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Anchoring Attitudes

5/23/2017

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Picture
Our buddy boat friends on Lorelei are anchored nearby.
We are happily anchored at Ensenada Grande, the first stop on our 6-week trip up to San Carlos from La Paz. As I lounge below on my sea berth, a tall mast looms visible through the companionway. Yikes! I know the boat is close if I can see him through that narrow slot. I launch up on deck, but Brian is already intently watching. This boat drops anchor right between us and another boat. Ugh. He’s pretty darn close, but not disturbingly so. We watch and wait.

10 minutes later, we overhear a VHF radio call in heavily-Spanish-accented English.
“Boat with the French flag… this is Valencia… you have anchored too close.” (Boat names changed to protect the innocent.)
Crickets…

Again. “Boat with the French flag… this is Valencia… you have anchored too close.”
Silence.

Again, with a bit more emphasis.
Silence.

The oblivious yacht is a 40ft Beneteau sailboat, so we’ll call him Mr. Beneteau. We cannot see his boat name and apparently neither can Valencia. It’s on his stern, probably in foolish flowery font – why owners don’t make their boat names clearly visible is beyond me.

The Audacious Mr. Beneteau
The French boat had anchored too close for Valencia’s comfort. Except Mr. Beneteau’s VHF radio was off so Valencia could not relay his analysis on the matter. While one Valencia crewmember kept trying to hail them over the radio, the other crewmember stood on the bow, waving arms, shouting in vain through the wailing 20kt wind. You’d be surprised how little sound carries in 20 knots of wind. If you prefer not to shout, or it’s too windy to do so, a good way to get someone’s attention is just stand on the bow, arms akimbo and glower at the offending boat. Pointing helps. Eventually they will notice. And they did.

So finally I hear heavily-French-accented English, coming from a very weak radio signal, hailing Valencia. But now Valencia is not hearing them. Wow. This just gets better and better. Grammy-winning evening entertainment!

Eavesdropping
After several unanswered return calls from Mr. Beneteau, Valencia responds and they switch from a hailing channel to a talking channel. Of course we switch too, duh. #1, we want to listen in on this highly entertaining shit show, and #2, we have a stake in this conversation. It might be our shit show when the wind switches. Don’t judge. Everybody does it.

Valencia (flustered woman):“You have anchored too close to our boat.”

Mr. Beneteau (a meek, high-pitched, squeaky woman): “Oh, no, no…it’s OK.”

Valencia (now obviously irritated): “You are right on top of our anchor.”

Mr. Beneteau: Crickets…

“It’s OK” means “I don’t care”
Brian and I look at each other, jaws dropped. OMG. Did she just say “It’s OK”? Seriously, that’s not the right answer. But it’s always the answer. Our first year in La Paz, I described our dealings with another cruiser saying that exact same thing to us in this exact same anchorage about the exact same issue. We both start laughing at the irony.

Did they move? Nope.
We waited and watched, doing a mild bit of staring-down of our own. See, we’d prefer they move too. But they remain consciously obtuse - irreverent towards the safety-comfort-level of their neighbors. While pretty close, we feel Mr. Beneteau is a tolerable distance, so we opt to stay put. But Valencia, the boat so offended as to call Mr. Beneteau out on his proximity, does not move either. Either they decided they weren’t in dire straits, or they were just too lazy to get up and move.

Anchoring Etiquette: Don’t be a Dingo
In general, anchoring etiquette is simple: if you as the anchored boat think the incoming boat parked too close (and announces so), it is on the incoming guy to move; but if they refuse, and you remain, and an accident ensues… who do you think your insurance company will hold responsible for your boat damages? If you are uncomfortable with the situation enough to voice your opinion… and the other boat is a dingo and refuses… a healthy fear for the safety of your boat should prompt your departure, regardless of ego or convenience.

Fast forward several days later and we are anchored in San Evaristo, pondering this identical predicament…

San Evaristo Cluster-Fun.
A very large, very old, very ugly powerboat/barge contraption chugged its way into the snug harbor. I picture a 70ft, two-tiered version of the grimy, barnacle-encrusted “African Queen” (from the Katherine Hepburn movie of same name). It really didn’t look like that at all, but the offensive boat became personified as such in my mind as soon as he plopped his anchor down… right on top of us.

Now, when I say right on top, I mean it. This is not Valencia vs. Mr. Beneteau spacing, both with decent enough distance to remain in place all night. This was downright painful, body-hugging, spandex tight.

