Captain's Blog #3

Captain’s Blog #3

I’ve always had a healthy fear/respect for math. Much like high-voltage wiring, I know it is VERY important, but that I don’t want to touch it, and the less I have to do with it, the less likely I am to be electrocuted.

But the importance of math has become so clear that I’m actually wishing I had physics in high school (to my high school students – yes, I am that old that physics was not a requirement).

The math I need to do is not complicated. It is not calculus, not pre-calculus, not even logs & trig – it’s not even algebra II. But that nightmare SAT question, “When train A leaves station A going X miles per hour, and train B leaves station B going Y miles per hour . . . “ the answer isn’t “Y do I care?” anymore. It matters. Because showing up at a marina that has a shallow draft at 3 AM . .. it doesn’t work. It means your boat (in my case, your home) is on the rocks. And not in the drink sense. In the call Lloyds of London sense.

Converting gallons to liters, pesos to dollars, amps to volts just leaves me scratching my head asking, “watt?” I majored in psychology. I “may” be able to figure out a chi-square or a t-test. My knowledge is not of any actual value.

So, we planned to leave z-bay around 11 pm, for an early morning arrival at Acapulco. Acapulco, notorious for not having space, actually had a spot for us, albeit at a price that Poseidon himself would have refused. But I’m not Poseidon, and we needed fuel, water, provisions, a fresh water pump, etc.

At around 4 PM I realized – Acapulco was 110 nm (nautical miles) away. If we left as planned, we’d get to Acapulco in the middle of the night, and I’d end up paying for two days. That would bring the total cost for the actual day in Acapulco to well over what we’ve paid for slips so far on the entire trip.

So, within minutes of the first mate heading down for a nap, it was all hands on deck. We were pulling anchor well in advance of our scheduled departure, and would still have to exceed captain’s preferred speed in order to arrive in time to complete our goals for Acapulco.

The trip was pretty uneventful. I hooked the largest dorado I’ve ever seen, but he won in the end, taking my favorite lure and swivel instead of providing us with 4-6 days worth of food. So if anyone happens to catch a 40 pound dorado with a cedar plug already inside it, that’s my dorado, and I want my plug back. I’ll split the filets with you.

We got to Acapulco around 10 AM, and ran in to what is becoming a familiar communication issue. Getting a slip assignment over the radio isn’t fun, regardless of the language. Every marina numbers and letters differently. Usually the docks are lettered and the slips are numbered, but you never know. What is far more confusing is the numbers – some number consecutively on port (left) side, then back on starboard (right) side, while others do odd and even numbers like US streets.

Fortunately, they just said, “fuel dock.” That worked – we needed fuel anyway. (We didn’t “need” fuel, but that’s one of those things that you don’t want to run out of, and fuel is supposed to be cheaper in Mexico than in any other country we plan to visit). I hopped off the boat, and headed to the officina for paperwork.

About halfway to the officina, a kind hombre named Nacho introduced himself to me, asking if there was anything I needed. He had a badge around his neck, was on the Club de Yates de Acapulco (AYC) grounds, so I assumed he worked for the club as a sort of concierge (this is not unheard of, by the way). Stupid, stupid Greg. I told him we needed a fresh water pump. He was more than eager to help . . . because he didn’t work for AYC, he was an outside contractor. I realized this when I was filling out forms in the la offcina. I asked who Nacho was, and got only rolled eyes in response. “Watch out for the people who hang out around the docks.” Really? You let people on to your property and pretend like they are employees? And charge obscene fees for slips?

After an hour, we had our slip assignment. I asked if we had to med moor. I briefly explained med mooring in an earlier post, but it’s basically backing in to a slip, dropping anchor, and tying up your stern. I was told no. I even pointed to the slip, and asked if there was a finger. The capitania told me yes. I asked about getting a fresh water pump – apparently there were two chandleries (marine stores) on the AYC grounds, both which would have them. Nacho would not be necessary. I told Nacho I did not need his services, but if anything came up, he would be the first person I would contact. He followed me to the boat, telling me that the chandleries would rip me off, that he could find me a used pump at half the price at the market. Just what I want, a used Mexican water pump. I told him no, gracias, I had an engineer on board who I was already paying. He then started trying to convince Jeff that I was wrong. Then Sam. Finally, after we fueled up and were leaving, he gave up.

By the way, remember that 14% dock charge for fuel I complained about in an earlier post? Apparently that’s standard practice in Mexico, Central America, and much of the Caribbean. Looks like I won’t be winning that contested credit card charge.

