Paricutin

Having ultimately decided not to buy myself a birthday guitar in old Paracho, I was left with the question of how to otherwise commemorate this event alone in Mexico. Ransacking my brainbox, I recalled a conversation between Eden and myself a few days ago about an old dormant - and quite famous - volcano not too far outside the city of Uruapan, which was only an hour's drive or so from Paracho.

As the story goes, back in 1943, a local corn farmer and his family were out tending their field in the smallish town of Paricutin, when they noticed a sudden eruption of ash and stones ejected from a nearby fissure in the earth. Within a single week, that fissure had grown into an angry mound some five stories tall, and within a month it could be seen from miles away. By the end of the first year the nearby villages of Paricutin (the volcano's namesake) and San Juan Parangaricutiro, had been entirely buried in lava - although thankfully all of their residents were re-located to nearby vacant land - and the Paricutin volcano had grown to over 336 meters tall.

While at this point the bulk of the damage had been done, Paricutin continued to erupt for the next 8 years, often quietly spewing forth rivers of lava which oozed down into the surrounding valleys, scorching them beyond recognition. Only during the final six months of its life did Paricutin again erupt violently, one last hurrah before its eventual withdrawal in 1952, having reached a final height of 424 meters tall.

Amazingly, after nine years of erruptions, one building yet remained, standing tall like a beacon amid the 25 square kilometers of volcanic rock and jet black sand that surround Paricutin in all directions. Not un-significantly in the minds of the local residents, this building was none other than San Juan Parangaricutiro Church, and it's tattered remains stand even to this day, having understandably become quite the attraction to Christians from all across Mexico, and tourists the world over.

This seemed like a suitable location to spend my birthday - I'd never been anywhere near a volcano before, afterall - and so I resolved to visit said ruins, and Paricutin both, and to climb the latter.

After a fitfull sleep, I arose around 6AM on the morning of the 21st, packed my modest lunch and made for the bus station to catch the early morning shuttle to the nearby town of Angahuan, from which I would make the trek to Paricutin. Due to some complications however, I didn't arrive there until around 8. I had been told this trip would take the better part of the day, and so was a bit worried about the delay, but strode on toward what I hoped would be the opposite edge of town, dodging a few would-be guides along the way. I could just barely make out Paricutin's cavernous tip over the roofs of some of the buildings in town, and so was quite sure that I would not be needing a guide so long as I could keep her in my sights.

By around 9:30, I had passed through the small town, down some shady pine-wooded trails, and was making my way through the volcanic fields, strewn with jagged black bubbled stone. Amazingly, there was absolutely no one about on this sunny morning, I had only the song of the wind and the heat of the sun to accompany me. It wasn't long before I spotted the single remaining tower of the Church over the horizon, and was making my way up over scraggly but well-worn climbing paths toward it. To stand before this beautiful creation of human hands, humbled by the ravages of nature was quite an experience, I can tell you.

Two major sections of the Church remain. The larger section is a strip roughly 80 to 100 feet long, and 20 to 30 feet wide, which looks to have once been the entrance, with a large arched portal in the center, and major towers on either side of it, only one of which remains. The smaller section is basically a single wall, quite disheveled, with some columns on either side. Based on its position relative to the entrance, and the fact that it has been elaborately decorated with ornaments and images of Jesus, I assume that this smaller section must have been the original altar.

After having scouted the basic layout of the surrounding area, I began searching for potential ways to enter the larger section of ruins, and to my pleasant surprise, found three! The first was a basement entrance to the remaining column, nearly covered over with boulders, which I had to get down and scraggle through. It led, rather disapointingly I thought, into a single doorless room, with a high vaulted ceiling. Dark and quiet, but otherwise uninteresting.

The second entrance led to a room directly above the first one, and involved a little more work on my part. Disposing of my daypack, I had to scale a small section of wall, and climb over and down into a stair-well which must once have been covered over by a roof. Once inside, I walked past on old spiral staircase leading downward (entrance three) and stepped into the main chamber beneath the one remaining column. From there I could look upward toward the top of the tower, and although there must once have been stairs, they had long since disintegrated, and so unfortunately there was no way to climb any higher, and reach the top of the tower. And so, returning to the staircase, I slowly started down into the dark of the third entrance.

Now, as many of you well know, I am hardly a superstituous fellow, but I can confess to having felt a certain rushing of the blood as I made my way down those ancient steps, spiraling around and around until the last glimmer of sunlight had been choked away. Not 5, not even 10 or 20, but 44 steps I took, down into the darkness. When I had gone as far as I could, I removed my camera from my pocket and snapped a few flash photographs to see if I could get a better sense for where I was. What I saw was a doorway, or the top quarter of one at least, impassably clogged with the volcanic rubble that had created a new floor some five feet above the original. It seemed the stairs may have once led deeper, but were now also clogged with rock. I sat there for a while in the cool silence of underground, enjoying the rare feeling of complete and utter absence of light.

