We did it.  We made it to our third country by boat.  When we crossed into our first foreign country—Mexico—we did not expect to be there for over four years.  But Mexico took us in and gave us delicious food, lifelong friendships, and fantastic adventures.  It is hard to let go of something so good.  Still, last cruising season was our time to part ways with that great, diverse country and become multinational sailors.  And now, it’s time I caught you up. 

A Shaky Start

After our time off the boat and mostly in the United States from June 2024 through February 2025 for Rob’s cancer treatment, Mapache greeted us in pouring rain and high humidity with CO2 alarms blaring.  Rob worked quickly to hook up the boat’s house batteries to start the fans circulating the sticky air, but in his haste, he cross-wired the batteries, rendering them unusable.  

We splashed anyway and, unable to start the engine (despite the starter battery being isolated from the unusable house batteries), accepted a tow to our slip.  The marina’s panga dragged Mapache with a rope tied to Mapache’s forward cleat, then the panga driver tossed his end of the rope to us with the hope that our momentum would carry us safely into the slip.  It worked, and new batteries arrived via Mercado Libre (similar to Amazon) within the week.  

Cutting Our Mexican Dock Lines

Departing Mexico requires processes with immigration for ourselves, the navy port captain for our sailing plans, and customs for our boat.  Within Mexico, Sarah handled the port captain checks and documentation.  After checking into Mexico with ourselves and our boat, each major port within the country requires vessels to check in and out with them, providing proof of vessel ownership and of immigration and customs compliance.  For the country check-in and check-out, the named captain of each vessel must complete the processes in person.  So, Rob, being Mapache’s documented captain, spent an entire day learning Sarah’s document organization system and traveling to the Tapachula Immigration Office, the Puerto Madero Port Captain’s Office, and the Mexican customs office at the Guatemalan border.  

The following day, the Mexican Navy finished our country check-out, boarding and searching our boat with a drug dog and approving our departure paperwork.  Within moments of the navy official’s signature and stamp, the marina staff untied our dock lines per the mandatory immediate departure protocol.  The band-aid was ripped off with the dock lines, and we said adios to our beloved Mexico, turning to our first voyage in 10 months—a three-day passage through an area known for abundant lightning and testy seas. 

Remembering that Passages are Never Routine

We had the good timing of departing Mexico with four other boats, one of which we have been cruising with since we met them in the Sea of Cortés in 2021.  The sight of other sails in the otherwise vast ocean-nothingness brought comfort, and the persistent group text chatter among the sailors passed the hours for whoever was on watch.  We fell back into our overnight passage rhythm, sharing the cockpit during the day, and splitting the night watch with Rob on after dinner through midnight, Sarah on midnight through sunrise, and Rob back on for the morning.   

During the passage, we encountered long lines, requiring us to blow (release) our sails and hold our breath as we drifted over them.  Luckily, the boat keel and prop did not catch any.  But real problems on passages always come at night.  Our second night brought back our elusive electrical ghost, shutting down all the electrical systems, including our lights, navigation systems, and autopilot.  It was a moonless night, and Sarah peered into the black, steering by compass and cloud-filtered starlight, while Rob worked to install a cable bypassing the battery on-off switch.  The rigged system, although not to electrical safety code, worked.  We would install a new switch in six weeks from Costa Rica, after Rob was able to fly to the United States for work and to fetch the part. 

Welcome to Honduras

After two nights, we safely dropped anchor in Golfo de Fonseca.  The gulf is bordered by three central American countries—El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua.  We chose to anchor off the island of El Tigre, which is part of Honduras.   

Soon after setting the anchor, a panga carrying the El Tigre Port Captain motored alongside of us.  The Captain called out, ordering that we immediately come to shore to complete the official check-in process for Honduras.  Intimidated, exhausted, and un-showered, we threw on button-up shirts in an attempt to appear respectful even though we did not smell it.  We dropped our dinghy, mounted the outboard to it, and motored to the cement steps leading out of the ocean to the port captain’s office. 

Once we stepped into the air-conditioned office, the atmosphere changed, and not just the humidity and temperature.  The Port Captain was all smiles, welcoming us to his country.  His Spanish was clear, which we found common in Honduras, and we communicated well.  Still, the Captain insisted on calling his English-speaking brother, who lived in town.  His brother, introduced as “Benny, like Benny and the Jets,” soon arrived and, similar to the Port Captain, he was a gregarious man.  We carried on for almost an hour in the office, talking about El Tigre, Honduras, and our welcoming committee’s lives.  

We left with the personal phone numbers of the Captain and of Benny with the instruction to call if we needed anything at all.  We finished our immigration process in the office next door, also with friendly officials, and made it back to the boat with time to shower before venturing into the small island town of Amapala for dinner. 

Island Life

With a circumference of approximately 10 miles and most of the land dominated by a volcano, El Tigre is not big, which meant we stuck out as we strolled the cobbled streets, taking in the historic buildings and small-town vibes.  We wandered into a corner store that functioned mostly as a second-hand clothing shop with a few convenience products, including cold beers.  We sat at the bench tables amongst baseball hats and t-shirts, drinking beers from an ice chest and speaking broken Spanish to the shop owners over the loud music on the shop’s standalone speaker.  

The shop owners directed us to a pupusa restaurant for dinner.  There, we sat at a table in the center of a street, ate made-to-order pupusas, and shared scraps with a couple of street dogs.  When I asked the chef about some mangos that she was enjoying, she insisted I collect some of the hundreds fallen from the tree behind her restaurant.  

The next day, we followed loose directions to a family’s house that functioned as a restaurant in its front room.  The menu was whatever they were cooking that day, and everyone in our group of sailors enjoyed hearty stews with chunks of yucca and plantain or plates with salad, rice, and meat.  Our hosts graciously made me a vegetarian plate, replacing the meat with grilled slices of firm cheese.  