Anyway, I had been told by la officina that someone would help guide us to our slip. Someone showed up offering to help, telling me he would grab the mooring ball and tie the rope as we backed in. Wait, what? We were med mooring?! That’s not what I signed up for. I called the office. Yes, we were med mooring. That was the only option.

As we approached the slip, I saw what we were up against. Or, more accurately, squeezed between. Two Sunseeker Manhattan 55’s. $1,000,000+ boats easily, boats that probably never leave the slip, but that if I scratched the gelcoat, would cost thousands to repair. Our assistant did a great job grabbing the mooring ball. I did a decent job spinning Henrietta II around, until we blew yet another hydraulic hose and I lost my thrusters again. This time, there was no using the prop walk, no laughing, just sheer panic. “I’ve got nothing!” I screamed. “Fend off!” That got the Sunseeker crews out in a hurry. We made it in without a scratch, but we didn’t make any friends.

Our relaxing 24 hour stay in Acapulco that was supposed to involve simply replacing the water pump now involved replacing the water pump, dealing with Nacho, repairing or replacing the hydraulic hose, provisioning, and cleaning the hydraulic oil that was threatening to be dumped in Acapulco bay, the only bay in Mexico that is patrolled by a navy that enjoys issuing stiff fines to yachtistas.

First up, water pump. This was surprisingly easy. The first chandlery had one! But, upon opening the box, we discovered that a previous client had pulled a bait and switch on them, quite literally – they had bought the fresh water pump and returned a bait tank pump in its place. The second chandlery, however, had what we needed.

The hydraulic hose was a bit more complicated. Unlike Ensenada, Acapulco is not a “working” harbor, but a tourist town. We discussed the situation with the officina, and they directed us to the maintenance crew who would have the tools to repair it. They couldn’t figure it out at first. Eventually, Jeff had a hunch, which turned out to be right – to make a long story short, the fitting was two pieces, one that screwed in to the other, making a compression. They screwed them together, and we were off. I gave them 200 pesos, and no one would take it – a little weird, right? We figured out why when we installed it. It blew the moment we hit the power.

However, the bow thruster would still work, and we could make it to Panama without the stern thruster no problem. Enough, time to hit the pool.

While in the pool, Jeff and I got to thinking. We have 4 of these fittings. Only one of them failed, and there’s nothing wrong with it structurally. The guys in the maintenance shed didn’t know how it worked, we did. Maybe we should give it a try.

The next day, I did. And I realized why they didn’t want to take my pesos – it wasn’t easy to get it together right. I actually ended up using super glue to get it to hold while I screwed the compression fitting in tight.

Leaving Acapulco was almost as tough as arriving. We were so tight in the mooring that the boat ricocheted once one rope was released. Fortunately, that got the Sunseekers out in a hurry once again, more than willing to help. We were off.

I had a dream that night, one I will never forget. I was sitting in the saloon (living room, in boat terms), looking out on the aft deck. There was my dad, meeting Sam and her family for her for the first time. Manhattan was in the background, and we were looking west towards it (of course we were, dad hated Jersey!).

I developed the ability to lucid dream a few years ago, the ability to recognize when I’m dreaming. So I knew he was still dead, that this wasn’t entirely real, that the dream would end soon after I stepped on to the aft deck. So I sat there for a while, relishing seeing my father healthy again, talking to my wife, being the charming man he once was. Then I felt him saying to me, “I’m not leaving this time Greg. This time I’m staying.” “Okay,” I told him. “I’ll come out to see you.”

This wasn’t an unusual phenomenon when dad was alive, us communicating without speaking. We had a strange ability to communicate nonverbally. Not in the body language and facial movement sense, in the, “I know exactly what you’re thinking, here’s what I think,” without saying a single word or even looking at each other sense.

I went out to the deck and hugged him. He felt like him, even smelled like him. I held him for a moment, he disintegrated into ashes, and I woke up. And I cried.

I told Sam about it the next day. She told me she had just noticed on the calendar that it was his birthday. I spread some of his ashes in his honor. That night it was Perry Cuomo’s greatest hits on the upper deck during my watches. He was listening with me. Maybe that’s what he meant by he wasn’t leaving this time.

We approached Huatulco around 8 AM, earlier than I had wanted. According to the posts on the message boards, the marina had recently undergone a management change, and no English was spoken. I knew this was false (cruisers tend to exaggerate, I’m starting to realize) as I had spoken to them on the phone a day earlier. Their English wasn’t great, but between my not-so-great Spanish and their not-so-great English, communication was pretty easy. However, the officina didn’t open until 9, and relying entirely on my Spanish . . . no es bueno.

