Link to My Previous Post: Viva la Mexico and the Freak Out Boys
March in the Eastern Pacific along the coast of Mexico is truly a phenomenal place to be. The weather and seas are perfect.
When we left San Diego, mornings and evenings had a chill in the air, but it wasn’t cold - on shore. However, Brad insisted that the watches be kept at the outside helm, not inside at the upper salon helm station. The ‘boys’ who had the night watches were bundled up, but at ten knots, no jacket, however heavy, could keep out a marine chill that cut right through to the bone. I was happy I did not have to do it. By the time the late night watch standers were relieved in the morning, they were very ready to thaw out with a hot cup of coffee, a breakfast sandwich, a warm bed - and some sleep. Brad had broken up the crew into sets of three watches; six hours on, twelve off. He had no plans to stop until we reached Cabo San Lucas, almost a thousand miles, which at ten knots with no stops would take less than five days. It wasn’t a brutal schedule and everyone settled onto the routine fairly quickly.
Dean and I were trying to get used to sleeping underway. Our cabin, full beam and astern of midships, was not over the engine room but we were over the shaft and could hear it turning, as well as the propeller cutting through the water, fairly loudly. There was also the sound of the engine and the exhaust exiting the pipes, especially as Eclipse rolled gently aft to forward through the one meter swells hitting us starboard aft. Eclipse was gently rocked from behind but we had no problem walking or getting around. We also heard every alarm; well, at least I did; adding to the adjustments of sleeping and living aboard Eclipse until we reached Florida. For the first few weeks, ear plugs were our friend - but they did nothing to block the low frequency sounds or vibrations. Eventually, the familiar rhythms became more of a balm than a bother - white noise we learned to sleep to - to the point that any change of pitch, tone, tempo or unfamiliar sound became alarming in itself.
Micah had seen to it that we were well and deliciously fed. He was preparing food for the crew but saved his real skill for us. We dined on roasts, tacos and salads all made with his own special sauces served with flourish - I have never felt so spoiled in my life. Forty three years of cooking for myself or a large family made my appreciation of his care especially acute. It occurred to me that I would need to be careful not to overeat if I wanted to continue to fit in any of my bathing suits. And although the days were all stunningly sunny, the ocean breeze was crisp - we still looked forward to reaching the point where the difference in air temperature was noticeably warmer and jackets were no longer needed while on deck. The siren song of the Mexican ‘winter’ called to us all.
We were about thirty miles offshore most of the time, dark, dark blue water surrounding us. Nights were so pitch black you could not see your hand in front of you. It was an inky blackness that seemed to swallow the world; the only thing visible were the faint stars overhead. The horizon and the water blended together in what was, to me, a manner that made me for the first time in my life feel incredibly tiny and insignificant - and afraid of the all engulfing blackness. If a one hundred foot wave had come out of the darkness, we would never have seen it coming. Mornings, however, were magnificent. Dean is an early riser, so often I would find us up on deck shortly after sunrise to appraise our location and the conditions and breathe some fresh sea air. Dean would chat with either Brad or Lloyd and I would grab my coffee, (everyone had their own labeled Yeti cup thanks to Lloyd), and sit on the stern winch cover, looking east and watching the light play on the water. I remember one such day realizing that I had never before noticed that only in the morning, before the water was disturbed by the wind and while the angle of the sun was low, did the those reflections resemble tiny twinkling diamonds, scattered and dancing across the ocean surface for as far as I could see. This phenomena only lasted for about an hour every day and I was surprised at how delighted the sight of it made me. I felt like I was the only person on earth who was given the gift of observing that stunning display of incredible beauty.
