Cruising in the Time of COVID

After a tumultuous decision to launch the boat without going back to pick-up Tuxie and drop-off the van, into the Sea of Cortez we went. There’s a boat parked near the launch ramp named “Three Hour Tour” – a subtle warning perhaps? The “what-if?” list was long…what if someone got sick at home and we couldn’t get back? What if the locals bar us from coming ashore for food? What if Mexico shuts down completely and things really get nuts? What if one or both of us gets sick? Other boats were launching too with all of the same worries, but we were all telling ourselves we were making the right choice. Our plan was to stay in the sparsely populated Central and Northern Sea of Cortez – to revisit some of our favorite spots from last year, then head into new-to-us territory in the greater Bahía de Los Angeles.

Unlike the previous two years since we left, we had zero commitments: zero places we needed to be by firm dates and zero visitors. Last year we had a bunch of ‘em, which meant a lot of motoring or sailing in less than ideal conditions to make a certain port by a certain date. This year, the only thing we aimed for was being back in Guaymas by early June. But from April 6 till then, the world was our hot & sandy little oyster. We fell into an even more relaxed than usual (for us) routine. Afterall, we’d just come off of 2 full months of 10h a day work – we were in need of a nice break. Harry fished or free-dove nearly every day. I read a lot and carefully rationed my podcast consumption (no wifi anywhere). The water was either quite chilly, murky or both, so I wasn’t overly compelled to swim or snorkel. When we sailed to new spots, we actually sailed like real sailors! (i.e. no motoring). For the first three weeks we thought maybe Mexico, or at least Baja, wouldn’t be as affected by the virus.

Upon pulling into Bahía Concepción, we learned the truth. Baja was one of the hardest hit states due to spring-breakers in Cabo/La Paz and border traffic in Tijuana/Mexicali. Highway 1 had largely been shut down by the Federales. Locals had put up barricades to stop traffic coming into La Paz. Campgrounds full of RVs had been emptied by the police and anchorages near popular beaches had been cleared by the Navy. One mainstay cruising stop famed for its welcoming village had reportedly barred cruisers from landing on the beach. And the most alarming sign of the times? Mexico was running out of beer. Not only had we missed all of that completely, but the beach we pulled into actually welcomed us into their small little hold-out community. There were ~8 RVs and ~6 boats that just refused to leave, and a restaurant that was happy to have them. They’d all been isolated there for weeks/months and felt safe. One day I was able to tag along on a trip into Mulegé for groceries and diesel, and a few happy-hours were had with the whole gang’s dwindling supply of booze. Honestly, I was afraid to leave. A waterfall of what-ifs engulfed me again, but we figured that if all else failed, we could always go back to Playa Santispac.

We moseyed north, spending days at a time largely anchored alone. We provisioned again in Santa Rosalía, then made the long-ish run into Bahía de las Animas (Bay of Souls). We met a young American caretaker of a higher-end lodge, sans guests for the foreseeable future, who decided to fill his days in search of gold. There was a solo Frenchman sailor, now stuck in Mexican waters, who never used his engine because, “what else was there to do?”. I briefly chatted with a beautiful young Mexican family who lived in the village of the island gypsum mine and camped on its abandoned beaches on weekends. Occasionally there were other boats. When we knew them, we’d chat or hang-out. If not, we usually just waved from a distance. Last year Harry regularly struck up broken conversations with local fishermen, then brought them back to the boat for translation help. This year, the few that were out all kept their distance.

Bahía de Los Angeles (BLA) was a touch more “normal”. Though completely empty of American/Canadian tourists, the town was mostly open, cautiously. We briefly became fixtures at the local restaurant/hotel which served up delicious hamburguesas, smoothies, wifi, and Tecate (which ironically had been driven down from the States by the owner because at that point Mexico was in fact completely out of beer). We passed a delightful afternoon on a nearby beach with a family from Tijuana & BLA. My translation skills were truly tested, but it was a wonderful moment of local connection which I had been missing deeply. We also learned why BLA is such a popular spot for those who choose to spend the summer in the water (as opposed to storing on-the-hard). The water temperature is a good 10-20 degrees cooler and by extension clearer than everywhere else in the Sea. When the air temperature on land starts to soar over 110º, you stay relatively balmy on the water. And there are marvelous anchorages less than a few hours away from town, which means you can pass several days out and then easily re-provision as needed. And the FISHING – get OUT with the fishing! Yellowtail were so abundant that even I was able to nab a few. Our biggest problems were freezer space and running out of wasabi (at this point Harry had bypassed the beer problem by fermenting grape juice).

All the while I had been listening to podcasts reporting on the physical and economic suffering around our world that was rapidly succumbing to COVID-19. It was a stark contrast to our present state. We felt so exceptionally fortunate that we could live freely in such beauty while practicing extreme social distancing. But I felt guilty too. Though there’d be no way for us to help matters at home, we were absent from the shared experience. I had also been out of the country for September 11th, on an extended overseas backpacking trip. There again there was nothing I could’ve done personally to help, but a part of me wished I had just been home to grieve with everyone else. Furthermore, our decision to stay remote in the Sea of Cortez turned out to be an incredibly lucky one. Other boats in more populated waters to the South were in fact prevented from moving. And still others who were in transit to other countries faced incredibly difficult situations. To all those that thought sailing off into the sunset was a perfect solution to the zombie apocalypse…ya, no, turns out, it’s not, not if you really want to get anywhere.

Our final run was up to the north end of Isla de la Guarda (Guardian Angel Island), to Puerto Refugio, full of sea lions, birds, dolphins, and still more yellowtail. Just one other boat was anchored with us across four islands filled with sea caves, ruggedly beautiful peaks, and all sorts of nooks and crannies to explore. It’s so far away from anything else, I can’t imagine many people ever being there, even in a normal year. But we would go back in a heartbeat.

Alas the time had come to start making our way back to Guaymas. We wanted to avoid our put-away-the-boat experience from last year around July 1: 110º outside/104º INSIDE the boat, but boy was it hard to leave our lonely little paradise and face the current reality. When we returned, we rejoiced to find the van safe and sound, and sheepishly told cruising stories to friends who either chose to stay or couldn’t leave (though we had lots of yellowtail to share). It hit 100º a few times, but we mostly worked through our to-do list in the very early mornings and late afternoons. On June 20th, we kissed our Solla Sollew goodbye, air-hugged our friends, and drove north.

Post-Script: The drive took 24 hours all-in, and the border crossings were disturbingly easy. Tuxie trotted right into my arms upon arrival and then we did a wholelotta napping, finally back together as a family after five long months apart. It’s hard to say when we’ll be able to get back to the boat. SO MUCH is going to happen between now and November. I suppose it’s as they say in Mexico, “¿Quien sabes?” (Who knows?)