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Isla Isabela, views from the top of a good trek

Humpbacks welcoming us into our anchorage at Los Frailes

Soft hues of dusk

Film by Cassidy

Puerto Angel proved too unprotected to anchor in the southerly swell so we sailed past to Huatulco. A few years ago, a big cruise ship dock was built in this bay so instead of a big open bay, we squeezed ourselves intimately close into a sea of pangas; looking like an adult in a class of toddlers. We spent the week exploring the bays surrounding Huatulco, swimming for hours in the clear cool waters and spending time with our friends of the deep. Puffers swam sassily by; they have such big personalities for a fish and always make me laugh. I found myself in a thick school of surgeonfish who parted for a group of needlefish. A gliding ray passed below me. For as long as I can remember I’ve felt at home in the water, like some innate part of me belongs to the sea. I read that at a dinner celebration for the 1962 America's Cup, Kennedy had said “all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea - whether it is to sail or to watch it - we are going back from whence we came.”

A gale was coming through the Gulf of Tehuantepec and we ducked into Marina Chahue, unsure of how the winds and waves would reach us in Huatulco. Cass and I took the opportunity to gut the boat and deal with our troublesome crew members. We had picked them up earlier along the coast and they were beginning to overstay their welcome; what started as a tolerable relationship degraded to mutiny as they invited all of their friends aboard without asking. Naturally, we turned to poison as a solution; our unwanted guests, of course, being cockroaches. It was also breaking season again: a cycle any boat goes through where, after a short period of serene bliss where all the boats’ systems are working in harmony, everything breaks disastrously all at once. One of my solar panels died, unable to convert voltage to amps leaving us down 200W of solar. Also, my lead acids were misbehaving in a so far undiagnosed inability to hold a charge for very long. This left us without much power so we had to shut the fridge off at night and reduce our light usage. Were the cucarachas sabotaging us to make the boat dark and smell like food? To add to our list of problems, earlier when we went to pull anchor I completed my engine checks and found the heat exchanger cap broken; an essential part of the cooling system. Then the electric windlass ate part of the rode, refusing to spit it out and leaving us to pull up 100ft of rope, chain and anchor by hand. Hot and frustrated at my list of problems, I turned on the electric fan. Broken. $!@#!. Roaches, power problems, windlass jams…was Maquinna throwing a tantrum because she knows I’m leaving her in chiapas for the summer? I decided to let her sulk in peace and retreated to Matt’s boat for a few nights to let the cucaracha problem sort itself out.

Cass and I took a few days to go on a side-quest to Mazunte, hitching, bussing, then riding in a few truck beds with benches called “camionetas”: the local transport. I hung onto a small overhead bar as the camioneta swerved and weaved through the jungly oaxacan mountains and coastline, the slippery bench and open back of the truck seemingly no concern to the sleeping grandmother beside me. It’s always comical to take a trip on land after sailing for so long; looking out the window and watching the trees, pavement, and miles whiz by in a couple of hours, a distance that would have taken a day or more to cover in a sailboat. But of course, if Frodo and Sam had taken the eagles to Mordor there wouldn’t have been 3 books.  

Back on Quinn in Huatulco, we managed to sort out a few of her kinks and asked her to just hold for our final passage of the season across the notorious Gulf of Tehuantepec.

Holley :

After a refreshing 10 days in Ixtapa, Quinn and her crew were squeaky clean, rested up and excited to embark on another sweaty adventure. We spent a few days in the Zihuateneo anchorage before setting out with Sooner to Acapulco. This far south, the diurnal winds follow a predictable pattern: calm and glassy right before dawn and, as the sun rises, the winds blow towards the land, building through the day and peaking around 1700 when the waves finally start to catch up to the wind. As the sun dips below the horizon, the wind eases to the stern while the waves stay active for a while usually leading to a few hours of slatting sails while trying to sail direct downwind. Eventually, the sea lies down and a steady light breeze coming off the land pushes us through the night until it dies altogether preparing for a new day. Our homes on land are so thermoregulated and protected from the elements, a blessing for sure, but there is something so curious about living outside: there is so much time to notice the subtle language of the weather.

We pulled into Acapulco the following morning, dropping anchor off of Isla Rocas across a channel from the city. Since the category 5 Hurricane Otis hit Acapulco 6 months ago, the main anchorage is unusable due to many sunken boats. Isla Rocas winding trails tell a story of fierce winds: we climbed over fallen trees and debris while exploring the island's many pathways, at times reaching a point of impasse or being led astray by toppled branches in the hot dry shrubbery. Matt and I escaped the heat of an afternoon by snorkeling off the point of the island. From the cloudy depths a dark figure loomed: a statue of the Virgin Mary stood in silent repose 15 feet underwater, her hands clasped in prayer, her face thoughtful and eyes cast downward as if sending a prayer to the many sunken boats in the bay.

Our two day passage to Puerto Angel was kind to us. 8-13kn of broad reach for days with mostly gentle seas: a sailor's dream! It’s quiet out here these days, quiet in the mind and in the waves. We don’t see any boats for days, only Sooner dances along the sparkling waters infinitely. How long have we been out here? An entire lifetime? I remember back in the Pacific Northwest when the sun set early and I’d watch it go below the horizon with a slight unease, wondering what challenge the cold damp night would bring. I’d don my foulies: long underwear, sweater, toque, waterproof bib, heavy weather jacket, life vest with harness and tether. I'd sit in my damp cockpit squinting at the AIS screen every 5 minutes because the lightless foggy nights made us blind to hazards. Now as the scorching sun lays down to rest, we rejoice and welcome the warm breeze of the night. Like animals of the desert, we come alive at night, creeping out from behind our shady protection to gaze at the southern cross rising in the night sky.

Holley:

The year is 1852 and the Brig Clytus of Saltcoats, an impressive double masted sailboat, fights her way through a gale off the coast of Scotland, her square sails and lofty masts swaying from side to side as the sea sprays around her. A proud bowsprit leads the charge through heavy seas and a hull filled with trading coal and limestone surfs down the great waves. Stories of the ship tell of a captain who was “heroic and exceedingly clever”. I imagine the 14-man crew standing courageously at their posts, loyal to their formidable commander, whose “position and attitudes on quarter-deck in a gale of wind are often spoken of, and would do credit to an admiral.” Her captain? The first woman to ever be registered as a sea captain in the Board of Trade, and my great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather's niece: Captain Elizabeth Betsy Miller.

The Brig Clytus was owned by my great (x7) granduncle William Miller, a successful merchant and ship owner. In 1833, the Glasgow Herald reported a disastrous accident at sea in which the Clytus and several other ships were caught in a great storm, ultimately ending with the Clytus on the beach and John Miller, William Miller’s son and Master of the ship, deceased at age 29. It was written in the Herald that “Mr. [John] Miller was in the very bloom of manhood - was generous and warm-hearted, and possessed all those distinguishing traits which mark the British sailor; his loss is therefore deeply deplored by all who knew his manly disposition.” This was William’s third and last son lost at sea. Though grief beheld my ancestors, it may have been this accident that caused William Miller’s eldest daughter and experienced sailor, Betsy, to captain the Clytus in John’s stead. 

Betsy, having grown up with a love of the sea and accompanying her father on many passages, took over the family business and command of the Clytus after the unexpected death of her father and brother left the ship captainless. Perhaps through William's grief and decline prior to his death, the trading company he passed on to the family came with 400 British pounds of debt. Over Betsy’s 30 years in command of the Clytus, she would not only become one of the most respected captains on the Irish seas, earning honorable mentions, but was able to make up the entire debt of the family business and more, eventually retiring at 69 as one of the wealthiest women in Ayrshire. Tales of her years as Captain include “weather[ing] the storms of the deep [where] many commanders of the other sex have been driven to pieces on the rocks.” A podcast episode of “Ayrshire Legends” reveals that Betsy had earned deep respect from her crew, holding her head high and always sporting her finest petticoats while doing it:

One stormy day, when Clytus was blown off course and onto the beaches near Irvin, rather than give into the storm, Betsy was said to have raced to her cabin [to change] her clothes, she didn't feel the elements, but washing ashore in less than respectable garments was another matter. She was quoted as saying “Lads I’ll gang below and put on a clean sock, for I’d like to be flung onto the shore kind of decent.”

Hannah, Betsy’s first mate and younger sister would take over command of the vessel after Betsy’s death at age 71. 

In the book I’m reading, “Figuring” by Maria Popova, the author ponders:

What are the building blocks of character, of contentment, of lasting achievement? How does a person come into self-possession and sovereignty of mind against the tide of convention and unreasoning collectivism?

I was reminded of my ancestor, Betsy Miller, when I read this passage. How did she come to possess this incorrigible spirit, unyielding to the expectations of womanhood at the time? For she, a woman in her 30’s, to not only brave the high seas and tremendous storms, but to confront the gale of patriarchy in a male dominated profession and as courageously as to earn the unwavering respect of her crew, earning the title of “master mariner”, all whilst unashamedly maintaining her femininity in her finest petticoats. Was she born with this spirit? Was it a condition of the support of her family and friends who fueled her every idea with belief and encouragement? Or was it her distant ancestors who passed their spirit, unknowingly permeating through generations to be manifested once again in some great circle? I’d like to believe the latter. 

As this cruising season comes to a close and we prepare to cross the Gulf of Tehuantepec for our final port of Chiapas where Maquinna will be resting for hurricane season, I reflect on our journey over the last year. What brought us to pursue this unconventional lifestyle and to chase “sovereignty of mind” against a more traditional way of life? It is watching my dad impact-drive a stubborn screw from the boom cap in 35 degree weather in Ixtapa that sheds light on at least part of this question: 

After months at sea, Quinn and her crew were in dire need of a scrub. We pulled into Ixtapa marina, an exhilarating entrance complete with breaking waves and sandbars, and into the loving arms of our parents who flew down to meet us and who had rented a suite for us all to stay in for ten days. After weeks spent on an unforgivingly hot ocean, stepping into an air conditioned hotel and washing the sweat, salt and smell of fish from our weary bodies was nothing short of life changing. A heat wave was hitting the coast and we had often found ourselves sailing in an unsatisfying 5-7kn breeze with nowhere to hide from an oppressive sun. Maquinna also sighed in relief as we hosed her down and scrubbed her salty hull at the marina. We spent ten days in Ixtapa with our parents in juxtaposing luxury, a shocking change from the perma-camping life on the boat.

Our parents have always been there with open arms when we need them; they are the unseen force behind our journey. When a 26 year old daughter tells her loving and protective parents she is not going to medical school but instead buying a sailboat, hitting the open ocean and sailing to South America, oh and she's taking her sister, I imagine it often doesn’t end well. Though my parents were worried (understatement), and perhaps in denial for a period, once they saw how serious we were they poured in their support and never once doubted us, even against a flood of disbelievers. When I was pulling my hair out trying to get the boat ready for this trip back in August, I called my mom nearly every day. She was always there to pull me back up when I doubted myself. When we set out for the offshore portion of the trip, my parents were faithfully on the other end of the sat phone, my dad sending detailed weather updates multiple times a day for days on end. Though we didn’t get much sleep on that 7 day passage, I am positive my parents got less. When my transmission blew in northern California and I spent days with grease on my face feeling absolutely overwhelmed, my dad was at home doing hours of research on his computer helping me figure out how I was going to fit this new transmission in, making his own calculations and consulting with me on the phone. We spent hours on facetime together every day discussing ideas and troubleshooting. I would have been so lost without his support. Our parents are our cheerleaders, sponsors, therapists, and, though perhaps to their regret, a cause of our belief in our ability to chase this wild dream. 

Thanks to my wonderful Aunt Judy for unearthing this synchronous piece of family history! Cass and I were amazed to hear of our ancestor, the courageous Betsy Miller and her succeeding sister and first mate. Also thanks Joanne for getting this month's book club read to me all the way in Zihuatanejo!

https://www.naheritagetrails.co.uk/heritagetrails_saltcoats_betsymiller.php

Podcast: Ayrshire legends: Betsy Miller - Britain's first female sea captain

Cassidy :

We’ve been on the sea for nearly 7 months now, enough time to make sailing feel like an indefinite lifestyle, and also enough time to have most of our major learning curves simmer to a minimum. I have been on quite a few big trips in my life but none of them have lasted this long. I usually find that around the 2 or 3 month mark I get restless and am eager to get back home. On this trip I have been through periods of doubt, longing, restlessness, but each time I reach that point it feels imperative to keep pushing through. In amongst the challenging emotions there are moments, hours, days filled with absolute beauty, wonder, and magnificence. Dropping and raising anchor in each novel bay, it is a blessing every day to wake up to splashing fish and chirping sea birds, and to gaze upon new sea states and shorelines as we float further South.

We said goodbye to our two extra crewmates a couple weeks back in Barra De Navidad, just South of Puerto Vallarta. Erik and Rachel were sailing with us since La Paz, and it was such a treat to share explorations with them. Following their departure both Holley and I agreed that we wanted to stop doing so many overnight passages. The lack of rest was wearing on us, shifting from a nearly nocturnal schedule into regular sleep and then back into sleepless nights again, our bodies had no time to adjust and we realized our energy levels were dipping. We planned out our schedule from Barra to Zihuatanejo to only include day sails.

