Sailing Korvessa

We are spending our last hour in La Paz right now. We’re headed up to Isla Espiritu Santo and Isla Partida for a last romp in their turquoise waters and red arroyos, but in a few days, when we start that two and a half day sail across the Sea of Cortez to the mainland, we will say goodbye to the Sea of Cortez. Strangely, this next step doesn’t feel like continued exploration of Mexico, but rather the first step of the next stage of our journey across the Pacific. That our thoughts have shifted further west in preparation for the big passage only makes it clearer that our last days here are upon us.

My throat first tightened a little when I realized that our stop in Agua Verde would be our last, that our kids would never again be able to obsess about Uncle Tio’s cats or charm the campers on this remote beach (see our post last year on Free Range Parenting in Agua Verde). In Bahia Salinas, as I watched the kids climb on what remained of the rusty salt mining equipment (they had cleaned up over half of it since last winter), I felt the pang of changing times, knowing that not only would my kids not be able to climb on that dilapidated machinery again, but other kids might not even have the chance. And I simply felt sad when we realized we would not be able to stop at Puerto los Gatos (read Finding Favorite Places) again due to a series of strong north winds that would have made the anchorage untenable.

In the past month here in La Paz, we have made a point to visit so many of our favorite places – the Serpentario, Claro Fish Jr, Harker Board Co, Doce Cuarenta, Mercado Bravo, the playground – and to spend countless hours walking on the waterfront malecon, our favorite (and free!) activity. In the many months that we have spent here this year and last, this city became a second home to us. Dylan just declared tonight that “La Paz is the best place we’ve found so far!” We think so, too (though only because we generally put our beautiful secluded anchorages in a different category entirely).

But as many lasts as there have been in our last two months in the Sea of Cortez, we know that La Paz is not a “last” for us. As we bungee-ed back and forth from La Paz last winter and returned to its familiar streets and trees and faces this winter, we realized it had truly become our second home. We need to shove off the dock in five minutes, so I will leave it at that. Except to say that we will definitely be back.

Informational Addendum: We are headed to La Cruz de Huanacaxtle to prepare the boat and the crew for the 3-4 week passage to French Polynesia in March. Tom has two friends who will help him make the big puddle jump. The kids, cat, and I will stay in a little apartment in La Cruz until it’s time for us to leave. We will spend a week in LA camping with my parents, then start the 4-flight journey out to Atuona on Hiva Oa in French Polynesia.

ps. Dylan is doing great. He is happy and excited about everything this year, and we’re thrilled about that. He loves making the videos we’ve been doing, so keep checking Youtube for those (there have been three so far).

pps. There are very few pictures in this post because my computer refuses to upload them right now. I’ll make up for it later.

Dylan makes his debut as Korvessa’s new video producer with his first video! Okay, maybe I did the technical work and the editing out of a lot of non-sequitors, but hopefully I can gradually hand over more of the work – including the photography and cinematography – to him over time. He is really excited to tell people around the world about our adventures. And I’m excited that he’s excited.

So brace yourself for videos of all sorts every few weeks. Whaley may star in many of them, and no doubt there will be pictures and videos of things with wheels when we happen to be around cars, trucks, or boat-travel-lifts, but I also hope I can encourage him to highlight some of the cool stuff we’re seeing along the way. For example, on Isla Angel de Guarda, he discovered that elephant trees are great for climbing and that cactus seed pods look like packaged fuzzballs. Here in Santa Rosalia he is enamored with all the cool mining stuff and will probably have a lot to say about it. I probably won’t post here every time we publish a video, but please feel free to check YouTube periodically for any of Sailing Korvessa’s content, or subscribe there if you want to get alerted when a new video is up. Thanks for following and supporting Dylan on this new project (I’m sure he would love supportive comments, as well)!

As for where we are, we’ve been enjoying Santa Rosalia for the past few days while we wait out a big north blow. But we’ve got quite a few miles to get under our belt to get back to La Paz. We’ll be out of here Saturday morning well before the sun appears and look forward to visiting a few favorite places in the Sea before we settle in for the holiday season in the city that has become our Mexican home.

The seasons shifted instantly in Anacortes this year. Warm sunny days became cold rainy ones literally overnight one September evening. Just as I began wondering if I was going to have a dry day to mow the lawn in my parents’ yard before we left, the sun came out – and the temperatures plummeted when the chilly north winds chased the thick clouds away. Frost painted grass and cars white every morning. Andy wondered why there was smoke coming out of his mouth, and Dylan asked why the red car’s heater wasn’t strong enough. And with that drop in temperature came the realization that our return to warmer climes was imminent.

Words didn’t flow for me this summer and fall as I had planned they would. Recovery and daily life took precedence over inspiration and creation. Top of the priority list was avoiding the Mexican heat and hurricanes, earning some money, getting Dylan evaluated, and regaining our psychological footing. Oh, and teaching Andy to swim. Revealing our not-so-hidden type-A personalities, I have to say that we did manage to accomplish those goals, but it was the unexpected consequences of those actions that proved to be more significant and meaningful and allowed us to know ourselves better.

Yes, we avoided the heat and hurricanes of a Mexican summer, though not before we put in quite a few 100+ degree days in June and July. It forced a conversation about the reality of cruising in hot weather climates and – with a nod to the fact that we could certainly do more to acclimate our Northwest bodies to the heat – an unapologetic admission that we simply do not like hot weather the way so many others do. A cool climate, even with all its gray and rain, will call us home.