For those of you who are unaware, our course down the coast of Mexico coincided with the migrating whales on their way to their birthing spot in Baja, Califonia; and we were right in the middle of calving season. We were constantly sighting whale spouts, some close; we counted at least one hundred whales. We were also frequently visited by playful dolphins - they would ride our bow wake, occasionally turning sideways to look up at us and wink hello. The Pacific Ocean off the coast of North America is teeming with life - Jason even caught a few Jackfish while trolling. We saw tuna, marlin, sharks and sunfish. The view of the land was amazing - no development, just pristine mountains and beaches for as far as we could see, with just a few villages here and there. Much of the shoreline is sheer cliffs. When the swells increased, we could see from miles away the white spray of the rollers hitting the rocks and shooting as high as one hundred feet in the air.
One of the debates onboard was me trying to talk Brad into allowing us to stop in at least one of the more famous whale watching bays on our trip. Not knowing if we would ever be back, and having wanted to go on a trip to Magdalena Bay for many years, the thought of just passing by without stopping seemed blasphemous to me. Brad knew the clock was ticking on his allotted time; he had a six week contract; and refused. Fortunately God intervened and brought in a low pressure system with predicted winds of twenty to twenty five knots. Upon learning this, Brad quickly acquiesced to my wishes - by scheduling our stop and a two day layover to allow the winds to settle before continuing on.
We were experiencing lovely moments of dancing light, dolphins and good meals; but lest anyone believe the atmosphere onboard Eclipse was peaceful - HA! Intertwined with moments of enjoying God’s amazing creation and some yummy food, the friction between the crew got worse and the ‘freak out’ boys continued to live up to their name. Among other things, a new and unique but ‘terrifying’ issue came up - our fuel transfer system.
We heard the conversation taking place almost as soon as we left Ensenada. I remember snippets of voices, words; “day tank”, “transfer pump” ,“transfer rate”, “fuel manifold”; all words in a lexicon of language with which I was quite unfamiliar and was determined to stay that way. (Pipe dream). We had hired experts to figure this stuff out and they just needed to do their job. However, as we made our way down the coast, it became clear that a ‘concern’ was now becoming a full-blown ‘problem’. Lloyd began to obsess over the transfer rate, insisting it was not sufficient to provide fuel for the miles we planned on traveling - he posited that we would use up the fuel in the day tank faster than we could transfer it. Brad was concerned, too, as he was unclear exactly where the transferred fuel was actually going. We had eight fuel tanks - I remember looking over the plans spread out over the table in the upper salon and thinking “thank God this is not my job”, as well as “Good God, the engineering on this boat is incredible!” My only addition to the conversation was the observation that two of the tanks clearly used gravity to drain into the main tanks, which helped with understanding the flow. Unfortunately the transfer manifold was a maze of valves, none of which were on the schematic and of which no one on board knew the correct configurations of closed and open - some had three positions. The plans were of little to no help and in fact added to the confusion. No one even knew where all the tanks and their lines were located.
Some testing was going to have to be done and as usual, Dean had been right - the boys should have taken Eclipse off the pier and looked at something so important before we left Newport. Along with some other problems, the daily ‘freak outs’ continued as did the increase in our blood pressure. The crew would have to address them on our way South.
As we traveled towards Magdalena Bay, (Mag Bay), some five hundred and seventy five miles down the coast, Brad was checking for a place to stop and chose Turtle Bay, still two hundred miles from our target. He was timing our arrival in Magdalena Bay to make sure it was during daylight and we could ensure a good anchorage in the predicted winds. A small but well protected bay just south of Cedros Island, it looked and was described as an ideal quick stop by our Baja guidebook. One of the lessons we learned on our trip is that all the plentiful popular boater’s guide books that are stocked at local marine supply stores were written decades ago. Even the ‘updated’ versions have serious omissions when it comes to the smaller, less popular anchor or provision spots. Lesson learned. Online forums are your friend - if you have the internet. We had to rely on spotty cell phone coverage as we traveled down the coast. Offshore, we had nothing. Except for intermittent 4G cell service, our guidebook was the only source for information we had on our way to Panama.
