Marquesas

Hello all.  It's been a while, I guess, though now that I am writing it seems like yesterday.

La Paz is that kind of place—a place where you fall into a sort of rhythm with things, you begin to daydream or at least separate from any conscious awareness of the time.

One day is like the next—and  it was a good day and tomorrow will be the same.  And like that nearly a month goes by.

 

And now here we are.  In a few days I'll weigh anchor at last and each time I drop it here forward will be further westward.  I am three drops away: Ballandra Bay, Los Frailes, and Cabo.  All day sails.  All little shakedowns.  All warm ups, practice rounds and a bit of fresh air before the plunge.

From Cabo the trip will take a month or maybe more—a month alone at sea—till I reach the Marquesas in the south Pacific.  It will be my first trip to the southern hemisphere, my first time alone for more than a few days.

Can you remember ever going a few days—or even one day—without seeing another soul, not to mention talking to someone?

I can't imagine it.  I've always had Widge to keep me company when I was in secluded climes, always a phone when I was down.  This will be different than anything I've done before.

 

The solitude is the most challenging part.  The sailing itself has a fare to good reputation.  I have to cross the doldrums which is a horizontal belt of unsettled high pressure, which means no wind and the occasional squall. 

Since I don't motor it will take me a while to get through.  But we pray for good steady tradewinds which should push me right where I hope to go.

 

Food and supplies in the S. Pacific islands are reputed as being expensive. . . very.  So I just provisioned for six to eight months, minus fruit and veggies.  It is an amazing feeling being so self-sufficient.  I have water for several months, food forever, propane for half a year, and a fair stock pile of books to fill the passing hours.

 

 

I don't know really when I'll be back in touch.  The Marquesas are far out and not terribly civilized.  I know I'll have internet in Papeete, which is some sort of capital or hub or something, but I may not get there for quite a while.

I am sailing in a sort of caravan, and if anything happens to any of us, we will email the friends and family of that person.  There are seven boats—we all can't sink….won't sink, hopefully.  (Never challenge Neptune if one can help it.)

 

So don't worry.  All is well.  My dad just came for a visit and even he was oddly supportive—not one negative or doubt-filled comment.  It was great. 

He saw the boat, liked it, met my friends—he saw me in me element for the first time.  I think it reassured him that things are as they should be.  (He just asked that I be careful and try not to fall off the boat.  Prudent, indeed.)

 

This shall do.  Again, send me some positive juice, some warm thoughts and some funny memories.  I promise I'll have all of you close to mind as the days start to wear on.

Thanks again for everything you have done.  Those memories I carry close and they help me through.

Best of luck to you in your endeavors, what ever they may be.  I'd love to know about them.  Please write me a line.

What are you doing now??  What's new?  Describe the world as it looks though your kitchen window—are the flowers out yet?

Montana, Washington, Sewanee, S. Carolina, many fine days.

Paint me a picture.

 

 I wish I could share with you the joy of watching dolphins swimming at dusk—I treasure it.  Everyday they come; they swim up under my boat and look up at me and squeak at me—sometimes I can even hear them through the hull of my boat when I'm below.  They are so large, so elegant and they come every afternoon.

Ah.  I love them.  They are my fondest memory of this place (though we had a fair toga party as a going away fiesta the other night…not bad).

 

Namaste

-jonah

--
Jonah Manning
S/V Araby


Online Journal -www.freejonah.blogspot.com
Email - bellyofthewhale.gmail.com

128 Holliday Rd
Columbia, South Carolina, USA

Emergency contact:  
Dibble Manning
phone:  001 - 803 - 787 - 4352  
email:cmann1960@aol.com>
also check addresss in "to" column

an unexpected visit

My pops is coming to Cabo……..holy cow!!   And he's coming tomorrow.

Such action!  Such spontanaety!

 

I think Dibble must be behind it.  Someone back home must have heckled him into it.  I can count the times he's visited me on a few fingers.  I am shocked.

 

He will be the first in the family to see my boat.  This is wild.  I don't even know what to say about it.

 

Battery dead.  Must go.

dauphines at dusk

Ah….what days.

