake, Gogebic, Porcupine Mountain & Ludington.
• Grandpa teaching me how to golf… in vain. I did NOT acquire THAT trait.  “Straighten your arm.” “Swing through.” I tried to wear sandals once; he refused to allow such an appalling faux pas. “You can’t wear sandals golfing!”
• We played our last golf game together at age 97. Though he could no longer achieve his normal distance, that ball still flew straight as an arrow. After that summer, failing balance and diminished strength robbed him of his favorite pastime.
• After a hospital stint in his 90’s, I flew out for a quick visit. He wasn’t too happy about it. He could take care of himself and didn’t need anyone making sure he was OK. Anyway, I spanked him at 2-player Hand and Foot one afternoon, gaining three joker books in the 1st round, a rare, high-scoring occurrence. Then I won the 2nd round resulting in a complete and utter massacre. Supremely annoyed at my colossal score, he refused to continue. But I begged and he relented. Ordinarily, our card-playing competitiveness dictates ‘no quarter’. But for some reason that day, seeing him so disheartened flipped a switch. I could have gone out that final round and won by a landslide. But I let him win. And I never let on.

The Battle for Independence
Fiercely stubborn, Grandpa lived on his own in Florida until just a couple years ago, hell bent on not giving up his independence. It was an excruciating process, coming to the conclusion that he needed help. (I told my dad to remember this battle of wills when I’m the one who has to convince him.) Fortunately, an apartment opened up at an assisted living facility in Muskegon, Michigan. Right next door to his brother…who also happened to be his best friend. What a blessing. With inside help and family nearby, everyone felt better.

Feb. 2017 – The Big 100
In February, we celebrated his 100th birthday. A joyous occasion with family flying in from all over. He initially protested, not wanting to cause a fuss on his behalf; but when the time came, he was all smiles. What a joy to see him so happy, surrounded by friends and family, honoring this accomplishment, this wonderful life. My Uncle asked Grandpa how he managed to live so long. What is the secret? Without missing a beat, he bluntly stated: ”Hard work.”

August 2017
At my next visit in August, Grandpa had just moved to the adjacent nursing home the week prior, independence totally eliminated. He probably should have done it months ago, but no one could tell that man what to do. He eeked out an autonomous life for as long as he could bear.

Now, afraid of falling, the cane he clung to for support has been grudgingly exchanged for a sturdier wheeled-walker. He is interrupted by orderlies every couple hours. Too fatigued to fix his own food and too many pills to track, others now monitor his food, his medicines, his every move.

Sitting in his lounge chair, Grandpa’s bald head droops forward onto a skeletal chest. Exhaustion ebbs from his gaunt visage. It takes an enormous amount of effort just to stand. His body has been failing for the last year. An unfixable ulcer. Everything that goes in comes out, uncontrolled. Who wants to operate on a 100 year old man? The truth is…no one.  “You don’t know what it’s like”, he grumbles to my mom and I one day. I have no answer.

My grandfather does not complain. Not from work, not from pain, not from heartache. Pessimism is a side of him I had never before seen. Now, this very proud man has been reduced to requiring nurses clean his fluid malfunctions. It clearly makes him uncomfortable. Physically, of course… but most of all, I think, mentally. He is self-conscious. Indignity is worse than pain.

Frustrated with his failing strength and debilitating digestion, gloom pervades the room. “All I do is move from the chair to the couch to the bathroom and back again. This isn’t a life.” Certainly not HIS kind of life.

In our conversation, it’s evident he can see the finish line. “Ah, but I have no regrets.” He answers himself matter-of-factly, briefly regaining that essence of perseverance so deeply ingrained. No Grandpa, you should have no regrets.

A week later…
Brian and I, my brother and his wife drive over for a visit. We convince him to play cards… Hand and Foot. Since we were little, playing cards when Grandpa & Grandma were around was a daily activity. And we LOVED it. So to be able to do this with him was a miracle. After thousands of hours over the years, he could play this game in his sleep…and today he practically did. He was merely going through the motions, by rote memory, speaking very little. But he & Andy still won. After an hour, he was exhausted. I fear this will be the last time. But I shake it off. Each time I left him I’d wondered that… and yet he persevered.

After his nap, we just sat and visited. “Remember Grandpa, how we used to go camping at Ludington State Park? And Burt Lake?” He chuckles, eyes brightening. “Oh yeah, all those trips were great! Oh, the fish we caught!”  We talked about the first house he built as a young man, digging the basement himself… with a shovel…using re-purposed cement blocks for walls... hand-scraping plaster off every one. How his wicked step-mother made him sleep out in the barn when her grandchildren visited for the summer. He recalled his daily childhood chore of tending their 5 cows, swimming and lazing on the banks of the Grand River while they grazed. He talked about working as a foreman 7 days a week, 12 hours a day, churning out engine cylinders… without CAD programs. I thought about recording our impromptu interview; but I couldn’t make myself do it. Somehow, it felt an invasion of privacy. I told myself, “Maybe next time…”.