We also put a few more dollars in the bank account, though a jury summons and slow billing processes threatened to hijack our financial buffer. Tom (a PA) worked at a psychiatric hospital for the summer and fall – a job that meant two hours of commuting each day but at least paid him well and gave him the ability to be home most nights. Still, even with a job he enjoyed, the stress hit immediately and with it the realization that a year was not enough time off to recover from twelve years of intense medicine in broken medical system. But Tom loves medicine and is very good at it, so we decided the trick is to figure out a way for Tom to work a bit less. Sounds easy, but this is in a field where 40 hours a week is often considered part-time and in an economy where two full-time jobs are practically required to keep up a household. It will require some minimizing, but luckily this sailing trip has already prepared us well for that.

This realization came conveniently at about the same moment that I admitted out loud that I miss working. Right now, I work as our family documentarian and researcher; the navigator and paperwork organizer; the meal planner, provisioner, and preparer; the teacher, tutor, and librarian; the playmate and disciplinarian; the chief financial officer and crew maintenance engineer. And though I’m sure I’m selling myself short, I don’t feel that I am doing any of these particularly well. This summer I researched cat travel logistics, visa timelines, country entry requirements, budget, boat-school ideas, and autism (all of which will get posts of their own). I also worked at keeping the kids alive and healthy-ish: cooking, feeding, shopping, doctor’s and dentist appointments, therapy sessions, swim lessons, library and museum visits. This is all to say that it is hard work, and a lot of it. But despite reading through so many books about the joys of homeschooling and blog posts about the freedom of cruising – I simply do not get the same satisfaction in this lifestyle than I do from going to work. So, the unexpected consequence of a life away from “work?” I was able to say out loud that I miss working. And I’m okay with that.

Yes, we got Dylan evaluated, and yes, we received a diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder that swept us up in a tumbling, suffocating tsunami wave for a while. But the wonderful unintended consequence of that diagnosis was that it allowed us to start repairing our relationships with Dylan. As I became more flexible, so his defiance and rigidity eased. As I learned to use different language and to frame his behavior to him, he less often tipped over the edge of the “crazy” precipice. As he spent two months in school, I had more time to myself and with Andy, and Dylan seemed to get excited about learning again, or at least to engage in the fun routines of school. And as his behavior moderated, his brother’s anger eased a little. We have a long way to go, but at least Dylan will crawl into my lap every morning to read Calvin and Hobbes, and he is more willing to spend time with me than to push me away. I’ll take it.

So, are we on better psychological footing? Yes, absolutely. By the end of our four and a half months in Anacortes, we were all antsy to return to our boat. Dylan told every stranger he met that we were going back to Mexico soon, and Andy grew especially impatient in the last two weeks, always sure that we were leaving that day. In our conversations about whether to continue and how long we wanted to continue, we decided that we are committed to getting to Australia, but we are likely to skip Japan and Alaska on this trip (still no promises; cruising plans are written in low-tide sand). Ideally, we would like to have the kids back in school by the fall of 2021. Somehow, instead of producing a feeling of disappointment, this has given me more energy and courage and excitement to continue (though I can’t say the same for Tom, who is disappointed at the prospect of missing Japan by boat). And saying out loud that I miss working has given me a sense of peace. The weird work dreams that plagued me for the past year and half have ceased.

Last but not least, Andy learned to swim! This has been a major challenge for this little guy, who spent his first group lesson screaming, splashing and hitting the other children, and whining constantly that it was too noisy and too crowded. I whisked him away and put him in the very capable hands of Trevor Johnson, who worked his magic on this reluctant 5-year old. Andy started his first lesson by crying, screaming, and taking a full 12 minutes to get near the edge of the pool. Within a few weeks, he didn’t want to get out of the pool after the lesson, and within a month, he was swimming for ten seconds on his own. Not drown-proof yet, but swimming and having fun doing it! The unexpected consequence? The women in the water aerobics class at the time Andy had his lessons got so much joy out of watching Andy improve. Twice a week, they would gush about how much fun it was to watch Andy learn, what an amazing teacher Trevor was, and what a great job Andy was doing. Though Andy was shy and somewhat unresponsive, I think the encouragement and praise must have helped build his confidence. He is a different kid in the water now, and it is a joy to watch him swim.

This brief time back in Anacortes was perhaps not exactly what we expected. And it certainly wasn’t easy; tears flowed often. But we achieved what we needed. It didn’t come in the form of the verbatim goals we had set out for ourselves, but in those unexpected developments that emerged as a result of those goals and from being forced to confront our own fears, desires, needs, and purpose.

We loved the time with family and friends. We loved the hikes in the cool fir and cedar forests. We got to see both kids blossom in school. We remembered why we love the Pacific Northwest. We appreciated the time to step back and and analyze our needs a little closer. We enjoyed our brief time at “home.” But we also felt the pull that all itinerant souls do – the pull of the next place, of the next adventure, of learning the next piece of the unknown – and the unconscious pull to define home.

Informational Addendum: We’re now in Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point), about an hour from the Arizona border. While the boat was torn apart for boat projects, all four of us and the cat lived in a small hotel room for eight days with no fridge, microwave, coffee maker, or functioning bathroom door, but it was really cheap and only one block from the boatyard. It also happened to be on the party street in town – Calle 13 – complete with red lights and table dancers, and the music on weekend evenings went on until well past 3 a.m. Ask how we know.

While that was fun while it lasted, we were awfully eager to get back in the water. Thanks to help from Salvador Cabrales and his amazing crew at the Cabrales Boatyard, we got back in the water today and are all happy to be floating again. I was also thrilled to be able to have my galley back after 16 days without a kitchen. So, what do I make? Tacos? As if we couldn’t have walked a block and paid half the price of what it cost to buy the groceries. But they were so satisfying. It’s good to be home.

Here we are. Visitors in our own hometown, enjoying the familiarity of friends and family and tall green trees, but having nostalgic flashbacks of a desert life of beaches and cacti, of the pervasive smell of sand and salt water, of warm smiles and long walks. And of a cozy sailboat that sits on its stilts in the hot desert sun waiting for its life to return. We feel the whole range of emotions that comes inevitably with straddling two worlds, plus a barrage of other desperate and confused emotions that we did not see coming. Here we are, yet again in that “waiting time,” but this time one that resembles less the doldrums and more a tsunami wave as a new diagnosis slams us with its force.