Radar Blob Monster
Intimidated by his size and proximity, I actually turned on the radar to confirm our suspicions about their distance. Our buddy-boat, Lorelei, was about 200ft to our left – a close but respectable distance for a friend-boat who you are comfortable yelling at if all hell breaks loose. But The African Queen’s massive radar blob was glowing like the sun, merely 100ft away. Damn…my eyes! Are you kidding? We have nearly that length of anchor chain out! This guy WILL whack us when we inevitably swing around to the west at night.

Now highly agitated, we glowered. We scowled. We gave our best disgusted glare. We waited for him to realize the error of his ways; sometimes they do and re-anchor. But African Queen appeared perfectly content attached to our hip.

So we opted to move, sans confrontation. We could already predict the answer anyway: “No really, It’s OK!” The African Queen was so big, and so NOT-maintained we did not relish them picking up and re-anchoring anywhere nearby. Would you want to park your still-in-good-shape 1990’s BMW next to a rusted-out, 1960’s Suburban tank? No. The screaming baby-on-board was the deal breaker. We’re out! We picked up anchor (ending up nose-to-nose within 20ft of their bow) and waved as we drove out the bay. Thanks, Dingo.

North Shore Sanctuary
Moving around to the north shore of San Evaristo, we safely ensconced ourselves in the wide bay, devoid of dingos. Only one other boat was parked…waaaay over there. Sigh. Peace.

Just as it was getting dark, our buddy boat, Lorelei, motors around the corner. What are you guys doing here? Well, they had their own anchoring saga to relay. Apparently, San Evaristo was THE place NOT to be tonight. Too bad we’d turned our radio off and missed THIS evening radio show…

Beware the Charter Catamarans
After we left, 4 charter catamarans traveling together like a pack of wild dingos tried to squeeze their wide-load rear ends in the already limited front row space. Two attempted to side-tie (tie together side-by-side with only fenders between and one boat’s anchor down) in between the now 300 feet between Lorelei and African Queen. Two 15ft boats swinging on one anchor in such close proximity to the others could have been catastrophic. Especially since oblivious charter cats habitually put down like 30 feet of scope, kind of like anchoring 20 tons with a fish hook.

Herding Cats
These catamarans were first warned by two boats that this was not a good idea, there’s not enough swing room for their double mass. In return, what did their dingo leader say? Everybody now… “No, no, It’s OK!” To which both cruisers shouted “NO, it’s NOT OK!” Herding cats is impossible.

Finally, after several other anchored boats expressed their extreme vocal displeasure, the cats reluctantly gave up the side-tying but continued their squeeze. With the obnoxious group boxing them in on both sides and still a bit too close for comfort, Lorelei grudgingly gave up and relocated to our neck of the woods. Sometimes you just can’t win these battles. I am regretful that our friend had to move out of these dingos’ way…but African Queen had it coming!

A Final Dressing-Down
Coincidently, as I began to edit this blog, I heard a one-sided radio conversation on this very topic. I recognize this particular woman’s teacher-like voice from the local radio net. Anchored in Isla Coronado, she incredulously and vehemently pronounces the following to someone whose response I can’t hear:

“Well I have no idea why in this big bay you picked that spot? We have a very heavy boat, we don’t swing the same way and we will be pointed west tonight so you will be right on top of our anchor once the wind switches.”

Ouch. I’m pretty sure that dingo moved.
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Salt Flats, Whale Sightings & Flakey Flurries

4/15/2016

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Picture
Brian's new ride!
Punta Salinas – Abandoned Salt Flats
After our delightful stay at Isla San Francisco, we ventured over to Punta Salinas for a lunch stop at an old salt mining operation. Centered on Isla San Jose, we hoped this new anchor spot was situated far enough away from the dreaded, biting jejenes at this island’s south tip. We strolled along the beach, poked around the decaying buildings and paused for a photo op in front of a rusty, decrepit pickup. I climbed a 10ft high salt pile that had hardened solid, fossilizing into what felt like gripping a heap of sharp ice crystals.

And Today the Weather Dictates…
But the wind was picking up. Here is a great example of how weather dictates everything we do. Anchored on a lee shore with wind driven waves building across the channel towards us, Indigo was bouncing out there a little too much for comfort. Not to mention the notion of a wet and wild ride back to the boat, kayaking directly against the wind and waves. So we unfortunately only spent about an hour on shore and did not venture inland into the miles of checkerboard salt ponds. This salty maze looked like an infinite place to explore and we hope to be back.