Everyday after work Herbert and I sit and have slight drink of rum and watch the dolphins rise and fall as the sun drupes behind the Mogote.  The sunsets are brilliant.  Today I had trouble making back to my boat, which is a mere fifty yards north of Herb's boat.  There were so many dolphins coming up to my dinghy and swimming around it.  I could almost touch them—they were feet away.  Any time I'd see one approach I'd kick the engine into neutral (I'm borrowing a buddies dinghy, no oars).  So as I'd play with the dolphins I'd quickly drift with the current back towards Herbert, who was sitting on deck laughing at me (and taking photos).  This dinghy is tiny—I mean tiny, like six feet.  A little rubber ducky.  The dolphins were much larger than me.  It was wonderful.

 

 

I've been loving the work.   Grinding, sanding, prepping, acetone, epoxy, priming, painting.  Out in the sun all day.  Speaking in ridiculous brit accents, mocking our friends, or people we routinely hear on the VHF: "Windsome, Windsome, Exodus."   We hear this continually.  We have to play with it abit.  We laugh continually, about pretty much anything.

A week thus far.  We're almost done.  We put down the sand today, so tomorrow we put on the topcoat of paint, then it is small stuff: replace all the hardware we took off, stantions, cleats, ect.  We still need to paint the cockpit.  Oh well.  We had tons to do.

 

Next to my boat.  I am gonna do nonskid there as well, and the companionway hatch and tiller.  I hope my dinghy is finally repaired.  It has been forever with a hole.  I found two more in the process.

A dinghy that doesn't constantly deflate would be a great boon to morale.

 

My list is short, but important.  Soon I reprovision and get out of here.  The time flies.  So long as I can sit and watch the dolphins, I don't have to worry about being anywhere else.

Dread feeling

Had a dreadful feeling two morning's ago.  It was intense.  The only thing I can compare it to is climbing when slowly you realize that you are overextended, and the possibility of a fall grows, but that the consequences are catastrophic.  It is a terrible feeling and luckily rare.

I don't know why I had such terrible foreboding.  I kept a keen eye all day long.  Nothing.  The weather was rather bad, but we worked all day and I could see my boat all the time.

 

It improved rapidly.  After lunch I felt fine and normal, a bit suspicious, but back to normal.

 

If anyone has any explanation I'd appreciate it.  I haven't heard of anything yet.

Mas en La Paz

 

Ran over dolphin – much rum – time flies – boat work on Bamboo – epiphany – remembering tons of dreams.

 

 

Well I'm certainly not alone.  Herbert and I spend about twelve hours a day together now.  He had cracks in his deck and no decent nonskid, so we grinded all the bad spots and either epoxied them or fiberglassed them.  We found only one spot where there was any rot.  So not too bad.

Tomorrow I'll fare it all out and prep for the paint.

 

Time has passed like a great dime store novel.   I mean fast.   I've been here a week and I'd swear to a few days.  I can't explain how great it is to have a job, to be working again—it is so satisfying.  After this job I get to paint the decks on Araby (which is my boat if you have forgotten).

 

I can't remember if I have written about it, but I have had a sort of epiphany of late.  Everything has been coming together and congealing in my mind.  I feel like everything is right; I am at peace with it.  My psyche has sort of caught up with all my body has been doing and experiencing.

For a few months have had "dangling ends" of sorts, things I hadn't fully come to terms with, people I hadn't fully let go of.

Where was I going: south? West? With whom?  When?  I have been riding by the seat of my pants through most of it and now I feel like I am grabbing the reins a bit and taking control with some direction in mind.

 

Why am I so ineffective when it comes to making decisions that incorporate other people?  I am more interested in pleasing them—actually, to please them is to please myself.  So I really lose my center; I can easily go whichever way the wind should blow.  And if they are the indecisive sort than I am left in a quandary. 

Strange how I can be so undecided at times.

 

Now I am in a place where I am living again alone and have my own space to settle my own mind.  It is wonderful.  I am not alone.  What a community is here!  Herbert and I get along so well.  We just had some drinks with Dan and Sonya on Lift.  Paul and Laura have a bar-b-que almost nightly.  The taco joints are all but irresistible.  There is always something to do and someone to do it with.

Tilikum is back in Florida helping here family sort things out.  She's riding with Herbert on Bamboo now—or, at best as I can reckon.  Hopefully she'll be back soon and Herbert's decks will be all shiny and new.

 

The only real excitement around here are the tides.  They rip like a river.  You'd swear you were moving.  It is strange to have a boat at anchor that is stern to the wind—the current effects the hull more than the wind.  It gets a bit nasty in the afternoons sometimes.  There is some weather coming down the coast from Alaska, so it may be bad for a few days.