It was around 10 when I left the ruins and made for the volcano with renewed energy. To my surprise, there were several roads leading out of the area, and I selected the one which seemed to aim most directly toward Paricutin's looming presence. Twenty mintues or so later however, I found myself walking almost directly away from the peak, and so, reasoning that I must have made the wrong choice, decided to turn back and take another route. This I did, but before long, it too seemed to be leading me away from the peak rather than toward it.

Frustrated, I decided to try and make my own path. I hopped the barbed-wire fence that bordered the trail, and wound my way through what seemed to me a small orchard (volcanic land is after all often extremely fertile) and eventually came to the crest of the volcanic rock. I struggled to climb its jagged ridges, and having come to the top, realised that hiking through several kilometers of raw volcanic moonscape was not something I was prepared to do today, and so made my way back down to the road.

The view I had from atop the rocks had helped me to decide to stick to my present route, however, and so on I walked, still headed away from my goal. Surprisingly, a few minutes later, a dusty old pickup rolled up from behind me. I flagged it down to ask directions and found to my pleasure that I was in fact headed the right way. Two kind Mexican men offered to give me a ride for a ways, and I hopped in the back. After a quick beer stop at a tiny roadside tienda, we drove on for some twenty minutes along winding dirt roads, through the tiniest of neighborhoods, and passed through a barbed-wire gate that I would never have thought to cross had I been on my own.

Around 11 we stopped abruptly in what looked to me like the middle of nowhere, and I hopped out. The driver of the truck got out and pointed yonder toward what he assured me was a walking trail up to the volcano. I shook his hand, and thanked him, turning to set off. ''Watch out for lions and tigers!'' he called to me in Spanish. I turned, smiling, and seeing his deadpan face, asked him if he was serious. He said nothing, but pointed to the knife at his waist. I patted myself down in search of the knife I knew I did not have, and then, shrugging my shoulders, put up my dukes instead. This won me a laugh, and I turned again toward the my goal.

Anyone who has ever walked across fine beach-like sand in anything other than bare feet or snow-shoes will know that it is a bit of a challenge. Heavy booted feet sink and slide with each step making traction difficult and pace slow. Now imagine walking in such conditions up the steep face of a mountain, in the blazing heat of Mexican afternoon. I had never experienced such fine deep sand on such a steep incline, and it took some time to get used to such slogging.


Eventually, sweating and ragged, I arrived at Paricutin's broad base, and after taking a short break in the shade of a nearby pine, started straight up her 400 meter face at a healthy pace. It wasn't ten minutes howewer, before I was clawing through the fine black sand on all fours, my chest heaving as I savored the few precious beads of sweat that found their way to my dusty mouth. I looked up, and noticing that I seemed to have made no headway whatsoever, again put my head down and crawled upward, my calves burning viciously, my boots now full of rocks and sand. It took at least three or four steps to make a meter's progress up the shifting slope, and I began to shout taunts to the mountian as I faught my way toward her peak. At what seemed to me to be the halfway point I felt I could go no further, and collapsing onto the sheer face, forced myself to take a short break, and enjoy the already incredible view.

Then, with renrewed vigor, I turned and again began to claw my way toward the peak which slowly began to come nearer. ''I've got you now!'' I shouted between gasps as I neared the peak, ''Nowhere to run!'' Finally, my hands reached out for sand and found only air, and with a last burst of energy I lurched forward and found myself standing before Paricutin's gaping mouth. Dizzied from the effort, I shouted into her face at the top of my lungs and staggered about like a madman. I could barely walk, but didn't want to stop for fear of collapsing. (Surely all those fools who had thought Everest to be the highest point on planet Earth had been mistaken. Surely they would thank me when I corrected their error, and told them of this place I had found in rural Mexico.) A second later, I heard my own voice answer back to me from across the crater, accompanied by a belch of Paricutin's warm sulpherous breath.


Taking a moment to collect myself, I slowly began my circumnavigation of the volcano's crest, snapping photo after photo as I went of the vast green valley she had flattened and blackened, and of the beautiful surrounding forested mountains. Containing the full breadth of the crater in a single photo from so close was unfortunately impossible, but I did my best to do her justice, as I wound my way around her jaws. Bursts of vapour shot forth from the ground all around, some ten feet tall, and dropping to my knees and digging away the rocks, I found rich red soil hot enough to scald the skin if held even for a moment. She was dormant - for good too, according to the experts - but she was still plenty warm.