Much to my surprise, they answered on VHF 16, in English, and led us to our slip. No problemo. Then even more to my surprise, the officina was open, and fully staffed! I looked at their clock. I looked at my clock. Well, the one in my head. We had changed time zones at some point, and had forgotten to account for it.

The main reason for stopping in Huatulco was to clear out of Mexico. This is supposedly an arduous process, involving trips to the port captain’s office, immigration, customs, the port captain’s office, and then a final visit by the navy. But it changes from port to port. I chose Huatulco over Puerto Madero (the southernmost port in Mexico) because it seemed to involve the fewest steps, and I am a lazy, lazy man.

I had heard getting your international Zarpe (essentially, exit paper and crew list) can take anywhere from hours to days, so I got started with the process immediately. I got the letter from the marina saying I had paid my bill, then off to the port captain’s office.

I was a little surprised that the capitania did not speak any English, but at this point, my Spanish has gotten a lot better, so she didn’t have to. Also, if you show up with the right paperwork, they know what you want. The process went very smoothly – so smoothly, in fact, that I’m not going to bore you with the details, except to say that I thought I found the future Mrs. Jeffrey Hunt at Immigration . . . more on that later though.

However, I will tell you about the other yachtistas who showed up trying to get their international zarpe. I’m not quite sure where to start.

He was wearing a flowered bathing suit and t-shirt, she in cut-offs and a tank top. I wasn’t wearing an Armani suit or anything, just khaki shorts and a Henrietta II t-shirt, but a little bit of respect goes a long way.

They didn’t speak a word of Spanish. And when I mean not a word, I mean NOT A WORD, and were just flabbergasted that the capitania didn’t speak English. What surprised me is how unprepared they were for this eventuality. No Spanish-English dictionary, or Spanish for Cruisers book (very useful, by the way), no iphone translation app. I had all three on me, and I speak some Spanish.

But what really dumbfounded me was how little they understood the process. All they knew was that the process could be difficult, so they might as well start early. I’ll get to that in a minute.

First, Huatulco is a port of entry, and like most ports of entry in Mexico, you have to pay to anchor there. The fee is nominal, but you have to go to the API office and pay before you can get your international Zarpe. These yachtistas could not believe that you would have to pay to anchor. They had never even heard of API. That’s like never hearing of customs.

So after being told they would need to go to API, and ignoring this, they tried to somehow continue the process. They were asked when they wanted to leave, and they said Monday. Actually, capitania asked me, I asked them, they told me, and I gave them my patented “you’re joking, right?” stare. It’s Friday. Zarpes are only good for 48 hours. I told the capitania anyway. The capitania said they could come back tomorrow, but they would be subject to an after hours fee.

Seriously, getting these people to understand that they had to pay to anchor and pay extra to have the port captain come in on a Saturday was more difficult than speaking Spanish to the capitania. And their outrage at having to follow the customs of another country . . . “Maybe George W. Bush isn’t the only reason the rest of the world hates Americans after all,” I thought to myself.

Eventually, I convinced them that they would have to come back on Monday, but that first they would have to go to the API office first and pay. The capitania was a bit confused, and I finally had to give up and break out the iphone. There is a very cool, albeit expensive, app for the iphone called jibbigo, that translates by voice. You talk to it, it says what you said in Spanish. Someone can then respond en Espanol, and it will talk to you in English. Very, very cool. “They will come back Monday” was translated flawlessly, much to the delight of all involved. The capitania was particularly impressed, and the yachtistas finally left.

This created a scene all it’s own, but one that was fun actually. The entire staff wanted to see and try this miraculous invention. Much like a child who first hears himself over a loudspeaker or on a TV screen, they would freeze up when given the chance to say something. A lot of “holas”, no, “como te llamos?”

Anyway, I was finally free to go, most of my paperwork in hand. I thought to myself, “maybe I actually do have some clue as to what I’m doing.”

The last part was immigration would be visiting the boat at 5:30. The woman from immigration was so Jeff’s type.

“Wait,” you’re saying, “you shouldn’t be checking out the woman from immigration Greg. You’re happily married.” Wrong on two accounts.

First, I’m not happily married. I’m ecstatically married.

Second, amongst the many missions of this voyage is to get Jeff . . . to find Jeff a nice woman who he would like. That’s not easy. The guy is only interested in halves – half his age, half his weight, half his IQ (just kidding – on the IQ part).

