If our winter excursion into the Sea of Cortez was defined by our explorations, our seven-week spring trip into the Sea was defined by our lively social life. It was full of hellos and how-are-yous, but just as equally full of hugs and farewells. It’s not an easy existence to live with the ebb and flow of people and the emotional ups and downs that come with it, but we are learning to manage it just as we manage the ebb and flow of the Sea.
Before departing La Paz, we made a quick trip by road down to Los Barriles and La Ventana to see two sets of friends from home who were down in Baja on vacation. The opportunity to reconnect with friends from home was not only a treat, but a reminder of our roots and that friendships can survive time and distance. At a time when we were all feeling a little homesick, we relished a weekend of connection. In Los Barriles, the kids played in the pool for almost five hours while we caught up on our lives over beer and barbecue. In La Ventana, we spent the day on the beach with our friends, snorkeling, kite surfing, and playing in the sand before returning for a succulent shrimp dinner. We rushed back to La Paz to get off the narrow mountain road before dark.
We left La Paz a day later, loaded down with fresh food and clean clothes, heading north to meet our friends on SaareLill and Walkabout in Ensenada Grande on Isla Partida. We celebrated our upcoming voyages with a bonfire on the beach. Five kids (ages four to nine) climbed and scrambled over the red rocks and slid around on the shelly beach while the parents connected and swapped war (i.e. parenting) stories and plans for the future. I bounced Walkabout’s four month old baby on my leg and remembered with fondness the time when all my kids asked for was milk and fresh diapers. As the sun fell below the cliffs and darkness came, the girls took turns telling ghost stories, lighting their faces up with flashlights against the red rock wall behind them. We sang songs to rid the younger kids’ minds of any lingering ghostly images, then doused and covered up the fire pit and launched our dinghies into the dark water.
Moving north to Isla San Francisco, we explored the salt ponds and tidepools of the protected island and gave the kids plenty of opportunity to play in the warm, shallow water of the anchorage’s southern nook. Having friends to share the anchorage with meant having friends to share fishing success and meals with! But having kept the kids up late two nights in a row and having suffered the consequences, we also learned that we had to moderate our evening time together and make sure we could return to the kids’ early bedtime.
Onward to Isla San Jose, where we made a quick afternoon stop for a dinghy cruise into a massive mangrove lagoon. We looked for rays, fish, and birds, as well as a lost (and found!) pink flip-flop.
We escaped Isla San Jose before the no-see-ums could come out of hiding and find our sensitive skin, so we headed up the channel to San Evaristo where we shared an anchorage with 23 other boats. This was all too social for us, but everyone was seeking shelter from a predicted massive northerly blow. And, boy, did it come through. In less than five minutes, the wind went from five knots to 25, and by the time we got back to our dinghy, the sand was stinging our legs and boats were dragging anchor all over the bay. Andy, screaming, clung to my shoulders as I ran with him to the dinghy and piled both kids in. Tom navigated us safely through the chop, though we were unavoidably covered in salt spray by the time we arrived back at our hobby-horsing boat. Boats moved, re-anchored, and coached each other as we all set our radios to channel 17 and waited for the 35 knot gusts to settle down. (Our anchor held tight; thank you, Mantus Anchors!)
We headed further north, with the goal of Bahia Concepcion, the tale of which I’ll reserve for another day. After a week in Bahia Concepcion, tired of the heat and the Dylan’s erratic behavior, we headed south again – La Paz bound – with plans to intercept friends again as we made our way down. What awaited us at Caleta San Juanico was five other kid boats and four days of socializing that, blinded by our fatigue and exasperation, we hadn’t realized how much we needed.
I’m having trouble finding all the right words for our time at Caleta San Juanico. I can tell you what we did – hiked to a farm to buy eggs and cheese, took a dinghy tour of sea caves, lounged on the beach while the kids splashed and screeched in the water, built huge sandcastle civilizations, had bonfires with stick bread, celebrated a 6-year-old’s birthday with an epic party – but I have trouble finding the words to describe what this time meant.
We were having a hard time, and our “fight or flight” reflexes were trying to get us to retreat to our shells, to hide from the world. But it was the connection with other parents that helped us through a difficult time. It’s not easy for any of us out here. There are certainly some wonderful moments, and I don’t doubt that we’ll all – kids and parents alike – grow from this experience. But spending 24/7 together with your kids in a small space is hard, and we need the opportunity to vent to each other, learn from each other, and comfort each other. Sometimes all you need is an ear to listen. Or 24.
After parting ways in San Juanico, we were excited to head south and intercept our friends on Blue Heron whom we had spent many a harbor with in southern California and two weeks in Ensenada, but hadn’t seen since then. We had been their first kid boat – and they ours once we left Washington – and it was fun to compare notes on our time in Mexico and our plans for the future. The boys played on the beach, in the waves, and in each others’ boats for three days before we needed to say farewell.
The cruising life is full of hellos and good-byes. It is full of acquaintances and companions, and friendships necessarily develop quickly. We’ve said good-bye to friends we may not see again. We’ve said good-bye to friends we might see on the other side of world next year. We’ve also said good-bye to friends we will ensure that we see again regardless of location. Maybe it will be years from now when we’re land-based and growing tomatoes and zucchini in our garden instead of sprouts in a jar lashed to the counter. Maybe it will be decades later. The joy of being a traveler is that, across oceans and mountain ranges, despite the ebb and flow of the sea and the ebb and flow of people, the connections we have made our meaningful, intense, and enduring.