 

The only personal things is that I ran over a dolphin with my dinghy.  There are dolphins in the bay everyday.  They come right up to the boat when we're working.  I call them by tapping on the side.

The bay is very very shallow.  Anyway, somehow, I was zooming along and a dolphin came up right before my bow—like a foot!  Before I could turn or lift the prop I hit him with the prop shaft.

I don't think I cut him.  I didn't hear any change in the throttle at all, and it is fairly noticeable when I hit just a bit of kelp.   Ahhh….I felt terrible.  It was a strange thing and everyone saw it.  Whales hit boats that same way, just coming up without paying attention I guess.

Anyway, what to do?

 

 

All is well, better than well.  These are cheerful days I hope to carry with me for a long time.   

la paz piddling

Wow.  Tons and tons.

What a time! 

 

I'm working with Herbert, who is my new sailing partner of sorts (unofficial of course).  We are sealing his decks and putting on some non-skid (so one doesn't slip and fall off the boat—it is paint with sand in it).

 

I've had so much on my mind.   I am coming to a good place.  I am getting prepped for the next leg which will probably be to the Marquesas.  Don't think we'll do much before then.  Thinking of leaving just before the turn of the month.

 

I'm changing I think.  I am getting a grip on some psychological things.  I'm getting back on my game. 

I've had so many questions and issues hanging over me, but I'm coming to an equilibrium.  I'm with great people which makes such a difference: solidarity and support.

I'm not alone out here.  It is amazing.  Everyone picks you up when your down.  Or, here, it is very hard to get down at all.  La Paz is as its name implies.  It is difficult not to relax.

 

I am alone again.  My boat is presently my own.

And now I realize that I am on the doorstep of something massive.   I am about to sail across the Pacific….alone.   I hadn't really thought about it, but wow.   There it is.

I've never done anything like it.   That is solitude like none other in the world.  I can't imagine it—it is so far from anything I can fathom.

On the AT I saw people every single day.  And Widge was always with me when I lived in the mountains.

This is off my map.

 

And I'm psyched about it!!  I want it.  The leg from Los Frails to La Paz showed me so much about myself.   I have faith.

 

I am no fool and I know there are all sorts of things I may be overlooking.  But I believe.  My rig has been pushed.  It feels right.

 

So here I am.  I have made it away.   Now I have to put one leg in front of the other and keep going.  So many strange things are taking place that it is impossible to know what is in store.

 

Each day I see dolphins feeding around my boat.  I share meals with friends.  I work and relax, drink rum at sunset.  There is lots of love around.   I could use more hugs, my only complaint.  Too few women about in the sailing world.

But I am smiling, smiling a lot in the last couple of days especially.  A few conversations have opened my eyes to some wonderful things.

I am looking to the future again, planning, dreaming, piecing together  those things that matter in my heart.  I hope in a year or two's time I will have something—something unique and mind to carry with me through the world, something I do that contributes.  That is my dream.

Denied at the Gate

Tilikum left my boat in Cabo to help our friend Matt bring his down from Magdalena Bay. It seemed the time had finally come: now I would have to sail alone. After all, it is my boat, my life, ect. Crew come and go, but I have to continue.

I have the option of course to find more, but why? My boat is so small, too small for two people who don’t know each other real well. There is a great comfort in having my own space.

But maybe this isn’t completely honest. I am fooling you. Really, deep down, I want to sail alone. I want to show myself that I can do it. I have been patient (in that I didn’t leave Port Townsend solo). PT was several thousand miles ago. Perhaps now was the time.

In a sense, it was perfect timing in that I was sailing with two to three other boats: Matt and Tilikum had arrived from Mag Bay, Herbert, and Jean Claude. All except Jean Claude were heading to La Paz. (The only variable was that they were planning on motoring and I wasn’t.)

La Paz is all upwind. It is a tough sail (or motor) but the motor is much faster and straighter.

All four boats day sailed to Los Frailes which I wrote about in my last letter. Great, beautiful spot. True Mexico. It was a slow sail.

A few days later Tilikum left to visit some friends of hers, leaving all the boys to fend for themselves. The next morning Matt and Herbert left with no wind at all. This was ideal for motoring. Not so for me. I waited.