Hospice
A week later, the dreaded word pops up: Hospice. My Uncle prepares for a visit, so we all plan on coming over on Sunday, Sept 10th.
Sept 3rd.  My parents drive over to visit for the day. He wants to go to Pizza Hut, a good sign.
Sept 4th.  He weakens drastically, everything snowballs downhill. His brother urges him to sign hospice papers, but he initially refuses. Not until his two sons arrive. He finally relents.
Sept 5th.  My mom & dad return; my Uncle & Aunt arrive early from out-of-state.

Sept 5th
That same day, it’s two days into our impromptu 22nd anniversary camping trip. We’re at Algonac State Park, steps away from the St. Clair River which adjoins Lake Huron and Lake St. Clair before emptying into Lake Erie. People visit this park primarily to watch the freighters. Campsites are just a road width away from the water where dozens of freighters march down this narrow superhighway daily. Campers sit outside in lawn chairs facing the river, waiting for the behemoths; everyone has a camera.

Facing the river, we can sit on our bunks and watch them pass by through our front windshield. Each time we’d see movement out of our periphery we’d look up to stare. The parade is mesmerizing.

10pm
Mom calls after a hectic day. Hospice has taken over but Grandpa is content now that both his sons had arrived. Too weak to walk, he is bed-ridden. Mom asked the nurse her gut feeling. 1-2 days. No one was prepared for that blunt answer. My brother and I agree to leave early tomorrow to drive across the state. But I can’t sleep. I’m up playing Canasta on my tablet ‘til midnight. I keep losing.

A Freighter Farewell
Sometime after midnight, I hear a low, steady rumble and look up. Outside the small confines of our van, a near full moon shines on windowpane water. The red bow light of a large freighter enters my view through the windshield. I close my tablet and watch, like every other time these past two days. But something about this one was special.

A hulking shadow appears, ghosting down the channel, slow and steady. Its string of pinprick lights glide through the darkness, hovering single file far above the moonlit velvet roiling beneath. After a mesmerizing moment, the aft superstructure emerges into view like an illuminated goliath. An angelic crown of yellow halogen lights pierces down into the dark void.

As I watch the great ship pass, it seems a living, breathing entity. The personification of everything my Grandfather was: A weathered ship run by hard work and perseverance. A vessel of constant kinetic energy. A silent nomad, imparting smiles at each port. A tower of strength. A dependable engine. A no-nonsense, steely exterior. A container of treasured cargo, his heart of gold. An angel in disguise.

And as tears flowed uncontrollably down my cheek, I whispered to myself...

“There he goes…”

Resolute. Unwavering. Persevering.
Moving along an arrow-straight path. On course to a new port.
To be with Grandma once again.

One hour later, my grandfather passed away.

Epilogue
Grandpa persevered just long enough to see his two sons together again, a blessing. While we were a day too late, my last visit was as it should be: playing cards with my brother and talking about the good old days.

Writing this post took forever, heartbreaking every time I started in again. But it was something I felt inordinately compelled to do...my own paper eulogy to honor his memory, since I could not bear to speak them aloud at his memorial.  

And my final farewell via freighter? No poetic license taken…I truly did say those words and felt his subtle presence in that moment saying goodbye. Active imagination? Maybe. Don’t care. It is something I’ll never forget.
​
Thanks for stopping by on your way home, Grandpa. 

One day while walking the beach, I saw something wiggling in the sand up ahead. Approaching, I found a dying balloonfish heaving its last breath. What are YOU doing here? Aren’t you a little out of your element?

He was puking out a fluorescent green sludge that looked like something from a nuclear plant explosion. I wondered how he could have gotten so far from the water. A seagull must have plucked him out of the sea and either accidentally dropped him, or decided those spines weren’t worth the effort.

Lying there, stranded and helpless, he was on his last fin. So Brian decided to attempt a rescue. Unwilling to risk a spine in the foot, he began pushing him with a water bottle towards salvation, rolling him over and over.

By the time he got him to the water, “Wally” was covered in a thick coating of shells and sand. Ouch. Wally looked like we’d rolled him in flour, prepping him for stir fry. At this point we’d turned him so many times, we weren’t sure he could even move.

But after a final flick into the Sea, the sand washed away and Wally woke up. Disoriented at first, it took him a few seconds to recover. But then, miraculously, he swam away!!! It was only after I looked at the video that I noticed a seagull waiting just offshore. And Wally was headed right for him! Nooooo!!
 
Fun Balloonfish Facts:

• The Balloonfish is the most common type of Porcupinefish in the Sea of Cortez. They are also called Spiny Porcupinefish or Spiny Puffer.
• Latin name: Diodon Holocathus. Spanish name (local Mexican term): Botete.
• Balloonfish belong to the larger family of Pufferfish in which there are over 120 types, including spiny and non-spiny, all with the ability to inflate. Many pufferfish are extremely toxic.
• Balloonfish can inflate their bodies by in-taking water into their stomach, forming a spherical shape. This blow-up fish doubles or triples their normal size, thereby scaring away some predators, not to mention making themselves harder to eat. Ouch.
• Their spines are a form of scale, normally lying flat against their bodies while swimming. But when agitated, they protrude like a thorny cactus. Wally was quite agitated. Don’t step on one.
• Balloonfish prefer mainly hermit crabs for dinner.
• These fish are not fit for human consumption; they contain a neurotoxin. But sharks, wahoo and dorado apparently are immune.
• Balloonfish swim rather sluggishly. They are also just too darn cute!​

For Brian’s birthday present, he got to tack. As much as he wanted. Huh?