If you’ve followed our previous posts or know us at all, you know that we have a strong-willed, intense, spirited kid. You know also then that we have had some major challenges with said kid. The slow decline of Dylan’s behavior from quirky to abnormal to downright incoherent and defiant taxed our wills and our mental health. And yet, we were the proverbial frogs in the slowly heating pot; we didn’t really comprehend the full extent of his intensifying behavior because we were with him all the time. We didn’t see how far into his own head he was getting, squeaking whale sounds all day as he clutched at his tattered Whaley, spinning or running in circles making a variety of engine noises, becoming nonverbal, incoherent, and defiant at the slightest whisper of school or work.

At the suggestion of good friends, who could see better from the outside in, we got him professionally evaluated when we got back to Anacortes. We filled out pages and pages of narratives and questionnaires. We made four four-hour round-trips to Bellevue and back for interviews, assessments, and feedback sessions to figure out what was going on in our son’s brain and to learn, if possible, what we could do differently to help him. We had gotten to the end of our creative parenting and our patience. We were so exhausted that we could no longer look for answers on our own.

“You’re going to meet with a doctor who’s going to help us understand how your brain works,” we explained. “She’ll play some games with you and have a lot of questions for you.” Dylan loved the games, and talked her ear off about cars and whales. Constantly. Flatly. He didn’t look her in the eye. He didn’t respond to her deliberate nonverbal cues. He didn’t respond to her life stories or ask her questions. He chewed on his shirt and sleeves. He chewed on my watch and rubbed his face along my arm. Memories of the toddler who lined up his cars in exact rows, screamed incessantly in crowded spaces, balked at most foods and offensive textures, refused to cuddle, and struggled with toileting came flooding back to me. The child whose behavior didn’t match up with or respond to what was written in any of the dozens of baby books lined up on our bookshelf. And so perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising when we received the diagnosis.

Dylan has autism spectrum disorder. Dylan is autistic. My initial reaction was to feel relief – relief that there was an explanation for his quirky, abnormal, and defiant behaviors beyond poor parenting choices (though I’m sure there were plenty of those, too!). Suddenly we could see the years of challenge and struggle and bafflement in a totally different light. But even as the relief of a diagnosis came over me, so did the weight of what it might mean for the future. What would this mean for his education? For Dylan’s personal and professional future? For the sailing trip? For our own careers and plans? Autism isn’t a phase to grow out of. There is no cure. There is no magic pill.

I began to feel slightly hopeful as I read the book Be Different by John Elder Robison (an Aspergian himself), who credits his engineering and business success to the intense focus his autism has given him. Or when a friend of mine said “the world needs people with Asperger’s Syndrome.”* Or when – in response to my comment that someone will find and build the technology to get us to Mars soon – Dylan said “Maybe it’ll be me.” But as I watched my momentarily nonverbal son hiss at his new 2nd grade teacher and try to bite her, I could only choke back my emotions and think quickly about what I needed to do right then to get him into a coherent, communicative state again, never mind encourage him to design a spaceship to Mars. It was that moment that I realized how much our lives had just changed.

So, here we are. With a serious diagnosis. With a million questions. And with a choice before us. We can stay and continue with Dylan’s school and therapy, giving him the opportunity to benefit from all that science and supportive institutions have to offer. Or we can continue on our sailing trip, an adventure over a decade in the planning. And there are a million options in between. After some brainstorming and thinking, we have ultimately decided to return to the boat and our adventure in November as planned, but with an even more flexible mindset than before. We now know that we need to be flexible not just with weather and social circumstances, but also with the needs of each member of the family.

We don’t know for sure what is best for each of us or for all of us as a family. We don’t know whether being in a structured school would be best for Dylan or being in a global environment full of wild creative kids learning to tackle real-life problems (while intermittently snorkeling and exploring hidden beaches and foreign ports). We do know that we will do whatever we can to work with Dylan’s strengths and interests and and to mitigate his debilitating anxiety. The idea of following a set curriculum has certainly been thrown out the window. Back on the boat, school is likely to involve lifting up the floor boards and learning about the diesel engine, listening to the engine sounds to detect a problem, studying pulleys and other places of mechanical advantage, analyzing the construction of new hotels along the Baja coast, and building castles out of dead cactus trunks. If we can pique his interest in geology, marine biology, and a little history as we head back into our nautical life, then so much the better.

We also know that we need to think about the needs of everyone else in the family, too. How do we meet the needs of our newly-minted 5-year-old who – despite always getting the short end of our attention stick – is already reading level 1 books, putting together 300 piece puzzles, memorizing all species of whales and dinosaurs, seems to have an artistic gift (which he didn’t get from either his parents, I can tell you), and is generally loving boat life? How do we meet the needs of Tom, who has been planning this sailing trip for over a decade and would happily keep sailing as long as money and sanity last? How do we meet my own needs, which I struggle to even name at this time, because I have lost complete track of, well, everything. Perhaps rediscovering them is my need. And does that best happen on the boat or elsewhere? And we can’t forget our poor aging kitty, who is now on thyroid medication and who periodically misses an easy jump onto the bed just to remind us that the clock is ticking.

Here we are. Stuck between two different worlds we both love and fear. Facing a future that might be filled with therapists, IEPs, medical insurance claims, or… might not be. There are so many gaping unknowns. And we need to remind ourselves that we are also here with the same kid we’ve known for seven years – spirited, willful, smart, and wickedly observant – but now with more information about the resources available to us and insights into his unique strengths, quirky behaviors, and sensory needs.