Another day, a spindly, 83-year-old man, quickly shuffled our way over the cobble stones, using a tall stick as a cane and hastily waving his free hand.  Bob Kennedy introduced himself as the local historian.  A retired school teacher and native resident, he had vast knowledge of El Tigre’s story, which, due to its vantage in the protected gulf, includes interludes with pirates like Sir Francis Drake, El Salvador’s attempts at annexation, German immigrants, Albert Einstein, Nicaraguan rebels, and the United States military.  

Bob is unusual on the island in that he has traveled around the world.  In his youth, he accepted a crew position on one of the shipping vessels that stopped at the island when it was a major port to Central America.  Bob saw the world from that ship, and he reminisced about his travels to us.  

Eager to share his experiences and knowledge, Bob offered to take us on a tour around the island, which we gladly accepted.  After a long dissertation on the major historic events, three of us along with Bob and the driver, piled into a three-wheel tuk tuk and set off around the island.  We visited a plantation-style property with fruit trees, a former school, and a beautiful gulf view.  We stopped at Bob’s favorite beach, which he insisted on walking the length of with us, despite the uneven ground and extreme heat.  When we offered water on the walk, he declined. Later on the tour, when we offered a beer at his favorite beach palapa restaurant, he jumped to accept.  

Privilege to Travel

The next day, we went ashore for a walk to find Bob and his tuk-tuk-driving friend patiently waiting for us on the beach.  We invited them for a coffee and broke the news that we were moving on.  They asked us when we would return, desperate for continued interaction with those beyond their community.  I still receive text messages from the tuk tuk driver (Bob does not own a cellphone). 

Before departing the gulf, we took a couple of days to visit another larger town of Honduras on its mainland.  To do that, we had to gain the permission of our port captain and his colleague in San Lorenzo.  True to his word of offering help with anything, the Captain obtained the correct official permissions, and we and our friends navigated our two sailboats through mangroves and up an estuary, anchoring off the city of San Lorenzo.  We spent two days walking the streets of a more bustling city.  

We departed Honduras wearing our 504 shirts (Honduras’s country phone code) and a sense of having attained what so many of the sailing novels had promised—genuine experiences in pockets of the world that others rarely visit or leave.  

We recognize, with a sense of melancholy and of duty, that what we call “freedom to travel” and hold as a civil right is really a privilege that many do not possess.  

It was half-way through the cruising season when we finally returned Mapache to the water and moved back aboard.  In February, we filled our luggage with boat parts and adjusted our mental states from the routine of land-life to the unpredictability of boat-life.  

Since Rob had to be land-based for his cancer treatment, we spent the better part of eight months living in the United States, following a daily routine, conveniently shopping at well stocked and organized grocery stores, ordering parts delivered to our doorstep, working out at our respective gyms, meeting friends and family for dinners, and sleeping in king-sized beds.  It felt luxurious.  But now we are back to our home, Mapache 2.0, necessarily taking each day as it comes with surprise boat projects, adventures to markets, beach workouts, cramped berths (sleeping areas), and new and old members of our boating family.  Even splashing Mapache and moving her to her marina slip was an ordeal, as we discovered our batteries had died and we required an emergency tow.

The In Between

We had originally planned to stay on the boat in Tapachula, Chiapas, Mexico, from August through the start of cruising season (November), using the marina as a homebase to explore southern Mexico and Guatemala.  But cancer treatment disrupted that plan.  Still, in December, in between our stateside stay and our full return to the boat, we found some time and some travel points to spare. So, we flew from the states back to the boat, ensured she was doing well, and headed to some of those missed places.  

Earth is Still Alive!

From the boat, we hitched a ride to the Guatemala border, walked across, and then hopped in an acquaintance’s car to travel to Antigua, Guatemala.  We loved that town with all its perfect cups of coffee, international cuisine, colorful houses, ancient architecture, and volcano views.  

The town is surrounded by volcanos, one of which erupts five times per hour, exhaling magical puffs that signal that Earth is still alive.  We wandered Antigua’s streets, explored an impressive farm and plant nursery, learned about the indigenous textiles that are prominent throughout Guatemala and southern Mexico, visited a 1500s monastery turned museum, ate all of the Guatemalan caldos (stews, including pepián, kak’ik, and jocón), and consumed a lot of local coffee.  But the best part was spending a night camping on the side of Volcán Acetenango.  At 12,300 feet, we had a view, right outside of our tent door, of the neighboring and active volcano, Volcán Fuego.  At 3:30 a.m., Sarah and our guide summitted the 13,045-foot Acetenango to watch Fuego’s pre-dawn show along with the sunrise.   

Jump in a Lake

A few days later, we departed Antigua on a shuttle, which took us to Lake Atitlan, Guatemala.  It is a caldera lake (formed from a collapsed volcano) and is directly surrounded by three other volcanos, with views of Acetenango and Fuego in the distance.  Several communities line the six-mile-wide-lake’s shore, which are accessed by a system of water taxis.  Most of the towns do not have road access at all, and their streets are too small to support regular-sized vehicles.  So tuk-tuks zip up and down the steep hills, from the lakefront to shops and homes.  

We stayed in one of the smaller towns, in a cabana with a private hot tub and a direct view of the lake.  We ate the traditional Guatemalan breakfast of fried plantains, eggs, black beans, and toast on our patio every morning.  We hiked our days away, Sarah jumped in the lake, and we lazily explored some of the lakeside towns, winding through mazes of small alleys to find lunches and more coffee.  We scheduled dinners to ensure the little family-run restaurants remained open for us.  At night, we watched the shimmering lake and listened to the birds.  Lake Atitlan was the relaxing stop of our trip, something to which we are not accustomed.    

