Months, even years of sailing, didn’t prepare me for this moment. I’m not sure I’m ready. Not sure the boat is ready. Are there things I’ve missed? Could I have done more? Should I have done more? Am I irresponsible? These questions are spinning in my head like a Circus Ferris Wheel.
Turning left under the Golden Gate Bridge and sailing off into the sunset has been my dream for years. You’ve felt the pull, right? Tell me I’m not alone. I’m sure if you have saltwater in your veins, you can relate. You can see the freedom just sitting…
Ah, to sail away. To leave one’s problems behind, clinging to the wooden dock like a coiled rope. For years, issues and responsibilities ingrained in me, like faded initials carved in the trunk of an old tree, have caused my anchor to dig in deep.
That one magical step could free me from life’s frantic pace to one of solitude, like stepping through the looking glass.
One measly step from civilization’s creaking dock onto the gently swaying boat to head south; south to warm water, fluffy sand beaches, and cold Cerveza.
Could it be that easy? Why the hell not…
First off, don’t call me boomer. Yes, age-wise, I fit the description; however, I am dope, sick, and all the other new slang words meaning I get it. I stay up late, do shots of Tequila, and hang with my friends with the best of em’. My son, the rockstar, is more than happy to introduce me to his friends, who say I’m down. (That’s a good thing) But I digress.
I didn’t mean to start the story like this. Sorry.
Ok, back to the subject.
Last night, while cruising through pictures of the morons who broke into the capital…
His name is Dr. Lee. He’s not an imposing figure — actually, quite the opposite, if I may say so. He’s slender, has short hair, and would not stand out in a crowd. Handsome in a way, I guess. I would consider his booming baritone voice to be his defining feature, yet, Dr. Lee is my hero.
Dr. Lee saved my life.
My diagnosis came by chance. A routine life insurance blood screening showed glowing results in every single category — except one — something called PSA. I had no idea what PSA stood for and was quite proud of…
The sails fluttered like white butterflies, partially filling, as we slowly steered away from the warm, delicate, afternoon breeze. Our sailboat, drifting slowly, became a time machine.
Amber exhaled a relaxed sigh, gazing across the twinkling waters of Banderas Bay, Mexico. She cast a knowing glance towards Gena and Cesar, who stared in wonder. A lone Humpback whale arched its back, waving goodbye with its forked tail, and slid beneath the sea.
The polished-brass hands of the bulkhead-mounted Weems and Plath clock dripped through molasses; soft smiles creased our faces. …
I fell backward from the blue and white covered panga’s swaying edge, my right hand gently pressed against my facemask, my left, cradling my pressure gauge and dive computer to my chest. Peacefully, I began sinking through the pond-like, aqua blue water.
Without thinking, my ungloved finger and thumb pinched my nostrils, quickly equalizing the building pressure in my sinuses.
Our World War II shipwreck scuba dive had finally begun.
My heart rate slowed, matching the calm, steady rhythm of my breathing. …
Raymond pissed relentlessly on Cabo San Lucas for thirty-six hours. His pent up tropical storm anger wreaked havoc on this timeshare-dotted spit of desert land. Massive flooding in the streets funneled dank water into the ordinarily clear bay waters, turning them into chocolate milk mixed with sewer. Not a pretty sight or smell.
The harbor and marina had closed to arriving and departing boats the day before the storm and also the day after, which left us little choice but to party silly in the muck, rain, and fierce wind.
Tally Ho, our 43' Nauticat Sailboat, remained snugly tied to…
I squinted hard, fumbling for my sunglasses, and carefully exited the tiny plane. The sweltering heat blasting up my nostrils caused me to cough uncontrollably.
“Watch your step,” the pilot urged.
Disoriented and blinded by the brilliant sunshine, I ducked through the doorway, grasping the frying-pan-hot rail for support. My legs were still tingling from the cramped rear seat of the ancient puddle-jumper Cessna.
You’re not in your thirties; take it easy, no hurry.
Stepping down and onto the seldom-used Sayulita, Mexico runway brought a shit-eating grin to my mug. Soon I would see her.
Quicker than I could say…
The sea rose and fell in an awkward dis-jointed rhythm, its cobalt blue wave-tops careening off Tally Ho’s hull, sliding her wildly off course.
Why should our last few miles be easy?
Thirty-six endless hours of sailing from Magdalena Bay, Baja California to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, was only moments away.
Our luck in finding an available slip with Tropical Storm Raymond breathing down our necks had us in good spirits, knowing the alternative would have left us no choice but to forge onward through the building storm.
Hand steering around the famous Cabo San Lucas arches jolted us from…
Humorous, sometimes serious, sailing stories, and inspirational life lessons from an old sea salt