As we sailed slowly past Cabo Pulmo at the east end of Baja’s large cape, we gave a nod in quick recognition that we were finally in the Sea of Cortez. The Sea of Cortez. The goal we had had our sights on for so long. But as we dropped the sails, turned into the north wind, and started to motor the rest of yet another long day, we didn’t celebrate much. We were too tired, and there were more long days ahead of us. We didn’t celebrate as we anchored in beautiful Bahia de los Muertos, even as we enjoyed a little swim and an amazing view over dinner. We didn’t celebrate as we pulled into stunning Puerta Balandra, with it’s tourquoise waters and white shell beaches. We didn’t celebrate as we came into La Paz, though we gave thanks for the availability of a dock during the next round of north winds and another kid-boat to commune with. We didn’t celebrate as we reached the red cliffs and live waters of Isla Espiritu Santo and Isla Partida. And as the tears began to flow day after day, we finally had to name our malaise: Exhaustion.
We initially blamed it on the physical exhaustion of coming down the long Baja coast, of the toll that all those overnight sails had on all of us. But we have realized that it’s so much more than that. It’s the forced daily routine of monitoring the weather and grabbing the right weather window. Of always having to press on because of that narrow window and impending dates ahead. It’s the constant worry about the state of the engine and the batteries but not being able to take the time to diagnose and fix them. It’s the challenge of pounding nose-in to the wind and waves for hours on end or even of motoring steadily into calm seas for hours on end. It’s the weariness caused by waking 20 plus times a night from the waves, wind, or swell knocking the boat around and never feeling well-rested. It’s the frustration with the severity of the northerlies that whip through here at this time of year and the sinking disappointment with the realization that we wouldn’t be able to make it to Puerto Escondido by boat for Christmas.
And it’s life beyond the boating. It’s the tedium of parenting a cheeky 4 year old and an out-of-sync 6 year old who’s acting like a 4 year old because he hasn’t had any other playmates. Of figuring out how to teach a bright, sensitive, intense daydreamer with no interest in reading alongside a precocious, know-it-all preschooler. It’s constantly trying to find the control to not yell, and to make gentle reminders over and over and over again. It’s the repetition of in-vain attempts to keep the boat tidy and finally(!)-not-so-in-vain attempts to get the kids to help (sort of).
Exhaustion isn’t a problem if you have the opportunity to recover. But with little room to recover in sight, my morale sinks lower and lower, and my confidence in myself and this whole adventure wanes. And if I didn’t know already that our kids absorb all our stress, Dylan announced to me this morning that he wanted to go back to the blue house (our house back in Anacortes) and have things the way they were. I promised I would write about the good, the bad, and the ugly. This is the ugly where the bottom feeders live. But it is the plain truth about our current mental states.
Winter is supposed to be a time of rest and hibernation, of retreat and silence and minimalism. So recognizing that we need rest and TLC, that the boat needs rest and TLC (see footnote), and that the cat is going to jump ship if we turn the motor on one more time, we have opted to get a dock for at least a month and stay put in La Paz for as long as it takes for us to feel rested and restless again. It will cost a lot of money, but our mental health needs it, including the mental health of our aging feline family member. Knowing this is the plan, and having a moment to walk alone down the long malecon and breathe deeply, I began to feel a little better, a little hope that there might be a chance to recover.
Something a therapist told me years ago was to look for and recognize ten beautiful things each day, a suggestion that has buoyed my spirits on more than one occasion over the last few years. And I feel it’s important to mention that our exhaustion hasn’t been so deep that we haven’t been able to appreciate the beauty that we are moving through. Red mountains dotted with green cacti and yellow and pink flowers. Blue waters so clear we can see our anchor 30 feet down and the wide variety of fish taking refuge under our boat. Our kids’ joy playing in the warm water and finding their own new confidence in salt water. White sand and shell beaches. Gorgeous colorful fish that we keep having to look up. Houses and buildings of all colors climbing up the hillside. Children screeching in delight as they ride bikes down the malecon. It is not lost on us. It is beautiful. We only need to rest a little – a lot – so we can once again look past our blurry fatigue to see and appreciate the beauty in what we are out here doing.