Turns out the nice thing about our overnight passages was that from about 6pm until 6am it stayed cool. Some of our sails past Barra were so incredibly hot that we had to build a fort in the cockpit out of miscellaneous fabrics to fend off the sweltering rays. We sat inside our den of clothes-pinned blankets and scarves reading books, wearing wet facecloths across our heads and pressing cans of cold beer to the backs of our necks. After many hours we started to go a bit loco, especially when the sea was glassy and there was not a puff of wind around for miles. During the hottest passages we tried to limit the amount of times we had to leave the den, opting for full hibernation. Our source of happiness and enjoyment was the wind, when those afternoon thermals would crop up it felt like a Godsend, a religious experience, to feel that breeze hit our faces and fill the sails, the relief was immeasurable.

Besides the desert heat, being able to stay in a new anchorage every night was wonderful. There are so many interesting little bays to tuck into along the Mexican coast that you would never see if you were a land traveller. The communities there are largely isolated from modern civilization, with a lot of the bays, like Cabeza Negra and Maruata, being home to local Indigenous tribes in that area. In some of the bays it was forbidden to land a dinghy onshore. You could see the goings on of the villages during the day and I felt very curious about what life was like for them, how interesting it would be to spend a couple weeks there to learn about their culture. Many of the bays were home to large turtle populations that laid eggs on their beaches. We saw a ton of turtles swimming around the boat in that area. They glide by so gracefully, seemingly moving with such purpose and wisdom. Their thick wrinkled skin and tarnished shells show their old age, the generations they’ve lived through, the thousands of miles they have covered in no hurry at all.

There was one bay we decided to stay at for a few extra days because landing a dinghy was allowed if you were able to navigate the surf. The waves were powerfully pounding the shore but we were pretty pro at surfing the dinghy by now so we went for it anyway. The beach was incredibly expansive and served as a great place to run and stretch. The village was fairly isolated from foreigners but there were a lot of Mexicans there on vacation. I went out walking one day and met some lovely people who were eager to talk. One of them invited me into his palm tree garden and I spent the afternoon listening to him tell stories about his life in the town. Listening to stories can be a good way to get a feel for the undercurrent of a place and its people, personal accounts of the day to day goings ons that often expose what lays beneath the observable surface.

Through his stories I came to realize how different these places were then towns back home. The Mexican Cartel makes their presence known here, especially when civilians misbehave. Rather than government-funded social services it seems that there are more “tough luck” repercussions for folks that are not following suit. Fear is a prevailing emotion for many locals here, and criminal activity has risen alongside increased Cartel-run violence. It seems that with more threat of violence there would naturally be a stronger need for defence among civilians. This dangerous lifestyle has really been glorified in modern movies and media, but it is a lot different to feel that you are in amongst it rather than watching it on a screen.

We spent two days in that town and were introduced to some really interesting folks that had a big permaculture garden. We were gifted many fresh bananas, papayas, mangos, and coconuts, which are exactly what you want to eat on hot days out at sea. We left early in the morning with our tummies full of fruits and began our passage South to Zihuatanejo.

Holley :

After a night's sail from Mazatlan, the crew spotted two little rocks on the morning horizon. For hours we watched the rocks get bigger and bigger until they turned into small islands: Isla Isabela. Erik and I sat on the bow and observed the ocean come to life as we got closer. Frigates and terns swooped low towards the boat and little song birds looked for a place to perch while singing a morning tune. Shiny turtle shells popped up around the boat to welcome us in, and in the distance: a blast of water and flick of tail from a pod of humpbacks. 

Isla Isabela is about 20nm off mainland Mexico and a mating and breeding ground for almost 100 species of ocean birds. We pulled in behind two white and gray rock spires on the east side of the island, Erik and Cass looked carefully into the clear blue water and waited until I motored over a tiny patch of sand amongst rocks to drop the anchor. The call of hundreds of birds overhead and crashing waves on the reef echoed around us and we stood in amazement at the beauty and wildness of the anchorage. We threw up the bimini to avoid aerial fecal assaults and settled in to enjoy a few days rest in the peaceful sanctuary. 

Under the sea, we explored a city of coral and colorful fish who moved busily about their day. Big blue and white fish with glowing eyes watched us curiously and an orange puffer swam by minding his own business. The coral dropped off in cliffs beneath the spires and families of neon fish and crustaceans drifted through the underwater tunnels and caves, nibbling at the reef and surging with the water. Matt helped me load up a speargun and I speared my first Jack and enjoyed some fresh fish tacos for lunch. 

On land, a white sandy shoreline dissolved into thick deciduous trees, their foliage lying a few feet off the ground as to provide a sort of roof for the nesting boobies. As we walked along the shoreline we were careful not to startle the protective mothers huddled over their eggs. We had the privilege of watching some of their mating displays and hearing their calls. The boobies seemed to trust us but were still cautious, always keeping one eye out as they waddled. Their little blue webbed feet comically and adorably kicked from side to side as they marched along the forest floor, not looking as intimidating as they may have felt. 

As we hiked further inland, boobies were replaced by frigates perched higher up in the branches. Amongst the massive black wings and graceful curved beaks, tiny puffs of white feathered baby frigates squawked and talked noisily to the adults. As we descended further north into a valley, the frigate families and nests grew so thick there was no choice but to walk right beside them on the path. On every gnarled twisting branch sat a family of giant black birds watching us and guarding their little white puffs. Overhead, red breasted frigates displayed their impressive chests while, under foot, bones and wings of a bird graveyard crunched as we walked. We made our way quickly through the bird’s den, not lingering too long with knowledge that we were guests there. 

Finally, we came out of the dense valley and the distinct smell of birds was replaced by fresh salty ocean breeze. We popped out onto the northern shore where big surge channels crashed onto rocks and sprayed wisps of ocean mist through blowholes. We spotted the highest point of the island to the southwest and determined to make it there by sunset, the sun already deep in the western sky. Hiking back through the symphony of evening chatter from our aerial friends, our group separated; each enjoying their own adventure through the exotic thicket. When we came upon a fork in the road we found branches decorating the path in the form of an arrow indicating which way our friends had gone. We followed the arrows through the little fishing village, along the southern beach and at last up a rocky ridge where we reunited with the rest of our group to enjoy a beer and snack just in time for sunset. Silhouettes of frigates danced before the orange glow on the horizon and we cheersed to a magical day.

Cassidy :

It was the night before our Sea of Cortez crossing. A waxing gibbous shone high in the sky as we navigated our skiff through the maze of anchored boats, toward the flickering glow of the fire. We were settled in the tranquil bay of Los Muertos.

Warm flames lit up the faces of many young sailors gathered round the fire, the glow of many months on the sea alive in their smiles. It is always a treat to find other likeminded sailors, not often do you find boats captained by young folks on voyages this long. The sailing community seems to be mostly dominated by retirees who can spare a lot of extra time and money on their hobbies. When we meet younger sailors it is usually without delay that we find a common thread that weaves between us. It seems that we both seek to live each day guided by the natural rhythmns, and to learn to embrace the changing conditions rather than resisting them. Life on land can easily lend itself to rigidity, when we become too engrained in our habitual patterns it seems we get further from the life force itself, as this natural energy is always flowing, transforming and changing. The illusion of earthly life convinces us we are in control, but out on the sea that sense of control and order sheds from your being at a rapid pace, until you are bare bones and exposed to the great forces of chaos.

It was around the time when we squirted the last few sandy drops of bagged red wine into our mouths that we decided it would be a good idea to race our boats to Mazatlan, winner would get a 24 pack of beer. For a thirsty penny pinchin crew of seaman in the Mexican desert heat, a flat of beer was a big deal. Somewhere in the mix we also decided there would be a prize for who wrote the best sea shanty, and for whoever caught the biggest fish. Another 12 beers were on the line.

We celebrated the commencing of the “grandest race of the season” and that night we shared beautiful music into the late hours, the banjo, ukelele, and saxophone converging and diverging in sweet wonders of exploration.

The less glorious aspect of that night was when Holley pulled the cord to start the outboard motor and hit me square in the face with such a velocity that my nose instantly started pouring blood. We plained through the anchorage still singing sea shanties, with me and the dinghy all covered in blood.

Upon opening my eyes the next morning I realized quickly what we had agreed to. The race was commencing in a few hours, and we were already receiving cutthroat comments from our opponents on the VHF radio. There was an extra layer of intensity in the preparations of the crew that morning… it was comical. We considered taking drastic measures, like rigging up a new sail constructed from my many tapestries, or even throwing Rachel (one of our crew members) overboard, anything to lighten us up for the grand race, but we sufficed to hoist the light 150 Genoa instead and decided to not be so competitive. The winds were light unfortunately, that meant for technical sailing ahead.

We raised anchor around 12:30pm and Erik used our fog horn to signify the beginning of the race. Everyone in the anchorage was startled by the sound and I saw them all come up on deck to see what the heck was going on. No motors were allowed in the competition so we set the sails and waited for the wind to fill them to gain momentum. We made the beginning of the race pretty intense but there was only about 5 knots of wind so, in reality, after the horn went off, both boats were just bobbing next to each other awkwardly…. hahaha.

Things heated up as the wind builded through the day. We tacked back and forth neck and neck and were near collision a couple of times. Those on a starboard tack have the right of way on the ocean, just like the car on the right at a 4 way stop goes first, so whoever wasn’t on starboard had to make way for the other boat.

I wish I could say we crushed our opponents because Maquinna is an incredibly fast boat and Holley and I are expert sail trimmers, but that’s not quite the way it went. Turns out that our opponent thoroughly cleaned his dirty bottom (boat bottom) before the race which made him peel away pretty quick. He also had the addition of a staysail AND changed to a spinnaker in light winds. Once the spinnaker came up we knew we were done for. Honestly it was exhausting to be on deck for the whole day trimming the sails to perfection with every small change of the wind. It was a full time job and instead we vouched to focus on what we were the best at, writing sea shanties.

It was a very calm passage with steady winds, we remained on the same broad reach for nearly 12 hours the first day. The worst part was that the wind completely died on the second day and we had to listen to luffing sails for way too many hours without being able to use the motor. The speed actually read “0 knots” for a while as we just drifted aimlessly in the middle of the Sea of Cortez, 100 miles offshore. 

A highlight of that passage was that Holley caught her first fish, and shortly after caught a second. They were both skipjack tunas. Erik expertly gaffed them after Holley reeled them in. We had tried getting fish onto the boat in previous attempts but had no success, turns out that our Christmas gifts this year involved not one gaff hook but TWO GAFF HOOKS, which means we are much more prepared to take on the role of deep sea fisherman. Too bad the fish was only about a foot long, probably unlikely to win the “biggest fish” portion of the contest… nonetheless we feasted like kings and queens, fresh salted tuna melting in our mouths as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Upon arrival to Mazatlan we admitted our defeat and accepted the sarcastic insults from our opponents. It was worth a shot, but now we were down at least 24 beers. On the plus side, Holley and I spent many hours working on the storyline of a gruesome and hilarious sea shanty. We were excited to all perform it as a crew in our post-race celebration.

Holley :

The forecast from Bahia Magdelena to Cabo San Lucas called for 15kn on the stern with 4ft swell: a dream! Of course, the reality was not so. We pulled the anchor at first light and set sail out of the bay, soon tracking along the beautiful baja rocky coastline. Swell coming from a northern pacific low had traveled miles and miles to get to us and when it did, it was still impressive. It picked Quinn up from underneath, showed us the whole ocean as far as the eye could see then gently placed us back down. It must have been a hell of a storm to raise a sea that stretched over 3000 miles. I shuddered as I imagined the power the ocean can kick up; she can be both peaceful and ferocious; tranquil and mighty.

Cass called that there was a fish on the hand line and I dove for the reel. In the past few weeks Matthew had kindly donated what must have been a dozen lures to our cause. I somehow managed to lose all of them without catching a single fish. Last week, I had been uncoiling a new lure baited with a hunk of mahi belly into the water when something HUGE had grabbed the line. The hand reel jumped from my hand and the entire lure, line and reel went overboard and I watched the reel speed away as the fish (surely moby dick himself) made off with my fishing gear. Did Matt say something about cleating off the line first? Oh dear. This time when the line tugged, I was determined. I hand reeled the fish in until we could see the flashing colors of a beautiful mahi on the other side of the line. I was about to launch the spirited fish onto the deck when its little round eye caught mine and it suddenly occurred to me that I was going to have to kill this beautiful creature once I got it onto the deck. The fish saw my hesitation and took the opportunity to flip and fling itself from the lure. I was disappointed if not, admittedly, kind of relieved. After months of living amongst the animals of the ocean I had grown a deep respect for their lives, I hadn’t considered how hard it was going to be to kill one of them for food. It is a lot easier to eat an animal when you can’t see how the meat got to your plate. Ultimately, I resolved that if I was to eat fish at all I should have the respect to take the fish's life. Fishing offers a pause for reflection and gratitude for the life being taken; to catch the food that I eat is to connect to the life that is providing for me. My first catch was surely to come soon.