Whale Sightings!
On our way across the channel we caught some whale action! As a group made their way south, we saw spouts every few seconds. When you can see the white geysers from 2 miles away… THAT’s big. We’d seen several whale spouts in the last couple days, all in the San Jose Channel area, but were never close enough for good photos. (The only whale shots I’d ever caught were from our Mazatlan to La Paz crossing.) Later on in the week, a small one blew a few hundred yards away as we sailed near Isla Monserrat, but he spouted only once and we never saw it again.

We’d heard stories of countless whale sightings this spring: one had a pair visit their anchorage in the middle of the night, scaring them out of a sound sleep; another accidentally sailed right into the midst of a pod… then again while kayaking, the same couple witnessed several surface only a couple hundred feet away. All instances were way too close for comfort.

Awe and Anxiety
In discussing whales with other cruisers, the general consensus seems to be 1/4 awe & 3/4 anxiety. Seeing dolphins or manta rays is always cool; seeing a whale prompts that same instant “cool!” exuberance, but is quickly tamped down by an underlying sense of “crap”. While you want to see them up close to experience that ‘National Geographic moment’, you really don’t want to see them up close. Period. It’s fine and dandy to go whale-watching… on a tour ship… ‘cause it’s not your house.

Indifferent Cows
Whales are like sleepy-eyed, cud-chewing cows standing on a car-lined road, completely disregarding surrounding anxious drivers. Furiously, yet fruitlessly, the motorist honks his feeble horn, hoping to annoy them enough to reverse their ingrained inertia. Consider your anxiety level increase as a motorist if that cow was now a gigantic bull that had the potential to run full speed right into your slowly moving car like a deer attracted by headlights or maybe even just because he was mad (look at what happened to Captain Ahab)… or maybe said bull decides that your nice, shiny, perfectly-painted BMW looks like THE perfect scratching post (the horror)… maybe even, just because this particular bull species has a propensity for jumping up and down, he accidentally lands on top of your hood, smashing it to smithereens. Bull: “Oops, my bad.”

Whales seem to ignore moving boats; they don’t particularly care if you are in their way. And why should they, we’re probably like cockroaches to them, we’re so small! While relatively rare odds, there are plenty of stories spanning the centuries of these giants scraping alongside ship hulls, nudging boats from underneath, flicking their flukes dangerously close or swimming full bore into vessels… even breaching right on top of them. And unfortunately, a slow sailboat just cannot move fast enough to dodge such a gigantic mass, even if you see them first. Just a small bump could cause a crack and sink a boat. One cruising boat apparently ran into a whale and sunk 30 miles outside of San Carlos just a couple weeks ago! So while it would be great to have cool close-up snapshots, that sunken boat report made us very nervous…we can only hope our whale friends stay far, far away.

San Evaristo
After sailing across the San Jose Channel, we landed at San Evaristo. Our second time anchoring in this small bay with a teeny fishing community, it’s a favorite of ours due to the shelter it provides from wind waves. And because of the fish tacos. Lupe and Maggie Mae’s restaurant/home makes the best fish tacos in all of Baja.

30 Knots
That night, we were blasted with an unpredicted 30 knot westerly. While blustery, this was an onshore wind (fortunately for us) so we had no uncomfortable fetch (no wind waves rolling in offshore to generate bounce). But the lack of fetch didn’t mean we slept well. The noise generated by 30 knots of wind is quite something. Plus, we had a banging halyard that could not be fixed in the dark, and then there’s the remnants of our no-see-um bites that still itched like crazy. Despite these minor issues, we were supremely relieved to have left San Francisco’s exposed west anchorage the day before. We later heard accounts of a really rough and rolly night there in those same 30kts winds; so uncomfortable that some boats vacated in the middle of the night, motoring around to the east side of the island for better protection.

Flakey Flurries
By the time we got up in the morning, the westerly wind had decreased to a nice 12 kts. We rounded the corner of the little bay into the San Jose Channel thinking we would get some good sailing; and we did – for literally one mile. Then it stopped. Dead. 12-knots to zero in an instant. Where’d the wind go? We waited a bit but eventually took down the flapping sails and motored on for another couple miles. Then it came whipping up again (17 knots); soooo, we started sailing again. We then noticed another sailboat just ahead of us rolling his sails up. Huh? But it’s plenty windy to sail!? We snickered a bit and kept sailing. Sure enough…our brisk breeze petered out again a mile later, right where the lead boat had given up. No longer snickering, the lightbulb finally went on...