So I got back to the boat, a bit giddy with excitement. I not only found a woman for Jeff, I convinced her to come over to the boat! Well, she was legally obligated to inspect the boat, but hey, an intro is an intro, right?

Well, 5:30 rolls around . . . turns in to 6:00 . . . eventually, the future Mrs. Jeffrey Hunt arrives.

But she isn’t alone. Aduana (customs) is with her. And, apparently, Aduana Huatulco held a modeling competition when deciding upon their inspectors. Adonis himself – at least Adonis Mexicano – strode happily beside her.

Once again, the Engineer would not find love at port. Time to set sail.

We set sail on Sunday – within our 48 hour window. Having read everything there is to read about Tehuantepec, I decided we’d “kind-of” stick close to coast.

For those who don’t know, here’s the scene with Tehuantepec. Apparently, this gulf gets horrible storms that are very hard to predict . . . in January. But the guidebooks all say, “don’t risk it – never cut across the gulf, you never know when a window will close!” So I set a course that would keep us close to the coast – within 10 miles. This was way outside of the recommended “foot on the beach” technique, but that technique requires navigating by radar and depth sounder. In my opinion, that’s more dangerous, especially when the weather is forecasted for calm seas for 7 days and a storm has just passed. If an unexpected t-pecker started to blow (that’s what she said) we could always cut in. We’d be an hour away from beaching ourselves as the guides recommended.

Two hours in to our route, I see a bunch of buoys. Having seen many of them off the coast of California, I thought they were lobster traps. Wrong. We were soon trapped up in a long-line fisherman’s net, and the angry panguero cam out to meet us pronto. “Lo siento. No lo se.”

This got me to thinking. Is hugging the coast really the safest bet? I snagged this poor panguero 5 miles offshore. At night, how many would we snag? Is a t-pec really a bigger risk than a (rightfully) angry fisherman with a machete?

As I sat in the “reading room”, I came across an article in PassageMaker magazine about crossing the T-pec in a storm. Apparently, the Mexican navy had warned the boat about, “10 foot seas, 30 knot winds.”

Wait. We’re going 55 miles out of our way to avoid seas that, basically, we’ve already encountered twice? In this article, those were predicted, and a licensed captain went out of his way to avoid them – nothing but calm seas were predicted for our passage.

I consulted with Jeff. He said a bunch of stuff about clouds and wind direction. And it was important, but the gist of it was, let’s got for it.

I cut 5 waypoints out of the trip. We were going straight across the “dreaded” gulf of Tehuantepec.

Really, there’s nothing more to say about it. The crossing was wholly uneventful. The current was adverse, but that’s my biggest complaint.

Maybe we just got lucky. Maybe we can read weather maps. You be the judge.

At the Guatemala-El Salvador border, we had an interesting experience. We were 25 nm offshore, and there was a panga, no fishing lines, just sitting. I saw him off in the horizon, the vantage of a flybridge. Once he saw us, he was off, out of sight within minutes. Smuggler. Much like a snake, he was more scared of us than we were of him.

We hit a line of squalls the last night of the passage – constantly shifting winds, rain, and every sailor’s nightmare, lightning. One strike would take out all of our electronics, easily 20k in damage and another week at port. We do have insurance, but as I’ve already said, it isn’t very good. No strikes though, fortunately.

We arrived at Bahia Del Sol, El Salvador, an hour and a half early. You need to enter the bay at slack high tide, under the direction of a pilot (guy on jetski), so we drove around in circles for awhile.

Just as high tide approached, the winds picked up. Great.

We met the pilot, who instructed me to follow him and go as fast as I can. I had read about this – you basically have to surf the boat in, and pray it goes straight. The first two waves were fine. Then the captain went and did something stupid. Really, really stupid.

I had the stabilizers set at center (not moving) for the first two waves. Now that I think about it, this was exactly the right call. In this position, they act like fins on a surfboard, giving you the most control. Well, for the last wave, I turned them on. Now they would try to compensate for the wave, and I would have to compensate for them. Stabilizers aren’t designed for breaking waves, whose force is much greater than a wave at sea. The wave picked us up, turned us hard to port and started to roll us. Roll us bad. Furniture went flying, dogs went flying. All I could do was laugh. I turned hard to starboard, straightened her out, and we were in.

Henrietta II is supposed to be self-righting to 85 degrees. Well, she certainly is to 45! We got our berth, tied up, and cleared customs and immigration (super easy), and hit the pool. Welcome to Central America. I noticed I only have 2 pages left in my passport. Looks like we’ll be visiting a consulate at some point.