Tacking is what sailors do. Regularly. It’s how they use the wind to get from point A to B. I love sailing when we’re expediently humming along at 5 knots right on top of my chart-plotted rhumb line. A to B. Direct route. No dithering. Oh, how I wish this was the norm.

The problem is, 90% of the time (not an exaggeration) the capricious wind blows from the wrong direction, most likely on the nose. The direction we want to go in is the direction from which the wind is coming. Since one cannot sail into the wind, we must travel via an indirect route. This means sailing at a variable angle away from our course, and then back towards it. Over and over.

I do NOT like tacking more than a couple miles off our rhumb line. Don’t get me wrong. I DO it. But I don’t LIKE it. It bothers me, niggles at my psyche. It doesn’t feel right, like when I see a misspelled word and I have the power to fix it, right now, but I purposefully let it go to print wrong. Ack! Who does that?

I Hate Tacking
There, I said it. I live on a sailboat and I hate tacking. Sue me.

I am the type of person who likes to go from point A to point B. Directly. I like to GET there. I can’t stand screwing around unless we are going to stop and see something interesting - like a on a road trip, to equate it in land terminology. If we go from point A to point A.1 then A.2 then A.3, and I’m going in the wrong direction, there better be something worthwhile at each of those points… like an island where I can snorkel…or a pod of dolphins…or fish tacos.

You know the quickest route from your house to the nearest Kroger, Von’s, Piggly Wiggly, whatever, right? Now imagine driving that route, but sharply zig-zagging your car over into oncoming traffic (sans traffic) and then back again into your lane. Over and over. Imagine those zigs and zags are a longer time period of course, but the effect is, it would take you almost twice as long. And you just want to get to the dang store! Is that so wrong?

Backwards Tacking
But the WORST is when you tack BACKWARD. See, everybody thinks of tacking as just zigzagging into the wind…not so bad eh? Takes a bit longer, but what of it? Well, the dirty secret of sailing is that there are times when you must tack backward, away from your intended goal. A wind switch, a fierce tidal push or just downright lack of wind, can force you to trace the same path that you were just on, but maybe a few hundred yards to the left or right. Bah! It’s kick-your-cat maddening!

But it’s About the Journey. Bull…oney! It’s About the Destination!
Brian likes the JOURNEY, not necessarily caring when we arrive and what we’ll see on the other end. He will corkscrew back and forth all darn day if I let him and, well I can’t just let him DO that every day. There are reasons. Good reasons.

1. I like to arrive at an anchorage before dark, thank you very much. Preferably when the sun is high enough I can see the depth color differences in my polarized sunglasses, which means before 4pm. That way I can be sure we aren’t anchoring on any stray rock beds. This is necessary in smaller or more reef-prone anchorages. Safety: an excellent reason. Even Brian can’t argue this one.
2. If it’s a new anchorage, I want to get off the boat and explore. If it’s an old anchorage, I want to get off the boat and explore. Again. I see new things no matter how many times we’ve been to Ensenada Grande. What are we HERE for anyway? Exploring: OK, granted, not quite as good a reason, but definitely my chief purpose, nonetheless. Brian could care less.
3. I like sailing. But I like stopping more. We DO have easy sailing days. But we also have not-so-easy sailing days. Our easy sailing days are always mildly stressful at a minimum, ramping into exceedingly nerve-racking when stuff hits the fan. Plus, I feel like time is always on hold when we are at sea, if that makes sense. Things cannot be “normal” for me until that anchor is dropped. The sooner we get to the anchorage, the sooner I feel relief. Resume to normal life (whatever THAT is): OK, Brian might partially agree with me on this one. But he can handle stress and stand to remain in a state of flux much longer than I.

Me: Remind, me…why do we even have an engine if we won’t use it whenever we want to?
Brian: This is a sailboat. We should just buy a powerboat then.
Me: A powerboat doesn’t have sails for backup. What if the engine breaks? Then you’d be even more engine-obsessed.
Aha! But he is not impressed with my circular logic. A sailboat is for sailing; powerboats for powerboating. End of story.

Opposing Opinions
So, my ‘hurry up and get there’ attitude is always tempered by Brian’s constant desire to actually SAIL on a SAILBOAT. Sheesh, seriously. (Insert exaggerated eyeroll.) Our cruising outlooks thusly opposed, we remain constantly in debate-mode about when to start the motor. OK, sometimes it’s an itty bitty “conflict”, that’s what they called Vietnam right? Brian would call it my “War of Motorin’ Aggression”.

I get his motivations, even though he thinks I don’t.