Looking closer at the mountain terrain, the wind was funneling down through the sheer passes and out the valleys like a bobsled chute. On either side of the two valleys – zero wind. It’s also probable we caught more wind passing those “chutes” so close to shore than if we had angled away towards the center channel. Every day, the Sea teaches us a lesson it seems: in sailing or anchoring, in weather phenomena, in ocean water patterns, in nature’s infinite wonders…but mostly, of nature’s unpredictability!
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Simple San Evaristo

5/23/2015

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Picture
Sunrise at San Evaristo
May 8-10th
I had wanted to stay in San Francisco to do some more hiking and rock-hunting but we didn’t think it would be good wind-wise as the winds were supposed to get stronger over the next few days. So we left for San Evaristo about 7 miles away, across the narrow San Jose Channel and back to the Baja Peninsula.

San Evaristo is a small fishing/goat-herding/salt mine village of about 20 families, 3 hours by 4-wheel drive truck from La Paz. After anchoring, we relaxed and stayed on the boat, reading, napping, writing, etc. For the first time in 4 days, we slept through the night. Thank. God.

The next morning, Gary, the go-to weather guy from the ham radio Sonrisa Net, says high winds are coming in and already at noon we are experiencing gusts to 20kts at times. You can see the channel outside the bay getting choppy. A friend boat “Resolution” arrived from Isla San Francisco and told us about their miserable night rolling in wrap-around swell all night long. So as much as I wanted to stay in SF another day, Brian WAS right and it was a good thing we left. Yes, sometimes he IS right. We stayed there for 3 nights due to strong winds for the next couple days. No more anchor dragging despite the higher winds. 

Water!
Brian, in searching for what the air vent in the sink goes to, found a leak in the hose connection for the aft water tank that is a slow leak into the bilge. We saw water in there the other day and thought it might be from the packing gland or from all the anchor water draining from the chain into the bilge every time we pull up the anchor. Apparently not. It’s a slow leak and we are not equipped to fix it other than to keep the aft tank half full to keep it from draining. Good thing we have a water-maker.

Speaking of that, we made water for the first time with our watermaker. Yay! OK it was the second time, but this was the first time we would use it in a real cruising situation, not just for testing. It took us about an hour to refill our tanks as we don’t let them get much below half (we have tanks for 70 gallons).

I filled up an additional 2 buckets of water using “free” test water and did a big load of laundry. I washed (plunged – see photo of my plunger washer) about 2 shirts in a “set”, plunging about 100 times per set, using the same detergent water for everything. Putting aside the wet cleaned clothes, I poured out the dirty detergent water. Then I rinsed… again 2 shirts at a time, doing my “sets” (great for the triceps), plunging fresh water through and rinsing each “set” in just a few cups of new water each. The plunger works by pushing and sucking water through the material with each plunge down onto the clothing; plus it stows easily. It took at least an hour to do one full load (several shirts, shorts, and a couple yoga pants), but as Brian says, what else do I have to do that day? Isn’t he funny?

Boat pot-luck
“Resolution” invited us to their boat for dinner. So in the afternoon I made oatmeal/cranberry/raisin/almond bars for dessert. Just so you understand the time involved in endeavor such as this: 2 hours from 4pm-6pm, including 40 min of baking time which also is clean up time. Resolution was going back to La Paz in a couple days and had over-provisioned, so they made us a virtual feast. Margaritas, pork filets on the BBQ, farfalle/garbanzo bean salad, real salad with actual lettuce (too fragile to store on my boat) and tomato, roasted green poblano chilies with cheese, fresh cantaloupe… and my lowly bars. I can’t even cook more than 2 dishes at a time and that’s only if the second is rice or pasta to be put into the first, let alone make 5 courses. Some people have that amazing talent for entertaining…and the fridge space. Jealous. I envy having space in my refrigerator for an entire cantaloupe.

El silencio de la noche
That night we slept like rocks but woke up in the middle of the night knowing something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t; it was a still as a lake. Windy anchorages are no fun; but no wind is also disconcerting. After so many days of motion, such stillness was downright eerie. We felt as though we were in a sensory deprivation chamber or ensconced in a black hole. No sound, no movement whatsoever, pitch black… we couldn’t even tell we were on a boat. That night it creeped us out enough that we went up on deck just to make sure we weren’t floating off into Never-Never Land. So sorry, it was all a just dream, you have to get up for work in an hour…NOOOooooo.

