Swell Read online

  For living on anchor, James installs an extra water tank, and a new battery bank with a clever setup of solar panels that integrate a small davit to help raise and lower the dinghy’s outboard motor for passages. Water and fuel pumps are added, along with interior lights, a refrigeration compressor, and a 110-volt power inverter for charging camera batteries and laptop computers. He builds a new switchboard with monitors to display battery and charging levels, and replaces most of the boat’s old wiring and fuses. The cooking stove is still in good condition, but the propane storage has to be moved from the foredeck to accommodate the new life raft. My carpenter friend, Jaime, builds a permanent navigation desk with shelves. On a weekend visit from my father, we plumb in a stowable shower on the aft deck and a macerator pump for the holding tank.

  My “deal” with Barry becomes a subject of controversy in the harbor. Some question my capability, others argue over refit solutions. Many claim I’ll never leave. It’s a constant challenge to orchestrate multiple projects, navigate egos, and disregard doubters, but Barry’s confidence in me never falters.

  “What do you think about self-defense?” Barry ponders one afternoon. I pause and think for a moment. A gun? No. Mace? Couldn’t hurt. Pipe wrench? Machete? Bow and arrow? Nunchucks? Voodoo dolls?

  “Martial arts classes could be a good idea, my girl.” I add it to the list.

  Another day I ask him, “What about Swell?” In spite of the seafaring superstitions around renaming a vessel, this boat’s name has already been changed numerous times. I feel a new one will be nice, in honor of our quest.

  “Swell ... Swell ... hmmm ... it has a nice ring to it, reminds me of Slocum’s Spray. And it certainly holds meaning for your surfing pursuits.”

  “Plus meaning happy, good. And to grow and expand.”

  “True,” he ponders. “And you won’t have to explain it. I like it. Swell it is. When shall we rechristen her?”

  Two and a half years pass in a blur of boat work and bartending before departure finally nears. Lying on my back, I stroke my brush over the last exposed corner of the forward cabin, completing the final coat of paint on Swell’s interior walls and ceiling. I rest my head for a moment, staring up with satisfaction, then crawl out to look at the clock. Only six minutes to get to the restaurant!

  I plunge my brush into the cup of thinner and sprint up the dock to exit the heavy steel marina gate. Dashing for my car, I extract some cleanish work attire from the mess of clothes, boat parts, receipts, and surfboard fins scattered over the backseat, then look around to see if anyone is watching. All clear. I drop my jeans and pull on my work pants, peel off my paint-stained T-shirt, and slip the wrinkled restaurant uniform over my head. After swiping deodorant under each arm, I close the car door and take off running toward the white, two-story building in the northwest corner of the harbor.

  “Lizzypants!” my boss Mikey calls from behind the bar as I stride through the double doors on the second floor.

  “I finished the interior paint today!” I tell him, simultaneously informing the patrons at the far end of the bar.

  “You smell like it, too,” Mikey says with a smirk. “We need limes cut and there’ll be food ready for table 250 in about ten minutes.”

  “And I need another margy, Lizzy,” Jimmy says, smiling from his favorite seat at the north end of the bar. “Same glass.”

  I love my coworkers, the regulars, Barry, the boat experts, and this harbor community, but the pressure to leave is mounting. It’s already a week past the date I’d told the local newspapers I would set sail. I slice limes into drink garnishes, and think about how much I’ve learned: I can now switch out a drill bit in seconds flat and drive a screw without stripping it. I can make a mean martini, and also mix epoxy and drill through stainless steel. I’ve witnessed that with the right tools and a little creativity, almost anything is possible. Still, I wonder if I’ll be able to solve new problems once the masters are in my wake?

  I dart down to the kitchen to pick up the food order, then set it down in front of one of our less charming regulars.

  “Shouldn’t you have sailed away by now, Liz?”