1. He LIKES sailing. He doesn’t mind tacking waaaay off our rhumb line, hoping for a better wind angle. He shoots me the evil eye when I point out, ever-so-mildly: “At this rate of speed, we’ll make it into the anchorage at midnight…just sayin’.” I might or might not have mentioned that a turtle could swim faster than Indigo.
2. Mostly though, the absence of motor noise is what he loves best. And not because he loves the silence. That’s just a byproduct. It’s because the silence frees him from worrying about the motor. See, Brian hates the motor. More than I hate tacking. For every hour we employ that engine, Brian envisions its inevitable death knell. Doesn’t matter that he keeps it in tip-top shape. Every little sound coming from said motor is thoroughly analyzed. If the pitch is even a hair off, it will drive him incessantly bonkers. Turning it off is the lone solution.

Trading One Noise for Another
We had our engine serviced a few months ago because of one wayward tone. Our fuel injectors are now clean and running top notch. So that noise got fixed, but another is lingering. We are worried about the prop shaft not aligning perfectly. It’s just a slight reverberation, not a disastrous ca-clunking; I can’t even hear the difference half the time. But due to this now noteworthy noise, every additional engine hour hurtles us towards impending doom. Doomsdaying is exhausting.

Why does he worry so much about the engine? Well, he’s right to worry, though it turns into a little bit more like paranoia than I’d like. Our engine is our best piece of safety gear. And boat engines, unlike car engines, are fickle machines. Ignoring a funny rattle, smell or vibration can spell disaster, often followed  by a hefty pricetag. So, albeit begrudgingly, I’d rather he be paranoid than lackadaisical.

So. Turn off the motor and Brian is at peace. Turn it on, and I am. How can this POSSIBLY be a happy marriage? Compromise.

Birthday Sail
Today we are sailing from Santispac to Santo Domingo. This anchorage positions us to cross the Sea of Cortez to San Carlos, where we’ll put the boat away. It is a short hop up to Domingo, a mere 10 or so miles. Easily motored in 2 hours.

And it just so happens to be Brian’s birthday.

Honey, since it’s your birthday, we can sail as much as you want and I won’t grouse about getting there. We have an established anchor point (we’ve already been there and scouted out the area) and our outgoing GPS breadcrumb path to follow back in lest we arrive after sundown. Go ahead and tack to your hearts content. I will not complain one whit.

Brian throws me his rolly eyes, meaning we're sailing anyway no matter what I said about it.

Sailing Concepcion’s Throat
Bahia Concepcion’s 7-mile-long entrance channel has a dual personality. At 100ft deep to one side and 15ft on the other, use of the entire two miles of channel is not an option. The shallow side is a seductive emerald; it lures you in with its sparkling green waters that continuously creep towards mid-channel and suddenly we’re thrown into an alarming 15ft if we aren’t paying attention. The deep side appears safer, but deceptively allows us to edge uncomfortably close to land. Hmm…we’re in 100ft but I feel like I could step ashore… should we even BE this close? If I’m asking that question, probably not.

And today, just to further my split personality diagnosis, and just because we are sailing, the winds on one side of the bay are different than the other side. It literally splits right down the middle.

Crawling Toward the Deep Side
So here we are, tacking up the channel, heading towards the deep side. The wind is blowing from the northwest, funneling at an angle down the throat. Each time we approach the mountain-peaked eastern shore, the wind dies off to a whisper. And now we have an incoming tide – against us. At a mere 1.5 knots SOG (speed over ground), Indigo is just barely eking out some distance towards the anchorage. We’re not sailing; we’re crawling.

Flying Backwards Toward the Shallow Side
As we tacked back across to the shallow side of the bay, the wind picked up and allowed us to sail at a respectable speed. Finally! We went farther in 10 minutes than we’d had the past 40. Except… due to a tidal push and the wrong wind angle… we’re going damn near backwards!

Thus began our long, slow, asymmetrical zigzag up the narrow channel… barely sustaining enough oomph to maintain forward motion on the starboard tack, and then a quick zoom - backwards. A beat-your-head-against-the-wall kind of tack. Brian was in his element. I kept my yaptrap shut.

After tacking like this for 3 hours (and me staying mum the whole time), even Brian finally got sick of it. With the prospect of another HOUR spent for one more mile gained and seemingly no wind forthcoming, he threw in the towel and asked me if I wanted to turn on the motor. Smiling sweetly, I reply: Your call, honey. It’s your birthday.

So when people ask me… What’d you guys do for Brian’s birthday?
Well, we tacked! 

Video of Cortez Angelfish and Featherduster tubeworms
​at Isla Bargo/El Coyote, Bahia Concepcion.

Natural Nightly AC
OK, so it’s not as hot as it could be here in Bahia Concepcion. But it’s officially HOT. So stuffy, that every evening at about 6pm, we possessed a persistent drive to dive into the water. Stewing in the piping hot pool felt cooler than sweating in sizzling air temps. Every evening would find us suspended on a pool noodle or dangling from the dinghy or arm-wrapped around the anchor chain, desperate to cool off. After we sufficiently simmered into shriveled shrimp, we’d take a cool shower on deck. Natural AC.