One thing we do know is that we all want to go back to the boat. The boat is home. Andy is desperate to go back and asks daily when we’re leaving. Tom and I love seeing our friends and familiar places, but it’s tough to be here when we know it’s only a pause. And Dylan even said himself a few days ago, “Life on the boat was practically perfect; I just don’t know why I was so angry.” We don’t know why either, kiddo, but this time we’ll do everything we can to make it smoother and happier for all of us.

*Informational Addendum: Asperger’s Syndrome used to be its own diagnosis under the previous Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-4), but is now included as part of the broader Autism Spectrum Disorders as defined in the new DSM-5. When people think of autism, they often think of Dustin Hoffman’s character in the movie Rain Man, but all the characteristics of autism – whether social, emotional, sensory, or cognitive – are indeed each on a wide spectrum. Autism is ultimately a delay or disorder of communication in some way, as well as a different way of learning and processing information. Essentially, the brain is just wired differently.

After spending weeks poring through books, I have learned a huge amount about autism (though I’m still only scratching the surface). Most importantly, I’ve learned that looking for the deeper “why” behind behaviors is the key to understanding what the child can’t communicate and what his underlying needs are (this is one of the key takeaways from Uniquely Human: A Different Way of Seeing Autism, by Barry Prizant). Even with a child who is able to speak well, like Dylan, it doesn’t mean that communicating needs, emotions, or socially expected reactions is easy.

I’ve also learned that autism is not only characterized by intense interest or fixation on something, but also by vastly unequal levels of skills in various areas (for example, extraordinary math skills but poor verbal skills, or incredible artistic talents but low social awareness, or, in Dylan’s case very high memory, spatial, verbal abilities and low fine motor, emotional, and executive functioning skills). The beauty of this dichotomy is that this is where invention, expertise, and innovation can come from. If you can tap into that passion and ability as an asset, there are so opportunities for a child to grow, learn, and contribute. In a lot of cases, including ours, it also means figuring out a way to mitigate the child’s debilitating anxiety and the effects of over-stimulation, as well as managing the stress of parenting a child who bucks most social norms and has challenges carrying out day to day tasks.

Some people don’t like having a diagnosis because of the narrow and prejudiced world a label may bring about. And while I definitely agree that a child is so much more than any label that is put on him, having a diagnosis has already resulted in positive effects in our household. Namely, as we are more understanding of Dylan’s behavior, so he is more relaxed and spending more time in coherent, responsive, and thoughtful states. He has also become more self-aware. When his therapist went to show him some of the toys she had brought with her, Dylan said proudly “I’m uniquely wired, so there might be some things I don’t like.”

We are beginning to collect the tools and methods we can use to help him cope better with transitions, surprises, over-stimulation, new situations, and fear. And we’re hoping that we can capitalize on his excellent spatial skills and intense passions – cars, engines, building, experimenting, and whatever else comes up – to foster a kid who will be able to thrive and turn his unique wiring to his advantage.

What do you call that time when you’ve made a decision but you can’t yet act on it or start it? When there is a big change coming, and all you want to do is fast-forward to that change but can’t? When you’re stuck squarely in between the past and the future and are too impatient to be fully present in the present? The In-Between Time? No Man’s Land? Purgatory? Hell for Type-A Personalities? The Impatient’s Person’s Patience Training? Life? I’ve just settled on The Waiting Time.

Roasting in the 100 degree heat of Bahia Concepcion and overwhelmed with Dylan’s erratic behavior, we made the decision to head south to La Paz quickly, plug into 50-amp power at a marina so we could use our air conditioning, and send Dylan home with his Pops, who offered to come down and pick him up. These were all desperate measures, none of which were in the budget, and all of which were the best decisions we could have made.

We tied up in a slip at Marina de La Paz, promptly turned on the a/c, and headed out to Harker Board Co to treat ourselves to IPAs and wood-fired pizzas. The best medicine! So we were now in La Paz for a whole month before our departure instead of the week we had planned. Andy, Demon the Cat, and I would fly north together, while Tom would await his friend Ian from Edmonton who was going to help deliver the boat north to Puerto Peñasco at the north end of the Sea of Cortez (we needed to take the boat out of hurricane territory per our insurance requirements and per common sense).

The first two weeks in La Paz were among the most relaxed I’ve been in years. We slowly did a little work. We slowly ticked off a few items from the to-do list. We took naps. We did puzzles. We ate amazing food. We strolled the malecon in the cooler evening temperatures with hundreds of other La Pazians. We huddled together in the functional a/c of the aft cabin until we got the forward unit fixed and had our run of a cool boat.

But as time went on, we began to get impatient. Andy and I were impatient to get on our plane back to Washington. Tom was impatient to nail down a temporary job and to get going on the big boat delivery north. We were all impatient to get out of the heat and to get started on our brief land-based life, with high hopes that it would be a chance for us all to reset. We were ready for the change to happen, change that had to wait on those pesky airplane ticket reservations. And so we waited impatiently, filling up our days with projects, puzzles, and a whole lot of perspiration.

Dylan, Andy, Demon, and I arrived back back in Anacortes weeks before Tom. In between nailing down schedules for events at the library, the Pacific Science Center, the Skagit Children’s museum, and swim and gymnastics lessons, I slept. A lot. It was the college spring break effect; you work really hard for months, head back home to spend time with your expectant parents, but all you can do is catch a cold and spend the entire week asleep on the living room couch. We had arrived, but we hadn’t really gotten into any sort of rhythm. We were still waiting.

We waited for Tom to finish his delivery, for the boat to be hauled out and decommissioned. For Tom – Daddy – to get home. Home to Anacortes, at least, while our home on the water waits for us in Mexico until cooler weather moves in.