  I pour his beer, and manage a half-smile as I set it in front of him. The mounting fear behind my confident façade is the reason his question bothers me. Though I know that Swell’s new systems are designed for my strength and size, we haven’t had time to actually test them at sea yet. What if I can’t handle her long boom and large mainsail in strong winds? Will I be able to lift an outboard with the davit? What if the doubters are right?

  And then departure day arrives. I drive up to Barry’s home to say goodbye and find him in his small, boat-like office off the garage, where he’s penning a letter to a friend. Rolls of charts hang from the ceiling and a well-organized library of nautical books and environmental references fill the bookshelves.

  “Well, my girl, it’s been quite an adventure already! I bid you the fairest of winds and the finest of company. You will be dearly missed.”

  “Likewise, Barry, I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “As the great Emily Dickinson said, ‘Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell,’” he says with a wink. I smile, tears filling my eyes as I struggle to find words to express my gratitude.

  “I sure wish I could come along.” He smiles mischievously and follows me to my car with his walker.

  I hug him tightly and look into his fiercely twinkling eyes. “Thank you for everything.”

  In a ceremonious cadence, he repeats his usual parting words. “Carry on, my dear. And don’t give up the ship!”

  My crew of friends and I only go twenty-five miles south to Channel Islands Harbor in Oxnard that day. With fewer visitors and less distraction, James, Marty, and I spend another grueling month finishing up the installation of the electric autopilot, mounting the spinnaker pole at the mast, reinforcing the anchor cradle, and more.

  The next two months in San Diego are even busier. I try to relax and enjoy the holidays with my family, but the lists and uncertainties make it nearly impossible. I had motored nearly the entire two hundred miles from Oxnard because of slack winds, so I’ve still had virtually no practice sailing Swell. But waiting another nine months until the next sailing season seems too long, and I know that nothing major has been overlooked.

  With my dad’s unwavering help, I make the final push. Only details remain, but there are still so many things I need—from a dinghy and outboard motor to more medical supplies, an outboard bracket, charts, cruising guides, fishing and diving gear, and a proper quiver of surfboards. Camera gear, binoculars, zincs, jerry cans, oil filters, a soldering kit, fiberglass repair materials, caulking, bung plugs, flashlights, lee cloths, and courtesy flags. A few good luck charms couldn’t hurt!

  The day before my departure, I sleep at my parents’ home instead of aboard Swell. I dread the dawn. This is it. Remaining projects or purchases can be accomplished along the way. I have no more excuses. My crew is ready. The boat is stocked with food and topped off with fuel and water. A small group of friends and family cast off the lines, and I maneuver Swell out past the same docks where I learned to sail on an eight-foot sailing dinghy.

  An orange glow gradually appears on the eastern skyline silhouetting the mountains while Swell continues steadily south. Mark pops his head out of the cabin around 6:30 am and Shannon shortly after. We reminisce about our 800 miles of southbound adventures.

  As the late morning sun ascends, the air hints of warmth for the first time. We gladly strip off the stinky jackets, boots, and beanies that we’ve lived in for eighteen days. When the iconic arch at the southernmost tip of Baja comes into view we hoot and high-five, pull down the sails, and shove each other into the open sea for a celebratory swim.

  I don’t tell them how relieved I am to have made it here, or how much their supportive company helped me get through that intense first leg. I’m sure they know.

  I maneuver Swell among the parade of fishing and tour boats
streaming out of the mouth of the port of Cabo San Lucas, and belly her up to the fuel dock. Mark and Shannon hop off with the lines. The señor in charge looks at Mark.

  “¿Quieres diesel, amigo?” (Do you want diesel?) he asks.

  “Pregunta a la capitana” (Ask the captain), he says, pointing to me.

  The man looks at me, then back to Mark. “¿Ella?” (Her?) he questions to be sure. Mark nods.

  “¿Capitana?” he asks me.

  “Si, señor,” I reply for the first time without reserve. “Diesel. Llena el depósito, por favor.” (Fill the tank, please.)

  1,580

  Nautical Miles Traveled

  Livin’

  the

  Dream

  Oh, Mexico!