I fixed my dinghy and slept most of the day. The wind slowly picked up and I made ready to leave by seven in the evening. The sun was setting over the arid

Baja mountains as I set the main and jib.

With the sails close-hauled (sailing as close to the wind as possible) I was steering near to due north. La Paz was to the north-west.

The route was to sail one long tack far out into the Sea of Cortez, fifty, sixty miles, until I could tack back to the west and clear the northern tip of Isla Cerralvo.

I set the windvane and the swell was coming from the north quarter. Close-hauled is the roughest point of sail—the boat heels over far and bucks heavily with the waves. (When cooking or eating, food becomes a moving target.)

Because you’re sailing into the wind, all the elements seem intensified—the wind feels like it is coming twice as hard as it truly is (apparent wind).

If you sail downwind the effect is the opposite, the wind feels lighter because you run with it so it less effect.

I liked this plan of going far out—as opposed to doing many shorter tacks close to the west—since it was taking me away from shore. If I were to oversleep or change direction I would have hours and hours of time to recover.

Also there are few ships in the Sea of Cortez. (I only ever saw one.) So, setting out, I was much more excited than nervous.

Though rare it may be, this trip, for a time, went like a well greased machine. We rolled on and on.

I cooked a soup. I ate. I watched. I slept around the clock. I slept and slept. I dreamt. I never, never ever remember my dreams. But with twenty-five minutes,

I’d remember so much. I remember more than five dreams my first night. What a joy! And I wasn’t tired. And this was my greatest fear: sleep.

I have always been a terrible napper. But to sail alone, you have to sleep in twenty-five minute intervals. Most sailors use a kitchen timer.

I’d go to sleep below, the thing rings like mad, I get up and stick my head out of the companionway and check the horizon for ships, check the course and windvane and sails—perhaps check position (every hour or so), then head back to the berth for more z’s.

And it worked. I slept and slept. I dreamt and I wasn’t tired.

No ships. I had a score of miles of sea room. La Paz as the crow flies was only, I’m not even sure, eighty some odd miles north. Matt and Herbert would do it in two days sails straight along the coast.

I had to tack way, way out into the Sea. I was making way, but the current was against me and the wind pushed me off course a bit, meaning that when I tacked (turned) west it would be a greater angle than I would want, say, 105° as opposed to 90° which is optimal.

What this means, if it makes any sense at all, it that I needed to sail farther to the north than I would want, because…..when I turned west, I’d be on a 240° or a 250° course—which is heading south. So, in a sense, I had to sail past the place I was trying to get to to get there.

But this is sailing—you have to sail to the wind and current—not to a point on a map.

So I kept heading north. I kept sleeping. I stayed below all day out of the sun. At night I looked at the stars, saw some meteors. The sailings was great.

The second night I tacked west. I hadn’t done quite enough northing, but I was ready for a change and I knew I would still be many miles out by dawn.

And true enough, at dawn I was still over ten miles out of Isla Cerralvo and not quite high enough to get through the north channel.

I needed to be sure. The island would be a lee shore, meaning that the wind would try to push me toward it and wreck me. I needed all the room I could afford.

I tacked north for a few hours and got my room.

The wind shifted a bit and allowed me to fall off the wind just a bit. I started sailing faster and faster, now catching the waves against the beam (middle of the boat) instead of the bow.

Now I was really sailing. I was making six knots. I cleared the island. This would be the day. I only had to cross the Cerralvo Strait and shoot west through the San Lorenzo Channel and I’d be two miles from a safe anchorage in Puerto Ballandra, ten miles north of La Paz.

The San Lorenzo Channel was the last obstacle.

It was shallow and sparsely marked. I was intent on getting through it with daylight. And I was sailing faster and faster, exhilarating sailing. I would make it with time to spare at this rate.

But things change so fast, better to make time while I could.

And indeed things were changing. The wind was piping. It was blowing 25…30….35…

I pushed the rig hard. The bulwarks (outer rails) were drowning in blue water. The bow was skewering the waves as they rolled across the boat.

I considered it a good shake down. I hadn’t had so much wind on the bow ever before. So I kept pushing.

But I was also getting closer and closer to the channel. The channel was shallow. Already the seas were building up, eight feet, some breaking waves.

In shallower water they could build even more. They may die, too. I couldn’t be sure. But also it was narrow and the boat was now barely in control.