The sun winked goodbye and the land dropped off to our east as we made our way toward the southern tip of the baja. The sea slowly built behind us and the wave period shortened until we were surfing down white foaming waves, our autohelm groaned in protest. I tried to get some sleep with the growing feeling that it was going to be a long night. You can tell when the ocean gets grumpy. I laid in my bunk getting tossed from side to side and finally gave up on sleep and went to join Cass in the cockpit. The swell and wind pushed us west as we tried to claw our way back east towards Cabo. We couldn’t quite sail in a broad as we were being pushed further offshore so we were forced into a beam; a difficult point of sail in 25kn of wind. I kicked off the autohelm as it couldn’t keep course with the heavy waves and beam wind. I grabbed the tiller and, watching behind me, moved to a broad reach for the big sets of waves and back to 90 degrees to the wind when I could to keep on course. 

We moved to a triple reefed main and deeply reefed foresail when the wind blew steady high 20s, the beam wind placing so much pressure on the rig we couldn’t have any more sail up. This is where a cutter rig would have been advantageous. I had played with the idea of installing an inner forestay before the trip but had stopped short, money and time not quite being worth the few times it would really have made a difference.

It was a long night of hand steering through heavy seas. There are times on the ocean, usually in the middle of the night in big waves, when you picture people sleeping in their warm dry beds on land and the juxtaposition is so stark it brings on a laugh. In fact, it is just times like these that usually call for a laugh. It is easy to go down the rabbit hole of staring at the snarling waves hurtling towards the stern or getting lost in the wind instrument, anxiety rising with each knot. I’ve found that I can choose to sit in my worry or I can get up, steer the boat, sing loudly into the howling wind and smile at the mighty ocean before me. The outcome is the same, but one path is far more enjoyable. There is always light to be found on the ocean. This is one of the things I love about sailing with my sister. Cass does not cower or crumble when faced with fear or adversity. She faces the great ocean and always manages to crack a joke or smile while doing it. That night, the sea turned snotty and gray, yet dozens of dolphins laughed and enthusiastically leaped beside our ship, reminding us to be playful.

The sunrise brought higher spirits but no reprieve from the breaking waves, albeit everything seems more hopeful in the sunshine. There was a small window of calmer seas and I took the opportunity to pee for the first time in months when I heard a yell from the cockpit and a herculean crashing of water. From in the head it actually sounded like we were submerged and I sprung from the bathroom half expecting us to be at the bottom of the ocean. The floor was wet and I looked out through the companionway to a soaked cockpit and Cass, still holding the tiller, but dripping wet. A left-field wave had broken right into the cockpit, some of it splashing over the companionway doors into the cabin. Luckily nothing was broken or launched overboard and we both laughed as I joked that I had left her alone for ONE second!

The wind had slowly built as we neared the bottom of the peninsula, slingshotting us into Cabo. Then suddenly and all at once it died to 7kn as we ducked into the windhole at the southern tip of the baja protected from the prevailing northerlies on either side of the peninsula. We approached Cabo San Lucas just as the burning sun set a deep orange on the horizon. After spending over two weeks at sea, only touching land briefly in remote fishing villages along a barren coastline, Cabo San Lucas was a stark change of scenery. The city revealed itself in a cacophony: sunset cruise catamarans, party boats with flashing neon lights, and live brass bands on boats whizzed past us. As we neared the harbor, the smell of land contrasted abruptly with the fresh salty ocean air: fabricated scents like perfumes and colognes, cooking fats, barbequed meats and sizzling onions. Laughter and conversations echoed from the restaurants and boats nearby and the chorus of life filled our lonely ears. At no time is the impact of humans on the earth so apparent as entering a party city in peak tourist season after weeks spent alone on the ocean. To some nature enthusiasts, this scene could have induced feelings of resentment towards humans and our detachment from nature. This could have been a time to reflect on consumerism, materialism or the impact of rich tourism on a foreign market. But honestly, at this time I felt more akin to how Jane Goodall may have felt squatting behind a bush watching a complex interaction between primates: awe, wonder, appreciation. As a species we are so capricious and varied that we can exist not only on the sea in solitude or in a quiet fishing village in some remote corner of the world; but concurrently shoulder to shoulder in a booming night club drinking champagne. How wonderful!

Neither Cass or I had slept more than a handful of hours since pulling anchor in Magdalena Bay around 36 hours ago. Our eyes burned for sleep as we approached the fuel dock in Cabo. Alas, as is the nature of sailing, there was a closing weather window on our northbound passage to La Paz and we couldn’t stay long. We filled our water and fuel tanks, bribed a local hotel employee to let us use a shower and pushed back off the dock into the night. The pulsing lights and life of Cabo San Lucas faded into darkness behind us as we set out into the comforting solitude of a tranquil starry night at sea.

Sooner and Maquinna rafted up mid-passage to share barbequed Yellowfin Tuna, thanks Matt <3

Check out his blog here https://www.saildivefish.ca/

Film by Cassidy

Holley :

Our overnight passage from Bahia Tortuga to Bahia Santa Maria was a peaceful one. The winds were steady and the seas were calm: all a sailor can ask for. After the Battle of Bahia Tortuga followed by days of 25kn ripping through our anchorage, it was some much needed smooth sailing. Coming out of Tortuga we were single reefed and cooking along in a proud beam, sun glistened on the swell and our heading was set for Bahia Santa Maria. The afternoon rolled around and we shook out a reef and were soon luffing along at 1.5kn. We were about to crank on the old iron sail when Cass spotted what appeared to be a wall of white water headed towards us from the east. We could hear the splashing of white caps nearing the boat. What on earth was that? Then we heard it. The high pitched squealing of hundreds and hundreds of dolphins moving in a horde towards the ship. They bounced and flew from the water, but there was no play. They were on a clear mission - their sights set on the western horizon and moving fast. They didn’t even pass a side glance at Maquinna as the horde moved towards us, through us, and past us. The last few stragglers whizzed past and the white wall moved west away from us. The disturbed sea flattened to ripples, then to glass and we sat in shock for a few moments before continuing on. How the sea is mutable! 

I’ve noticed an ease has come to living on the boat. When I lay my head to rest in my bunk,  sleep comes more easily than before. I no longer jolt awake at every new sound or creak in the boat (or maybe less frequently). I’ve come to trust Cass and I’s ability of handling adversity, I trust Maquinna and her sturdy hull that keeps us safe. I’ve grown to trust even the ocean with her moodiness - or perhaps I’ve merely adopted a more fatalistic perspective, knowing that we can study the weather, the signs in the sky and sea of changing conditions, and prepare our ship and ourselves as best as we can and that is simply all we can do. I’ve learned that the ocean does not usually turn on you if you know where to look. Things have slowed in breaking and when they do, it feels more manageable. On November 23rd we reached the milestone of 3000 miles on our stern! We poured ourselves a cup of red wine, turned up the music and clinked our glasses as Maquinna gilded towards Bahia Santa Maria under a warm sun and glistening blue waters. In serendipity, a huge green sea turtle floated on his back beside our ship holding what appeared to be a red jellyfish in his mouth. Catching sight of us, his jaw dropped in surprise and his dinner slowly sank below him as he watched us glide by. I’m positive we had the same looks on our faces.

We spent a few days exploring Bahia Santa Maria and Bahia Magdelena. Cass and I dared a beach landing over the surf in Matt’s dinghy. Ours had been stowed since the Ensenada to Bahia Tortuga leg when it got pooped in a breaking wave and Neal had the idea to create a winch-pulley system using a spare halyard to hoist it onto the deck and empty it, it being too heavy when filled with water to empty by hand. Dingus, as we named it, now rides happily strapped to the foredeck, having suffered thousands of miles of abuse he is finally laid to rest. Matt’s dinghy takes a quick pleading look at our abused dinghy as Cass and I step in and prepare for a breaking-surf beach landing. The land surrounding Bahia Santa Maria is diverse: red rocky mountains dissolve into winding mangrove swamps and white sandy peaked dunes stretch for miles beyond. Matt had caught so many fish on the passages that we ate fish for dinner every night until we started growing gills. Yellowtail and rice, mahi-mahi tacos, tuna steaks, yellowfin tacos. It is amazing how long you can survive off the sea. We hadn’t been to a grocery store in almost two weeks; the earth provides for us. We use her wind to move, her fish to eat, her sun and her moon to see. If we ran out of water we could use her rain to drink, if we knew how we could use her stars to guide us. Life is brought back to the basics out here - eat, sleep, trim the sails to the direction you are trying to go. The simplicity of what comes next is what brings us so much peace. It is easy to be present when all that matters is what's next.

Cassidy :

We anchored in a few spots along the coast of the Baja to catch up on rest and explore. Each bay housed a tiny fishing village made up of a handful of cabins and ramshackle huts. Lobster fisherman mostly, and some men carried buckets with shark fins in them. Holley and I surfed the waves into shore in Matt’s dinghy at Bahia Santa Maria. We kissed the land like goofs and ran and jumped and cartwheeled around. We hiked up sandy, cactus filled foothills and enjoyed each step on beautiful Mother Earth. It had been 2 weeks since I set foot on land and I sure do crave the freedom of a good walk.

We had an amazing sail into Bahia Magdalena, both Maquinna and Sooner tacked side by side up the channel to the bay. We had been sailing downwind for many weeks so it was nice to switch it up with some headwind. We were sailing at a close hull with 20 knot gusts, Maquinna was ripping along on flat seas.

At Bahia Magdalena Holley and Matt practiced spear fishing and I rowed into land to explore the town. People in town were very kind and generous, and most of them did not speak a lick of English so it was a good time to practice Spanish. I ended up meeting a man who gifted us 23 fresh lobster tails and a pile of fruits and veggies. When I tried to give him money he refused to take it and said that someday when he turns up in Canada I will be there to help him, as if the good deed would come back to him somehow. This wasn’t the first time I’d experienced a local say something like this. In contrast to American and Canadian culture, they don’t seem to be as focused on their individual gains here and now, but rather see their worldly contributions as part of a karmic cycle. What goes around comes around. I rowed back to the boat bearing gifts that would feed our crew for days to come.

South of Magdalena Bay we sailed alongside a big pod of humpbacks. We seemed to be sailing at the exact same pace as them because they kept surfacing right beside the boat. I don’t know if there are any rules for Mexican whale watching boats because there were 3 or 4 pangas filled with tourists motoring directly on top of the pod, with some of the whales breaching within 5 or 10 ft of their boats. At first it was fun to be in the commotion but after a while we felt that the tourist boats pushed it too far just to make a buck. Imagine trying to go about your day with the noise of a power boat circling around you. I felt like it would resemble the sound of a wasp buzzing around your head to no avail, without the ability to swat at it or get away. In contrast, sailboats quietly glide through the water minding their own business. We try to give them their space, as we are in their home and it seems like what respectful visitors should do.

That day we ended up trying to jibe behind the pod to get further away but just as we thought we were clear of them 2 humpbacks surfaced directly in front of the bow. I was in the cockpit reading when I heard a deep groan and exhale. I thought I imagined it but stood up to see the shiny back and blow hole of a whale re-entering the water just a meter in front of the bow. That is the second time I thought we were going down from boat to whale collision. They are so massive that colliding with one of them would probably feel a lot like crashing into a huge rock. I saw another surface, its broad back emerging from the depths, I could see all the contours and the scratches on its skin. I called for Holley nervously and just when she appeared on deck one of the whales let out a powerful exhale. Holley actually felt its warm breath hit her face. We decided to stay on course as we thought turning the boat may confuse them. I prayed internally that they would not decide to breach or flick their tail, because of our closeness it might have been the end of us. We stood there and watched in awe, hearts pounding in our chests. What may sound like an absolutely magical moment was slightly terrifying for me. Both times that we have almost collided with whales it has made me suddenly realize how small and vulnerable we are out there. In that moment the only option is to trust that the whale is aware of you and has peaceful intentions. I’ve never in my life been asked to trust a whale so it does feel like foreign territory.

Holley :

The Westjet employee looked down at the luggage scale and back up at me, one eyebrow raised. “It’s a boat anchor” I stated obviously. “Yes it is,” she replied. I waited, pleadingly, for her to reject my steel luggage. Unphased, she stuck an oversized baggage sign on it and I watched my new 45lb rocna anchor plunk onto the luggage carousel and disappear through the magic red curtains. The Westjet employees have clearly seen some things. 

After three weeks spent on land working and catching up with my family, I was anxious to get back to the sea. I landed in San Diego and caught a ride to Ensenada on Matt's sailboat Sooner. I couldn’t wait to see Maquinna, did she miss me too? After 2 months of living on the ocean, I’ll admit, going to work in Canada was odd. I would find myself sitting at a computer at the hospital under fluorescent lights and get a flashbulb memory: high seas, strong winds, a sea of stars, dolphins, sunsets, burning wind on my cheeks. Was it all just a dream? If not for the calluses on my hands and freckles on my nose I would not be so sure.

Matt and I set the sails and glided along peacefully to Ensenada, the sea was flat with a light breeze and all the stars were out. I breathed in the ocean as it welcomed me back. Hearing of my return, a pod of dolphins dropped by, jumping and weaving then racing off to tell the others.