Footnote: The boat needs rest and attention as much as we do. The engine’s oil pressure has been abnormally low, and Tom’s continued diagnostics have not yielded satisfactory results. One battery charger seemingly stopped working, and though it is resolved, it has not resolved the fact that our batteries are draining quickly and that the alternator is not doing much to fill them up, even on long days of motoring. One of our bilge pumps is not working, and our forward head is out of commission again. Our little electric motor on our dinghy is beginning to be unreliable due to corrosion. In the first four years of owning our boat, we put in 250 engine hours. In the last 6 months, we’ve put in 500 more. The sails, the rig, and the steering have all been working harder, too. So, Korvessa needs rest and attention. Yet, she has continued to perform flawlessly for us and keep us safe, even in the short period 12-foot seas that greeted us as we left Isla Partida a few days ago. Time for some maintenance for all.
Six months ago we stood on a rainy dock in Anacortes and, surrounded by family and friends, we took knives to our docklines and cut ourselves loose. It’s been six months of some amazing highs and lows, and without too much introspection and analysis, I will say that we’re glad we’re out here doing this. It has not been without difficulty, and there have been plenty of moments when we have questioned what we’re doing. Kids don’t instantly become well-behaved when they have more time with parents, and years of work stress don’t dissolve upon the first breath of salt air. But yesterday Dylan ordered his meal in Spanish without prompting. I get to write. Tom gets to sail the world. And Andy…well, Andy said his favorite things are the big waves, so I guess we get to see a sailor in the making. I polled everybody with a few basic questions about the first six months, so here is a quick and dirty summary of where we are and what we’ve experienced:
Why so many nights at docks? Aren’t you supposed to be living on the hook? In the US and Canada, we would grab super-cheap state park or government docks when they were available (no water or electricity, but easier to get kids ashore), including one abandoned marina where we awoke to guys tearing it apart. We also spent 3 weeks back at a dock in Anacortes working on the boat. When we hit southern California, there were very few places to anchor, so there was no choice but to get docks in a few places, and we were happy that a few yacht clubs hosted us for free or low prices. Lastly, there was no anchoring allowed in Ensenada, but we could get a great price if we stayed for more than 10 days, so we stayed for a month with the city at our doorstep, and it was awesome. We’ve been at docks more than we expected and more than we would like, but the truth is that it’s more comfortable for us and for the kids, and we also needed to plug in to recharge batteries periodically. Now that our solar panels are working and our watermaker is up and running, the need for docks will be less urgent. However, we do find that being at at dock in a very urban area is far preferable than being at anchor due to easier access to shore.
Favorite Place
The West Coast of Vancouver Island must have been amazing. Why, yes, it was. And someday we will be going back to spend more time. We loved the trees, the remoteness, the (few) people there, the hikes and beaches, and the stunning beauty.
Favorite Food
Your 6-year old’s favorite food is cervecerias? Well, no. And before you ask, he did not drink beer. But he loved the ambiance and space to play at the breweries we went to. And, though he didn’t say it, the chance to hang out with another boat kid at some of those cervecerias probably added to his good memories, along with the fact that his parents were relaxed and enjoying the views, the beer, and the atmosphere.
Best Thing about Cruising
I thought this was one giant vacation. What do you mean there are hard things? We may not be working for money 5 days a week anymore, but it’s not a vacation. There is school to be planned and done, chores to be done (cleaning, tidying, sorting, re-sorting, laundry, trash, repeat…), groceries to be found and hauled back (without a car, remember), meals to be cooked, mail to be checked, routes to be planned, weather to be checked, paperwork to figure out, boat maintenance to be done, various research to be done, birthdays and holiday celebrations to be planned, and two spirited, energetic children to be exercised.
You miss swimming? Aren’t you surrounded by water? Yes, but that doesn’t mean the water is safe to swim in. Up north I swam a few times, but the water is freezing. Down the coast, the water is warmer, but you have surf and undertow to contend with, as well as anchorages full of large sea lions with big teeth. And of course, you can’t swim in marinas. So, I miss swimming. And while hot, dry climates may be what most people come here for, Tom and I both miss trees and cooling rain. We fantasize about a cabin in the woods someday, with a metal roof so we can hear the Pacific Northwest pattering above us.
Budget
So, there’s our first six months. It doesn’t actually feel like we’ve been out that long because we felt like we started the trip from scratch when the kids came back aboard two and a half months ago in Dana Point. We had to go through the whole “settling in” period all over again, and the cool, remote, cedar-shaded beaches of British Colombia seemed like a lifetime before that.
