SAILING ALEKONA BAJA

I promised my father I would varnish the teak, and I promised my mother I wouldn’t go to Tijuana. I promised Luke I would be brave enough to sail with our baby, and I promised Otis I would keep him safe. I promised to be kind to myself in finessing the role of motherhood aboard the new-to-us steel ketch, Alekona.

I was quickly learning that the boat was far more complicated than the baby, and being a wife and a so-called captain was far more complicated than being a mother. Being a mother was the easiest part of our journey south; the rest of the positions required exceptional effort. What we learned in our first 1,000 miles sailing together as a new family, aboard a new boat,

in new territory, was how valuable our time away from the rest of the world was. How fruitful it is to be alone, together, in a place where we are incapable of being distracted by all of the things that make us forget to be grateful.

Following Luke’s passage south from San Francisco to Ventura and sailing Alekona under duress, we felt confident having our then four-month-old son on board. The shakedown cruise around Point Conception had provided Luke with enough adrenaline to get him through the year, and suddenly he became the conservative one between the two of us. For an ambitious man who assumes it will be no problem to sail around Cape Horn with a one-day toddler, he dialed back his need to pushpush-push and began to be very particular about how we sailed, when we sailed, and where we sailed. Bearing witness to this mind-shift was a great relief, as the speed at which I desire to travel rarely matches his. Although my desire for adventure was equally cavernous, I too wanted to sail to Mexico. I too wanted to take our baby to sea. I too want to take a toddler-to-be through the gap in the southern oceans between Chile and Antarctica. I can’t say if we will or will not choose to take such a risk, but whether we do or whether we don’t it doesn’t change our attraction to it. I live now perpetually in a space where the exposure of and the protection of Otis will alway be tugging me in opposite directions. The relationship between desire for adventure and momma-bear intuition is intricate. On a warm Sunday evening we arrived in Ensenada, Mexico. We tied up to a wood dock at Baja Naval where the local tour boats race around the harbor blaring music from their speakers, their wake traveling past our hull. Tired and pleased to have the California coastline behind us, it proved itself to be unprotected, overpriced, and over capacitated. I’ve always loved California — there isn’t another state that impresses me as greatly with its topography and versatility. But if I am being honest, we couldn’t afford cruising there. We listened to the mariachi from the promenade, drank our last beers, and remained on board until a doctor arrived the following morning to administer Covid tests, which were required prior to going ashore. It took us nine days, I repeat n–i–n–e d–a–y–s, to clear into Mexico with Customs and Immigration after being run in circles to attain our Temporary

Import Permit. Recapping WHY it took nine days is a boring and meticulous article in itself, but it had to do with our vessel’s confusing paperwork due to how we purchased the vessel in the first place. Alekona was donated. We purchased her under a charter contract, which on paper says that we are the captains, not the owners. This required an authorized, notarized captain’s letter with its t’s crossed, i’s dotted, proper indentation, exact matching signature, some glitter, a kiss, and maybe even a spray of the port captain’s favorite perfume. The one we had with us wasn’t good enough. The second one we had shipped to us directly to Ensenada wasn’t good enough. Nothing was good enough, and you can see quickly that this became nothing but a red-tape–run-us-in-circles–take-ourmoney sort of situation.

I broke the promise to my father as I watched the varnish peel off of the cap rail under the oppressive Mexican sun in those nine days. I broke the promise to my mother when we made one last desperate attempt to clear our vessel into Mexico and rented a car to go see Juan Carlos at the Banjercito in Tijuana. We had been misled by many different conversations about what was needed to check into Mexico, and if I took anything away from the experience it was A) Do not do anything bureaucratic on a Saturday, it will be double the price, and B) If you are a chica captain, relinquish your role and send a dude, even if all the paperwork

SAILING ALEKONA

is in your name. Save yourself some money and save yourself some time. C) Don’t make any promises to your family. The joy of being legal visitors in Mexico aboard a legal boat was stupendous. We celebrated with muchos cervezas y tacos.

