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!

​~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.

It’s the final day of prep for our 3rd season in the Sea of Cortez. Last step? Put the truck in a gated storage lot. Now, we’re all set to get out of dodge. But, without that easily-taken-for-granted means of transportation, our mindset is still consumed with its necessity.

The day before leaving, sans truck: “You wanna go to Hammerheads for iced tea?” “But, we’d have to waaaalk… it’s sooo far… and it’s sooo hooooooot”. “But they’ve got air conditioning.” “But I’d still have to walk in the heat to get AT the air conditioning.” It’s amazing how quickly not having a car affects your basic decision-making process on everything. We went… for you dear reader… just so I could upload that bottom-paint blog.

So, are we ready?
There are 4 areas of preparation we are constantly contemplating before any overnight crossing.

1. Is the boat ready? Have we done everything we can to make sure she is safe? Namely, engine maintenance: change oil, change impeller, check or change coolant, run engine at the dock, make sure she sounds OK and looks OK. Check for leaks. Check that solar panels, fridge, navionics and radios work, etc.
2. Is the weather ready? We read various weather documents and look for a window of 48 hours with less than 10-12knots. We prefer a mixture of minimal wind and some wind, so the seas don’t have a chance to build over time. (Preferably NO wind for me equaling flat seas, but Brian wants to actually SAIL this time…pooey.) Why 48 hours when we’ll only be doing a 24 hour trip?  In case we get stuck out there and have to fix something, we don’t need the added pressure to get to safe harbor with high winds bearing down the following day.
3. Are the pre-passage peripherals ready? Do we have all the food we need? Water tanks filled? Extra bottled water in case of emergency? Fuel jugs filled? Is everything on the boat in its proper place for sailing: jacklines out (lines run on deck that we clip to at night so we don’t fall off accidentally), lifejackets ready, pre-prepped cold salad for dinner (so I don’t have to use the stove), fridge arranged to quickly access needed items in case of high seas, route charted on chartplotter, put up leecloths (to keep us from falling on the floor when heeled over & sleeping), cool weather gear and blankets out (so we don’t have to go digging in the middle of the night for a jacket)? Kayak folded and stowed below? Dinghy tied down on top? Are we checked out of the marina? Is the blog uploaded ? J
4. Are WE ready? Mentally and physically? Does either of us feel sick or run down? If so, we don’t go. Prepping to leave on a big journey, especially one of several days at sea like the Baja Ha Ha Event, is highly stressful. It can cause frayed nerves and bickering in even the most adoring lovebirds. This is normal. There are a thousand things to do to prepare and a million things you can worry about; everyone is stressed.

But this time, miraculously, we are not stressed. Partly because we took our time getting the boat ready and we aren’t rushing around like crazy idiots trying to finish chores; partly because it’s our 15th night at sea so our comfort level is much higher - one overnight is now not such a big deal; and partly because we are just ready to get off the dock. While we don’t necessarily enjoy all of the aspects of night sailing, it’s a necessity to get to the good stuff. Like enduring LA traffic to get to Disneyland. Or the ½ hour wait for an In-and-Out burger.

The boat was prepared, and more importantly, we were prepared, mentally, for an overnight crossing. We felt great, we were super excited to be heading back out into the Sea once more. We were rarin’ to go.

Indigo had other ideas…
Bound for Punta Pulpito, 95 miles across the Sea of Cortez, we let loose the lines and quitted our cozy crib at Marina San Carlos at 9am, Oct. 30th.

At 9:15, we are in the San Carlos inner bay. While I steer us out of the bay, Brian checks the engine, as he always does, to be sure it is running fine after it warms up so we can push it to full throttle. He checks for excessive heat on the prop shaft with an infrared thermometer, as he has just tightened the leaky packing gland a few days ago. Then he checks the bilge, as we always do, to make sure we aren’t sinking. Except we ARE.

Abnormal Bilge Water
There is about 2 inches of water in the bilge. What? This NEVER happens. While some boats seem to have a propensity for constant water in the bilge, Indigo has ALWAYS been darn-near bone-dry in the slip; and we accumulate merely a thin coating of water if we’ve sailed all day. 2” of water in the bilge after only 15 minutes of motoring is a striking anomaly. It’s not the shaft packing gland, Brian fixed that the week prior and it is putting out only a minimal (and normal) drop or two. Maybe it’s that through-hull connector he had tightened and sealed, but no, it was fine too. This was a NEW leak…a slowish leak, but more than we’re comfortable with. Frickin’ boats and their holes.