Clearly, it was time to reef (take in sail) then I could think further about what to do.

I reefed the main…. and I only went faster. I dropped the main altogether and raised the try’sle (storm sail)….still draining the gunwales. Dropped the jib and raised the storm jib….still doing seven knots. We were screaming along.

Damn.

I was soaked—utterly wet head to toe. The boat was like a bucking mule. Moving around was arduous and my grip and attention were firm and fixed.

I was slow in getting out my harness and clipping in. I just couldn’t believe it had come to that.

What to do??

I had listened to the weather—there wasn’t any. So were did this come from? It was gusting 40!

I was down to my smallest sails and I was still working hard. Control was marginal and the channel was an unknown. What about the tide? How would it effect me?

I was keeping a straight course, but the situation was tenuous, verging on ridiculous.

Of course I could make it. I knew I could. I could stay on my course and head straight through, but….was it a prudent choice?

I could lose everything. Mexico is challenging. We passed Matt’s boat that he lost on a reef three years ago just south of Los Frailes.

I hated it but I turned the tiller. I fell off the wind and started to run south, the only direction still open to me.

What to do??

All my friends were in La Paz waiting for me. Where would I go?

Going back the way I had come would now be dangerous as well, with the wind and lee shore of Isla Cerralvo.

I’d have to continue south, but to do that would mean abandoning La Paz altogether—it would take me days to get back here.

There was too much tide to heave too and too much land to be safe. I had to leave.

I deceived I could run south to an anchorage called Bahia de los Muertos and there I could compose myself.

But it seemed that from there I would have to head east across the Sea of Cortez to Mazatlan, where Jean Claude was now heading.

It was just then that, strangely, the wind just petered out. It didn’t ease off or lighten up—it died, utterly and absolutely. Not a gust. I started spinning around in circles.

I looked north and thought to myself—This is my chance. I fired up the diesel, sheeted in the sails and turned back for the San Lorenzo Channel.

The seas were flattening out a bit. It was a bit rough, but my blood was flowing now. It took over an hour to make up the ground I had lost and the sun was starting to set.

I wouldn’t make it through the channel in day light, but

that seemed like such a feeble concern at the moment. (The buoys were lighted, which made them easier for me to find in the dark than they would have been in the day time.)

I motored on. The wind slowly rose again, but never to the same roar as before. I left the engine pushing me through so I could get through as fast as possible.

But now, I felt so serene and relaxed. There was no danger of being washed ashore. Current, depth, speed, wind—everything fine. I past through the gate into the Bahia de La Paz.

Rounding south, eight-thirty in the evening, now I had a new obstacle, and no mediocre one. I was pulling into a very small and challenging anchorage in the dark with no moon.

I would be blind (as if I could be anything else!). I set the autopilot and plotted waypoints on the gps. They had to be accurate and they needed to be well chosen.

I wanted to know exactly were the northern tip of the bay was. (I was motorsailing south now in the Bahia de La Paz and Puerto Ballandra was on my left, or east side of the bay.) If I knew that latitude I could creep due east right into the top of the bay, at about a knot per hour, and watch the depth and land marks until I was far enough in to be protected from any wind.

I crept and crept. I’ve never moved so slow… and it was perfect. I came right in at the top—above a dangerous underwater rock. I followed the rocks and beaches in and found shallow water and dropped the hook.

Oh, it was grand. I looked around in the darkness and knew this was an amazing spot—rocks, cliffs, and some five separate beaches. You could hear it all. The morning would be sweet.

But, before that, I’d sleep, and I mean sleep, the first long uninterrupted sleep I’d had in three nights.

Puerto Ballandra was cliffs and white sand beaches, pelicans on the rocks and shallow water for good holding. I went for a morning swim to some rocks. I weighed anchor and had a fine DOWNWIND sail ten miles into La Paz.

I found Herbert and dropped anchor next to him. He dinghied over straight away with a couple of tacos and some Washington beer.

Then Dan showed up with another beer—I haven’t seen him since Ensenada. (Dan and Sonya are on Lift, friends from PT and Sausalito.)

La Paz is great but more on it later. More when I get a better feel myself.

It was a great sail. The boat handled wonderfully. I sailed it well. And I enjoyed myself, and proved something to myself. No complaints….though I think I will relax in La Paz for a bit.

Time for some boat work.

Love you all. Hope all is well elsewhere in the world.