We pulled into Baja Naval the next morning, the marina Matthew was staying at in Ensenada. The first person we saw was the harbourmaster, the same one who had recently banned me from this dock. There was too much history here. “¡Buenos días!” I yelled from behind the dodger in an admittedly higher voice than usual. She signaled to Matt that we both follow her so I, like any good criminal, donned a hat and sunglasses and trailed loosely behind them, not making eye contact. Was I walking suspiciously? We got to the office and the inevitable time came when she asked for my passport. She opened it and recognition flashed on her face. I had suddenly found something very interesting on the wall that had my undivided attention. She handed me the passport back and I took it sheepishly. If she had questions, she didn’t ask them. She took Matt and I to the immigration office and I got stamped back into Mexico, whew!

My heart filled when I saw my ship and my sister's smiling face at the dock. When you leave a child in someone else's hands you place all your trust in that person. I returned to find Quinn loved and cared for by Cass, clean, polished and ready for sailing. We pushed off the dock the next day, joined by a new crew member, Neal, who we had befriended in Ensenada and who would join us on our four day passage to turtle bay. Our first few days passed with light air sailing and some motoring. The genny and new whisker pole Cass had acquired in Ensenada carried us along and we happily bobbed at 2kn, welcoming the peace of the ocean back into our lives. Matt, always with multiple lines in the water, had caught a beautiful yellowtail and, as the sea was glassy calm, we pulled alongside each other and rafted up 30 miles offshore to enjoy a barbeque fish dinner together just in time for the sun to set.

That night was moonless and starless, rain clouds hovered thick in the air. The only light on the whole ocean was the comforting glow of Sooners navigation lights a few miles to our beam. A light drizzle started, then a mighty pour. Cold and wet, I huddled in a corner under the dodger and laughed at whatever ideas I had on sailing in Mexico.

The forecast called for a blow coming in later that day so we preemptively changed the sails that morning. By late afternoon we had a double reefed main and partially furled headsail and were picking up good speed from a growing sea behind us. By the time night fell, it was blowing steady and the sea continued to build. Without daylight I couldn’t see the waves, I could only feel them pick the boat up from behind, then feel Quinn’s hull picking up speed down the face of the wave as we surfed down it, watching our boat speed pick up to 8, 9, 10 knots. Maquinna rolled and righted herself in a sea that became steep and confused. Waves were coming from behind then suddenly crashing on the quarter or beam, making a great clap as they smacked into our hull; wind whistled through the rig in gusts. Our ship performed faithfully; Maquinna has a fin keel but stands up impressively in a rolly sea.

It was dinner time, but glancing into the chaos of what was once our cozy cabin we settled for tortilla chips. Cass lifted the bag from beside her and let out a small yell. I shone my headlamp to see what she was looking at: a little silver squid lay gasping for water in my spotlight, its round beady eye just as surprised to see us as we were him. Cass flicked him back into the ocean and we both shook our heads as to how on earth he got into the cockpit. I leaned over to check the jib trim and ah! Another squid! And another! The more I looked, the more I found. One by one I flung the inky invaders from my ship only to find more when I turned around, each desperately clinging to the lines and hardware with their little tentacle arms. They had us outnumbered. I admitted defeat to the mollusc overlords and allowed them to fling their miserable squishy bodies to their fiberglass death. There were so many of them I could smell the ink on the deck. I took shelter under the dodger from a fear (unbeknown to me until that day) of a suicidal squid flinging itself at my head.

The waves and wind persisted all morning until just outside of Bahia Tortuga where the seas finally died down and our autohelm sighed a breath of relief. The wind dropped and we shook out the second reef, then the first. On hoisting the full canvas it was discovered that the most talented among the jumping squids had made an olympic leap into our first reef only to get hoisted along with the sail leaving an ink mark behind when we picked him off with the boat hook.

We pulled into the anchorage at last, all of us exhausted from a challenging two days of sailing. We started putting the boat back together, cass restowing all that was unstowed in the roiling waters while I, with a fork, cleaned the carnage from the deck: the crusty squids having dried to the lines, folded dinghy, deck hardware and flakes of a lashed sail. Sleep after a passage like that is always so sweet!

Cassidy:

Neapolitan morning hues disperse on gentle rolling swell. I love the 6am shift as it ensures witnessing the sacred arrival of the sun. Fresh daylight marks the beginning of a whole new landscape of experiences. Streams of bright light fill in the contours of sights all around, lighting up the spaces that night left a mystery, bringing new perspective to the surroundings we’ve found ourselves in today. 

Nights on the ocean are all encompassing, a subjective experience witnessed by only the awareness of oneself and the big belly of the moon. Darkness asks us to shift our attention inward in careful observation of thoughts, feelings, moods, as they sway with the ever-changing seas. Each moment passes by slowly, never to be accessed in its uniqueness again. Elation followed by fear, sadness and yearning followed by excitement and fulfillment. Riding the ferris wheel of emotions, the lows to the highs and everything in between.

As I get further along this journey I realize how many fears i’ve faced that no longer have such a daunting affect. No matter the external circumstance, maintaining internal trust and balance remains the key to riding waves of challenge with grace, but preceding gracefulness there will be adversity, a revolving door in its continuous 360 degree motion.

Out here we live in a bubble of our own creation. Each leg of the journey, rather than happening to us, is created by us, conscious or not, it grows from us, our own masterful sculpting of the environment in which we inhabit.

Our passage to Bahia Tortuga (Turtle Bay) from Ensenada was about 300NM, 3 nights and 4 days. We invited an experienced sailor that we met in Ensenada to join for the voyage. It helps a lot to have the extra hands and extra hours for Holley and I to sleep. Seas were fairly calm for the first 24 hours and then picked up to steady strong winds for the remaining days. The last two days we had steady 18-20knot winds with 25 knot gusts. It was an exhilarating ride! Wind waves built throughout the day and peaked at night to make steep breaking waves. Maquinna was tossed back and forth for days with waves coming from the stern and beam. Following seas allow for a lot of speed and momentum as the boat surfs. Waves roll in behind us and lift Maquinna up until she feels like she’s floating, then down she goes as she surfs the front of the wave,  the prop vibrating as it spins like wings of a hummingbird. We were sailing along faster than I had ever seen Maquinna go, with some surfs bringing us up to 11 knots. It becomes a seamless rhythmic motion until a big powerful one comes and knocks her off course. This in combination with strong wind gusts sent the mast almost horizontal a few times.

From down in the cabin the vibration gets so loud it sounds like you are onboard a plane taking off. Gravity doesn’t exist down there, while trying to rest you are flung to each side of the berth. Sleeping in those conditions must be some sort of fine tuned skill, I am not used to having to use my core muscles to try to keep myself connected to my bed. I gasped out of dream state many times to the ship being pounded by a forceful wave hitting the hull right beside my head.

Although there were several times I thought Maquinna would break from force, she continuously proves to be a trusty sturdy vessel. I am learning more and more to lean into trusting her, just as I’m sure she’s trusting us to be seaworthy sailors and keep her rigs intact. Even with substantial force on Maquinna, we didnt have any of our rigging or equipment break, and I attribute this to our greater understanding of the vessel’s unique needs, or  her “personality”. 

Matthew, our buddy boat, always has at least one fishing line in the water. Even in 25 knot winds he somehow was able to catch two fish that trip, a Mahi Mahi and Yellowtail. He’s been single handing since San Francisco and continues to show incredible resilience even through the toughest situations where everything is breaking. I look back while we are cruising and see him swinging on the mast fixing a batton, or see him running around on deck with a fish in hand. On a calm night just South of Ensenada we rafted up to him in the middle of the sea to share a fish dinner. Both Maquinna and Sooner floated freely together while Matt barbequed some incredible fresh Pacific fish… nothing quite like the taste. We have dinners together at every stop along the way. I’ve never had so many fish tacos. We’ve got into the habit of celebrating each leg of the journey with wine and music and good food. Each passage feels like it deserves a ceremony. After getting to Bahia Tortuga we shared a magical night of playing music under a waxing moon. Strings of the banjo, guitar, and ukulele converged intuitively as we sang sweet melodies of our own heart’s creation.

Film by Cassidy

The wind blew hard the next two days at Bahia Tortuga, with winds reaching up to 34 knots. We discovered that that bay acts as a sort of wind tunnel from winter blows on the Sea of Cortez. Our new anchor, a 45lb Rocna, held extremely well even in a gale, but we were unable to leave the boat for the 3 days we were there. As soon as a weather window opened we were out of that bay and headed South for Magdeleana Bay, another 3 day passage, and for the rest of the passages on the Baja it will be just Holley and I double handing.

Cassidy :

Dock life has been so lovely in all of its stationary simplicity. It was a bit unnerving at first to be left on my own in a new country, new town, new marina, and be surrounded by people speaking a new language, but I have now found a nourishing rhythm here.

Living on a dock is like living in a little floating village. The community is small, everyone knows everyone. There are lot of live-aboards who have been here for years, other folks like me who stay for one or two months, and transient vessels that pull in temporarily and bring newcomers for a short amount of time. I dedicate most of my mornings to embodied practice; yoga, meditation, exercise, and the afternoons and evenings have been a time of connecting with others, practicing Spanish, exploring the city, and working on various boat projects. People are always stopping by the boat to lend a hand or just to hang out. My neighbour, Thomas, and other friend Bruce have both been incredibly helpful whenever I need guidance, tools, or assistance with anything. Bruce salvaged me a new spinnaker halyard after an inspection showed it to be nearly severed, and he also found us an old whisker pole from an abandoned boat. Bruce built his first sail boat at 8 years old, and has been on the water nearly his entire life. His sailing stories are fascinating and endless it seems, with each whimsical tale bringing up memories of another.

It is always interesting to find out why people have chosen the nautical life. Full time sea ramblers tend to be anarchists of sorts, in rebellion of the confining structure of mainstream society. A lot of them seem to be running away from something, especially the ones who are always on the move, or maybe they’re running toward something, something enigmatic of sorts; mystery, fascination, the unknown. I find it refreshing to be in their company, their minds are more simple and unhindered by the distraction of modern fads. It seems that relating inherently comes from a more honest place when you are living amidst the rhythms of mother nature. People sit in quietness together as the sun sets below the horizon each night. Even after all of the colourful dusks spent on the boat I am still in awe of each sunset and the multiplicity of colours and feelings it cultivates. 

It is pretty funny that I somehow ended up at this high end resort. The dock life is inviting but when I go up to the hotel I immediately feel out of place. People here are generally very well off, fancy dinners every night and margaritas by the pool during the day. I have been treating it like my own personal retreat and taking full advantage of the facilities… soon enough I will be back on the sea without a bright sunny yoga room and unlimited hot showers. 

We plan to set sail down the Baja this week! I am incredibly excited to get back out on the sea and feel very full of energy for the next stage of our adventure. We plan to hop along the coast on 2-3 day passages. Holley got a new anchor and chain while in Canada so we will be more secure in exposed Pacific anchorages, and I have a couple of connections here in Ensenada to get an outboard motor for the dinghy. Things are coming together and we are building on our knowledge every step of the way. It has been strange to be separated from Holley for this long after spending every waking minute together for the last two months. I am eager to re-unite with her, my incredible fearless sister, mi compadre in the wild unknown.

My first time up the mast!

Soft colors of dusk

Film by Cassidy

Cassidy:

We got to Ensenada in the afternoon on October 16th. Our paperwork still hadn’t gone through but we decided to just cruise up to a dock to see what would happen. Holley had a nursing contract she had to get to back in Canada so we had to find a place to moor the boat before her departure. The marina we had reserved a slip at would not even let us pull up to their dock before we had our papers sorted out, so we went to a different marina hoping they would have more lenient rules…

It turns out that marinas in Mexico are not lenient by any means. We were given a 72 hour window to get our paperwork sorted before we were forced to leave the country. It was now turning into a stressful few days for Holley and I, when all we really wanted to do was celebrate our arrival in Mexico. The process of registering a boat with Transport Canada can take up to 30 days, so we were trying to pull strings and get the registration expedited. Turns out that Transport Canada is incredibly difficult to get a hold of over the phone, plus we didn’t have a Mexican phone plan to even make calls. Getting the registration expedited ended up being too difficult so we tried to use the bill of sale for legal proof of ownership instead. The Harbourmaster scoffed at our attempt to use a bill of sale that was handwritten… but that was the original and the only one we had. It was also hard to get clear answers or explanations in response to our questions because of the language barrier. Time was ticking and it seemed like every avenue we tried led to a dead end.

The day before our impending deportation we still hadn’t heard from Transport Canada and now decided to type up a new bill of sale that looked “official”. We had it signed by the old boat owners and they got it notarized by a lawyer in Canada. After examining the document thoroughly, we were elated when the immigration officer looked up at us with a straight face and said “ok”. It seemed like our makeshift documentation was a long shot but somehow it received approval. Holley and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes as the mounting pressure from all of the stress over the last few days released.