So we motor into the outer bay, away from all the fishing boat and panga traffic, to shut down the engine and assess. Luckily, there is no wind and the seas are not rambunctious.

Rudder Post Packing Gland Leak
At 9:45am, with our motor still burning hot, Brian cramps himself down inside the engine room for a look-see, trying not to scald himself on the engine elbow. This NEW leak was coming from the packing gland where the rudder post attaches up into the boat. To be crass, if Indigo had a rear-end, this would be it; and her rear-end was leaking. Brian thinks the post ultimately needs new packing material (which we do not have and could not switch out at sea anyway). He could try and tighten the bolts as a temporary fix but access is nearly impossible and may not help. We contemplate.

Return or Go?
Should we return to the dock? While San Carlos is usually devoid of special boat parts, at least we will have the truck to go to the states and pick something up. On the other hand, we know we can get the stuffing we need in La Paz. But, if we keep going the way it is, will the bilge pump be able to keep up? Will it get worse? We have a very heavy duty manual pump that can suck out 1 gallon in a single pump, but we don’t want to use THAT if we don’t have to.

Mr. Fix-It
Before we make any decision, Brian tries to fix it himself, or at least minimize the water flow by tightening 3 bolts at the steering column. Well, no big deal, right? Just tighten 3 wittle bolty woltys. Easy, peasy, summer breezy! Nope. The problem lies in WHERE those 3 bolts are located. Time for some Engine Room Hot Yoga! “Hot Yoga” is actually a thing if you haven’t heard of it…yoga class purposefully done in a superheated room (up to 105 degrees), to induce maximum sweat equity and flexibility. No need to pay that instructor, I got your hot yoga right here.

New Yoga Position: Crouching Dragon.
Because he is trying to reach the verrrry far, far back of the boat, under the steering column, where no normal human should ever be forced to go…he must contort himself into an entirely new yoga position. I call it the Crouching Dragon because he looks like a dragon squatting at an angle, ready for take off… and because he is so hot he is practically breathing fire.

You Too Can Do the Crouching Dragon
Stand in engine room (about 1-1/2ft square), bend over to hangman placing your arms inside, slight crouch ‘til your butt hits the engine…dip your head down like you’re going under the bridge (under the hatch). Keep your back arched and your butt in the air because there’s just no room for it yet and it can’t touch the hot engine. Then, feet remaining still, crawl up on elbows at an angle into the bowels of the tiny space and slowly lower your butt into a 45degree-angled, fetal position crouch (except you're standing on tippy toes). With your head scraping the fiberglass above, booty abutting a hot engine, arms wedged in a triangle… desperately reach for those bolts in the vanishing V-space of Indigo’s rear. That’s it. Now hold. Keep holding...
.
Do this in a stifling space the size of a mid-size moving box…with a scalding, hot engine….in humid, 94 degree weather… in a rocking and rolling boat. 

Good Thing He’s Not Claustrophobic
Once he was in there, he wasn’t getting out until he was finished. He could barely move. There have been cases of people getting stuck in their boats – arms, legs or spines not bending the right way to get back out. Talk about claustrophobia-inducing. If he wasn’t thinking this at the moment, I was.

Wake!
Knee-deep in his jail cell, I noticed a jerk powerboat zooming towards us, purposefully too close. (Why do powerboaters LOVE tormenting sailboats with wake-inducing drive-by's?) So I steered perpendicular to his inevitable wake to omit side-to-side motion. Because Brian could see nothing, I grabbed him by the back of his shorts and told him to hold on (so he didn’t lose his grip and fall against fragile or hot engine parts). Insert smattering of expletives here. In this tiny space, with the boat pitching for a half a minute…how he didn’t puke, I’ll never know.

Hotbox
I was mildly nervous, trying to be super-fast at finding tools. Not because we were sinking…it was a slowish leak… but because Brian was sweating like a banshee (if banshees sweated) and looked like he was about to pass out any second. At one point, he thought there was another leak – no, it’s just massive amounts of sweat pouring on top of engine parts from his poor, battered body sweltering in this triangle torture chamber… like those hotboxes used in the Vietnam war.