We entered the mouth of the bay around 2:00 p.m. Signs of ‘civilization’ were nearly non existent. The sandy shores and beaches were empty of people or development. The bay’s waters were nearly deserted with only one small sailboat at anchor and a decrepit barge of some kind tied to a mooring can. Whereas Turtle Bay was listed in the guidebook as having a thriving small town, restaurant and full service fuel dock, upon arrival we found a huge empty pier with a tiny town, both in the same desolate and decaying condition. As we approached a good place to anchor on the northern side, closer to the town, a typical beat up Mexican panga immediately flew out to greet us. Driven by a very enthusiastic man named Antonio, accompanied by his scruffy but mute amigo whose name I have no idea, he launched into what I call the Mexican “Cha Cha”; the common practice of promoting in broken but decent English his services, including delivering groceries and providing fuel, (hard pass), or, as his paid passengers, (“almost free”), taking us on a trip to the pier so we could enjoy a sumptuous meal at the local, (and only), restaurant. I fully expected him to pull out a suitcase full of cheap jewelry just to complete the picture; but thankfully, he didn’t.
We had been on the boat for three days and the prospect of freshly made Mexican food was too enticing to pass up. Visions of fresh warm tortillas, salsa and grilled pescado, (fish) made my mouth water. To get to the restaurant, we had to traverse a long pier; shockingly, built to accommodate boats well over one hundred feet as they received fuel. In March of 2022, the pier was devoid of anything resembling commerce or buildings, although I know it once had both. Standing on the deck of Eclipse, at a distance of about five hundred yards, I examined the means by which we would access land. I was less than impressed by what I saw and actually concerned for our safety. My biggest concern was the ‘ladder’ down to what used to be a landing, (long gone); which by the looks of it would questionably hold the weight of a child let alone a full grown adult. Dangling precariously over the water, it was held to the pier by two or three ropes. Said ladder was the only access to the top of the pier.
I looked at Dean. The crew was itching to get off the boat and were all in on a Mexican dinner. I was not so sure. I gave him an imploring look that told him everything. I said quietly, “Honey, I am going to stay on the boat. You guys go ahead”.
But Dean would have none of it.
I won’t go into the details of the conversation, but it became clear that I was going. The boarding ladder went off the side of Eclipse and with the exception of Micah, who probably relished the thought of some time alone, we all boarded Antonio’s panga for our ‘night on the town’.
It was 3:00 p.m. Speeding towards the pier with an all open throttle on the twenty horsepower what-looked-like-thirty-year-old Johnson outboard engine, (only experience told me that, as the paint was gone and no identifiable markings were apparent), I was able to further study our not-so-quickly approaching means of a possible untimely demise; or at least a ticket to a Mexican hospital.
As we drew closer, the aroma of “eau’de guano” was unmistakable. The pier, as I mentioned, was long; about one hundred yards. The pilings that supported it were at the end at least twelve feet above the surface of the water, supporting a decaying deck. Clearly, at one point, this place had been built with the idea of catering to the large American yachts and small sailboats from Washington, Canada or California making their way to Mexico for the winter. Unfortunately, storms, hurricanes and the 2008 recession, over a decade behind now, had destroyed those dreams. What greeted our arrival were the skeletons of investments gone bad aided by poorly built infrastructure. The result was isolated people left behind by forces beyond their control, saddled with decaying structures and haunted by the demons of their broken dreams. Truly, that is the story of the common man in Mexico; only the rich and politically connected survive those storms, only to move on and find some other way to exploit the poor. Ordinary people are swept away or left in the aftermath to make the best of what is left.
But back to the pier. We arrived under the ladder and Antonio cut the engine; the dangling, jagged and splinter promising ascent to the walkway to the beach imposing a view that literally terrified me. Close up, the ladder looked one hundred times more dangerous than from a distance. Antonio enthusiastically offered to help each of us reach the gap between the step on the boat and the bottom of the ladder. Yes, you read that correctly - the lowest rung on the ladder dangled two feet over my head.
I looked up in horror. There was no way I was going up that rickety looking death trap. I glanced at Dean with a look of unadulterated fear.