Hiking San Evaristo
The next morning the weather net still predicted more northwest winds and Mother Nature did not disappoint. We kayaked to shore and after hiking a half mile, we arrived at the salt ponds on the north shore where it was blowing like snot. We were glad we stayed put… the waves were looking pretty squirrely in the San Jose Channel. 

The salt ponds on this side of town are very neat and orderly, large mushy rectangles lined with rocks. Perfectly smooth, round pebbles lined the shore in masses here  - the kind that would cost a mint for your backyard garden pond. Like pebble dunes instead of sand dunes, all the loose stones caused a minor landslide with each step. A small cemetery with about 6 tombs surrounded by a short rock wall sat lonely in the corner of the beach.

We walked back to the village on the dusty road that only a 4-wheel drive would love. Past the small one-room school house. Past a fishing shack with the guts of a fish hanging from a clothesline. Past ramshackle casas smaller than a 2-car garage, with no electricity other than a lone solar panel. One house boasted the decayed remnants of 4 pickups in a row, each broken down further than the next, scavenged for parts for the current truck.

We walked past a fisherman feeding scraps to the pelicans who lined up waiting patiently for a few bits. We noticed the seagulls around here are quite fat and happy, and lazy, barely moving from their resting spots as we pass by. They squawk louder and more annoyed the closer we get… “really… don’t you come over near me… this is my spot…seriously… I mean it… I’m not getting up…ohhh fine… dammit.” They get up from their comfy seat, waddle sleepily a couple feet away just out of reach, and settle back down.

Tacos de Pescado
We came to the town restaurant (singular): Lupe & Sierras & Maggi Mae’s Restaurant. The owner (Maggi and her husband Lupe) operates this little gem out of their house - you can see the beds behind the curtain off the kitchen. We eat in plastic furniture on their little patio adorned with home-made shell and dried starfish garland fencing that hung and twirled in the wind. Basically the menu is: fresh fish, whatever that happened to be at the moment. Decide if you want it fried and breaded (emparizado), just fried, or poached for 100 pesos with rice, avocado and cucumbers. I had awesome 80 peso ceviche with big chunks of cucumbers. SOOO good I had to take a picture. And cokes for 15 pesos each. That’s a dollar. So for 210 pesos or $14 plus a big tip we had a truly awesome lunch. Forgettaboutit.

F-ING FISHES…
Our 2-night, sinfully quiet, sleep streak was rudely interrupted. The wind had died completely and as it got dark our little cheapo solar cockpit lights came on ($3 home depot garden lights) and the illumination drew the plankton near the boat…which drew the fish to eat them. These particular fish were loud, they’d fidget and swish, splatter and splish, and generally cause a ruckus. We’d seen them before at another anchorage and it was cool to watch. If I’d had a net I could easily scoop up a dozen of them at a time and never run out of food for the rest of the year. Usually they got bored and went away after awhile…

As the night wore on, and I mean wore on… and we tried to sleep, it got progressively worse. Normal fishies, when encountered with something looming in their path, like a snorkel-masked human, or a huge lurking sailboat hull, naturally dart out of the way, seemingly in the nick of time. Most fish are smart in that way; not these fish. Whatever these were, some moronic carp-like creature at the bottom rung of the food chain, they ignored the boat hull completely in their feeding frenzy. They slid and slapped, whipped and whacked their 2-foot-long bodies against the hull. ALL. NIGHT. LONG.

I’m trying to sleep here! The water-line is about level to our v-berth where we sleep. Every few seconds…thud, shwack, flap and gurgle…right next to my head.  Of course it was completely still, so no wind or wave noise means every sound is amplified. Eventually Brian went out and moved the lights a bit higher to eliminate the shine down into the water. But it was too late. They already claimed their spot and I swear I heard them calling to their other fishy friends telling the whole bay just what a great meal they were having at that Indigo boat.

This same night of the frolicking fishies was also the same night that I heard someone’s alarm go off at 4am on shore, beep-beep-beep for several minutes at a time. Then it would stop, then 15 minutes later it would start up again. It was so faint I almost thought I was crazy but when Brian woke up he confirmed I was not. At least this time.

The final straw in the camel’s back was about 5am, when we were going to get up at 6am to begin our long 26 mile trek up to Timbabiche, the roosters started. It was dark out. Completely. I had just commented that morning that the chickens here seemed to be pretty lazy, cock-a-doodle-doing at a measly 9:30am. Sheesh. Should have kept my mouth shut. Later, I realized they crowed at 9:30 on a Sunday when nobody worked, and 5am on Monday. Smarter than your average fish at least.
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