Irritating Islets
In Bahia Concepcion, several miniature islets grow out of the water in ill-shaped clumps. Most are easily circumvented by day, just don’t get too terribly close and watch your depth sounder. Some are deceiving (or lazy) actors, basking underwater most of the day and only making a brief appearance on stage at low tide. From a kayaker and snorkeler perspective, these uninhabitable, rock-strewn regions are a prime attraction to Bahia Concepcion. But from a cruising perspective, these islets are considered navigation hazards to be avoided at all costs. And for some reason, like wrascally rabbits, the islets in Bahia Concepcion tend to duplicate on my chartplotter screen, drawing identical ghost land masses where I know for a fact it’s open water. Look honey, I’m driving us over an island! Yee haw! So in this bay, islets are just a bit irritating.

Isla El Coyote (aka Isla Bargo)
Less than a mile from El Burro Cove is one such Isla that we have avoided like the plague, simply because we are prone to islet-evasion. This year, I viewed this identity-crisis-prone Isla (marked in Google as Isla El Coyote and on our chartplotter as Isla Bargo) not as an evil navigation hazard, but an alluring tropical isle. Its baby anchorage juuust snug enough for one boat, its cloistered beach backed by a towering mini-mountain summoned Indigo like a siren. I envisioned our own little Gilligan’s Island (Brian would be the Professor, me, the bumbling Gilligan). So of course, we attempted to anchor there. Attempted.

Anchoring = Puppy-Dog-Walking
Setting an anchor is akin to walking a very stubborn Labrador puppy. Suddenly, “Giggles” sits down without warning and plants his feet - he ain’t goin’ nowhere, nohow. But you keep walking… and the leash attached to his neck and your wrist suddenly straightens out… and your wrist takes the brunt of your forward motion, tugging and eventually stopping you in your tracks. Giggles may scoot across the ground for a second during your slowdown, but his paws quickly dig into the dirt, securing your fate. The dog is our anchor; the leash is our chain; the wrist is our windlass (contraption on the bow that winds/brakes the chain as it’s going in or out).

After Brian drops our hefty hound, we watch that leash stretch out taut, feeling the anchor claw into the sand and the boat perform a sludgy stall. We reverse at a slow 1000 RPM until this happens. Why so slow? Well, ask your wrist. When your pooch plants his booty on the ground, would you rather be walking, eliciting a mere tug… or running at full speed, causing a cataclysmic cartwheel?

In addition to a taut chain and a mild tug, we know we’ve “set the hook” by noting the swirl of water churned up by the reverse propeller unable to move the boat further. Then we gun the engine backwards at 1500, then 2000 RPM to fully entrench the anchor and finally let out more chain.

No tug, no churn? Not anchored.
Except today, this didn’t happen. Brian is on the bow; I am at the helm, engine in reverse. I’d just input our anchor drop point into the plotter. Watching our backwards trail, I get a weird sensation. Why do I feel like this is taking too long? Our backwards GPS track seems waaay longer than our normal anchoring procedure. We should be stopped by now. Brian sees the chain is taut, but I see no prop churn; neither of us senses a stall. I visually compare our physical location with the leading edge of the islet, observing the rockfall drift slowly by...we’re headed out to sea! Whaaa? Basically, we’ve just dragged the pooch… hop, skippin’ an’ a jumpin’ along the sea floor.

Abandoning the Isla
Did we do something wrong? Or did our anchor drop on hard rock under minimal sand? (Like digging into pavement – impossible.) Who knows. We tried twice, abandoning our efforts after the second failed attempt. Why didn’t we bother going for a third? Trust issues. This brusque anchor expulsion has never happened to us, and twice in the same spot. It’s like the harbor just spit us out. Blech. Pitooey. We felt a tad unwanted. Fine then, we’re leaving!

Undeterred
But we’re coming back, one way or the other! After scooting over to El Burro Cove, we motored the dinghy BACK to Isla Bargo. (Or El Coyote, whatever you self-identify as these days. I don't care - just pick one!) Can’t spit us out that easily! 

Here on Gilligan’s Island
Zooming into this deserted cove really was like arriving at our own private Gilligan’s Island. (Except we weren't stranded.) Our 3-hour tour was a welcome respite from the summer beach crowd at El Burro. Gone are the Corona-clutching kayakers, the jet-skiers doing donuts around our boat, the beach-front monopolizers… BBQing and singing and cackling and playing an inordinate amount of tuba music. Sigh. We have this place all to ourselves. Not a single person here. I would not have minded getting stranded one bit. At least for a day.

Cortez Angelfish
The highlight of our Isla El Coyargo snorkeling excursion? Getting up close and personal with an unusual number of Cortez Angelfish. Unusual… meaning more than one. Like, five! OK, I know. Big deal. But these guys are so preeettty! Adults wear a dark grey face with wide, nervous eyes, followed by bright yellow and black bands and a dark/light grey spotted stern; the entire body is tinged in blue. Glowering at me vexingly, the fishies flitted in and out of their hidey-hole, mildly irritated at my prolonged presence. You’re STILL here? Ugh.