The unflappable Antonio however, was the picture of optimism. He had a big toothy smile as he expressed his confidence. Seeing the look on my face, he offered this assurance, “No problem. It’s strong”. I was not convinced. In the interest of total honesty, my inner conversation was pretty close to this…”No. Fucking. Way. Am. I. Going. Up. That. Ladder.”
Brad was the first to volunteer. God love that man, he grabbed the ‘rail’ - a jerry-rigged piece of plywood barely held together by a few nails down the side of the ladder to give the climber something to hold on to; and with a little help, pulled himself up. The ladder swayed and groaned - for a split second I thought it would give - but it held. Before we knew it he was standing on the pier above us, grinning like only he does.
I was ready to lose my nerve. No time to think abut this - I knew that if I did not commit; and quickly; I wouldn’t go. Again I looked at Dean with eyes that spoke only to him - but they spoke loudly. I was shaking and truly frightened. He looked at me and said gently; “I got you honey”.
That was exactly and only what I needed to hear.
I took a deep breath, nodded at Antonio and lifted my foot. “Okay. I’m ready.”
I grabbed the bottom rung and felt myself lifted up. I put pressure on the foot in the hands of Antonio and pushed hard. My other leg I lifted toward the bottom rung of the ladder and quickly placed it in the middle as I pulled up with my arms on the rails while I pushed with my other leg.
I was on. I paused a moment to quiet my shaking and take another deep breath - I had been holding it without even realizing it. Now I just had to climb eight rungs and avoid slipping or splinters.
I ascended a few and then saw Brad’s huge paws reach down to grab my arms and help me up.
In one quick motion, I was on the pier.
Still shaking and saying silent prayers of thanks for no injuries, I watched as Dean and the rest of the crew came up the ladder. No one fell or slipped and to Antonio’s credit, the ladder held, which I felt was miraculous. Now all we had to do was walk to the restaurant. I grabbed Dean’s hand and looked down the pier at the not too short distance to the beach.
In places planks were missing or rotted through and it became clear where the ‘eau de guano’ was coming from. Although some thirty years before those planks may have supported a nascent industry catering to yachties and sailors, as well as some high hopes for a better life for the residents of Turtle Bay, the only denizens these days were a few brave souls like us; Antonio; and birds. LOTS of birds. Although the structure was wood, not painted, the surface of the pier was almost solid white, but even worse, the fumes from the bird poop were so strong they burned my nostrils.
We began our march towards safety, carefully watching each step. I covered my mouth and nose after a short distance, holding tight to Dean’s arm and then closed one eye as they too, began to burn. How the birds could stand the stench was beyond me. After a walk that seemed like hours, we set our feet on the small but filthy beach. Strewn with trash and detritus from the sea, in a place where the residents had no use for it except as a gateway to go fishing, the beach was just another victim of the apathy that filled the hopeless townspeople. We had to again watch our step as we made our way to a concrete ramp which led up the main road.
The road itself was dirt, of course. To our right was the way to the restaurant; to our left, a small church and a row of actual houses as opposed to the shanties I had expected. The town had water and electricity. The few people out and about stared at us curiously but did not greet us. No one smiled. After a quick look at the view of Eclipse from the church square, we began to make our way to the restaurant.
At first I thought we had misunderstood where the restaurant was. After a few minutes we all recognized that yes, this little hovel was indeed the town eatery. The outside looked like any other house and indeed had probably been someone’s home at one time. Upon entering, we were greeted by empty tables and silence as a few older women worked some craft towards the back. They barely greeted us but one nodded to a long table where we all sat down. A woman brought us menus and we all ordered a beer, hoping that at least the refrigeration kept them good and cold. Fish was the item of the day, so we ordered and discussed the thirty to forty year old pictures on the walls, wondering who the various people in them were and what had earned them a place on the hallowed walls of this nameless and nearly forgotten establishment.