Tom is home, and now its his turn to sleep a lot. And we’re still not done waiting. We’re waiting for Tom’s job to start. We’re waiting to get settled. We’re waiting for all the answers to how to raise spirited children without going insane. And we’re already waiting for that time when we return to Korvessa. When we not only return to Mexico for some new adventures, but when we embark on the next huge leg of our journey across the equator and south Pacific islands and atolls. A waiting time that requires research, preparation, planning, persistence, and a few really deep breaths. And for that waiting time, I am grateful and patient.

Informational Addendum: Hurricane season in the eastern north Pacific officially starts May 15 and ends November 15, but most hurricanes come through in August and September. Our insurance requires that we be north of a certain latitude during this season. We could have gone to Guaymas or San Carlos, but they still get hit by hurricanes periodically, so we made the decision to take the boat as far north in the Sea of Cortez as possible to be out of hurricane zone.

Tom has secured a job that will start in a week and help us replenish the cruising kitty. We are settled in my parents’ house, which we will keep an eye on while they continue their own travels. We will spend longer than expected back in Anacortes not only in order to earn back some of the money we’ve spent this year, but also because we have no intention of returning to Mexico until the temperatures have dropped back down to bearable in November. For my part, I plan to manage the kids, relax if I can, hopefully publish an article or two, and continue to work on the book that is beginning to write itself. Okay, books don’t write themselves, but I can at least be proud of the measly 1,500 characters that have made their way onto page, awaiting more time and inspiration.

We’ll also get Tom to the keyboard soon to retell his own stories of fishing, boat maintenance, and captaining, some of which have happy endings and some of which climax in strong desires to burn down the boat. They are stories he can can narrate far better than I; I just need to force the keyboard into his busy fingers, or at least put a tape recorder under his chin.

We left on our voyage one year ago today. One year in, we have visited three countries, over 30 islands, 15 marinas, and countless anchorages. We’ve plied through glassy waters and 15-foot waves. We’ve seen so many animals that we will only mention the ones that win special prizes: Smallest: No-see-um; Biggest: Blue Whale; Most colorful: Rainbow Wrasse (a small reef fish); Fuzziest: Sea Otter; Scariest: Grizzly Bear; Weirdest: Tube Worm.

There’s general consensus among us that the West Coast of Vancouver Island was a favorite; its deep green forests, multicolored beaches, and foggy low-tide explorations captivated our imaginations. Here in Mexico, Puerto Los Gatos is one of the places that rises to the top for all us with its bright red marshmallow rocks and flat trails. La Paz has not only become a home base, but a second home – a place where we feel comfortable, where we’ve found favorite places and are greeted with smiles of recognition, where we stroll the malecon in the evenings with the city’s families, dancers, scout troops, musicians, and running teams, and feel the joy of life.

I don’t know how much of this first year will make it into the kids’ long-term memories. Dylan may remember details of his emotions and the world’s natural playgrounds that exceed our own. Andy may only retain passing snapshots, images that may become dreamlike in their vagueness. They’re unlikely to remember the bigger evolution of this year, but I have hopes that a few things will stick with them: witnessing humpbacks and gray whales breach and dive in front of us, seeing hundreds of dolphins leaping and twirling in a feeding frenzy, building sandcastles and estuaries, spotting the omnipresent Angelfish and Panamic Sergeant Majors, playing with whale and fish skeletons strewn on rocky beaches, sprinting down the La Paz malecon dodging bikes and roller-bladers and strolling lovers, curling up in the v-berth to listen to bedtime stories.

We’ve embarked on this journey together as a family, but our perceptions of it, the things we enjoy, and the mental states we’re in aren’t always the same. Here are some verbal snapshots of where we are now. The kids’ words are mostly paraphrased versions of things they’ve actually said or what their brains could be thinking. I imagine this is also what they might say if prodded for answers, which they may or may not be willing to give. Tom’s words were dictated to me in a conversation. My words are my own of course. Some were written at a darker time, and some were written after I had a chance to pull my head up, breathe, and take a look around, like pausing in the middle of an open water swim to lift your goggles and appreciate the vast, gorgeous, and powerful world all around you.

Andy:
One year in, I love doing puzzles on the pilothouse floor. I love tracing animals. I love doing math with mommy in the back bedroom. I love talking people’s ears off, especially about whales and dolphins. I want to be a cetologist when I grow up. They study whales. Or maybe an paleontologist because they dig up dinosaurs, which are pretty cool too. So are spiders. And seals. And raccoons. And snakes. I love my new stuffed snake, Spotty, that I saved up my allowance for. I love crawling into bed with mommy and daddy in the middle of night. I tell them I have nightmares, but really I just want to be close to them. Nightmares are when you dream of giant squid.

Dylan:
One year in, I miss trees. I miss my grandparents. I miss house tents to play in. But I love running as fast as I can down really long beaches. And I love finding hermit crabs and building epic sandcastles. Building stuff with Legos and cardboard and duct tape is cool, too. I love hikes, though I’d like them more if there were trees. I’m way more acclimated to the heat in Mexico than the rest of my family. I love building forts, playing games on my tablet, and having movie nights with popcorn. I love jumping around in front of the cat and putting blankets on top of her, but she doesn’t seem to like it (I don’t know why). I don’t love boat school, but I guess science experiments are okay, especially when they explode or I get to use a lever like a catapult. I really just want to sit in mommy’s lap and listen to chapter books for hours before bedtime.

Demon:
Who takes a Himalayan snow cat to Mexico?