The Big City

After Atitlan, we jumped on another shuttle and ventured to the big city.  Guatemala City is bursting with history, street art, live music, and an earned rebellious attitude.  Guatemala is no stranger to rebellion, and its capital city is its epicenter.  We learned about the many coups and military leaders.  The national library’s famous architecture includes a military president with a female breast as part of the architect’s jest that, through putting up with so much political violence and military presidents, Guatemalans deserve a “pretty woman in charge.”   The people seem to embrace the rebellious spirit with barbers cutting hair on the sidewalks, goats being herded through traffic, and a prevailing love of rock and roll, skateboarding and street art.  Even their international airport could not escape the regular exercise of free thought and speech with stickers, promoting everything from hiking guides to progressive movements, covering their airport security partitions.

Viva Chiapas!

We next flew back to Chiapas, Mexico, the southernmost state of Mexico, which used to be part of Guatemala.  Its mountainous jungle terrain does feel much like Guatemala, and the culture, food, and textiles are closely related.  We spent time in San Cristóbal de Las Casas, the former capital of Chiapas state and another seat of rebellion—most notably, the Zapatista movement.  The beautiful pueblo-turned-city boasts cobblestone streets, 32 churches, and markets and street fairs offering traditionally woven wears, local amber, live music, fresh fruit and vegetables, and prepared traditional food.  But we were most taken by the city’s young and proactive spirit.  On our walking tour, we learned about the campaigns for the rights of indigenous people, women, and the environment, all of which is plainly reflected in the city’s impressive street art.  

Finally, we traveled by bus to Palenque, known for its Mayan archeological site.  We stayed at a resort in the jungle outside of the city, where we watched howler monkeys commune in the giant trees and agouti cautiously bury their foraged food.  We celebrated the new year with a mediocre dinner and an epic dance party.  We spent a day exploring the Mayan ruins, and we hiked through the jungle to swim in cyan-blue waterfalls.  We ended our December land-travels with a rejuvenated wanderlust. 

Back to the Boat

Next up is our return to exploration by boat.  In March, after four years of cruising, we finally checked out of Mexico and set sail for the third country of our cruising careers.  It’s time to add another component to the chaos—country hopping. 

We named our boat log Leaky Little Boat, because the lyrics to that song (by Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers) align well with this adventure of ours.  The experience of floating around on a leaky little boat is both our reality (living on a sailboat that, like all boats, requires continual repair and maintenance) and a metaphor (for the ups and downs of this life).  

“I awake from a long, deep sleep
In a leaky little boat on a wide blue sea
I spy no island, rock, or shore
And the sea, she’s a-comin’ to me through a hole in the floor”

We “awoke” from a dream of traditional life with common routines and familiar challenges, to this vagabond life, literally sailing around the ocean with new challenges to face.  It’s exhilarating.  The impending struggles give us purpose, or at least something to think on.

“And the tide come in and the tide go out
And the waves they come knock my little boat about 
And the sky turn black and the sky turn blue
I got no pail, no sail, no anchor, too
Just a leaky little boat”

As you know if you have followed along, we have lots of ups, balanced by some downs.  Much of our time is spent figuring out how to make do.  We learn how to live in parts of the world that are new to us with the resources that they have, and we learn how to repair (sometimes creatively) the boat with the tools that are available.  

“And as I wake I look around
I have no notion where I’m bound
So many different colored boats I see
Are all leaky, lonely, and driftin’ 
Just like me”

The biggest resource that we have found during our wander about the ocean is community—among our fellow sailors, in the people of the places we temporarily call home, and through friends and family, including you.  Even though, as you no doubt are aware, our direction, schedule, and goals constantly change, the community remains.

“Alone, adrift together are we
Slowly sinkin’ in a deep blue sea
But we smile and we wave
And we say, ‘I’m afraid…and I love you…and here we go…”

Sometimes that deep blue sea—literally as the ocean, and metaphorically as life—seems formidable.  But then we see the blue sky ahead and remember that we are not alone in facing it.  We recognize that fear can be positive in that it focuses and motivates.  And we are ready for more adventure.

Some of you know that we have been focused on a new “hole in the floor” of our life.  Rob was diagnosed with cancer in May, after we hauled the boat for the hurricane season and while we were visiting the United States.  Still, we are supremely lucky.  Although the cancer was at an advanced stage, preventing a quicker surgical cure, it is a type of cancer that is almost always curable.  His cancer started on his tongue, caused by a strain of Human Papilloma Virus, and spread to three of his lymph nodes.  

We spent the last six months in doctors’ offices.  Rob spent much of August through October in bed, when he wasn’t getting cooked with laser beams (radiation) and injected with poison (chemotherapy).  He lost over 60 pounds.  He did not consume any food by mouth for two months, forced to pump calories in the form of Boost shakes through a tube that protruded out of his stomach.  All of that, while having no energy to do anything but watch videos.  He usually chose to watch YouTube food blogger channels.  

The experience made us realize how much revolves around food.  Food makes us happy, gives us a creative outlet, is a way to explore other cultures, and is the center of almost all social gatherings.  The feeding tube and inability to swallow made the cancer “hole in the boat” seem like a much bigger leak.  

Rob made it through the treatment, he is starting to enjoy food again, and we made it back to our boat.  We are presently doing some land travel near the boat’s current position at the border of Mexico and Guatemala.  And we are eating as much as we can! (Rob’s appetite is still not back, but it is getting there.)