After a truly forgettable meal, nothing like what my imagination had conjured up and no surprise there, we paid the bill and wandered out into the remaining daylight to look around. We found a few more houses and a small grocery store, but little else. As we walked the dirt streets, we could feel the old ghosts of grief and despair haunting the few brave souls who remained; the stale air of hopelessness drifted through like a fog. Even the dogs could not be bothered to disturb the quiet sadness. We spent only a short time exploring then made our way back to the pier; back to the image of our privilege anchored majestically in the bay, as well as the security of our unplanned wealth.
Back on Eclipse, I decreed that no one was allowed to step foot on the deck in the same shoes that had walked that pier. After washing all shoe bottoms, a barefoot and somber group went about settling in for a night of sleep instead of watches. Safe and warm aboard, the gratitude we all felt was palpable.
After watching what we could of sunset, down in our cabin, Dean and I climbed into bed and discussed the place, the people, the sadness of broken dreams and our unbelievable blessings. As we pondered it all, always within the context of our faith, our relationship with God and how our hearts dealt with all this material blessing, a thought came to my mind about something that had bothered me for years.
I figured now was as good a time as any to bring it up, so out of the blue, at a lull in our conversation, I blurted it out.
“Dean, why won’t you pray with me?”
For anyone who knows my husband, they know that this is an astonishing question. Dean Lobdell is one of the most committed and faithful Christians I have ever known. He has been this way since he gave his life to Christ as a teenager. The way he lives his life has been totally defined by his faith. My faith and understanding of God has grown exponentially thanks to him. His love for me healed deep emotional and spiritual wounds and for that I can never love him enough. Yet, despite seventeen years of marriage, years of me asking and knowing that praying together has much more power than praying alone, he had demurred over and over. He said he felt strange, it made him uncomfortable - and knowing how very shy he is, I hadn’t pushed. But in my mind, now that we had Eclipse and every sort of danger and unknown issue galore faced her, us and the crew, praying alone could no longer be an option. He was the head of our union and as such, he had the spiritual edict to lead us in prayer.
I was determined - from now on, we would pray as a couple. Period. He must have sensed that I was not going to allow this situation to continue, whether he was comfortable or not. Everything in our life had changed. This dereliction of spiritual leadership had to change, too.
Dean was silent. I knew he was thinking. I stayed silent to allow him the space of an honest and introspective answer.
I waited.
Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know why I haven’t prayed with you. I know it’s important. And I am not going to do that anymore. From this point on, we pray together. Every day. Starting now”.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief; I was experiencing another of God’s miracles. Whether it was my attitude or it was God, Dean gave no indication of push back. If anyone were to ask me what the most important thing was that came out of our crazy adventure, this would be it. We started that night; praying over the safety of the boat, the crew, us, our families; asking for wisdom, for guidance, for resources and for the right people to help us on our way. We always praised Him; thanking Him for the amazing miracle of the people who had helped us, our crew; and His love, protection and over the top blessing, no matter how much stress or discomfort we were experiencing. God was using Eclipse to grow our faith and our relationship to Him -and to each other.
We went to sleep that night holding hands. I felt a renewed sense of God’s plan and purpose as I dozed off, the sounds of the generator lulling me to rest. That generator became a lullaby as the ‘freak out’ boys had decided that although we had a full bank of brand new batteries and the Atlas system, the boat’s electrical system was not designed so that we could go on battery power overnight. (Another misconception that cost us many hundreds of generator hours and thousands of gallons of fuel.) Eventually the generator running became a sound of security as every night, after praying, we were sung to sleep by her low vibrant humming.
What we did not understand then was that God had been working on our hearts for good reason. In the ensuing weeks and months, our faith and prayers were going to be the only thing that kept us moving forward and sane. God was leading us to a place where the only thing we would have to hang on to was Him - and in so doing, He taught us a whole lot about His faithfulness and provision.
God was turning us into spiritual adults. Anyone who knows what that means will understand exactly what kind of experiences were in store for us.
Our fun was just beginning. In the morning, we were off to Mag Bay.
To Be Continued……