Tom:
I’m enjoying the lifestyle so far. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed getting to know Mexico, the friendly and welcoming people and their willingness to have fun and celebrate anything and everything. I’ve been astounded by a clearly flourishing middle class. I figured I would like the Sea of Cortez, but I’ve really fallen in love with Mexico, and not just because of the Sea. I love exploring food, whether in restaurants, hole-in-the-wall taco joints, grocery stores, or markets. I’m also loving the frustrating challenge of fishing. I had anxieties about the number of significant breakages we would have, and I have been pleasantly surprised that the boat’s been doing really well. The heat has definitely been a problem for me, and I’m surprised that Dylan isn’t thriving the way we thought he would. I’m happy to be taking a break from medicine, but hopefully when I go back to it, I can go back reinvigorated with my passion for it renewed. I’m really excited and optimistic about the upcoming years.

Sandi:
One year in, I love hiking and exploring and learning a new language. But one year in, I still sometimes wonder if we’ve done the right thing. If leaving friends and family and a “normal” life to embark on this Pacific odyssey was the right decision. One year in, I still have dreams about work, dredging up the nagging guilt of leaving a job that I loved, even if the mental break was sorely needed. I would love to turn myself into a writer, but I live with the anxiety that lack of official training, internet, and time for writing and research means it may never happen. And it feeds a feeling of worthlessness that I have had to push away constantly. Perhaps this anxiety would be eased if I got more gratification out of teaching or parenting my children, but when daily life poses a constant flood of challenges – of how not to butt heads with Dylan, what tactic to use to get Andy to listen, what consequence to impose for inappropriate behavior – I am not only taxed, but just want to get as far away from my children as I can (which, on our boat, is about 25 feet, and I can still hear them).

But I realize that all of those things I struggle with would be the same back on land. We would still have a strong-willed 6 year old and a precocious but clingy 4 year old. We would still struggle with parenting and discipline methods. We would likely still struggle with anxiety and depression, especially if we had to undo all the things we put in place to make this life possible. There is no guarantee that anything would be any better if we were on land, and so instead of moving backward to an unplanned unknown, we move forward into the planned unknown and continue to have conversations as a family about how to make it smoother. I carry a little plaque with me that my parents gave me years ago that says: “Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we will find it not.” And if we can’t find the beautiful here, then we will not find it on land.

There have been plenty of days when I have lost sight of the Beautiful, when I have forgotten our Why. But I am reminded when I see Andy dig his fascinated little face into his whale book, when I see Dylan build civilizations out of nothing but sand and rocks and sticks, when I see Tom fully engrossed in his new fishing hobby, when I see myself having full conversations in my broken but improving Spanish, when I see the kids excited about going to the place where sushi comes from. I see in all these things our Why – our deliberate choice to face the challenges of an alternative lifestyle for a while – and I know we’ve made the right decision.

When I have told Mexicans I’ve met about the life we are living, a very typical response has been: “Que una vida bonita!” What a beautiful life! My response has often been, in my limited Spanish, “Well, it’s nice but very difficult with two young children.” But what I really need to do is learn the right Spanish words for this response: “Yes, it is beautiful with all it’s ups and downs, with all its discoveries and disappointments, with all its happiness and hardships, with its moments of pure joy and brutal desperation. It is beautiful that we can spend time together as a family even if not every moment is beautiful.” And that’s probably what they mean; I’ve just had to discover it for myself.

A few select moments from the past year:

I wrote up this destination article for the Kids4Sail newsletter but thought it would also make a good post as it goes into more depth about one of the locations mentioned in my last post.

The Sea of Cortez is already a special place with its turquoise anchorages, white sand beaches, and barren red cliffs. One might think there’s danger of boredom in coming across similar backdrops week after week, but something new always seems to reveal itself in each new spot. A good trail, a painted rock, a boulder that your kids turn into a spaceship. And then there are those anchorages that rise to the top and become favorites, the ones whose names will endure in your memory long after the others have melted together. We’ve come across a few special places like this in the Sea of Cortez, one of which was Caleta San Juanico, a bay about 25 nautical miles north of Loreto on the east coast of the Baja Peninsula. In the end, it was more than just the swimming, hikes, and amazing geological formations that solidified this place in our long-term memories, but the people with whom we shared it and the friendships we fostered at a time when we needed it most.

On a still afternoon at the end of April, we motored north from Isla Coronados in glassy waters. As we approached Caleta San Juanico, the water began to change color, a sort of brownish-orange that made me think of churned up mud or a polluted harbor.
“Are we in shallow water? How’s our depth?” I asked Tom.
“No,” he said, glancing at the chart plotter. “We should still be in at least 300 feet, and the depth sounder isn’t even registering, so probably even more.”
We motored through it, dropping anchor in a clear-watered south anchorage in anticipation of some southerly winds. But by dinner our plates and glasses were sliding across the table in the easterly swell and we decided to make a break for the north anchorage a few miles away before the sun lost its light entirely. It couldn’t be worse what we were already in. Strike one for the south anchorage.

We nestled up to a large rocky island sticking straight out of the water in order to block as much as we could of the easterly swell. To confirm our good decision to move, the water lit up like the night sky with bioluminescence unlike any we have ever seen. Rays and fish glittered under the water. Plankton sparkled like stars, and the crest of the waves crashing on the rocks glowed green in the darkness. The small island did its job, though the sound of surf crashing on its surrounding rocks and reefs did little to lull us to sleep. Nor did our boat position as we swung around with the nighttime westerly wind, stern to the rocky island. Tom sat up in the cockpit long after the rest of us were asleep to make sure we weren’t going to end up on the rocks.

The next morning, after a brief paddle with the kids around the rocky island to look at what turned out to be the largest number of reef fish I had seen in one place, we watched the water suddenly turn opaque. The massive orange patch we had motored through the day before now stretched across the bay as the algae obscured our view of anything more than a few inches below the surface. Swimming or snorkeling became unappealing. Even fishing seemed questionable. Some land-based visitors invited us on a glass bottom boat tour they had arranged, but there was nothing to see except murky brown below us. We were disappointed and decided to head north for our goal of Bahia Concepcion where we would wait for friends behind us to catch up.

