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May 2, 2010 – At Sea, 28º 42’N, 115º 17’W
By Herb McCormick
Almost two years ago to this very same day, skipper Mark Schrader, mate Dave Logan, crewman Patrick Harrigan and I sailed a 64-foot cutter called Danzante into the remote Baja California inlet of Bahia Tortuga – Turtle Bay – in search of fuel. The sun was barely up, but before we’d even cleared the harbor entrance, a pair of dueling pangas, or skiffs, was making a beeline in our direction. Clearly, they knew what we were looking for and they were vying for our business. They arrived at the boat – one to port, the other to starboard – at about the same time.
We glanced back and forth between the two like the head linesman at Wimbledon. “I think that guy saw us first,” I said, nodding to the fellow to port. We shot him a thumb’s up. The other merchant sped away.
As it turned out, we made an exceedingly wise choice. Ruben was the new guy in town and had set up shop on a dusty rise a few miles from the town. He called his business “Servicos Annabel” after his wife, who was sitting in an open-air dwelling up on the hill. When the tanks were full, as we were all famished, and had been obsessing about huevos rancheros for several hundred miles, we inquired about a local place to have breakfast. Ruben thought for a moment, and then said, “My wife will make it.” We told him we couldn’t impose. He insisted.
A half hour later, we were up in the shade of his rustic home inhaling one of the most memorable repasts of my entire life: big pitchers of cold orange juice and hot, fresh coffee; platefuls of perfectly cooked eggs, adorned with wonderful refried beans; a series of platters with fresh, sliced avocado and tomatoes; thick slabs of ham and cheese; a huge basket of steamy, fresh tortillas; and bowlfuls of hot sauce and salsas.
Logan was sitting next to me and at one point I felt his stare. “What?” I somehow managed, between sips and gulps.
“You’re purring,” he said.
About midway through the meal, Ruben and Annabel’s daughter dropped in with her brand-new baby. Logan snapped some photos. It was a happy, lovely scene, all the more so because it was totally unexpected. When we finally rose up to leave, we asked what we owed them, and Annabel said, “$5.” We looked at each other, shook our heads and started throwing cash on the table.
“No, no, no!” she said.
“Bambino,” we said, nodding at the infant. Only then would she accept the money.
This morning, this time just before sunrise, we pulled back in to Ruben’s place; our boat was the same, except for the several hundred thousand dollars in new gear and equipment and a new handle: Ocean Watch. If anything, sadly, only the crew had depreciated.
We’d left San Juanico the day before after spending a day off the dusty town holed up and waiting for a change in the weather. There’d been a lull in the northerly breeze as we got underway but it didn’t last long, and by midday yesterday we were again bashing our boat and our brains. We’re in a big hurry to get to San Diego so there’d been some debate onboard whether we really needed to stop for fuel or whether we could keep on trucking.
Logan more or less put an end to it. “We’ve been using a lot of diesel crashing into these seas,” he’d said. Yes, we might make it without taking on more, he conceded, but the skipper and he agreed, it was too risky to push on. We were going to stop, and there was one stop available: Turtle Bay.
There was no debate whatsoever, however, about where we were going there.
Unfortunately, Ruben wasn’t around, but we knew the drill and made our way directly to the mooring in front of his place. Up on the hill, the pack of friendly dogs was still running free, and the large, white, “Fuel” sign was still etched into the ridge, but the premises were now landscaped and tidier, and the buildings in the little compound now boasted walls and screens.
“Looks like they’ve made some improvements,” said Logan.
In Ruben’s place, a friendly man with a big smile was running the operation, which was essentially the same drill. Enrique handed up the mooring line from his panga, then drove over to the larger boat that serves as the fuel barge – in fact, it’s just a floating fuel tank strapped to a 55-hp. Mercury – and steered it alongside. It was quarter to six.
The one big difference to the scene from our last time there was in the adjacent anchorage, in which nearly a dozen cruising boats bobbed at their chains. As the sky to the east continued to lighten, the VHF-radio crackled to life. Everyone sounded not only wide awake, but chirpy and optimistic. Clearly, while we’d been banging northward, these sailors had been tucked into Turtle Bay waiting for the blow to calm down. But the waters were still and the weather gods – or at least the professional router and meteorologist someone had hired – were smiling. At 0600, the first yacht hoisted sail and set forth, and one after another, a steady stream of boats followed.
Enrique accepted a cup of coffee and had a bit of news: Ruben and Annabel were soon to be grandparents a second time. Logan brought his laptop up on deck and showed our new friend the old pictures. The job done, Enrique tallied up the bill and now the skipper flashed a grin, as well. At $2.90 a gallon, it was the cheapest fuel we’d taken on in the entire voyage Around the Americas. At 0645, we’d joined the parade out of Dodge.
At seven, were back on course for Southern California.
The day ahead would bring us up past Cedros Island and onward towards San Diego. For the first time in eons, for much of the time we’d have other sailboats in sight. And when we couldn’t see them, we certainly heard them. Obviously some friendships had been forged in the Turtle Bay anchorage, and the camaraderie and chatter continued, via radio, as their informal cruise-in-company continued.
The only problem? No purring. The only sound was my grumbling stomach. Alas, there was no sign of Annabel whatsoever, and no second feast in Turtle Bay.
-Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson
*This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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