Even better, I got video of a striking juvenile. Covered in consecutive C-shaped stripes of black, electric blue and canary yellow, I think they are the coolest looking fish. In all our snorkels, I’ve only ever seen one other. This little guy sped back and forth under a rock ledge like a sugar-high 2-yr old. Stop moving! I’ll go away if you’ll just stop moving and let me take one non-blurry picture!

Feather Dusters
I also got video of a species of tubeworm. I know what you’re thinking. Ick. Now, I hate anything slithery and snakey, so I’m not a big fan of worms either. But since I can’t see the body…and they stay put… these aren’t so bad.

Tubeworms are just that: actual worms that live inside a secreted, then hardened, mini-tube-house sticking up out of the sand. At the head of the tube, the worm exposes a floating circle of hair-like feelers deployed to funnel tiny organisms as well as provide an oxygen exchange. This dainty plume looks like a feather duster…hence the typical name, Feather Duster Worms.

In our private Gilligan’s Island cove, Feather Dusters proliferate. Heading back to shore, I just happened to notice their disappearing act out of the corner of my eye…a miniscule withdrawal movement as I hovered over their holey homes. Diving with my camera in close, their colorful crowns retract inward to hide. Schloop! It’s even cooler when a group performs their scaredy-cat be-bop in succession. Schloop… Schloop.Schloop....... Schloop. As soon as I stop moving, they slowly discharge their fan. Ploof…Ploof. Ploof……Plooooof. And I can make them do it over and over! On command! BOO!
​
Watch the video!

Not every day is sunsets and cocktails. Sometimes it’s sunsets and sprains…requiring cocktails.

The Highs and Lows of Cruising
One day we were on top of the world at the peak of Mount Coronado. Two days later, Brian woke up with severe knee pain. He had felt fine during the hike and the day after, albeit sore like the rest of us. But after two days, his knee hurt so badly he couldn’t walk. I know when he’s asking for more than a single ibuprofen, something is wrong.

Sprained Knee?
His tendon, strung drum-tight, refused to relax. Bending his knee was impossible, as was bearing weight. Climbing normal stairs with one rigid leg is not easy. Climbing up and down Indigo’s nearly vertical companionway steps, something we normally do countless times a day, became excruciating. And try scrunching into an elevated and cramped V-Berth with one straight leg. And a straight face.

Beware: Mt. Coronado Causes Weak Knees
We don’t know how it happened; suddenly he woke up and his knee was killing him. NOOO, I didn’t kick him while he was peacefully slumbering. He loves to tell people that. But, it WAS my fault. Remember my last post Conquering Mt. Coronado? That strenuous hike just 2 days prior probably severely weakened his knees, enough so that he tweaked one just so while sleeping. I wanted to climb that stupid Mt. Coronado so bad…and Brian paid for it.

Useless Med Kit
We have pain medicines up the yin yang, heat/cool patches, splints and wraps and bandages galore. Wrapping it only put more pressure on the affected area and made the pain unbearable. Patches didn’t help. I have decent pain meds on board but he refused everything but the low grade stuff. All this med gear and there’s nothing we could do except wait and see. In the end, he kept it cushioned and immobile on a pillow, icing it with frozen water bottles. Talk about low tech healthcare.

7 Days a Boat Prisoner
We were hoping it was just a little sprain, that it would go away in a day or so. But Brian remained a prisoner on the boat for the next several days. In the morning, he’d limp up the stairs and rest outside in the cockpit; at dusk, he’d make the agonizing descent back into the cabin. I think he went through a book a day. Whenever he tired of reading, he alternated between high-tech ipad games or no-tech birdwatching. Fortunately, the weather remained ideal (in the cool 80’s, no hurricanes on the horizon) and we weren’t under any travel deadline pressure.

No Doctors in the Desert
For those seven endless days, we worried… OK, I worried…not knowing how long it would take to heal… or if it would at all. After 20 years of mandatory Marine runs, knee surgery has been a predicted consequence, but one we wished to avoid as long as possible. I hoped this injury didn’t put him over the edge. If it didn’t get any better soon, we would have to go see someone. But we’re anchored in the remote bay of San Juanico, far from civilization. It’s a minimum ½ day sail back to Loreto or a 24hr overnight to San Carlos. We realized just how far away we were from healthcare…any healthcare. It felt like we were on the moon.

50% and Still Trapped
After day 4, his knee felt a little bit better. We managed to motor Indigo up to Bahia Concepcion but we still didn’t leave the boat upon anchoring each afternoon. We didn’t want to risk ruining it again. We could certainly throw the kayak overboard in a jiffy (which is why we use it 90% of the time). But he could easily re-twist the knee grappling in or out of the snug, bobbing, slippery vessel. What about the dinghy? Way worse.

Avoiding Dinghy-Yoga
Prepping the dinghy involves the two of us flipping it upright from its cruising turtle-position on the bow, hoisting and pushing it overboard, then mounting the unwieldy outboard motor. (One person stands at the stern rail, lowering it with our manual pulley system; the other stands in the dinghy below, catching and affixing it to the transom). This 10-15 minute workout consists of heaving and manhandling the substantial, slimy beast, stepping up and down from the cabin roof numerous times, plus copious amounts of twisting and turning, bending and balancing. And you wonder how we get our exercise on the boat? I could just imagine the strain this torsion-filled process would put on a bum knee. No way. Amazingly, raising anchor, motoring, even sailing Indigo is far easier on the knees than depositing our car in the water.

