Boobies And More Boobies Everywhere.

Some with blue shoes.

Sailing to a remote Mexican island has tickled my fancy for many years. The thought of slipping loose the dock lines from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, then gliding gently along its rock-lined channel and out to the broad expanse of the Sea of Cortez sends chills down my spine, yet here we are.

In a few days’ time, we’ll set foot on Isla Isabela, the home of the famous, Blue-Footed Boobies: birds, not women.

This is where you can stop reading if women’s breasts are your intended target. If you’re down for a good sailing adventure, read on.

Our pre-sail week in Puerto Vallarta saw copious amounts of beer, mas tequila, pesky iguanas, yummy fish tacos, black-clad police with machine guns, strip clubs, Ubers, tons of laughter, and, yes, hangovers.

Tally Ho, our sturdy Nauticat 43 sailboat, has been our home away from home for the past few years and now sails slowly north, away from the lush, jungle-like atmosphere of Mainland Mexico’s Puerto Vallarta to the arid climate of La Paz on the Baja Peninsula, some five hundred miles away.

George, Fast Eddie, and Cuz Craig round out our motley crew under the tutelage of the admiral, my lovely wife, Laura.

Stops in remote Chacala and San Blas enchanted us for several days, filling our senses with the ocean’s rhythm, her captivating spell caressing our souls and calming our spirits.

A sailboat resting at anchor in a picture-postcard bay, nestled under the night’s stars, invokes the deepest of feelings: a feeling of oneness with the universe, the deep blue ocean, the Gods of the sea and sky.

I shall not ask for anything else.

I digress.

Our next day’s sail of ten hours called for us to leave San Blas at eight p.m. for an early morning arrival at the Galapagos-like speck of an island some thirty miles offshore.

Sailing at night can be a frightening endeavor. A pall quickly engulfed the crew.

Greeted by Neptune’s wrath of twenty-five-knot headwinds and a spitting sea, Tally Ho bucked mightly, carving her way through angry, moonlit waves, their frothy peaks appearing as snow.

The ocean doesn’t care. She is blind to a sailor’s cry.

Onward we trudged. One wave at a time.

After an hour or two, the ocean’s rhythm comforted the weary crew. Fright turned to awe. The night’s stars dripped light upon Tally Ho as she caressed her way toward Isla Isabella.

Isla Isabella is to the Sea of Cortez, what the Galapagos Islands are to the central Pacific Ocean. A protected island where wildlife shows no fear toward humans. Blue Footed Boobies, Frigate birds, and many other protected species call home to this barren rock. Mother Nature often shoos away sailors as the island is completely exposed to the elements.

The southern anchorage, listed as the only safe anchorage on the island due to its horseshoe-shaped bay, was our first option. On a calm day, two to three sailboats can anchor safely within.

We motored slowly toward its center, encountering a washing machine of crashing waves, pushing and pulling Tally Ho toward jagged rock peaks jutting through the foaming surface.

The crew, stationed forward at the anchor windlass, stared owl-like at me, awaiting instructions. Their death-grip straining the rigging, hearts pounding, wishing to be anywhere else but this cacophony of turbid water. Pushing hard the throttle while spinning the wheel briskly to port, we narrowly escaped its clutches, making our way out and onto the second anchorage, our last option.

My heart sank.

The southern anchorage is the preferred anchorage. Our only remaining choice is strewn with rocks and known to keep many a sailor’s anchor for herself. If we can’t safely anchor in this less-than-ideal roadstead, we will need to limp our way two days to the north and the safe — haven of Mazatlan.

Rounding the island’s rocky southern tip, we navigate its jagged shore toward our last hope of setting foot on this fabled prehistoric island.

Three masts appeared in the distance, sinking further my heart and hope. Three boats in an anchorage, barely able to hold two.

Once again, the crew stationed for anchoring, knowing we’d likely be moving on to Mazatlan.

Passing close to a Jeanneau 46 and greeted with a friendly wave, we circled the tiny anchorage. The rock-encrusted bottom was visible twenty feet below, a submerged reef mere feet between us and the island, a surfable curling wave breaking menacingly to our left.

We circled two more times.

A decision was imminent. A decision only I could make.

I spotted a sliver of sand below the surface, directing the crew to lower the anchor. The hook settled nicely, and we were safe — for the moment.

We watched the curling wave just off our port for thirty minutes, breaking a mere forty feet away. We glanced at the barely-submerged reef fifty feet ahead, trying to justify our choice to stay.

We decided to stay.

Several harrowing dinghy rides through breaking waves deposited the crew onto an exposed reef where we began our exploration.

Frigate birds perched precariously on twisted branches, admiring their young offspring, casting an uncaring glance our way, lined the trail.

Upward we trodded.

Nests with young feathered eyes peered at us at every turn. We marveled at the abruptness of our lives. One moment, battling the ocean and its lack of compassion; the next, staring into the eyes of days-old prehistoric creatures whose life consists of flying, eating, and shitting.

Iguanas trampled underfoot. Blue, Red, and Yelow-Footed Boobies adorned every nook and cranny available on the shore-lined cliffs, caring not about us, only their next meal.

Our dinghy ride back to Tally Ho was equally as exciting as the trip over. Well-timed leaps from the reef’s edge deposited our weary crew one-bye-one into the bobbing dinghy. A few landed partially submerged but, with hearty laughter and a helping hand, were able to scamper aboard.

Beers and a hearty lunch fueled our wonderment of this seldom-visited site in the middle of nowhere.

Sleep was elusive that night.

Thunderous waves pounded the rocks like a metronome, mere feet from our floating home. Glances through Tally Ho’s portlights were harrowing at best.

The morning light shone favorably on us. Calm seas and hot coffee melted away last night’s weariness and the promise of a good day.

What lay ahead? A two-day sail to Mazatlan.