Grant, a friend of a friend who happened to be in the right place at the right time, joined us aboard in Ensenada to crew down the coast of Baja. Before we could go anywhere, we had one messy mission to execute. Our engine mounts dangerously needed replacing, and I was not about to motor another mile until the new ones were installed. Grant turned out to be delightfully mechanical and we didn’t hesitate to make use of his adeptness. Grant and I spent hours — many, many hours — upsidedown, prepping the engine to lift it off its mounts. A wizard named Alfredo at Baja Naval took over when we ran out of tools and knowledge. He was quick, creative, and quiet. He lifted our 1,300-pound rusty Isuzu from its well on an aluminum I-beam with an engine chain hoist and managed to access all the mounts nearly single-handed. I enjoyed watching and learning from a good mechanic, and although we were unable to fully communicate, I never doubted his ability to accomplish the daunting job. Within three days we had four shiny engine mounts installed, and it cost us a quarter of the price it would have in California (roughly 750 dollars). At last, we were able to prepare and provision for our passage down the Baja Peninsula. With Grant on board, we became much more efficient. I was able to focus on Oti and let the boys do most of the heavy lifting. The forecast was flawless. We calculated a two-day downwind leg to Bahía Tortugas, and a 3.5 day leg from Bahía Tortuga to San Jose del Cabo. Grant was new to sailing but by no means new to adventure — his eyes were sparkling the morning we left, and Luke was hyper to be back in his element — sailing. I had no reservations about being offshore for several days, but what became most important to me was how I was managing my energy. We divvied up our watches and sank into rhythm with Alekona. It was still cold. Cold enough for me to have foulies and a furry hat that would place me in Fargo, North Dakota. Wind crept down the space between my jacket and my hat. I was embarrassed to put on more layers even though no one was watching. I snacked for calories not for flavor and sipped on concentrated coffee. At 0330 we were smashing along, and for the first time ever, I felt true love for night watch. True love for my time alone.

Only occasionally did Otis and Alekona require my attention at the same time while the others were asleep. Otis woke up and was fussy. He wanted my

BAJA

undivided attention and he wanted the food my body was making for him. The wind was shifty and I tried to keep us on course. I tweaked the Hydrovane and immediately returned to making funny faces at Oti and jiggling his feet to keep him quiet. As long as he smiled, I was okay. When he didn’t, I’d happily fall off course to fix it. I knew nursing and tending to a baby at sea would be hard, but knowing does not better prepare you. I stripped down to my waist in the wind. Life jacket off, fleece up, boob out in the cold. I secured myself somewhere where the rolling seas couldn’t mess with my child’s supper time, and held on to him tight. I pressed with my feet and pulled back with my core to keep us stable while he dug his face into my chest and grabbed anything his tiny fingers could close around. We sailed into the night and there we were, caught between exposure and protectiion, adventurer and momma bear.

Barreling down the coast of Baja, we jibe every six hours or so, holding a nice angle to the waves and keeping Alekona steady. She sails beautifully, and we are pleased with her performance, aside from Grant who was fighting seasickness for the first time in his life. I felt god awful for him, but he handled it well and came back alive once his body synced up with the motion of the sea. I admit to being very tired after several night watches, and woke up grumpy at 0600 one morning to Luke needing a hand raising the code zero. It was abrupt and I had been sleeping as deep as the Puerto Rican trench. I got on deck and everything was sweating with dew. Within 30 minutes the wind died and we had to reverse our code zero steps and put the engine on. I lay back down still grumpy on the worn grey leather settee that we now tell guests is made of sea lion. Because that’s exactly what it looks like. Weathered sea lion. I closed my eyes and tried to return to the Puerto Rican Trench in hopes that I could resurface a better version of myself. I still needed to be a mother when Otis woke up. Several hours later, I woke to the sound of the boys reeling in a mako shark who had misjudged his lunch.

Cabo San Lucas was just around the corner. In less than 24 hours we will have traversed the entire Pacific coast of the Baja Peninsula. In those 1,000 miles Oti’s thighs have filled in. Strong at the core and wrapped up in pillows, a baby seal’s flubber. Curled around my soft tummy he was fast asleep and I couldn’t believe what we’d already done together in four months time. With many sea miles logged, his chubby legs will one day stand lean and strong at the helm. I kept the promise to my husband that I would be brave enough to sail with our baby, and I do believe I kept the promise to be kind to myself in the process. Tired-eyed and grateful, we carried on — adjusting course around the southern tip of the peninsula, distracted only by the needs of Alekona and the needs of Otis. Closing in on the magic of the Sea of Cortez, we knew our journey through Mexico was only beginning. We were finding our groove as a sailing family, and in the freshly-read words of an explorer named Alvah Simon, “This yacht had become more than a toy; it had become my primary tool with which to dig through this world in search of life’s lessons.” How valuable our time away from the rest of the world has become.