I want to emphasize that life is full of ups during the downs.  We had a lot of good times sprinkled into the past six months.  Our community was a huge part of those good times and a key part to Rob’s successful recovery.  We are greatly appreciative of the quality time that this forced slow-down permitted us with some family and friends.  While we waited for the scheduled treatment start-date, we went on an Alaskan cruise with friends and visited other friends in Washington and Oregon.  Rob was also able to attend Muay Thai Camp in Oregon (a big community for him).  After treatment, we hosted a group of our friends from Puerto Peñasco for a Jiu Jitsu Camp in Phoenix (again, a huge community for Rob), and we spent time with some of our Arizona crew.   

We have one more major medical appointment in January—the PET scan that will tell us that the treatment was successful.  Then, Mapache 2.0 will go back in the water, and we will smile and wave and say, “I’m afraid…and I love you…and here we go!”

Thank you all for being here for us.  We received so much support from everyone and we really do love you.   Here’s to the next part of the adventure.

In 2022, one month after we left Huatulco in the original Mapache to return north and switch boats, a category-2 hurricane struck the area, causing massive damage.  Now, two years later, the scars of Hurricane Agatha remain in the marina as broken docks and pilings, disabled electrical systems, and extra-shallow water (caused by the sand pushed in from the storm).  The swell in the marina has always been notorious, shredding dock lines, and adding an extra challenge to docking.  Our docking of Mapache 2.0 was exciting, the swell causing a near collision with our neighbor boat and only two inches of water under our keel.  We even had to move the caution tape (in place to warn of the hurricane damage) to allow us passage from our finger pier to the main dock.  

Are We Sinking?

That evening brought another thrill when our emergency bilge pump started running.  We lifted the floorboards to find the bilge full of water.  Our first thought was that we must have holed the boat on some debris, given the amount of dock damage and shallow water.  After a few seconds of terror, I recalled a lesson from the sailor and author, Cap’n Fatty (yes, that is his chosen pen name), and I tasted the water.  It was fresh, not salt, meaning the boat was not sinking.  We traced the water’s movement to find a burst hose behind the bathroom sink.  We repaired the hose and then viewed our boat half full, considering the loss of our entire fresh-water holding tank as a thorough bilge cleanse.  

Huatulco marked a noticeable change to a truly hot and humid tropical climate.  Before plugging into shore power, our boat’s power system completely shut down.  We had no real explanation—maybe the boat ghost’s tricks again, or maybe a safety fuse getting too hot in the more tropical climate.  Luckily, Mapache 2.0 has an air conditioner that can run whenever we are plugged into shore power.  And that is what we did.  

The unit cools using sea water, and it worked well for the first several hours.  But as our bilge was filling with fresh water, the air conditioner stopped taking in sea water.  We noticed that the unit was blowing hot air and powered it down before it burned up.  We sweated through the burst-hose repair and into the night.  The next morning, we were able to identify and clean a clog in the air conditioner’s water pump, and we were much happier again.  

Waiting on a Mountain

Huatulco is the staging point for crossing one of the more dangerous patches of ocean, Bahía de Tehuantepec.  The bay is known for sudden onsets of hurricane-force winds and the associated giant waves.  The phenomenon occurs because Mexico’s Tehuantepec isthmus is the skinniest piece of land in Central America, funneling high pressure systems from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific.  

Our strategy for crossing was patience, waiting for the perfect weather window–one that forecasts the least pressure changes, and calm wind and seas, for the two to three days it takes to cross Bahía de Tehuantepec, plus a buffer day.  While we waited, Rob and I took a land trip, up 8,000 feet to the small mountain town of San José del Pacifico.   

The town is known for its indigenous roots and its fungi.  We partook in a temazcal, which is a traditional steam hut.  We also ate a couple of phenomenal dinners, walked the small winding streets and forest trails, and sipped coffee in our slippers from our cabin’s patio, while gazing at the magnificent mountains and valley. The Pacific ocean occasionally peaked out from the clouds below, reminding us that it was waiting.

What Lies Beneath?

Back at sea-level, our weather window opened, and we safely crossed the Tehuantepec.  The first day was bouncy with leftover waves from a system that had already passed, but the Cinarizina held strong against the seasickness. And a huge pod of spinner dolphins paid regular visits, boosting our spirits as they rode our bow wave.  We sailed through the first day and night.  

The second day went flat calm, and we even took a moment to swim in the deep blue. We peered down through goggles into almost 1,000 feet of water–it’s a shade of blue that only exists in the deep ocean, tinged with the question of what lies beneath.  Then, we turned the engine key to continue without wind across the second half of the Bay, but the engine did not start.  

We both held our breath, hoping that the boat ghost, or whatever had caused our power to suddenly shut off before, was not reappearing now, in the middle of the Tehuantepec.  On the second turn, she powered up as usual and carried on as if nothing had happened. We did not risk turning the key to “off” the rest of the trip across.  

During the second day, we were again visited by dolphins and also by three fishermen, who were setting out to sea in a small panga.  At that point, we were 50 miles offshore and they had no food.  We gifted them lasagna, several cans of beans, and homemade sourdough flatbread. They refused additional water supplies, saying that they had enough in their single 5-gallon garrafón.  I can only imagine the fortitude of those men, heading out into that dangerous patch of ocean with only a jug of fresh water, some fishing supplies, and the hope of landing sufficient fish to feed their families. 

Current State

Mapahce 2.0 is now in the state of Chiapas, in Puerto Madero, which is the southern-most port of Mexico.  During our first two weeks in Chiapas, we made it to the museum in the nearby, former state capital–Tapachula–and on a local tour that included a visit to a tamale-maker, world-famous chocolatier, and the Izapa Ruins.  We started supporting a local veterinarian, who provides free and low-cost animal care clinics (and you can help, too, by donating here).  Rob taught a morning Muay Thai program to some of the boat kids and adults.  Sarah deep-cleaned and packed up the boat for haul-out.  And we did all of that while still finding time to work and to enjoy the marina pool.  