  Shannon spots the waves. “Right there,” she says pointing, then hands the binoculars to me.

  The surf peels down a palm-lined point beneath dusty brown hills as the first big south swell of the season fills in. We jump up and down with excitement, then continue south to find the nearest protected anchorage where we can safely leave the boat. Around sunset, I steer into a small bay behind a breakwall, while Shannon pulls down the sails. It’s been a long, hot passage with several complications.

  As the sun rises the following morning, we shovel oatmeal into our mouths and stuff our dry bags with sunscreen and a change of clothes. We opt to leave the dinghy on deck and paddle our surfboards ashore, and soon we emerge from the sea through bathers and beachgoers.

  We huff and puff uphill to reach the main road, and just when we do, a Doritos delivery truck pulls over. A middle-aged, mustached driver sticks out his head and asks, “¿A dónde vas?” (Where are you going?)

  “Al norte” (North), I reply. We are determined to get to the point we spotted yesterday.

  “Vamos” (Let’s go), he says. “Me llamo Armando.” (My name is Armando.)

  Armando places our boards in the back among boxes of chips and I’m reminded of the warm, generous hearts of the Mexican people. I’m grateful to my mom for her insistence that we all study Spanish as kids on the voyage through Mexico. After a brief stop at the local gas station, our jolly escort goes out of his way to drive us down the long dirt road to our destination. Armando pulls out a laminated photo of his children as we bounce past a small strip of palapas and stilted bungalows. He stops just a skip away from the reeling, overhead lefts.

  “¡Gracias, Armando!” we call as he pulls away. Surfers perched at a restaurant nearby crane their necks, curious to see who’s getting out of the truck. We walk toward them, a little nervous.

  A smiling expat leaps to his feet to introduce himself. “Hi girls. I’m Pablo!” he says enthusiastically. “Where’d you come from?”

  “We’re anchored down the way,” I reply. We sailed in yesterday.”

  “Oh! We saw you sail by. Lovely boat. ¡Bienvenidos! (Welcome!)” He grins and fidgets like a kid. He’s nothing like most of the grumpy expats I’ve met on surf trips. I’d like to talk to him more. But it’s hard to focus on the conversation while I’m being hypnotized by the waves funneling down the point.

  “Do you know where we can safely leave our bags while we go for a surf?” I ask.

  He leads us around the back of his friend’s house nearby and even gives us some surf pointers. “Walk to the top of the point and hop in the current at the river mouth. Once you’re out there pick a lineup on land because the current is moving fast. Most of the guys will drift too deep and if you pay attention you’ll have all the sets for yourselves,” he encourages. “Go have fun!” I hang on his every word, feeling lucky we’d found a new compadre.

  Shannon and I spend the morning gorging ourselves in the surf. Like mosquitoes in a room full of lightly clothed gringos, we just can’t help ourselves. Several hours later, we both wash in with limp arms and wide smiles. Pablo orders up frozen banana-mango licuados (smoothies), and we lie in the sand in the shade of the restaurant’s palapa. He first came to this area in 1979 at twenty-three years old, chasing empty waves. When his travel buddy went home, Pablo stayed, fell in love with wild Mexico, and “learned how to be a Mexican.”

  I’ve hardly sucked down my tantalizing drink before the empty waves rolling across the inside sandbar catch my attention. I begin to twitch and squirm on my pile of sand, attempting to convince myself that I need shade and rest. But when another set washes across the bar with no one on it, I run for my board, rub on more sunscreen, and sprint back up the point.

  I’m mad with joy and creativity—so in love with surfing, the warmth, the freedom of my new life, and the victory of each small improvement in my surfing skill. Shannon takes photos from the beach. I practice my backside foot placement, bottom turn to off-the-lip, cutties, and grab-rail drops.

