Exhaustion

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.