Can't Get a Grip
He couldn’t get a good angle or grip on the packing gland bolts, trying a variety of wrenches, sockets, and vice-clamps…sweaty hands and limited to zero mobility and visibility didn’t help. It took forever to adjust. Forever in a hotbox seems like an eternity. Funny thing was, there wasn’t much swearing involved on this project, other than the powerboat wake incident. He was too focused on getting the job done and getting the hell out of there to become irate. After 45 minutes in this horrible position, he tightened those bolts as much as was humanly possible and wrenched himself unstuck and into the open air where he sucked down a bottle of Gatorade in 2 seconds flat. All this for 3 bolts.

No Record of the Crouching Dragon
I did not take a picture of this awkward position… sometimes there is room for decorum, even by my standards. I mean, after reading this, don’t you feel bad for him? This was a semi-serious situation and I wasn’t going to make light of it by snapping a pic when he’s in the middle of a crucial problem, just for your benefit. Now, that’s not to say I didn’t THINK about it. But… I refrained…for morale’s sake. And I highly doubt I could goad him into performing a reenaction scene just for our curiosity.

The Chuck Norris of Engine Yoga
Today, Brian was to this problem what Chuck Norris is to any bad guy who crosses his path – he punched it right in the face and kept on walking. Bam! Brian stopped the leak and we continued on with our journey. We’ll buy new packing material and redo it in La Paz. Wait, does that mean he has to get up in there again? Shhh. Don’t remind him.

A Benign Crossing
While delayed by a couple hours, the crossing itself went off without a hitch. Although we had no moon, the stars were out in droves so we could discern a faint horizon. We started out with no wind, but by 1pm we had a perfect 9-knots and sailed with minimal effort and no wave action until 10pm. Then the wind picked up to 14-16 knots for a couple hours, but settled itself back down to 8-10 knots until pre-dawn. And while we got some lumpy waves afterwards and a banging boom for a couple hours, we can’t complain. Our bilge water level was back to normal due to Brian’s hotbox fix. And we sailed nearly the entire way, only using 3 engine hours of 24! Guess who was ecstatic!

That ONE thing you don’t have a spare for is always THE thing you lose or break.

While using the kayak is easy everywhere else, getting from the mooring area to the dinghy dock in Puerto Escondido is just too far a trek for Big Red. So we blew up the dinghy. Intending to add gas to the outboard engine, Brian removed the gas cap. Just as he was contemplating how tenuous that little gas cap retainer cord looked, hoping it wouldn’t break…ploop…the chintzy, plastic yoke broke and our poor gas cap went tumbling into 50ft of water, gone forever. Shi#$%!! Shi#$%!!  Shi#$%!! …is all I heard coming from the dinghy.

Spares Anyone?
If Brian had room for a spare engine, we’d have one. This “always be prepared”-mottoed man has darn near every spare part imaginable.. spare belts and ropes and hose connections and filters and hundreds of pieces of hardware and plastic thingys, normal boat stuff right? But we even have spare rigging, a spare windlass motor, an alternator, chain and cables in case the wheel assembly breaks and dozens more important items...just in case. Who brings a spare gas cap? Not even this guy. Why would anyone?

No gas cap, no dinghy.
You can’t run the engine without the gas cap or pretty soon you’ll end up with no gas (and with gas spewed all over you). More importantly, you can’t store the engine on the back of the boat (where it gets wet when you are sailing) without a gas cap. And just putting a plastic baggie with a rubber band over it probably isn’t the best idea. Plus, the incentive for NOT having to kayak the half mile to shore is pretty high. Brian went to the haulout facility in Puerto Escondido, but no joy. We didn’t want to pay for an $80 taxi ride to Loreto just to NOT find our obscure part, so Brian put on his MacGyver hat. What's the phrase...necessity is the mother of invention?

The Gas-o-Lipiec Cap
Thus was born the now trademarked Gas-o-Lipiec Cap: a fine custom piece of workmanship if I do say so. Brian cut some Plexiglas in a semi-roundish shape (he was sooo irritated he couldn’t make it perfectly round), covered it with a piece of rubber gasket material, drilled a hole through both, added a bolt and wingnut, then cut a small, rectangular piece of metal with a hole to act as a grabber/sealer on the bottom. He did all this in the cockpit with a hacksaw and a drill. Not bad for an hours work. All the while, every 2 minutes: “God, this would be so much easier if only I had my (insert tool) router/bandsaw/sander/drill press…” So glad we DON’T have room for THOSE spares.