We celebrated with margaritas that day and shared heartfelt talks about our strength in overcoming challenges together. I sent a message to the marina we had originally reserved a spot at saying that we had all of our documentation approved and that we were ready to take a slip there. We were frustrated to find out that the marina had given away our slip, even when they said they would hold it for us. The marina we were currently at did not have space for us so we again found ourselves in a conundrum. Luckily, the other marina was able to find a last minute space for us in a 56′ slip, but it meant we had to pay for 20′ more than our boat length. It was getting dark at that point and we decided to accept the offer, seeing it as was our only option. The Harbourmaster at the new marina asked us to meet him at the 56′ slip at 8:30am the next day for inspection and check in.

Before we left in the morning, I went up to pay for the few nights we had stayed at the first marina. Unfortunately the office was closed so I was just going to walk back to pay after we moved. We casted off the dock in the early morning fog in anticipation of finally being able to relax at our new spot. The new marina was beautiful, very well kept and secure, and had a ton of sail boats moored from all over the world. When we got to our slip the Harbourmaster was there waiting for us, but he was smoking cigarettes and shaking his head. I wondered why he looked so bothered.

As soon as we tied up he abruptly informed us that he just received a call from the other marina saying that we had left their dock without paying, and that he couldn’t accept people like us at his marina because it was too big of a risk. He ordered us to leave his dock immediately. We were shocked. Yes we left without paying but only because there was no one in the office to receive the money, and we fully intended on walking back and paying all that we owed when they were open. Anger and frustration builded within us as we tried to explain our situation to no avail. There was absolutely no leeway for our mistake, and we were looked at and treated as criminals because of it.

We were forced to leave his dock after exhausting every avenue of explanation and reasoning. We motored away in complete silence as our spirits had been shot down once again. It was a really terrible feeling to be looked at and treated as if we were dishonest thieves. All we could do was go back to the first marina, as there was no where else to go at that point. It was embarrassing to show our faces there after the staff thought we had tried to escape without paying our dues. We payed right away and cleared the air as best as we could, but I got the sense that the language barrier prevented the Harbourmaster from really understanding the situation. We had to awkwardly ask to stay at her marina because we had no where else to go. She did not look impressed but said she would have to talk to her boss and get back to us. We waited all day at the dock. By this time we had made several friends at the dock and they were all vouching for us to stay. One of them even had a meeting with the head boss of the marina to explain to him in Spanish how this whole situation was a big misunderstanding. Unfortunately none of the bargaining worked.

The Harbourmaster came to our boat later that afternoon to tell us that we had to leave her dock too, that we weren’t welcome at either of the marinas. Holley and I were pretty devastated. We were officially banned from two of three marinas in Ensenada… It’s funny to think about now but at the time we were just so tired of it all, so done with the BS.

We ended up mooring at the third marina about an hour boat ride West of Ensenada, Hotel Coral & Marina. It is an incredibly gorgeous marina with excellent facilities, but way out of our price range. We ended up having to pay $1800 CAD for moorage for one month. That is double what we were intending to pay, but it was our only option. At that point we were just hoping for a seamless entry to a marina.

It was getting dark when we arrived at Hotel Coral & Marina on October 19th. Luckily, rumours of our criminality had not spread to this marina, and we were welcomed into our slip. Just before sunrise the next morning Holley was headed down the dock with her suitcase, off to catch a flight to start her nursing contract. It was just Maquinna and I now, for the next month this dock would be my home.

Hotel Coral & Marina, Ensenada MX

Cassidy :

I awoke from a nap when we were at the San Diego entrance. Holley was up on deck in the gleaming morning sun. Her spirits were lifted and her energy renewed, even considering the head injury and stress the night before… The original plan was to stop in San Diego, but as we entered the bustling area we reconsidered that decision. Something about the chaos of another American city repelled us. Besides, the wind had finally picked up, seas were calm, and sun was beaming in enticement for a good day of sailing, so we decided to jibe Maquinna back out to sea.

The winds were sporadic that day, but the highlight was finally crossing the Mexican border. What an incredible feeling of achievement, this long and winding path we’ve followed has finally led us to Mexico!! We were excited to be en-route to Ensenada, it would be our first stop in Mexico and where we we would be staying for a month to wait out hurricane season down South.

About 15NM passed the border we received a message from the marina we had reserved a spot at saying that we did not have the correct paperwork for the boat to legally enter Mexico. In Canada it is not a requirement to officially register a small pleasure craft, but apparently in Mexico it is essential. Holley scrambled to fill out forms online in order to get the boat registered before our arrival. The marina said that our bill of sale was also invalid because it was hand written. Basically all of the documentation that worked to get us into the states did not work for Mexico. We could have turned back at that point but decided to take our time sailing there and try to figure it out along the way.

We were planning on arriving in Ensenada that night, but with nowhere to legally dock up and no anchorages around, we decided to do our first heave-to. We were both still running off very little sleep, and it seemed like the best option to get some rest. It was a choppy and foggy night, and the wind was picking up to about 18 knots. We tried to do our initial heave-to with the light 150 up but realized that it was actually too big to stop us from moving. Even when we winched it in all the way it still had a belly in it which kept us going forward at about 2knots. Ideally in a heave-to you want to be moving less than 0.5knots, or not at all.

The wind and waves were still picking up and now we were both on the foredeck struggling to get the Genoa down to put up the heavier head sail. No matter which way Holley pointed the boat the Genoa was flying wildly which did not make it easy to take down. Because the Genny is so light it gets out of control fast in stronger winds. Holley was leaning over the lifeline pulling downward on the sail while I dove across the deck to get my body weight on top of it. Our headlamps shone on millions of little drops of moisture in the air all around us, which made for a slippery sail change.

We were proud to get our primary headsail up after wrangling the light one into the cockpit. We had a close call and almost lost the jib halyard up the mast but Holley was able to jump up and reach it before it took off. This time our heave-to was successful! It is surprising how much this technique works, even in the wind and waves the boat remained at the same coordinates for the remainder of the night. We were finally able to get a bit of rest.

Snoozing between snacks .. hahah

Photo by Matthew Parsons https://www.saildivefish.ca/

Cassidy :

After successfully dodging live fire missiles, we made our way SE to Catalina island. Our trip had been pushed back about 8 hrs so now we were sailing through the night. It was a very calm evening which made for a lot of motoring and not much sailing.

We arrived in Avalon harbour around 8am the next morning and got a mooring ball in amongst hundreds of boats and people. Parachuters, wind surfers, water skiers, tubers, jet skiers, swimmers, fishermen, and shirtless leather skinned yachters atop fancy LA power boats. The dinghy dock alone looked like a massive feeding frenzy of hungry rubber fish out for their morning grub. It was a bit of a shock in comparison to our tranquil and rugged lifestyle on the channel islands. We looked disheveled and felt pretty exhausted, but we were excited to pretend to fit in to this luxurious tourist destination for the afternoon.

After navigating through the pile of ravenous dinghies, we met some sailors on the dock who informed us about the solar eclipse that was happening. We blinked up at the sun and could see the moon start to partially cover its radiance. What a magical celestial event!! The thriving tourist town started to feel eerie as darkness encroached and a cool breeze set in. We wandered the streets under the waning sun and treated ourselves to a big ol’ American breakfast in celebration of our progress thus far.

We left Avalon harbour around 3pm for the next leg of our journey to San Diego. We figured it would be an easy sail as the winds were supposed to stay steady around 10knots and we had our light 150 Genoa up. We cruised at a beautiful broad reach for the rest of the afternoon with choppy seas that were slowly building. By early evening the wind lessened and the waves were steeper, which made for luffing sails and a bumpy ride.

I was down for a nap before my night shift when I heard Holley kick the motor into high gear. I was wondering why the heck she would be motoring this fast when we weren’t in a hurry. I climbed into the cockpit to see what was up and found that she was outrunning two oncoming freighters…

I looked in the distance and could see two huge ships about 6NM off our beam. She was trying to make it across the shipping lane before they were too close, but the shipping lanes are so massive in this area that would take nearly an hour for our boat to get across, and we were only about half a mile into it. I could tell that she was on edge but was going to go for it anyway rather than compromise our heading. I checked the AIS and charts several times and expressed my immediate concerns about trying to make it across while the ships were moving at 12knots in our direction. After a short deliberation we decided to make a rapid U Turn and head directly West, back the way we came. 

At this point the waves were steep and close together and we were hitting them head on. We both watched as the gap lessened between us and the tankers, they seemed to be coming straight at us for what felt like forever. They were now about 3 NM away and it did not seem like we were moving fast enough to make it out of their path. When we finally made it out of the lane they passed behind us within a mile to our stern. Too close for comfort and it is hard to say what would have happened if we continued on our previous heading.

While they were passing us we made a Northbound turn to wrap around behind them and attempt to cross the 4 mile shipping lane again. I was tilling and the waves were getting pretty rough without the sails up. The sails act as balancers for the boat but there wasn’t enough wind to get us going fast enough without the motor. It was nearly pitch black now and I looked up to the mast and couldn’t see any running lights. Holley said she had already turned them on. She tried flicking them on and off and on and off, but nothing lit up. This was a bad time for them to stop working, as we were in one of the highest traffic areas for freighters on all of the Pacific Coast.

Holley went down and grabbed our brightest flashlight. She shone it up at the mainsail in efforts to light up the boat in the dark night. There was a gap between oncoming commercial traffic and we decided to make another run for it across the shipping lane. We re-entered the lane under full motor, hitting big choppy waves to the beam. It was a rough ride for Maquinna. 

Holley went down below to see if she could figure out what went wrong with the electrical. She was gone for quite a while and returned to the cockpit acting kind of strange and spacey. She warned me that while she was down in the V berth looking at wires she hit her head really hard on the inside of the hatch. She sat on the side of the cockpit holding the flashlight up looking like she was quite unsteady. She said she was feeling dizzy and drowsy. 

A sense of fear overcame me, what if she is not okay? I tried to talk to her calmly and maintain conversation to see how she was responding. She seemed to be okay but complained of a very painful headache. She responded to questions normally but just slower than usual. She said she didn’t feel sick or like the pain in her head was getting worse but she couldn’t navigate or do anything that required balance or focus.

I started running a play by play scenario in my head of how I was going to deal with the situation if she went unconscious due to a concussion. I would have to send out a “Pan Pan” on the radio to the US Coast Guard informing them that my Captain had gone unconscious and that I was in the middle of transiting a major shipping lane. It was frightening to think about, but I quickly shifted back into focus and kept making conversation with Holley. We were about half way through the shipping lane, no impeding freighters in sight, and Holl was getting her sense of humour back. Things were looking up, but my nervous system continued to be on overdrive from all of the events that had unfolded that evening.

About an hour had past and we had successfully crossed the busy shipping lane as another tanker came into view. Holley was back to doing tasks on deck and we were now sailing with both the main and jib up, flashlight still illuminating the sails but no port and starboard lights. I was so glad that Holley was okay and that seemed to be the only thing that mattered, as long as we were together on this crazy ride then all would be fine…

That night we both didn’t get much sleep. I was concerned about Holley’s head injury and didn’t want her to be alone. She assured me that she was feeling back to normal, but when it was my time to go down for a nap I was still on edge and couldn’t get to sleep, despite only getting about 8hrs of rest in the preceding 48hrs. We were both getting pretty overtired, and things start to become more obscure in that state.

My 1am – 6am shift that morning was hazy. I found myself in a sort of half-dream half-awake state. It was the second time I hallucinated on a night shift. I saw a big black warship travelling beside us in the night, my heart lept out of my chest at how close it suddenly was to our boat. When I jumped up it disappeared. It also felt like I wasn’t alone in the cockpit that night. There was an old bald man in robes, Buddha like, sitting across from me, and there was the presence of an old woman. When I told Holley the next morning she said it was a scary thought, but at the time it was oddly comforting to have them there with me in the encapsulating darkness. It felt in a way that they were my guides, my wisdom keepers on this maddening journey into the unknown.

It was probably my fault for leaving on Friday the 13th.

We woke up before sunrise with a violent southerly swell rolling through Yellow Banks anchorage, the mugs and plates sliding on the counter like an alarm clock. Our mood oscillated with the movement of the boat: sometimes it’s funny to get tossed around while you try to put your pants on…sometimes it’s not. Our time in the beautiful Channel Islands had come to an end, time was ticking for me to get back to work in Canada and we had to make moves south. Not to mention we had run out of propane yesterday and in a new low I had eaten half cooked soupy, crunchy steel cut oats.

There was a thump in the cockpit as I performed my morning engine checks (I now religiously, if not obsessive compulsively check my transmission oil level), I poked my head out to investigate and waved to Matthew who was rowing away from the boat in his dinghy, having just dropped off a steaming thermos of coffee knowing our propane situation. An angel! Cass pulled the anchor with a little more enthusiasm and we followed the rising sun SE sipping hot coffee and watching our flotilla fade into the hazy dawn's pink mist behind us.