On Mapache’s third day in dry-storage, resting on boat stands, a 6.6-magnitude earthquake hit just offshore from Puerto Madero. The earthquake produced some major tremors in the marina, but all of the boats in dry-storage remained upright and on their stands.

Mapache will remain in Chiapas for the summer hurricane season, while her crew visits the U.S. and does some final Mexico land travel.  Next season, with any luck and determination, we hit new latitudes and new countries.  Onward and southward!

After departing La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, Bahía de Banderas, we got back into the swing of cruising—spending quality time with nature, sharing food and stories with other sailors, adventuring for groceries, repairing the boat on-the-go, and getting acquainted with the unique culture of each place we dropped anchor.  The passages became easier as I found the appropriate dosage of Cinarizina (in case anyone was waiting: Cinarizina—often referred to by the brand name, Stugeron—is the best answer, with the fewest side effects, that I’ve found to seasickness).  Workdays became less stressful with bookends of water sports, beach strolls, and palapa dining.  And we even took on the boat maintenance with minimal grumbling and only a few curse words.

Endless Summer

This cruising season took us to Playa Tenacatita, an anchorage adjacent to a primitive camping area that exists at the end of a dirt road. The campsite offers no services other than a friendly palapa restaurant serving fresh seafood and beers out of an ice chest, without electricity.  Twenty minutes’ stroll down the beach took us to a resort-style hotel that permitted us boat bums access to their convenience store to buy ice-cream.  An estuary empties into the Tenacatita anchorage, creating consistent and easy waves to hone our surf skills.  On any given day, one could find a handful of us sailors bobbing on boards at the estuary mouth, waiting for that perfect break. 

During our three weeks in Tenacatita, we took day trips by dinghy up the estuary, through the mangroves, past crocodiles, herons, and bright red crabs, to another beach with large rocks housing a thriving reef to snorkel.   We rode in the back of a local man’s truck to tour his raicilla distillery.  He gave us a history lesson on the drink and its cousins (tequila and mezcal) and of that area of Mexico.  In the evenings, we convened around beach bonfires or in dinghy-raft-ups.  Tenacatita was something like the perfect summer camp, long days that never felt long, with cares only for animal sightings, ice cream, or riding a wave that was longer than yesterday’s. 

Of course, our boat would not let us go that long without some sort of test, and in Tenacatita, the test came in the form of an unusable head (toilet) for a few days, while we trouble-shot the system.  We ultimately replaced the macerator pump and discovered and cleaned a clogged hose, before we got back to being regular.  

Tenacatita was a dividing point, where sailors chose to continue south or turn around.  We said our “goodbyes,” which, in the boating world, is more likely, “see-you-laters,” and (despite some pressure by our friends in Banderas Bay) chose the southern course. 

Firework Mayhem

Our next anchorage was Barra de Navidad, which, as you might recall from our last journey down this coast, is a protected lagoon sitting calmly behind a cute city with lots of music, restaurants, and pastries.  The French Baker makes rounds by dinghy to each boat every morning.  It’s an easy place to stay, not just due to the daily pastry deliveries, but because water taxis operate between boats and shore, and the town is walkable or rideable via dinghy on its canal streets.  

We happened to be in Barra de Navidad for Saint Patrick’s Day, which proved to be perfect timing, because the neighboring town is San Patricio.  Named after the patron saint and in honor of the Irish battalion that fought for Mexico in the 1846-48 Mexican-American War, its Saint Patrick’s Day celebration is rivaled by none, as far as I can tell.  We took the bus into San Patricio for the holiday and were not disappointed.  The festivities began with a parade, physically carrying a Saint Patrick statue into the town’s church.  The parade included dancing horses and free pulque, handed out from the back of a moving truck.  The streets beat with music and street food.  And the party culminated with a wild display of fireworks.  The fireworks finale was a massive fireball, engulfing San Patricio’s church tower and spitting random firework rockets into the crowd.  The music played on, the elotes and churros kept churning, and the crowd’s cheers persisted.  It was pure, jubilant mayhem! 

Classing Up

We next anchored at Carrizal for a little serenity break.  It is a small cut in the Pacific coast of Mexico, big enough for only a handful of boats, and it is without houses, restaurants, or other signs of human life.  We dropped our hook next to two of our buddy boats and relaxed with only the sounds of seabirds and waves breaking against tall rock walls.  The bioluminescence was off-the-charts bright starting in Barra and continuing to Huatulco.  But that meant the water was crowded with those sparkly dinoflagellates, making the visibility poor for snorkeling. As that was our only scheduled activity for Carrizal, we moved on after a night there.  

Around the headland is Manzanillo, an active bay, because it is Mexico’s largest port and because it offers beautiful beaches with a choice of resorts.  There, we anchored in the shadow of Las Hadas, a luxury resort made famous for its appearance in the movie “10” (starring Bo Derek), as well as in several episodes of the show “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”  While there, we joined in the Semana Santa festivities on Santiago Beach (which mostly entails eating, drinking, and people watching), hiked a pristine trail to a pair of abandoned buildings covered in impressive graffiti, and ventured into the city center to watch the big boats, which included giant freighters dwarfing the rows of semi-trucks and buses on their decks, and a tall-ship sailboat.  

Return of the Boat Ghost

After Manzanillo, we made a double-overnight passage to Zihuatanejo.  Along the way, the boat’s freshwater pump gave up.  So, we took our emergency-water jerry jugs off the deck, filling water bottles for drinking and to use for washing and cooking at our bathroom and kitchen sinks.  Luckily, the prior owner had a spare water pump stowed under the bed, which Rob installed after we anchored in Zihuatanejo.  