If we were already tired from sleepless nights in a windy anchorage and weeks on end with two young boys who were pressing on our every nerve, the increasing heat and still air over the next week in Bahia Concepcion only served to make us crankier and more desperate. Aborting our spring mission, we decided to head back to La Paz three weeks early, planning to intercept our friends in Caleta San Juanico on the way south.

Departing at 8:00 am from Bahia Santo Domingo at the mouth of Bahia Concepcion, we motored the long 46 miles that would get us back to San Juanico before dinnertime. As we motored into the south anchorage and dropped our hook between our friends on Saarelill and Pakia Tea, we received a welcoming party of waves and invitations to come to the beach to join everyone as soon as we were ready. As we set the anchor, two more kid boats we knew putted into the anchorage: Arrow and Walkabout. Another kidboat we had only met online, Hinterland, was nestled in the easternmost part of our line of boats. Six kid boats – with thirteen kids from 4 months to 11 years old – had just taken over the south anchorage of Caleta San Juanico.

Except for a mass exodus to the north anchorage the following afternoon when the swell in the south became untenable (strike two for the south anchorage), the next few days were full. We took a dinghy caravan over to check out some sea caves and any fish we could spot in the now-clear water. We pulled our dinghies up on shore and went for a hike down a riverbed, bright green and fragrant where there was still water and brown and dusty where the water petered out. Marble cliffs with strains of agate rose up to our right.

We had a bonfire on the beach that evening, and Pakia Tea introduced us all to stick bread – bread dough wrapped around a stick, covered in olive oil and garlic, and roasted over a fire. Best thing ever, we all decided. We parents sat around the fire chatting while the kids ran around the beach and the rocks in the dark.

The wind was supposed to blow from the north and east the next day. Korvessa was somewhat low on fuel, and we were feeling pressured by the rare opportunity to sail. Common sense would have said it was time to leave in the morning. But after we put our exhausted kids to bed at 10:30 that night, smelling like campfire and still talking about stick bread, Tom asked “So, what are you thinking about leaving tomorrow?”

“Well,” I replied, “I would really value some more time with friends, but if we have to leave, then we have to leave.”
“I think we needed this more than we realized,” Tom said, in a nod to the fact that this is our tribe. We need each other out here. The chance to have conversations with other parents who can empathize and help problem solve had already calmed our stressed hearts.
“Yes, definitely.”
“I think we should stay,” he said.
“I would like that,” I replied.

And so we stayed. We stayed for a short hike to a local farm where we bought eggs and goat cheese and where the kids shrieked in joy at the goats, chickens, horses, and peacocks. We stayed for a massive sandcastle-civilization building competition in which the kids all paired up on a sandbank to create a vast array of sandcastles, complete with crops, trees, and moats. We stayed for fishing and swimming. We stayed for a birthday party on Sunday night at which a fellow boat kid turned 6 years old. We brought massive amounts food to the potluck, though the kids were more focused on the birthday cake and marshmallows. We talked about our plans for the summer and plans for the future, our boat problems and boat successes, homeschooling and parenting issues, fishing, alternators, and mental health. We stayed for the chance to connect, to breathe a little more deeply, and to have adult conversations while the children played.

Caleta San Juanico has everything you could ask for: cool rock formations, fossils, sea caves, bright reef fish, hikes as far as your feet want to take you, and a farm with eggs, cheese, and even veggies in the winter and spring. It has reefs for spearfishing and snorkeling and gorgeous sand for running and building. We forgot to leave a token at the Cruiser’s Shrine in the north anchorage, which is worth a visit, but we’ll be back. Its protection from wind and waves wasn’t superior, but the north anchorage was adequate, even if the south anchorage struck out in our book.

But it wasn’t all this that made this place so memorable. It was being surrounded by friends, hearing the laughter and shrieks of joy from our kids, and spending time with our tribe when we really needed it. It was a microcosm of the totality of cruising life: supportive people, beautiful surroundings, and lasting friendships

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.

As I put the final touches on our first video about winter in the Sea of Cortez, I took note of the gray skies, the strong winds, the jackets we donned daily. Only a few short months out from those days, I already feel nostalgic for that fresher air. We may not have been swimming as much, but we spent a lot more time outside, hiking, exploring, picnicking, meandering.

Since March, the temperatures have been slowly climbing. I don’t think the thermometer has even hit 90 degrees F yet (except in our pilothouse, which hit 99.8 today), yet the heat somehow seems compounded by the scorching red and brown hills, the grayish-green scrub clinging to the sandy bluffs, and the bright white blinding sun. Anything left out in the sun gets too hot to touch – our steering wheel, shoes, solar showers. We can’t go barefoot on our teak deck in the middle of the day anymore. In fact, we’ve stopped going out in the middle of the day at all. The UV radiates through even the thickest sunscreen, and the low, prickly shrubs make precious little shade. Our midday siestas and cerpuscular schedules make us feel simultaneously more native and more foreign. We live the life that all desert dwellers live, and yet our dried out skin and cranky demeanors remind us that we are products of a land cloaked in moisture and shade.

And it’s only April. We have just less than two months before we pack our bags and return to the shadow of our cool, green fir trees in order to escape this beautiful but harsh furnace and the hurricanes that may tear through it. We smile at the forecast of clouds this weekend and look for anchorages that will afford plenty of swimming – and shade, if we’re lucky enough to see trees. As the sweat glistens on my fair freckles today and my shirt clings to my salty skin, I won’t lie that it makes us dream of the days when we’ll be plying Alaskan fjords and bundling ourselves up for walks under the cedars, but for now we know that we need to find a way to live in the heat and store up its memory in our bones for the cold days of the future.