I was down in the galley when the engine revved down on its own. Cass explained she had felt the tiller jumping before we cut the engine. We had only made it 4 miles off Santa Cruz Island and it looked like I was going swimming. I squeezed on my wetsuit and, armed with a sharp knife, descended the transom ladder to battle whatever kelp monster had attacked my prop. Sure enough, a leviathan of bulbs, fibrous stalks and slimy filaments had wound itself hundreds of times around the propeller shaft. I began the work of hacking away the strands when I caught a glimpse of something shining below. I was suddenly aware that I was surrounded by dozens of what can only be described as creatures of the deep sea. Four foot long translucent snake-like creatures with glowing lights inside them, I kid you not. I leapt out of the water onto the ladder panting and looked at Cass, “There’s something down there.” To boot, I noticed my finger was stinging and I looked down to see I had sliced a piece of it along with the kelp monster. I collected myself and descended back into the unknown to get the job done. I was both in awe and terrified, caught somewhere between wanting to swim up and touch the unusual creatures to getting out of the water as fast as I could. I settled for finishing the hack job while stealing quick glances at the odd glowing snakes, their strange presence ubiquitously felt in a place I thought I would be alone. I wondered fleetingly what they thought of me; two beings who could not be more dissimilar had found themselves at the same dinner table. Do I make polite conversation? I got the last of the kelp off and climbed out of the water feeling more awake than any amount of espresso could have squeezed out of me. After inspecting the gearbox, shaft and dripless seal for damage, I fired up the engine, shifted into gear and throttled up: she purred! Holley - 1, Kelp monster - 0.

Light air flowed in from the NW and we threw up the genny, trimming to a broad reach. All around us the ocean awakened. Seals popped their heads up curiously. Splashing off our beam revealed a pod of hundreds of porpoises on their morning commute, some launching playfully several feet out of the water, all of them moving fast. The morning is a busy time on the ocean as the creatures of the sea stretch, yawn and show their bellies to the morning sun. 

We were admiring the abundance of life in this area when a shadow was cast over the boat. A US naval helicopter was circling us 200ft above the mast, the whap of its wings like a wasp, deafening against the morning calm. I tuned into the radio, straining to hear over the clap of helicopter blades. “Sailing vessel being circled by helicopter, redirect course north or we will pursue you.” Sweet lord what have we done! Flustered and fumbling, Cass kicked off the autohelm and I dove for the radio. After a few panicked minutes trying to determine what on earth was happening, we turned 180 degrees north and the helicopter retreated in pursuit of another unsuspecting victim. They were conducting live missile firing and we were in the firing zone and needed to seek immediate refuge on the north side of Anacapa. No longer able to proceed south today, we considered heading back to our anchorage on Santa Cruz Island and waiting for tomorrow. I hailed the helicopter on channel 16 requesting that we redirect course NW to return to Santa Cruz Island. The response was abrupt and unarguable: “There will be missiles flying everywhere.” Roger, good copy, noted. We retreated north of Anacapa Island to a small anchorage to wait out the missile practice, all the while thinking of the morning commuters, curious sea lions and eerie glowing snake friends and wondering who would be giving them warning?

The violence and suffering of human nature can feel so far away while on the ocean it is easy to forget it is there. It is an immense privilege to be able to leave the shore on my ship and not have to think about the issues facing the world. It is easy out here to not read the news and run away from the madness of it all. It is more difficult to read and try to understand the suffering, and harder still to think that in this voyage I seek peace that others can not have. The abrupt whapping of the helicopter reminded me of the world outside my 36 foot home on the ocean. The sea is a simpler space; a quiet space -  a space where decisions are made of free will and the hardships that come from facing the elements derive from my own choosing to be out here. The ocean can be hostile and dangerous, but it seems to me infinitely less dangerous than the perils of the human world. I am reminded to be grateful today.

Cassidy:

Channel Islands of California. Rolling dry grass hills speckled with cacti and sun bleached shrubs. Sandstone cliff faces, jagged shorelines overtop calm turquoise waters. Porpoises dancing in waves surrounding big red and brown kelp beds. These lands much different from our home in the lush rainforest of Vancouver Island; green replaced with brown, the dryness offering its own type of foreign beauty. The Channel Islands are exposed to the wide open Pacific and they maintain their wildness as part of a preserved national park.

Our first anchorage is Bechers Bay off of Santa Rosa island. It is a beautiful expansive bay with several other sailboats anchored, breaking waves on the beach and beautiful rock faced cliffs. Our flotilla is feeling the aftermath of a two day passage from Morro Bay, so we retire to our cabins early with the company of good books. My reading world lately is steeped in folklore and Greek mythology, Odysseus’ mystical journey in Homer’s Odyssey and Liz Greene’s portrayal of archetypal myth in the horoscope.

We wake to a blustery morning in Bechers, and by the time we pull up the anchor it is blowing 20knots on the nose. As soon as we are pointed downwind Maquinna starts gliding through the water effortlessly. Everything starts to make sense again. 

We had a difficult morning prior to departure. Both of us wanted to get off the boat to stretch our legs and explore land but the dinghy access was a sketchy shoreline with pounding waves. Our dinghy situation is not sturdy enough to handle big wind or waves. We had to fashion custom steel and wood oar locks for the new paddles after the old ones broke, and now even when furiously paddling the dinghy moves quite inefficiently. With weak paddling ability and high winds we run the risk of getting swept out to sea or flipping the dinghy on the breaking shore. I find it really challenging to be stranded on the vessel for days with no way to escape. I am used to having the freedom to go for a wander whenever I feel like it.

We sail SE following the channel between Santa Rosa and Santa Cruz, headed along the South side of Santa Cruz island. We jibe downwind with full sails in 15-20knots and small seas, perfect conditions. Holley and I are starting to move seamlessly on deck, our previously calculated motions now occur without pause in one continuous flow; running lines, hoisting sheets, winching sheets, unfurling headsail, reefing sails, changing sails. Moving with the natural rhythms of Maquinna, responding to her intuitively like a mother to her child. We come into alignment with the simple and primitive nature of our being, our instinctual selves, a place rooted beyond the intellectual world of thought.

We reach Coches Preitos anchorage around 6pm and discover that it is quite small with jagged rocks all around its perimeter. There is a big sailboat anchored in the middle and he calls to us that he has 200ft of chain out. The anchorage is tight and the bottom drops off quickly, so we will have to put out lots of rode and position ourselves perfectly so we do not cross his chain or swing into the daunting rocks. Holley and I have gotten pretty confident with our anchoring abilities but have not had much experience in small unprotected bays exposed to the open Pacific. The swell was funnelling into the bay and causing quite a push toward the rocks so we had to move quickly while being extra careful of drift. 

We decide to try out the spot amidships to the other sailboat. Holley put Maquinna in neutral and instructed me to let out 175ft of rode. I had only dropped 150 and we were already drifting too close to the other boat with waves pushing us closer to the rocks. Holley yelled for me to pull up the anchor quick. I got the winch on it and had only pulled up about 20ft when the windless came to an abrupt stop and got completely jammed. The electric windless winch can make the anchoring process easier, but it can also jam the rode and chain at the most inopportune times. I was struggling to yank on the rode while Holley ran from the cockpit into the V berth anchor locker. Now there was no one at the helm as we drifted closer to danger. From both Holley and I tugging on the rode from atop and below the foredeck, we finally got it free. Holley ran back to the cockpit but there was no time to pull the anchor up, she slammed the boat into foreword and drove with the anchor dragging underneath us to get us away from the rocks.

That was the first of two sketchy attempts to anchor in small rocky bays that evening. By the third attempt we were pretty exhausted, my hands were starting to callous up from tugging the anchor line and Holley was feeling the weight of stress. We were satisfied with the third anchor drop and cracked a beer under the setting sun, watching for anchor drag as the swell continued to pound the rocks just 20ft behind us. We set the anchor alarm and hoped for the best, knowing that if Maquinna dragged at all we would have to act fast.

We left the companion way open all night with the keys in the ignition in case we had to dive into the cockpit to start her up. We were surprised to find out that our undersized Bruce anchor held really well all night even with a ridiculous amount of waves hitting us at our beam. Holley did not get much sleep and had the anchor alarm app glowing on her phone next to her face all night.

Honestly lately it has been comical how many challenges we face in just a single day out here. It seems that our willpower and skill is consistently being tested, and we have no choice but to plow headfirst into each hardship because there is no way run away from it.

Holley :

I popped my head out from the dodger at 0730 Friday morning and was greeted by a warm wind carrying the smell of fresh baked bread from a bakery across from the anchorage in Morro Bay. The breeze was coming from the south and carried with it all the promises of warmer weather ahead of us. Could we finally be leaving the Pacific Northwest in our wake? I dropped Geoff off onshore after he said his goodbyes to the flotilla. A bittersweet farewell as we will miss his company and extra hands, but an exciting and nervous energy started in the boat as Cass and I realized it was just us from here on out. We pull anchor close to 10am and cross the bar with our small flotilla, motoring SW in search of wind under a hot Californian sun.

The wind indeed finds us and we hoist our light 150 genoa and are soon cooking along in 10-13kn of NW breeze, our hearts full as sun glistens on the gently rolling blue waters. As the sun starts going down the wind does with it safe for a well timed puff allowing us to cut our engine and unfurl the genny to soak in the sunset in quiet. We watch as the bright blue of the day changes from purple and dandelion yellow to a deep creamsicle orange. Cass picks her banjo and we watch the sun wink below the horizon. Clap! A humpback smacks its giant fin on the waters to our west as if waving goodbye to the day.

When the last bit of fire is extinguished from the horizon, Cassidy goes down to sleep and the stars begin popping out one by one. Then hundreds, thousands, millions, more; how can there be so many! Andromeda, ursa major, cassiopeia; I wish I had a book to name them all because they are surely all visible tonight. Instead, I am happy naming them myself. That there is a fish, and that one is a man with an interesting hat. I connect lines between dots and the more that I look the more stars appear, endless as the sea. I think about all the eyes of sailors over centuries that have looked at these stars and what they have seen: Gods, directions, answers, though likely more questions than anything.

The night passes with steady fair winds. Dawn brings all the colors of the night before in reverse and the sun lifts from behind the Channel Islands. The white cliffs and barren desert mountains of the archipelago beg exploring and we alter course East to find an anchorage.

Holley :

Cassidy is currently hand grinding our morning cup of coffee: a labor of love. Our inverter blew a few days ago so we haven’t been able to use the electric coffee grinder. Ten minutes later and Cass depressingly dumps a tablespoon of coffee grounds into the percolator; we both laugh. It truly feels that one thing breaks after another, like someone is looking down on us and in the exact moment everything is fixed they laugh and snap their fingers… poof! The inverter is blown. I’m almost afraid to fix anything, knowing that it will upset the celestial plan and surely cause another thing to break down. 

Here is a small snapshot of the things that have broken and been fixed by the crew since leaving Victoria: a wedge of wood holding the mast track in place (we had to sail with a 1st reef for 3 days for this one), the joker valve in the head (bless Erik for fixing this one), the transmission (I don’t want to talk about it), an engine mount, one of the dinghy oars (we had a backup), the backup dinghy oar, 2 y-valves in the head, leaky bolts needing drilling, epoxy, re-drilling, sealant, along with a myriad of broken bolts, instruments, shackles, gaskets, and chaffed lines. The list feels endless. The term jimmy-rigged has become part of our regular vocabulary as we makeshift things that hold pieces of the ship together. Matthew, captaining our buddy boat Sooner, promised me that things would stop breaking eventually….once my entire boat was replaced. Surely I am getting close. 

When I dreamed of sailing the Pacific Ocean, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my vision was one of romance: a gentle breeze flowing through my curls as I read classic after classic and played guitar on the bow of my ship. I didn’t realize that I would need to be an electrician, mechanic, carpenter, contortionist, plumber or engineer…needless to say, the learning curve is steep. Yet with every new project comes a new skill unlocked and I feel I am truly starting to know the inner workings of Maquinna as deeply as I know my own. And as with ourselves, there are always new things to discover. 

Two days ago Cass was headfirst in the bilge up to her elbows in “Hell’s broth”, wearing long rubber gloves and a bandana on her face to protect from whatever toxic fumes lingered in the depths of the stagnant seawater. She was sponging out the water when she found a transparent plastic bag with a hose attached to it filled to the brim with some repugnant liquid. We both looked at eachother wincing, “what is it?” she cringed through her bandana. Potentially some sort of alien amniotic sac housing a demon fetus and goop from the underworld? Tracing back the hose, it appeared to be the drain from the converted ice-box fridge. Cass bravely unhooked it and transported it off deck, both of us fearing what one misstep could mean as the cloudy liquid sloshed and threatened to spill from the sac. 

Glamorous, romantic? Not entirely. But as we learn the inner workings of Maquinna we learn how to better take care of her. My sailing friend and mentor Tim always says “if you take care of the ship, she’ll take care of you.” We are learning this more and more as we fix a leak here and shine a spot there and our house becomes drier and more secure. The boat is an extension of ourselves and just as we need care and nurturing, she does as well. 

Moitessier says “people who do not know a sailboat as a living creature will never understand anything about boats and the sea.”