We quickly confirmed Zihuatanejo’s worthiness to remain on our favorite-city list.  It boasts well-maintained bricked streets, adorned with statues, murals, and plenty of tasty restaurants and cute shops.  And it cultivates community through its active plaza and public basketball court, local fishing fleet, pedestrian-only areas, animal rescue group, and running and biking paths.   

After Zihua, we embarked on another double-overnight passage.  At one point during that, the boat turned off-course, spinning us to a bad angle against the waves.  The autohelm had shut itself off.  We have no definitive explanation.  Maybe a phone charging chord had hit the “standby” button on the helm’s touchscreen, or maybe it was our boat ghost messing with us.  Regardless, we landed safely and with no further ghost games in Huatulco, catching us up to where we left off with the original Mapache.  

After spending a few weeks getting reacquainted with friends in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, we took a vacation from the boat.  We flew to Mexico City and rented a car to drive to the UNESCO Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve.  

The 560-square-kilometer area of protected land is the destination of millions of Monarch butterflies every November-through-March.  Each year, the butterflies migrate between eastern Canada and central Mexico—a journey that takes multiple generations of butterflies.  The reserve covers land in Mexico State and Michoacán State, and it includes four public sanctuaries. 

Vacancy Sign On

The first stop on our mariposa tour was Zitácuaro Heroica, a small but bustling town that has played a part in Mexico’s political history, which included the city being burned to the ground and reviving three separate times.  For its role in history, it was granted the ciudad Heroica title.  It sits on the border of Mexico State, not far from the Cerro Pelon Sanctuary. 

After a surprisingly luxurious stay at a small hotel in Zitácuaro, a lot of good street food, and some people watching in the main plaza, we took a day trip to Cerro Pelon.  We pulled up to the welcome center, but found it closed.  A few people were standing outside of their home across the street, and they informed us that the butterflies were not there this year. One of the people had been a guide in the sanctuary, and I asked if we could still hike the trail up the mountain, which I had read to be a beautiful but strenuous hike up 2,253 feet over the course of 3 miles.  

The guide affirmed and we clambered along behind him, while he wisely rode his horse.  He told us that he has witnessed the butterfly numbers declining over at least the past 20 years but that this was the first year he has seen no butterflies. We stopped at the spot that millions of butterflies usually inhabit, forming a huge colony on the branches of the oyamel fir trees.  But the branches were vacant.  

After a frank conversation about climate change and the impacts that go beyond the butterflies, the three of us tromped back down the trail.  In an attempt to appease our feeling of helplessness, we—including our guide—picked up plastic trash along the path back.

100-Peso Views

Our search for the mariposas next took us to the small former-mining town of Angangueo.  Named a Pueblo Mágico, the town has pivoted away from its oppressive past of mining toward environmental perseveration with a focus on tourism and agriculture.  It sits nestled in a small valley with its precarious streets and colorful homes crawling up the sides of massive mountains.  And up those mountains, with a slightly higher elevation and therefore cooler climate than Cerro Pelon, is where we found the butterflies.  

Hundreds of thousands of butterflies filled tree branches like overcrowded leaves and they exploded into the sky as the sun warmed them and they stretched their sleepy wings.  We visited two sanctuaries near Angangueo, in the state of Michoacán—Sierra Chincua and El Rosario.  In each, visitors must hire a guide and hike up the steep and beautiful mountain terrain.  The exertion is worth it.  The butterfly colony is impressive and the views in general are noteworthy.  In fact, they are 100-peso-note-worthy, as a vista view from Sierra Chincua adorns the 100-peso bill.  

The Monarch butterflies arrive in Mexico each year in early November and depart by the end of March.  Because their arrival lines up with Día de Los Muertos, when dead relatives and family are said to visit the living world, folklore identifies the butterflies as souls of the departed.  Whether they are insects or friendly ghosts, witnessing them in that number, and in those clean green mountains, feels spiritual.  

When the Crew is Away…

We returned to La Cruz after our week-long excursion to find our boat engine running.  After searching for the attempted-thief, contacting the marina security, contemplating poltergeists, and notifying a few of our buddies, one friend told us that he had heard of Yanmar engines starting themselves.  We laughed at the implausibility, then did a quick check of our Yanmar engine.  

Salt water had sprayed from our newly installed exhaust elbow onto our engine compartment during our passage.  Rob had remedied the issue and cleaned it up, but he did not see that some salt remained on the engine’s starter solenoid.  The salt permitted electricity to arc between terminals, essentially hotwiring the starter, which powered on the engine.  We determined from the history on our battery monitor that Mapache had been happily humming in her slip for 24 hours before we got home. 

The bad news was we needed a new starter because, just as would happen if you held the key in the on position of your car starter, it burned out.  But we have a lot of luck! Maybe some is bad, because this is an extremely unusual, requiring just the right circumstances to line up.  But a lot is good, because: (1) a fire did not start; (2) this happened in the marina slip, where the boat remained safe while we could not turn her back on without a new starter; and (3) we were able to order the new starter via Amazon delivered to the marina within a week.  We enjoyed the extra time we got with friends in La Cruz, and we installed the new starter.  Good to go.

Changing Plans

After that, we moved to anchor just outside of Marina La Cruz, waiting again on a weather window to continue our trek south.  Before we weighed anchor and raised our sails, we made a new plan.  Because of this season’s delays, we are not pressing on to Panama this season.  At this point, it would require us to rush.  Instead, we will make it halfway down the Central American coast to the last stop in Mexico—Puerto Chiapas.  That will allow us to leisurely explore the countries between Mexico and Panama next season, and then carry on into the Caribbean.  You should know by now not to rely on any of our plans, because it’s really up to the boat (and her ghosts). 