Our ad-hoc cap worked as advertised. When we got to San Carlos, we inquired about spare gas caps. Ordering one would take a week. Well, we know what THAT means…a week is probably a month. Forget it. We’ll leave it “as is” for the summer and bring a new one back down with us next season.

Chores and Chillin’
We rested in Puerto Escondido for 5 days. Our weather there was great, though windy most afternoons. We did laundry (so I didn’t have to hand-wash on the boat); got fuel; bought a few staples at the tiny marina store (bread, chips, more cereal-we eat a lot of cereal, milk, onion, cucumber, tomatoes, potatoes); ate several restaurant meals; partook in the COK (Circle of Knowledge) where you hopefully leave the circle more informed (rather than more confused); met more cruisers; I made brownies; got some decent internet where I finally wrote and uploaded several blogs; and most importantly, took real (hot and long) showers.

Sleeping Like Babies
We spent a couple more days in PE than necessary… but one of those days, well, we just didn’t feel like doing anything…so we didn’t. Plus, the unspoken truth is…we sleep 10-times better in Puerto Escondido than when we’re at anchor. I know you never should trust a mooring ball - it’s a false sense of security because they do fail. These balls are newly installed, only a couple years old now. But the distinct advantage to these particular moorings is their judicious spacing.
a)  We never worry about anyone parking right on top of us and swinging into our boat, as we always do at anchor. Even our stalker friend from the last blog can't be a space-invader here!
b)  We don’t worry about neighboring boats’ rode/chain combo or anchor not being strong enough and dragging in high winds (although we would worry in really high winds - during hurricane Odile, most disasters here occurred not due to breaking moorings, but due to the boat’s connector lines chafing right through).
c)  Extended spacing breeds good social etiquette: when I can hear your entire conversation like I am IN on the discussion…you anchored too close. This doesn’t happen in PE.

So, mooring in Puerto Escondido is the next best thing to being in a marina. Except it’s better because it’s QUIETER! No dock creaking, restaurant music blaring, squawking pterodactyl condo pets, tourist boat departures or daily bingo announcers. Just the music of the midnight stars. (Too cheesy? OK, maybe a little). In other words, we slept like babies.

Daily Decisions
The cruising lifestyle is innately fickle. Living on land we were creatures of habit and schedule. If we made a decision about something, we did it. Now, we don’t even feel bad about not being able to stick to a plan anymore, it’s normal… and actually unreasonable to expect. We never know what we’re doing from one day to the next, one hour from the next, and we change our minds in an instant to stay or go somewhere due to…I can name a million things: definite weather, possible weather or even the slightest inkling of weather, new cruiser intel, sicknesses, boatwork (there’s always boatwork), the nebulous nature of searching out ‘boat bits’ or hiring craftsmen in a foreign country, wanting to see something new and unexplored. Frankly, a fluid agenda is all we can ever really hope for.   

We’re Leaving Tomorrow – Yeah, Riiight
“We’re leaving tomorrow” is a statement to be taken about as seriously as Justin Beiber. We’ve heard this phrase over and over… then something happens, and so and so is still in port a week, a month later. Recent examples: One boater schwacked their keel hard against the shallow canal floor leaving Mazatlan - back to the marina to check if the hull was cracked. Another couple had to turn around because they didn’t check the dredge times – back to the slip, there’s no room to get out the channel. Just prior to heading south, someone accidentally filled his water tanks with gas (ouch, that’s a big one) – back to the dock for days and days of a cleaning nightmare. Several boats remained in town for Carnaval, based on local advice that it was a worthy once-in-a-lifetime event, in spite of their initial plans to stay in Mazatlan for merely a week. We know one couple who delayed departure simply due to fatigue; the morning of their slated passage south (it’s an overnight to get anywhere from Mazatlan), they just didn’t physically feel up to the rigors of sailing for 24-hours… and ended up not being able to get out due to windy conditions for over a week. (It’s smart not to push it when your lives and your home are on the line). On and on and on. Plans change. Every minute of every day.