Some film shots just developed:

Cassidy :

We float beneath the glowing red Golden Gate in morning sun rays on our way out of the San Fran Bay. Weaving between big ships forward and aft, with buddy boat, Sooner, at our Starboard. Hoisting the main and it is on fire in blazing morning light, casting a shadow onto soft rippling seas. We were stationed in San Fran for about 5 days doing repairs, buying parts, and getting our new transmission installation inspected. It turns out that Holley’s installation job is mechanically sound, which is an impressive feat according to many of the marine mechanics around. Most of them are shocked to hear that the mechanical work was done without lifting the boat out of the water, but most of all they are impressed that the work was done by a young woman. It is not hard to notice that the boating culture is largely male dominated, so we definitely enjoy cruising up to docks and seeing the surprise on people’s faces when they find out that it is just us two women captaining the vessel. 

Too long in any port and we start to feel the inevitable entrapment of land life, its responsibilities and maddening pace. San Fran was a luxury and a beauty in its modernity. Nights spent on city streets amongst characters of all kinds, shops glowing red and blue on street sides offering hot dogs, sweet and savoury crepes, specialty cocktails, and vintage apparel. Riding bicycles under a rising crescent moon, stopping at any place that intrigues us, free space and time to roam. Music floating through the evening air, surrounded by graffiti and oil painted walls, a city teeming with artistic expression. The happenings a complete contrast from expansive days on the sea. All around us excitement and stimulation, catching people’s glances and watching Mission street dancers, swept up in the current of continuous motion.

We have both sails up now and the wind carries Maquinna so effortlessly. An audible exhale from both Holley and I as it feels we’ve resurfaced in the place we belong.

We are on a day sail to Half Moon Bay today. Matthew says this is one of the best anchorages along the West Coast. We were planning to continue on to Santa Cruz tomorrow but there is big swell approaching in the next couple days. The super storm up North off of Vancouver Island is creating a lot of turbulence all over the Pacific coast. Since Half Moon Bay is a good anchorage we are planning on waiting out the 15ft swell in a protected area before we continue. Pacific North West storms inch closer every day and this is the first really big one we have seen. So far America has done an excellent job at dwindling our bank accounts, we head South in search of higher temps and lower costs.

Cassidy :

It feels good to be in the city, everything is so alive here. I feel an ease within, appreciating each day as it comes with all its twists and turns. Living within the long lasting moments in between, and welcoming each scenario and interaction as an invitation to be fully present. Continuous expansiveness minus the confines of rigid plans, schedules, and expectations. Free bird carried by wind gusts over treetops and cresting seas, floating with each drift in natural rhythm with the earth. We have the choice to live in abundance and awareness, choosing to roam in spaces of quietness, radiance, dissolving into the essence of peace.

Cassidy:

Rarely do we get the chance to sail downwind wing to wing because the conditions have to be just right to pull it off, so we were both pretty thrilled to have the opportunity to run wing to wing straight into San Francisco Bay. The waves were minimal and the wind about 10 knots, just enough to keep us moving along at about 5 knots right toward the Golden Gate bridge. Sun was high in the sky, a clear day, with Matthew on his boat “Sooner” right beside us. The approach to San Fran is strategic due to all of the inbound and outbound traffic, so we spent a bit of time dodging freighters and large commercial vessels until we found spot to slip into the chaos and make our way toward the Bay. We did all of this without using any motor, jibing our way through the traffic and cruising wing to wing when we were clear of everyone. We enjoyed a celebratory glass of wine for making it this far and finally being in sight of the Golden Gate, what an incredible feeling.

Not time to relax yet, after passing the bridge we were surrounded by wind surfers, sailors, tourist boats, fast motor boats, and yachts of all kinds. The wind picked up to nearly 25 knots in the span of about 10 minutes. Our anchorage was close and now we were ripping along way too fast to get in. Geoff and I struggled to take down the mainsail but the strong wind made it a messy challenge. Once we wrangled both the sails in and zig zagged the boat a few times in and out of the wind, we kicked the motor on and headed into Aquatic Park for anchorage. The wind was a steady 20 knots gusting at 25 and we were hoping the anchorage was well protected. We motored past the peer and entered the bay and saw that the space was much smaller than expected with several boats anchored there already. In high winds anchorage becomes a lot more risky and you definitely want to make sure you have a lot of room for any drifting. To our surprise, there were also swimmers everywhere. Florescent swimming caps bobbed in and out of the water all around our boat, they swam right toward us and seemed unaware of the danger… Holley did her best to not to run into any humans or boats and we successfully anchored after some messing around. We were unsure if the anchor would even hold in that amount of wind so we sat on the deck for a couple hours after, making sure Maquinna wasn’t free to roam into undesirable places.

Photo by Matthew Parsons : https://www.saildivefish.ca/

Photo by Matthew Parsons : https://www.saildivefish.ca/

Approaching San Francisco under full sail!!

Photo by Matthew Parsons : https://www.saildivefish.ca/

Cruising into Drakes Bay, CA looking for a good anchorage

Holley :

It’s almost midnight and Geoff shakes me gently awake, “there are dolphins!” he whispers excitedly. Having nearly given up on sleep I was only pulled from a gentle doze, I sprang out of the quarter berth in my long underwear at the word “dolphin”. I slipped on my lifejacket and was out of the companion way into a moonless and starless night, some of the cool air making it’s way through my merino wool baselayer. The crew shuffled to get to the bow, clipping and unclipping tethers as we went, dolphins springing up beside the hull. We all settled in on the foredeck, our eyes scanning the black waters smooth and dark like obsidian glass, the engine thrumming in the distance. 

From down in the water, a glow of light grew towards us, five or six dolphins split the surface of the water leaving a phosphorescent trail around and behind them. They seemed as excited as we were as they playfully performed a quick dance with Maquinna, weaving in and out of each other, at times getting farther ahead then quickly turning on their tails and circling back to the boat. We sat in awe as they played beneath us, sometimes coming into formation and gliding to the surface together only to all separate at once fanning out like a firework, bioluminescence trailing behind them. 

We peered over the rails into the glowing abyss, the ocean brighter than the pitch black night; the more we looked, the more life we observed: plump bobbing jellyfish, schools of fish passing in big glowing fields of phosphorescence like clouds in the ocean, the pattering feet of a bird hovering just above the gentle rolling swell. Some shapes unrecognizable passed below; bright glowing blobs or flapping arms, could it be our eyes playing tricks with the light and shadows or some unnamed creature floating in the depths below? We are all awe-struck by the beauty of the moment, all suddenly aware of how teeming with life this vast ocean is if you have the time to look. 

Pulling us from our trance, we hear a massive breath of air close by. We pass excited looks to one another: a whale!. It must be so close, we can hear the water move around it as it surfaces. Our heads spin searching for the origin of the noise, we squint into the night but it is too black, the sea too dark and our friendly giant remains hidden to all but our ears. 

There is a vulnerability to sailing among these giants. In our urban lives the only animals we live with are our docile furry friends. Not so far from ourselves, they sleep in beds and laze around the house. The animals out here feel wild and foreign, living in a world unknown to us. Yet, motoring along with them almost feels like they’ve invited us in; for a short while we are part of the pod, just another whale gliding along through the night. The vulnerability felt out here is not rooted in fear, but in knowing the world beneath us is so much more vast and unknowing than the surface we sail on; the depths endless, the lifeforms alien. It is the same vulnerability as looking up into a starry night and realizing just how small you are.

It is moments like this that bring me immense gratitude for this journey. Ask me a week ago if I am loving sailing to Mexico and you would have likely heard muffled curses coming from deep in the engine compartment as I fought problem after problem, pulling out my oil-streaked hair over the installation of a new transmission. Sailing is not always dolphins and magical moments; there is a necessary challenge to experiencing these moments, but through these challenges comes empowerment and confidence. There is a simplicity in building something for yourself and the reward being so much sweeter. Like growing vegetables in the garden, we harvest these beautiful moments that took care, nurturing (lots of water), and hard work to achieve; the satisfaction of the harvest so sweet because of the love that went into growing it.

Cassidy:

Our time in Eureka is finally coming to an end… although this town has its cuteness we are ready to get out of here. Some friends from Victoria came into the harbour the other day and it feels really nice to have some sailing buddies around. We’ve had some good evenings of beer drinking and sharing stories of the sea. Everyone has a completely different experience out there dependent on wind, waves, the boat and crew dynamics, so it is interesting to hear how everyone’s experience varied.

Holley has been working rigorously at installing the new transmission. She’s been rolling around in the engine compartment covered in grease basically every day. Upon receiving the new transmission she discovered it was actually too big for the space. She’s had to shift the whole engine and the drive shaft in order to make room. My Dad actually instructed her to give the engine a good kick… seemed to do the trick. It was a big celebration when it miraculously fit the space. Also some of the connecting parts that fit on the old tranny were not fitting with the new one, so Holley had to find a metal worker in order to custom make her a new copper collar to attach it to the engine. The collar was made a total of 3 times before it was actually the right size, 2 of the times the measurement was off by something like 3 thousandths of an inch, basically the size of a spec of dust.

We plan to head out in a flotilla of two tomorrow around noon to make slack tide at the sandbar. We have a crew of 3, a friend ended up joining us for this leg and we are grateful for his help. We are going to try to round the cape again, but this time we will make sure there is fluid in the transmission… Considering the old one had a leak and we hadn’t checked it in nearly a year there is a good chance it was functioning completely dry for the whole Pacific Northwest trip, whoops. This leg should be around 2 days down to San Francisco, shifts will be 6 hours on and 3 hours off in order to keep two people in the cockpit at all times.

Cassidy:

We’ve seen a lot of sailors come and go at the Eureka Marina. We are still here and eager to get back out on the sea, but we are mindful to practice acceptance in every stage of the adventure. Sailing journeys involve not only the sailing itself but a lot of moments in between, like when you are motoring on calm days or tied to a dock waiting on a weather window, or in our case sitting in transient moorage waiting for a new transmission to arrive by mail. Without awareness and discipline, the moments in between can begin to drive you crazy, especially for those who are used to living such fast paced lives. The life we have chosen for the next year has asked us to slow down rather than speed up.

These in between times ask us to look within in order to cultivate purpose. How can we bring patience, peace and contentment into every unforeseen circumstance we find ourselves in? The qualities of how we live in the moments between big events are just as important as how we navigate achievements and advances forward. If we don’t know how to come back to ourselves in the slow spaces between, asking ourselves what we learned through reflection and introspection, then we may pass up the opportunity to fully integrate our experiences. The practices we cultivate during the slow times act as tools that shape the curvature of our grand adventure. The tools we bring with us on the sea are a combination of skills and experience, but also mental focus, intuition, and balance within. Holley and I make sure we take time to read, write, explore, learn, connect and expand creatively. These practices help us soak in every moment, and help to create a solid foundation for the experiences ahead. My meditations lately bring an abundance of gratitude and thankfulness for where we are here and now.

Our other crew members left a couple days ago so it is officially just Holley and I out here. Holley has been successful at recruiting mechanical help from neighbouring sailors. Last night two friendly and knowledgeable guys came to help us prepare the engine to install the new transmission. Holley worked with them closely for many hours, learning all the way. In order to install the new tranny the engine has to be lifted, which requires a whole process of removing bolts and dismantling parts. It is not an easy job for someone who just started learning about diesel mechanics this year, but just as most everything else with sailing, you learn as you go and you can’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it.

In the dinghy using an umbrella as a sail, who needs an outboard motor?

Cassidy :

The weather window began to open up and we spontaneously decided to depart with a flotilla of 8 other boats on Sept 2nd, one day after our failed mission. It looked like we would be going into some heavy weather South of Cape Mendicino on the 4th but we decided as a crew that we could handle it. There are only narrow opportunities to go around the cape without a gale, as Cape Mendicino is notoriously known for its rough seas and high winds. Some sailors say it is the Cape Horn of North America…

We had a smooth departure and instead of steep cresting waves the sea was big and rolly. Us and the other boats were trying to get down past the Cape before rough weather hit and as long as we cruised at an average of 5 knots we expected to dodge the roughest part of the storm. Not much wind before the Cape so we ended up motoring from 4pm until 6am the next day. We were making good time and as long as everything went smoothly around the Cape we could ride some beautiful winds all the way down to San Fran. We were rotating 4 hour shifts through the night and struggling to stay awake as the motor hummed and the seas rocked. Cole and I came on for our 6am shift and right at crossover with Holley and Erik, the engine started making a funny noise and then it died.

Trying to remain calm, Holley and Erik went down to the engine compartment and started trying to diagnose the problem. They took off the wood panel to the engine room and smoke started streaming out into the cabin. It had a burning smell. It seems that it overheated but we couldn’t figure out why because the temp gauge looked fine. They checked the impeller, the fuel, the coolant, all was fine. Next they checked the transmission fluid and found that it was empty. That’s really not good. It meant that there must be a transmission leak. Holley topped up the transmission fluid to see if it would start functioning normally again. The engine turned on fine but we couldn’t shift it into gear, which meant there was probably damage from running it without lubrication.