Freedom!
Seven days later, Brian finally felt stable enough to tackle the car. We left it in-water, towing it behind Indigo from anchorage to anchorage. Normally, dinghy towing is one of our big no-no’s. Yes, I know, lots of people do it. We don’t. While it’s incredibly convenient to have your dinghy ready to go upon arrival, too many things can go wrong. But Bahia Concepcion was flat as a pancake and we only traveled, literally, a couple miles each day. Occasionally, rules should be thrown out the window. For knees sake.

Boatwork with a Bum Knee
We did another week’s worth of uber-relaxed gunk-holing and crossed the Sea of Cortez overnight, once his knee felt a bit better. We put the boat away over the course of 12 days of hard work. It wasn’t easy on him, but we did it. One month later, the knee works, but it's still not 100%.  

Medical Preparedness
How prepared are we? We are equipped for medical complications in the outback with a variety of meds for colds, pain, nausea, antibiotics, etc. Heck, we even have malaria pills. We have a suitcase-sized professional medical kit for treating mild to severe burns and wounds. We even have gear for splinting a broken bone and sewing stitches. (Let’s just hope Brian doesn’t need stitches – knowing my sewing skills, THAT would be a catastrophe). But with all this stuff, we could use none of it in his situation. What is the moral here?

Cruising Law #1:
As Captain Ron so casually counsels: “If anything’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen out there!”

Cruising Law # 2:
When it does happen, all that special equipment you purchased will doubtless be inadequate.
Do you still buy the stuff? Yep. You or someone else might need it someday!​

Isla Coronado is one of five islands that comprise the Loreto Bay Marine Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Its western shore boasts a pristine, white sand beach, swathed in emerald green waters punctuated by severe black, lava reefs. A couple of groomed trails meander across the island. One traverses the long, low sand spit to a private beach. The other goes up…and up… and up… all the way to the top of an ancient volcano.

Hell, NO
Coronado’s volcanic cone is one of those landmark peaks that just calls to you. OK to me, not Brian. “Hike me!” “Come on - the view is priceless!” While the island trail sign indicates a 650ft height, online sources differ widely on the peak’s actual height: 928ft, 1554ft 1444ft, 600ft. I’m thinking the 900ft is the most accurate. However high this thing really is, it’s high. Every year we’d anchor here on the way down the Sea and again on the way back up. Each time I’d cheerfully suggest, “Hey, let’s hike to the top!” Each time, I’d be rebuked with not just “No”, but a resounding “Hell, NO!!!”

The Perfect Excuse
Today, our snorkeling plans got nixed due to chilly water and air temps. So our friends on Lorelei asked if we wanted to go with them to the top of the mountain instead. I looked at Brian and KNEW I had my perfect excuse… my Brian-approved (albeit grudgingly), Mt. Coronado Hike Authorization Card… one-time-use-only. After three seasons in the Sea of Cortez, we were finally going to summit this monster mountain.

4-Hour Tour
Our cruising guidebook indicates this trail to the top is “perfect for those wishing to stretch their legs and work up a sweat before swimming”. THAT is the understatement of the year. The sign on the beach states it is a mere 1hr 45 minute hike. Not true. That doesn’t count getting back down.

Tequila-Drinking Trail-Maker
Starting out, the flat trail is perfectly groomed, outlined with large, human-placed, coral pieces. Threading its way through the sugar sand among cactus and succulents, we decided Tito the Trail-maker had a bit too much tequila when laying this route. It winds away from the summit more times than towards. No wonder this takes 4 hours!

Lava Rock Fields
After about 20 minutes, the relaxing path abruptly ends and the trail rises steeply. This is where the fun begins. Massive fields of lava rock, sharp grey and red chunks of basalt, flow down the volcano sides like a prehistoric river. Such wide swaths of rust-tinted rocks made the “trail” indistinct, requiring man-made cairns to keep hikers on track.

Football-sized shards lie precariously atop one another; hundreds of thousands of them form this tumbled rock bed, piled who knows how deep. While settled after millennia, slight gaps and crevices remain. Everywhere. Each rock is sneakily poised to shift into empty space as soon as a hiker bears down weight. Careful foot placement is imperative. Similar to maneuvering Mexico sidewalks, one must maintain eyes on the ground at all times unless completely motionless. I failed at this once and gazed up mid-step, my weight too far forward before I could choose a good foot spot. I nearly toppled. I give myself a 9 for my flailing-arm-windmills performance.

Sno-Cones, Anyone?
After about an hour of picking our way along, we came upon another group of cruiser-hikers, just down from the summit. How far? “Oh, another few miles. But, they’re selling sno-cones at the restaurant at the top.” Ah, funny man.