Sorry for the length, as always. I’ll try and shorten it before I advertise.

La Paz

I made La Paz,

but my batteries are dead.

I'll write tomorrow......

Los Frailes

Easy Days in La Bahia de Los Frailes (Bay of the Frairs)

 

Three am a few days ago—not even sure what day it actually is today—I finally weighed anchor and headed away from Cabo San Lucas.   I think it was a Thursday, which would have me floating there for nearly a week.

This next leg would take me 43 miles to the northwest to Los Frailes, a small bay on the east side of the Baja peninsula.   This would be my first experience in the Sea of Cortes, which I was anticipating.  The leg should nice, I expected.  It would be the first solo sailing I've done since cruising around the San Juan Islands up in Washington over the summer.

Another caveat is that this trip was taking place with a flotilla: Matt and Tilikum were coming along on "Laurabelle" and also Herbert and Jean Claude, two newer friends, though I met Herbert in San Diego.

 

When I started hoisting up the anchor the only person who looked at all alive was Jean Claude, or "Papillon" as his boat is named.   He weighed anchor just behind me.  But Herbert would catch up within an hour or so and Matt and Tilikum much later in the afternoon.

We did this funny dance because they were motor sailing and I wasn't and the wind was variable and faint, so when the wind was good I'd catch up, but then it would die and I'd fall behind.

Sailing with a group was a lot of fun.  We talked a lot of the VHF radio, made jokes and raced.

The wind was terrible and I made slow time.  The farther we turned north and moved into the Sea of Cortex proper, the more the wind increased and punched us right on the nose.   It was a slow go—steep, choppy seas.

Everyone dropped all sail and motored for Los Frailes.  Herbert was the only one to make it in by dark (I think).   In the end we all made it in safely.

 

And was it worth it!

Los Frailes is would cruising on  a sailboat is—in part—all about.  Beautiful open bay, constant sunshine, no town—only dusty country roads, a closed hotel and one small restaurant/bar.

On the beach is a small community of gringos living out the winter in RV's and tents, lots of folk from British Columbia.   At night there is always a fire on the beach.

 

The days have been going something like this:

I wake, go topsides to stretch and exercise on the bow, drop the drawers and jump in for a swim. (The water is crystal clear.   You can see your shadow on the white sandy bottom.)  The swim really gets me woken up (which is otherwise a sore trail). 

Often I swim over to Herbert's trimaran, "Bamboo".  Trimarans are great because they have tremendous deck space.   They are very broad and stable. 

So I swim over and sit on deck with Herbert and Tilikum.  It is always sunny and hot, even in the mornings, perhaps 80°.   Yesterday I even drank a cup of coffee.  Often Tila will come over to my boat for a cup of "choc hotlate" which we are both unabashedly addicted to.

Between the four boats, we all socialize a lot.  We keep our radios on channel 22 and joke and make plans.

 

Yesterday Tilikum left us.  She headed north to Todos Santos to have some time to herself.   She was missed instantly, but we all took it in stride and headed to the bar for pitchers of margaritas.

Two days ago Matt went up to a fishing boat that had come in from the tough swell and got a tour and made some Mexican friends.   On his way out, they tossed him a couple 15 lb yellowfin tuna.

So last night we had a big bar-b-que—grilled the fish (Jean Claude is an old caterer) passed around a bit of rum     Tila—you would have enjoyed it.

Hopefully Tilikum will meet back up with us in La Paz.

 

As of this morning, Papillon (Jean Claude) and I are the only ones left.  Bamboo and Laurabelle left this morning because of calm winds and flat seas.   I, however, wish to sail and the wind tomorrow should be a bit more steady.  Papillon is heading across the Sea to Mazatlan and also wants a good wind to push him across.

In two to three days I should make La Paz.  Hopefully I will find Dan and Sonya still there—Perhaps I'll go and visit Hubris who is up in the yard.

 

And where is Brian on Thistledown?? He should be coming up behind me any day.  It has been nearly a month since I saw him last in San Diego—with no reverse gear, and still no reverse gear.  We all have our handicaps.

The weather is supposed to hold for a few days.  Today I recover from mega-sunburn   (oops), write a little, sleep a little, prep the boat, and in the afternoon or morning I head out for La Paz.

 

I'll send this when I get there.

 

--sting rays jumping.

--climbing los frailes

--Matt on the radio