Staying for Carnaval and Canvas and Welding
Our original plan was to stay in Mazatlan until the end of January, one month.  Carnaval would begin a week later resulting in a 2-week delay… but the lure of such a spectacle was too strong to miss. After we decided to stay, we took advantage of the extra time to get some canvas work and welding done while we waited.

The Stainless Welder
One project was to replace 4 lengths of lifeline with stainless steel rails welded to the stanchions at the front of the cockpit. (Brian had wanted to do this before we left, but ran out of time.) We spent a week trying to persuade one welder to do the job. We’d seen his impressive work on other boats and contacted Mr. X who said he’d come the following day. No show. We’d call or email to remind… “Oh yeah, I’ll come tomorrow”. We’d wait ALL day in the boat, afraid to go ANYWHERE for fear we’d miss him. No one came. After 2 days of this, with a day in between each definite “I’ll be there” day, totaling 4, Brian went to his shop and spoke to him in person. “OK, I come mañana”. Again…NADA! Wasting a week, we finally gave up and found Alfonso who actually DID want the work; he did an excellent job to boot – and in only one afternoon! Nearly every day, as I lean on its support stepping on or off the boat, or grab when walking forward as we are sailing, or steady my camera on it, or watch Brian lean over it to pee off the boat when sailing (no, you just can’t train them)…  I reflect on how much I absolutely LOVE my new steady handhold.

The Canvas Guy
Living on the boat full time results in constant sunshine and salt grating into our 12-yr-old Eisenglass dodger windows. We could barely see through the faded, pockmarked, sunburnt plastic. I had tried restoring the material via a special polish to no avail. The best canvas guy in town is Ruben - if you can get his time, you are one fortunate person. Cuba Libre had brought down sheets of polycarbonate window material (forget about buying this stuff down here) to have Ruben remake their dodger. After Ruben completed their job, he managed to have a sheet left over (lucky for us!). So, we had Ruben replace the windows in our dodger and make Sunbrella covers to protect our new investment. The timing worked perfectly - we got the finished product back just after Carnaval. Thanks to Cuba Libre, we can see clearly now, the fade has gone! Time to leave. Right? Riiiight.

Those Darn Wishy-Washy Cruisers
After Carnaval, we were all set to leave. I had even bought groceries for the overnight trip south to La Cruz and then on to Puerto Vallarta. Then it happened. We flip-flopped. AGAIN. You see, a man named Beto had been refinishing the exterior wood trim on Mopion, a sailboat across from us at Marina El Cid. Each day, we’d gaze longingly over at their shimmering teak caprail, glossy and ornate spindles shining in the sun. We watched as Beto sanded it all down and then applied coat after luscious coat, day after day. Ah, if only our own teak could look this beautiful, this “bristol”, once again. I admit… we seriously coveted their varnish job. But please, if you have ANY teak on your boat, don’t TELL me that you DON’T covet another man’s perfect varnish. You’d sooo be lying.

Beto Brings It
We began to ask ourselves the inevitable question. Hmmm. We hemmed and hawed. Brian chatted with Mopion about the workmanship, whether he was happy with the result (he was). We hemmed some more. We’d amble over to B-dock and stare at Mopion’s teak as we passed by... sigh…sooo pretty. We worked up enough nerve and got a quote. Ouch. Beto couldn’t start for another 10 days. Then it would take an additional week to finish the job. We hawed again. Finally, we jumped. We’d much rather have our hideous, orange-peeling varnish fixed here in 1 week (Beto is not only good, he is FAST) as opposed to doing it ourselves in 3 weeks in the hot, oppressive and sandy boatyard in San Carlos this coming November (our original plan), severely cutting into our cruising time that we were supposed to spend in the sea with our friends this fall. That made it a no brainer.

So Long Puerto Vallarta
But it cost us timewise. By the time our varnish would be finished, we’d have to head north to get the boat up to San Carlos and us out of the country by April’s end. So long PV. Maybe next year. Fickle? Wishy-washy? You bet. Over the past year and a half, we’ve learned that cruisers are inherently wishy-washy. It is an acquired trait. But a necessary characteristic we have learned to adopt in order to keep the boat and our health and happiness maintained (that includes our sanity). The best part? We now possess crystal-clear dodger windows through which to navigate, protective window covers, stainless rails forming a more secure cockpit, and beautifully varnished teak caprails, eyebrows and rubrails! As a glassy-eyed Will Farrell from “Elf” might say: “It’s glorious!”