Boat Issues: Same alternator problems, plus we’re realizing the need to install our deck shades, which hasn’t really been a priority… until now.

Where Are We Now: After spending a little time in Puerto Escondido with friends, we headed up to Ballandra Bay on Isla Carmen for three nights. We spent the days swimming, catching fish, eating fish, and just being hot. We’re now at Isla Coronados and later heading on to points north on our way to Bahia Concepcion.

What’s New: I haven’t written much yet about our boatschool saga, because it’s been, well, a challenging saga. But what’s new is that Dylan actually declared that he is beginning to like reading books. This is huge. More on this later. Also, fish. We’re excited to be catching fish again. Fresh fish means lots of fresh ceviche and tacos!

Spring has come to the Sea of Cortez. The days are a little hotter, the water a little warmer, and the fish are finally biting. But the biggest difference from the vantage point of our hot teak deck is the crowded anchorages. Long gone are the days of having popular anchorages all to ourselves or for going on hikes or beach walks without seeing another soul. Gone are also the days of getting the prime spot in the anchorage and not worrying about your swinging radius. But while we may have to anchor a little deeper than preferred, or tuck in at the side of an anchorage where we might not have as much wind and wave protection, we glean a benefit from these crowded anchorages that we did not have in the winter: we have a community.

For kids, this means playmates. Friends to explore tidepools and make forts with. To watch movies with and share toys and books with. Age may have a small effect on how they play, but it has no effect on that they play. Age difference is clearly much less important than the simple companionship of other kids. I would never have guessed that our 4 and 6 year old boys would become so attached to twin 9-year old girls we have been boating with. They have quickly become pseudo siblings, or at least cousins, sometimes butting heads but more often enjoying each others’ presence and having company for their shenanigans and explorations. The girls may be a little overwhelmed occasionally with our boys’ energy and intensity, but aren’t we all?

For parents, this means companionship and a little time off from kids. It’s nice to be able to troubleshoot and problem solve with others, and, let’s face it, it’s nice to be able to vent sometimes with others who understand. When we trade kids for an afternoon, it gives us a chance to breathe, to have adult conversation without interruptions. When a neighbor on a big catamaran offered to have the kids over for a movie, the kids jumped at the chance to explore a new boat, and we jumped at the chance to clean our perpetually messy boat. When our friend Norman on a sturdy Nordhavn trawler took Andy on a walk for a long walk with their dog, I was able to get hours of work done on a new video, interrupted only by Dylan giving me periodic narratives of how he and Daddy were doing on their TV wiring project.

For broken boats, this means a army of people ready to help lend a hand, a tool, a skill, or an alternator belt. One blustery afternoon after we had all been beaten up by some nasty (and higher than predicted) west winds that reached up to 35 knots at one point, one boat after another dropped their sails and pulled into the protection of Los Gatos, relieved to be out of the steep waves and strong gusts. When our friends, who were having to transport two boats north in order to put one up in San Carlos to sell, had disappeared from view, we began to worry. Hours later, we saw them in the distance, one boat in tow, both boats getting hammered by the waves and wind. As they pulled into the calmer waters of the anchorage, three dinghies were out waiting to help them anchor safely. A conversation later ensued on the radio about what had happened and different ways to tackle the failure point (a melted exhaust manifold). Boats offered up specialized tools and materials, and a day later, the engine was fixed. And the local panguero, Miguel, who had driven up from Timbabiche to gather our trash and trade for gasoline, when he saw us measuring and comparing alternator belts, went back to his rancho and brought back two belts to see if they were the size we needed. This is our community.

For all cruisers, this simply means the comfort of familiar faces and the opportunity to share experiences, seek advice, and celebrate successes, whether a fish caught or another year around the sun completed. I forgot to take a picture on my birthday, but it was nice to break bread (well, cake) with five other boats in the anchorage at Puerto Los Gatos. We gathered under the newly built thatched roof palapa and ate homemade poke, fruit salad, brownies, and cake while the kids scurried around in the canyons of the red rocks around us making their own “civilization,” as they called it.

We come from all over. Of course, there are many of us from the Pacific Northwest – Washington, Oregon, and British Columbia – seeking out the more temperate climate to warm and dry out our bones. We meet folks from California and Texas, Germany and Austria, the UK and Australia, France and Spain. And as the weather warms, we’re seeing many more Mexican boats. We’ve met families from Mexico City and seen a myriad of megayachts, fishing boats, and charter catamarans, all of whom clearly know how to fish and how to party. An anchorage livens up the minute a Mexican-flagged boat drops its anchor and turns on the music. It bothered me the first time, having been trained on the Northwest philosophy of keeping anchorages quiet and peaceful and turning off even quiet generators by 9:00, but now it makes me smile as I continue to ease into Mexico’s festive culture.

This is our community. It is fluid and changing. But it is a comfort, a support, and a joy for us as we explore this new world. It doesn’t mean that we don’t crave solitude sometimes. We do. But a community – and especially those who become good friends – are so important to our well-being and our enjoyment of this new lifestyle.

Current Boat Issues: Since the addage goes that cruising is just fixing your boat in exotic locations, I thought I would add to each post what mechanical issues we’re dealing with, because there is always at least one. Right now it is that our alternator isn’t working well. When we motor for a few hours, the alternator should be using that time to send juice back to our batteries, which isn’t happening as fast or as much as it should. So even after motoring for hours, we have to turn the generator on for a while to refill our batteries. Why are our batteries getting drained? Because our freezer (circa 1985) is sucking everything out of them, and even our massive solar panels can’t keep up.

Where are we now? Heading north past Loreto, with hopes to spend a few weeks in Bahia Concepcion.

What’s new? I just posted a new video on Youtube (link below) about the passage from Neah Bay to San Francisco. Another one about our winter cruising in the Sea of Cortez is coming soon!