We finally got back to sailing.  We started out crisscrossed in more ways than one, but headed in the right direction (south to new countries and the Panama Canal).  

We splashed the boat (put it back in the water), checked all the thru-hulls, tightened the new packing gland seal (where the propeller shaft enters the boat), ensured the engine was running well, and told the boatyard staff we were good to go.  We untied the dock lines and started to back away from the dock, when Rob yelled to retie to the dock.  The steering was not responding.  

He quickly realized that he had installed the new steering cables backward.  With no other reasonable options, Captain Rob recalibrated his brain and steered the boat to our slip by turning left to go right, and right to go left.  We had no incident and tied up in our designated slip with ease and surprising calm.  Onlookers could have no idea the stress we held fast inside.  After spending a few days in the marina slip, reversing the steering cables, and saying goodbye to our San Carlos pals, we anchored in the San Carlos harbor to wait for our weather window south.  

Searching for Our Sea Legs

We overestimated our ability to regrow sea legs and sailed out into some uncomfortable waves for our first passage.  That is when we encountered our next crisscross.  We had re-installed the sail reefing lines in reverse (with the shorter line in the longer line’s position and vice versa), making it impossible to fully raise the sail as the shorter reefing lines tugged at it.  The remedy was quick, and we were able to carry on into our first of three nights for the passage.  

The night illuminated (or rather did not) the third crisscross—our stern light was not working.  We had rewired some electrical on the back of the boat, and in the process, reversed the stern light’s wires.  Rob put on his electrician hat and got us back to code for night sailing.  Three nights in rolly conditions, with an autopilot threatening failure because it needed an adjustment that could not be made at sea, was not the ideal reintroduction to sailing.  Our nerves were singed, but our first port was worth it. 

Te Amamos, Mazatlán

Mazatlán is one of our favorite cities to visit.  It is a vibrant place that manages to balance a progressive and creative vibe with reverence for history.  The city center is cobbled streets, lined with ancient architecture, hidden courtyards, brightly colored walls, and funky murals.  The food is phenomenal, the people are welcoming, and we enjoyed some time walking on solid land.  We hiked up to the highest lighthouse in the Americas and winded through the old city streets, finding plenty of fantastic restaurants, postcard-worthy views, ice cream, and even a decent craft brewery along our way.  We hung with our friends on the boat Luna Pacifica, who bore the same taxing passage there.  And we readied ourselves for the next three-day passage. 

Mapache, the Big Fish

The next passage brought with it some different snags.  Some long-line fishermen caught a big fish…Mapache!  We passed over several long-lines on our passage between Mazatlán and Bahía de Banderas and got hung up three times.  Fishermen tie hooks to floating lines that are often miles long.  Each end is marked by a single black flag, which is not easily visible against the backdrop of the dark blue, rolling ocean.  The floats are at water level and are often merely clear water bottles.  The length of the lines and their minimal tells make the lines difficult, and sometimes impossible, to avoid.  But we developed an effective dehooking technique.  

The lines would catch on our keel.  We would grab the line, wrap two sections of it around something sturdy, cut it, pull it out from under the keel, and retie it before letting it back into the water.  We did this for two reasons. First, although we are not fans of long-line fishing, because it creates bycatch, including turtles and sharks, we do not want to punish the individual fishermen.  Second, severing the lines creates potential for it to become lost and add to the dangerous plastic waste already polluting the ocean.  The best we can do is support sustainable fishing methods through economic choices, education programs, and responsible government policies. 

A Place We Call Home

We made it to Bahía de Banderas, where we had reserved a marina slip in our old stomping ground of La Cruz de Huanacaxtle.  La Cruz is where we spent a summer and partial fall, while we waited to sell the original Mapache.  We have many good friends here.  It is one of the several places we call home. 

We arrived at 2 a.m., so we anchored for a few hours in wait of the morning light to enter the marina.  When the sun popped up, we weighed anchor and started motoring toward the marina entrance.  Then, Rob yelled for me to drop the anchor back down.  We had lost propulsion and, therefore, steerage.  

We quickly figured out that something else had snagged Mapache 2.0.  She had caught a large plastic produce/rice bag on her propeller, which had wrapped around and disabled it. (Another reminder of the plastic waste problem.)  Captain Rob jumped overboard and removed Mapache’s catch, we weighed anchor again, we tied up in our designated slip, and we stepped back into the familiar, charming town of La Cruz.  

We have been spending quality time with Mapache 2.0, going over her every inch, from the bottom of her keel to the top of her mast.  We do this every year before returning to the water for the cruising season.  For some context, our list of completed jobs on Mapache 2.0 in the last couple of months includes:

Sew new cover for life raft; Repair dinghy chaps; Repair window covers; Repair seat covers; Sew new hatch covers; Repair zipper on stack pack; Reinforce mainsail at spreader points; Replace head hosing (toilet plumbing); Repair fridge seal; Add fasteners to dodger-window covers; Paint name on boat (realize paint is bad, remove paint, order vinyl letters, install vinyl letters); Clean and buff boat; Polish stainless steel on boat; Insulate heater exhaust hose; Service winches; Replace bug screen on berth porthole; Clean and repair anchor bridal; Clean anchor locker; Clean and mark depths on anchor chain; Clean out lazarette and remove extra stern anchor rode; Reinstall stern anchor rode in quick deploy bag for emergency use; Cold galvanize anchor; Service anchor windlass; Install new windex at top of mast; Install new water filter under sink; Install water pressure accumulator; Replace bumpers on shower drain lid and in cockpit settees; Replace dinghy motor hoist strap and lines; Replace dingy davit lines; Relocate stern light; Relocate Automatic Identification System GPS antenna; Rebuild outboard rail mount; Replace engine exhaust elbow; Repack shaft seal; Remove rusted shaft coupler; Paint shaft coupler; Replace raw water impeller; Change engine oil, filter, and fuel filter; Clean entire engine; Paint engine mounts (in place); Clean bilge; Replace cutlass bearing; Replace steering cables; Remove Rudder and Replace bushings; Replace radial drive for steering; Clean water speed indicator; Sand and paint bottom ; Barnacle paint prop and shaft; Install new zincs; Clean and reinstall shaft line cutter; Re-mount Starlink, LTE antenna, and WiFi Access Point; Replace LTE modem; Reconfigure VPNs for work/television; Install new battery monitor and configure for remote access; Install new tablet at navigation station; Install Predict Wind data hub; Configure all device to receive data hub info via WiFi network; Update all navigation software and device firmware; Drill, tap, and screw all “set screw” connections on bimini, dodger, and davits; Replace mounting hardware on life sling; Replace deck mount blocks for reefing lines; Replace furler line; Seal leaking fenders with Fix a Flat; Clean dinghy; Mount fishing pole holder in dinghy; Replace fuel hose and hand prime bulb for dinghy outboard; Rebuild outboard carburetor; Replace outboard water impeller; Change both outboard oils; Remount hardware for dinghy chaps; Inventory all spare parts; Inventory and donate extra lines; Modify chain locker hawse pipe; Relocate man overboard pole; Relocate flag mount; Install cutoff valve to “make water” from marina hose; Install Hookah DC power connectors; Install quick disconnect for extra fridge; Patch fiberglass from old autopilot ram mount; Paint quadrant steering area; Fix engine hour meter; Install underwater lights and wire to helm switch; Sort and reorganize all chemicals

All We Need is Sunshine and Saltwater

Regular and thorough maintenance is important when you live in something that floats around in the corrosive elements of sun and salt.  I have seen the cute throw pillows, decorative signs, and coffee mugs with quotes like, “all I need is sunshine and saltwater.”  But, as we witness on the boat, those two things are incredibly efficient at destroying metals, fabrics, and even plastic.  Still, the retail industry is not wrong.  And so we spend our sweat, tears, money, and time upkeeping our boat so that we can continue to live salty, sun-kissed lives. 

That time, in addition to some unplanned and unwanted events (see past two logs), has taken us through December, and we now look toward a departure date.  One of our first stops will be Mazatlán.  It is almost identical timing to when we first sailed down the Pacific side of Mexico, arriving in Mazatlán on Christmas Day 2021.  This time, we plan to continue beyond Mexico’s southern border with the goal of reaching Panama by the end of this sailing season (May 2024).

Happy 2024!

During this time of year, we always reflect on how great we have it.  Experiencing the world like this remains weird and wonderful.  And having you as our crew (virtual and in real life) is inspiring.  Thank you.  Salud to you and to 2024! 

We wrote our last boat log about the friends we meet, and we raised a glass to one we lost, Dan.  We wrote too soon.  

We lost another very good friend a few days ago.  This one is a comrade from Puerto Peñasco.  He and Rob became good friends through the jiu jitsu gym that Rob attends and supports in Peñasco, Seven Ronin.  Rob so often relied on Javier for advice, insights on Mexican culture, humor, and help at the gym.  

Javier was hardworking and inspired, always finding new ways to support the gym, its kids’ program, and many other aspects of his community.  He was an English professor and a third-generation oyster farmer (check out his family’s farm, restaurant, and tours here).  He was smart and devoted to community and family.  But what won me over is his clever sarcastic humor and his care for animals, taking in stray cats or neglected dogs.  

Javier and four family members died in a tragic car accident, five days before Christmas.  He was 34 years old.  It was undeniably too soon.  We are raising money to support his wife and 10-year-old son.  You can contribute here.  

Javier was big—in physical size (most would not want a jiu jitsu match against him), in heart, and in energy that he dedicated to helping others.  The space left is huge, and we are trying our best to support the people still here as they figure out how to fill the space.  We are spending some time in Peñasco with those people.  And we will get back to the boat when the time is right.

All too often, we are reminded of how short human lives are.  And we are forced to accept that the best people don’t always get an adequate amount of time.  But rather than dwell on how much that sucks or how that meets our human concept of unfair, we try to adjust.  Instead, we set our focus on how amazing it is that our little lifelines intersected and how grateful we are for that.  

This vagabond lifestyle allows us the opportunity to intersect with many different people from many different backgrounds.  We sometimes make new friends, who seem like old friends: the type who welcome you into their home (or boat) the first time you meet, or effortlessly join your adventure for the day (or week, or months), or go running with you despite the intense humidity, or make the same jokes, or talk the same way to their uncooperative boat projects, or help with your uncooperative boat projects even though they have plenty of their own, or trust you to pet-sit without hesitation, or remember some obscure fact you shared months ago, or openly share concerns and hopes for their future that match your own.  There is a sense that we should have known them from our past and a sense that we will definitely continue to know them into our future.  

We cherish those fast bonds (which have to be fast when you are constantly moving), because enjoying the places we visit is better with friends.  Sometimes we come back to the people we have met, sometimes we travel with them, and sometimes we are pleasantly surprised to bump into them again in another far-off place.  

We are presently raising a very large glass to Danito, a friend we had the luck of meeting before we bought Mapache.  He is one of the people who inspired our current way of life and who kept us on it when we needed help.  He will continue to play an important role in how we live our lives on and off the water.  

Cheers to Dan and to all the people who make our lives better!