  After the second session, Shannon and I walk the beach to check out the impressive Michoacán beach scene. We have arrived at the height of Semana Santa—Mexico’s equivalent of spring break. The little town’s usual occupancy has quadrupled. Three and four generations of families share food, sun, and laughs. Platters teeter with mountains of fresh fruit, guitars are strummed, and cervezas passed. It’s difficult to distinguish one group from the next; it appears customary to stop under anyone’s shade and have a snack. The sense of familia spreads well beyond the borders of the beach blankets.

  After some bodysurfing and a mini siesta, we’re back at the restaurant, smiling through each mouth-watering bite of enchiladas con mole washed down with refreshing jugo de sandía (watermelon juice). The horizon bleeds out into a thick layer of red-orange. Since Mark flew home more than a month ago, we’ve hosted a couple other fun crewmates, but I’d caught bronchitis, sprained my thumb, and 300 miles of coast were plagued by red tide and swarms of jellyfish—impeding us from using the reverse osmosis watermaker and making it complicated to swim and bathe. A lightless Mexican Navy ship nearly ran us down and Swell got stuck on a sandbar while navigating through a river mouth. Yesterday, Shannon’s personal EPIRB safety device fell overboard, and as I attempted to turn around and get it, I wrapped our fishing lines around the prop. So we are appreciating the new tide of good fortune today.

  “Well, Snaggs,” I say, “we better start walking back before it’s too dark to catch a ride.” She earned her nickname because she caught on to everything so quickly, and because she was also prone to catching herself on things.

  “Look,” Pablo chuckles. “Here come la policía (the police) on their evening rounds. I’ll ask them to drop you girls off on their way south. They’re friends of mine. You can leave your boards here with me if you’d like for tomorrow?”

  Snaggs and I ride off in la policía’s truckbed. Officer Luis clutches his machine gun beside us as the little town on the point disappears into the darkness. As we accelerate down the main road, the cool wind whips our hair and soothes our sunburns.

  They deliver us to the jetty near Swell, where we hop out, giving copious thanks. We clamber out onto the large rocks, strip down to our swimsuits, seal our dry bags, then leap into the black abyss on a rising surge. Some teenage boys fishing off the rocks look on in disbelief.

  Swell’s anchor light sways in the distance. We swim slowly through the blackness dragging our dry bags, giddy from our dreamy day. As we approach the middle of the bay, we try not to think about what might be lurking below and instead focus on the surreal glittering lights all around us: The sky is packed with winking stars, the lights of the pueblo sparkle across the surface of the bay, and glowing flecks of phosphorescence trail our movements through the dark sea. Swell’s white hull finally appears from the shadows and we haul our iridescent-dappled bodies up the side, then hit our bunks as quickly as possible, looking forward to doing it all again mañana.

  Sea Wings

  Swell’s genoa luffs noisily, struggling to catch the light following breeze. “Today is the day, Snaggs,” I say to Shannon. “It’s time to attempt to set the spinnaker pole.” Between swells and new crew, we continued to hop south through the polluted ports and
charming bays of mainland Mexico. We’re halfway down the coast of Mainland Mexico now, sailing toward the famous surf break at Zicatela, Puerto Escondido.

  “You mean that big pole on the side of the mast?”

  “Yep,” I nod. Marty the rigger had talked me through the process before I left, but I hadn’t found the courage to try until now. Setting up this long pole perpendicular to the mast will give the corner of the genoa a firm point of attachment to allow it to catch more wind. We need to go faster in order to make Puerto Escondido before dark.

  I drag out the designated lines and talk myself though the steps. I remember he said something about “triangulating with three lines so that the beast of a pole can’t get out of control.” That means one line going forward, another going aft, and a halyard to hold it up.

  It takes me several tries to get the lines positioned correctly. The halyards are tangled, then I route the fore and aft lines wrong. Shannon braces herself against the cabintop, steadying the pole while I jump around getting the lines right.

  Finally, I crank on the winch, and the pole rises into place while Shannon holds the lines, bridling it fore and aft. We tie them off when it’s reached the right place and haul the genoa out again. The pole holds it out perfectly, and with the full mainsail to port, Swell’s sea wings are spread wide open.