Straight Up
Gradually, the ankle-biting rocks began to disappear, replaced with hard packed dirt, then gravel. This would be good news, except the trail led straight up. The angle of attack up that last 20 minute section of mountain had to have been 50 degrees. Our friends turned around and headed back down the mountain when pea-sized obnoxious nuggets (in copious amounts) entered our shoes and refused to leave.

I nearly bailed out myself after 5 minutes of this maddening ascent. Upon scrambling several feet up the bluff, and backsliding at each step, we’d shake out our gravel-filled shoes. Scramble, scramble, scramble…shake. Every step sustained this miserable loofah scrub. My soles have never been so smooth.

Marathon Climb
But eventually, we quit bothering to shake…stopping only to pull out a particularly intolerable shard. The quicker we get up there the better. Endure the pain. My heart pounded like a jackhammer; besieged with painful pebbles, every stride elicited an unintelligible grunt; my stair-climbing knees ached, shaking like sapling trees.

Why didn’t we stop? Because I know, that Brian knows, that I know, I would never be satisfied unless we got to the top. I had my one-time-use Mt. Coronado Hike Authorization Card, remember? After today, no more bets. So this is a marathon I was going to finish. No matter what.

Made It!
Finally, solid rock footholds appeared. The trail leveled out near the peak. My heart stopped hammering. Ahead of me, Brian called out, “Crap, it looks like another ½ mile.” What???!!! “Just kidding. We’re here!”  

Whew. We made it! 1 hour and 40 minutes later we were guzzling water at the summit, enjoying the view. Outstanding.

Satellite View
Only from the top of the island do you get any sense of its Google-sat-view. Gazing down from our bird’s-eye perch, the sky and the earth and the sea and the sand blend together in an artist’s palette of vibrant colors, swirling, shading, intensifying, fading. Indigo waters as far as you can see, shallow up to emerald, then turquoise, then brightens into brilliantly creamy sand; charcoal reefs appear as soft, mushy blobs leaking out into the sea like inkblots; our treacherous, rock-laden streambed becomes a trail of tiny cinnamon chunks from up here; tufts of blond field grass and patches of vibrant green succulent ground cover dot the landscape; the distant Gigantas mountains are a long, undulating, gray smear in the distance; white clouds streak in unison across a never-ending cornflower sky. Magical.

Getting Back Down
But, like those who scale Mt. Everest, you can’t stay long. Gotta get back down. And that can be the hardest part. Skidding down the gravel incline was faster and easier. But traversing the rock fields was a tedious balancing act. Already exhausted, we were more likely to mis-step onto a wobbly rock now than at any point. Several times, I almost lost my footing due to lack of concentration, performing those arm windmills again. But we made it back down in one piece…no broken ankles. But oh, how we ached from head to toe!
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Am I glad we did it? Yes. Wanna go again? Hell, NO!​

While resting in Puerto Escondido near the end of May, our brains begin the inevitable tack: from a cruising mindset to a storing mindset. At the Circle of Knowledge, the daily, informal cruiser gathering, June haul out plans are the topic du jour. Our own haul out date is coming up quickly. So Brian’s mind starts to whirl, contemplating the myriad of things we will need to do to prep Indigo for storage, a daunting task. MY mind begins to contemplate the food situation, and getting rid of it. Thus, a list is born.

Yes, I have a Food Spreadsheet
Rummaging through my food lockers, I tear into my 10-sheet, Food-On-Board excel spreadsheet, updating every carton, can and container still taking up shelf space. Then I start making lists of what I could make for dinner that will use up said noodles, rice, beans, canned chicken, etc. Then I make ANOTHER list of what we will have for dinner for the next week. I like lists. Almost as much as I like cheese.

May Thanksgiving
So I was super excited when our friends on Cuba Libre happened to invite us and Lorelei over for a Thanksgiving in May celebration with mutual friends on Bella Luna. Cuba Libre had a frozen turkey they needed to cook up before they hauled out. So their turkey problem became my food-inventory purging solution. Sweet. I made a huge coleslaw salad to get rid of some cabbage and baked brownies to use up some eggs. The result was a delicious Thanksgiving May Day enjoyed by all, complete with turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing. Thanks to Cuba Libre for hosting and cooking!

Haulout Potluck
A couple weeks later, three of us boats arrived into Marina San Carlos. We planned on hauling our boats onto dry land within days of each other. This means removing all food. So we held another Food-Purge-Potluck. This time, I made canned pear oatmeal crisp and tuna noodle casserole with about 5 different cheeses. (More like cheese casserole with a smidgen of macaroni and a trace of tuna.) I still had to give away two chunks ‘o cheese at the end. So I put together a box to haul back to the van for our camping trips; I gave 3 small bags away to a couple local dock guys; and I carried two large sacks to San Carlos Yachts who, in turn, donates it to the local orphanage. What a great way to jettison food.

Salami Anyone?
As I was defrosting the fridge, I found two packets of sliced salami that I forgot about. I walked over to a boat I’d never met and dangled my expensive and coveted salami packets right in front of these strangers. “Would you guys like…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence before their eyes widened and enthusiastically replied...
“Yes! Yes! We’ll take them! We’re Polish! Of course we love salami!”