Now we were on a heading SW approaching Cape Mendicino without any engine power. Wind was getting stronger, which was great for sailing but having no engine meant that we could not pull into port, or stop the boat from drifting if the wind died. The engine acts as a safety backup for getting us out of situations that we can’t navigate under sail, so it is a risk to continue into heavy weather without a working motor. Cole was down in the engine room tinkering with the transmission and checking to see if it was an electrical issue. He had no luck with fixing it and ended up pulling out the whole transmission to see what was wrong with it. Meanwhile, Holley, Erik, and I were in the cockpit navigating through fog, tacking into the wind, and steering the boat further away from shore to avoid any drift.

We were now in a dangerous situation with heavy weather approaching and a broken transmission. Holley called the US Coast Guard to make them aware of our situation, and let them know that we may need a tow. Upon inspection of the transmission, which was now out of the engine compartment up on deck, Cole and Erik discovered that several of the gears inside were ground down and shredded. Holley knew this was a big problem and that it would not be able to be fixed on the sea, we would have to be towed in to port.

In the next hour or so the US Coast Guards arrived on their big high powered vessel. They threw us a line and we attached it to the front of Maquinna. We were about 30 miles away from Eureka, CA so had to be towed there instead of going South around the Cape. We were all quite defeated at the end of the day after a long morning and afternoon of troubleshooting and decision making on very little sleep. The Coast Guard towed us for 3 hours to Eureka at 10 knots, it was the fastest Maquinna had ever gone. We crossed a sand bar with the current going against us, which made for huge waves. We were in a convoy of US Coast Guard ships, it felt like quite a grand entrance to the Eureka marina. The Coast Guard directed us on how to raft up to their boat so they could motor us into a safe spot at the dock. We definitely did not expect to arrive at the wrong port being towed by the Coast Guard, but what I’m learning more and more from our sailing journeys is that you really can’t predict what sort of challenges you will face once you set out on the sea.

Cassidy :

We sailed into Crescent City, CA on August 28th seeking refuge from the storm blowing in, and also to fix damages from the offshore journey. We expected to be there for 5 days until another weather window opened up. Erik successfully repaired the track on the mast using some extra wood on the boat and hack saw to cut it. Holley and Erik did an oil change on the engine and also fixed the toilet that kept filling with sea water. We had time to tinker with a lot of little things here and there and bought some new lines for the boom vang. We dedicated a day to escape into the old growth redwoods, and ended up hiking about 30 km through some of the most beautiful forests I have ever seen.

It was looking like 12pm on Friday the 1st would be the best time for us to begin heading South to San Francisco. We were trying to make a narrow weather window before another low pressure system hit Cape Mendicino. We were ready to leave by 11:30, topped up our fuel supply, and cruised out of Crescent City. Within minutes of leaving, the waves grew significantly. Tethered to jacklines, the crew prepared Maquinna to sail. With a Southerly wind opposing North West swell, we found ourselves in waves that were high and steep, rather than rolling. They started off 7 to 8ft waves and turned into 10 to 15ft, I had never been in waves that big. Unfortunately our South West heading put us exactly broadside to them, which became unmanageable quickly. The waves were too high to be hitting us from the side, and our only other option was to point the boat directly West. Holley passed off the tiller to me and we began to sail West into the waves. We were able cruise for a bit but the wind was dying and the force of the waves against us slowed us right down. We were getting rocked around without full sails and actually started to go backwards at one point. Motoring wasn’t sufficient as the prop kept lifting out of the water, and the waves were supposed to be even bigger further out. If we decided to battle these waves going directly West for the rest of the day we would risk not making it South in time before another big storm hit. After much deliberation, Holley decided to cancel the mission and head back for Crescent City Marina. Later that day we found out that two other sailboats also tried to depart that day and ended up heading back to the marina after discovering the rough sea state.

Cassidy :

It is incredible how much the days contrast on the sea. One day there will be huge waves, crazy unpredictable winds, and equipment breaking on the boat, and the next day the winds completely die down and the water is so glassy and flat it looks like pavement you could walk across. On these days we switch out the headsail for the light 150 to harness as many puffs of wind as we can. The moments in between we spend reading, writing, playing music, yoga, cooking, making up sea shanties, and fishing.

Cole has been dedicated to catching a tuna on this trip. We have gone through a lot of areas lately that are littered with fishing vessels, the aroma of fish wafting through the air. He’s had the lure trolling about 20 ft behind the boat for a couple days with no catches other than some sea vegetables. This afternoon he decided to change the lure out and within about half an hour the attached pop can launched off the deck. He grabbed the reel quick and felt a fish fighting on the line!! We were so excited when we started to see the fish come to the surface and realized it was a medium sized albacore tuna. We saw one big fin poke out of the water and all of its colours glistened in the sunshine. Just as he was pulling it out of the water he noticed that the hook was barely snagged on its mouth. It gave one good shake and the hook broke loose. DAMNIT… still no tuna.

Cassidy :

On the morning shift after the storm, Holley and Erik faced confused winds that changed direction and pressure frequently. They hit the first squall of the trip that morning. A squall is characterized by a sudden gust of heavy weather that can be violent and unpredictable but only lasts for a short time. In this case they were sailing in under 10 knot wind, so they had a lot of sail out. Holley looked in the distance and saw a disturbance in the water, a big patch of wind. She mentioned it to Erik and he grabbed the main sheet, ready to let it out if needed. The wind hit port side with extreme force and reached 35 knots within seconds. This amount of wind overpowered the boat quickly and the mast was sent straight down to the water. Everything in the cabin flew to the starboard side, Erik dumped the main and let go of the headsail and Holley struggled to point Maquinna into the wind to decrease pressure. Cole jumped up to the cockpit and furled the jib to further relieve pressure. Holley regained control of the boat soon after and Erik and Cole recovered the flapping sails. We got sent so far over that the sails just about hit the water, a near knock down. It was difficult to predict the magnitude of the gust before it reached the boat, but the crew performed incredibly, responding quickly and calmly to regain control.

Winds gusted up to 25 knots that day. We tacked through big waves with 3 reefs in the main and a half furled headsail. We were cruising about 45 miles offshore dodging low pressure systems on the coast and further West. It was such a fun day of sailing with lots of wind and waves, lots of time for sail trimming and practice on the tiller.

Winds died down late afternoon and picked up again later that evening. The whole crew worked to put a second reef in the main and ended up breaking the back car track on the mast from too much pressure. As the boat rocked in big waves, Holley and Erik were on deck tethered to the mast trying to temporarily repair the damage with super glue. The wood actually split on the back car track which meant that we couldn’t raise the main sheet further than the first reef point. It wasn’t a problem for that night as the winds continued to pick up, but we knew that we would have to make a stop in Crescent City, California, to repair the broken piece properly.

Cassidy:

The night shifts are dreamy. I wake out of next day’s sleep to question what was real and what was the dream world. The nights are so dark and encapsulating. There have been a few intense experiences in the last couple days, but it is getting harder for me to write and reflect due to lack of sleep. My mind has calmed to a slow pace with extended focus and long spaces between thoughts. The daily hustle of life on land doesn’t often permit this type of mental clarity. My body feels weaker than normal as I struggle to wake from short sleeps, a collective fatigue in my muscles and a sort of nervous system depression.

On our second night shift Cole and I found ourselves outrunning a big thunderstorm. Lightening shot through the sky in front of us and it was hard to see which direction the system was moving. We jibed westward on a beam reach thinking that it was travelling North along the coast of Washington. Growing up in Alberta, I witnessed many big thunderstorms but always had the luxury of being protected under shelter. On the open ocean there is no protection, only vulnerability and exposure. Our Westward heading luckily kept us on the outskirts of the low pressure system and we could watch the lightening from afar.

Cassidy:

We are on shift again and it sure was wavy while trying to sleep. It is optimal to point the boat diagonally into big waves but every now and then a powerful one hits broadside and sends you rolling into the wall of the quarter berth. Holley said she was awake most of the night too, she is not used to sleeping while someone else steers her boat, and the freighter incident didn’t make it any easier to relax.

We have the auto tiller on now and the sun is high in the sky. We surf atop the rolling waves in a steady 8 knot wind. We are aiming to be about 40 – 50 NM offshore in order to avoid marine traffic and sandbars. We cruise on a broad reach pointed SE now, about 50 NM offshore. Cole and I sit in the cockpit reading when we hear an exhale in the waves and look out to see a pod of dolphins surrounding Maquinna. They cruise along in groups gliding gently in and out of the swell. We go to the bow to catch a better glimpse and they swim all around us, going the same speed as the boat, popping in and out of the white wash. What else could they be doing but playing? It seems that they come to interact out of curiosity, with us equally curious about their life under the sea.

Dolphins are mammals governed by distinct rhythms of breath that help them move seamlessly through the water, and so too we breathe in unison with the gentle rock of the boat in the waves, lungs contracting and expanding at each crest and trough.

Cassidy :

We are off to a slow start this morning. We docked in a little fishing village last night but got kicked off the dock within about 20 minutes for being too “big”? I think that under the surface fisherman may have a bit of annoyance with sailors. We don’t seem to be cut from the same cloth… we both find ourselves on the water but for very different reasons.

We are heading to Neah Bay today to fuel up before our offshore journey. The crew already feels strong, with each of us bringing a different skillset to the team. Cole fixed our solar panels today which was nothing short of a blessing. We have two large solar panels rigged up on the lifelines around the cockpit but both of them didn’t seem to be drawing any power. He rewired them and suddenly we have tons of power!! Erik is always tinkering away on different innovative projects on deck. Our boat is in shipshape with his custom woodwork, rope and metal designs to maximize efficiency. Holley keeps us operating as a cohesive group. She has a way of delegating orders so gracefully while maintaining the utmost trust in each of the crew’s unique abilities.

We are passing Cape Flattery at about 5pm under motor, giving it a wide berth to avoid the powerful lee shore. Cape Flattery and the coast South of it is called the graveyard of the Pacific for a reason, powerful swell and current has sent many boaters into shipwreck in this area.

Cole and I are on first shift from 6 – 11pm. We motor straight out into the pacific with big rolling swell but no wind. The last thing we can see is Cape Flattery fade away in the distance behind us. I am filled with excitement and a feeling of vulnerability as we head out into the big seas. Around 8pm at about 10 NM offshore we make the big left turn to head South, I guess there is no turning back now.

The Pacific Northwest fog quickly begins to close in on us, no longer do we have sight of fishing boats in the distance or birds floating above, we now sail in a small grey bubble without reference to the outside world. Mist streams into the cabin as Erik and Holley slumber and soon the grey fog turns into blankets of darkness until we cant see the top of the sails anymore. The winds pick up and slowly build as we head South West.

We reach about 30 NM offshore and full sails are up, cruising on a beam reach through the misty night. I realize that night sailing is much harder than expected. The tiller flies back and forth with the pounding of waves and swell. My usual reference point on the horizon is covered with misty darkness and I feel a sort of sensory deprivation and disorientation. I have to stare at the lighted instruments to keep Maquinna on her heading, and the needle on the dial jumps back and forth as I try to steady it in the middle. It feels like I am playing one of those old school video games rather than helming a boat. Cole is on the foredeck tinkering with lines here and there, always with the goal to make the rigging and sail shape reach its maximum efficiency. He is up on the deck when I hear a loud fog horn, a big ship is close but I can’t see it. I check the AIS and find that we are on a collision course with an incoming freighter. Why didn’t the alarm go off??? The little symbols moving on the AIS screen don’t make any sense in this disorienting floating bubble. I yell to Cole on deck and the horn blows again, even closer now. My heart races, Cole is now in the cockpit and I lose control of steering while trying to figure out how to use our fog horn. Cole grabs the helm and makes a sharp turn, we both feel the ship’s encroaching closeness as I blow the horn. Holley is out of bed and looking at the AIS, she confirms our direction of escape and we get the motor going as fast as possible to hightail it out of there.

Freighter ships move extremely fast so they sneak up on you, especially in the fog. On a debrief of the encounter we realised that the AIS was only set to a 3NM radius, which means that we didn’t notice that another vessel was close until it was too close…

Maquinna and crew departed Oak Bay Marina in Victoria BC at 5am. Captain Holley and the crew are headed toward Port Angelas to clear customs and then cruising to Sekiu to anchor for the night.

Cassidy :

6:30 am : The crew wakes at 0430 with wind howling in the Oak Bay Harbour. I would usually feel some dissatisfaction waking at this unruly hour, but instead I am filled with excitement and adrenaline. Our long voyage South begins today.

As we wave goodbye to the last glimpse of family ashore, we set out into the dark horizon, sun still asleep behind the mountains. It was a scramble to tie up the last of the loose ends yesterday night, just in time to depart today. We are on our way across the Juan De Fuca channel toward Port Angelas. Our first stop is to clear customs.

How does it feel to finally set sail? Everything about it feels right, that this boat was meant to be my home and the ocean my front yard.

10:05 pm : The crew is coming together, bonding over late night sips of whiskey and preparing for the tomorrow’s offshore shift work. We plan to rotate shifts throughout the day and night, 5 hours on and 5 hours off. Captain says not to forget to stop and notice the moments of beauty amongst the challenging tasks. Night shifts will not be easy and we mustn’t try to fight our discomfort, but rather move with it, embrace it, dissolve into it, surfing the waves rather than crashing into them.