Having made a full circuit, I cast one last look into her depths, and turned to make my way back down, on an angle this time, rather than straight. However taxing she had been to climb, she certainly made up for it by being a joy to descend. Boot-surfing, I lept, meters at a time, from left to right, gliding smoothly with each footstep through the soft sand. My boots were chock-full of the stuff, but I couldn't care less as I flew downhill, watching as the glorious view slid back down into the horizon line.

After lunching briefly beneath that same shady tree at the base of the volcano, I headed back down the mountain for home at around 1:30PM - I still had a long way to go. Sparing the details of my journey home, I'll tell you that the clock was just striking 7PM as I finally fell into my lumpy hotel bed back in Uruapan that night, exhausted to se sure, but supremely satisfied with what I am sure will be a 24th birthday I will not soon forget.

I have since left Uruapan, and am presently in the quaint little city of Patzcuaro. Having arrived yesterday, I plan on making the short trip out to the nearby lake today - reputed to be one of the most beautiful in the country - and tracking down some information about lines out of town. I still have a few places I intend to visit before making my eventual descent into the fray of Mexico city, and points south.

That's all for now. Thanks for all the birthday wishes, and much love from abroad! Talk soon.

Mainland Lessons

So, it's been some 12 days or so on the mainland at this point, and things are changing, to be sure. Some radically new experiences this past little while, and not un-educational, I can tell you. I'll try to start from the start.

Shortly before our miraculous, ecstatic arrival into Puerto Vallarta, (or more precisely, into La Cruz de Juanacaxtle, a little fishing village 25km north of Puerto Vallarta proper), my fellow ship-mate Eden and I had made plans to stick together for a spell, until we both felt ready to take on the mainland solo. Sharing Boomer's close-quarters, and weathering the various stresses of sea-life together had helped us both to realize that we had more than enough in common to make two-by-two travel a viable option. And so, after having thanked our fearless Captain and said our goodbyes, we two made for Purto Vallarta, to see what we could see.

We wound up in a part of town known as Old Vallarta, renowned for its lively gay community. It was a touch touristy to be sure, but our hostel made for a suitable place to recuperate for a few days, and explore some of the quieter parts of town. Beautiful buildings clung to the lush slopes, which, slowly descending into the bustling cobblestone streets, flowed eventually into the lovely beaches of the Pacific. The latter were almost always busy, but we were fortunate enough to have met with a local man (Gabriel his name, and a charming fellow; a friend of a friend of Eden's) who was happy to show us to a quieter stretch of sand, where we enjoyed a beautiful sunset dip.


Vallarta would serve as a good place for me to acclimate a little to Mexico (both figuratively, and literally: the humidity of the mainland was a big change from the arid desert heat of the Baja). True, I had been travelling in the country for some time at this point, but I had spent far more time among foreigners than Mexicans, as my almost total lack of Spanish exhibited. These first few days, I was able to familiarize myself with the business of living in Mexico; asking direstions, taking buses, ordering food, making chit-chat, and getting various things done about town, with the helpful example and generous guidance of Eden, whose Spanish is excellent. Lesson one: Speak the language.

After about five days though, we were both ready to skip the big city, and move on to something a little smaller. On Wednesday morning, the 13th, we made our way to the tiny village of San Sebastian del Oeste, a few hours travel inland from Vallarta. Because of its small size, however, buses would only take us so far, and so at one point, we were forced to try our thumbs at a little hitching. Happily, within minutes we had hailed two very small cars, both full of jubilant young Mexican men, Coronitas in hand, who seemed very happy to take us along. With a little squeezing, we managed to fit both our luggage and selves aboard, and set off puttering up the winding mountain roads. It didn't take us long to realize that this may not have been the most keenly selected of rides, but we hung in - and hung on - despite a few nearly too-steep hills, several hair-raising corners, and the not infrequent spilling of beer. These chaps were friendly all right, a little too friendly, we both decided, and we were pleased, if eager, to part ways with them once we arrived. Lesson two: Choose your rides wisely.

Having recovered from our somewhat harrowing journey, we were able to settle into the small-town charm of San Sebastian, with its winding cobblestone streets, and frequent tolling of churchbells. We were pleased to find the place nearly empty of tourists, and took advantage of our few days there by strolling about in the lush hills surrounding town, and enjoying the smell of the beautiful pine forests, an unexpected but welcome pleasure for me. Another such unexpected pleasure was our discovery of Raicilla, a distant relative of Tequila and Mezcal, also made from the agave plant, and a specialty of San Sebastian and the surrounding area. We availed ourselves of a bottle, the fiery contents of which helped put me to bed more than once. Lesson three: Ask about local specialties.

The thing about small towns is, there's often not a whole lot to see, and so Friday morning, we packed up and made for a city by the name of San Miguel de Allende, another smallish place about which we had heard much. Rising early, we decided to walk out of town this time, rather than trying to hitch right away. We enjoyed an hour or so of morning mist, but were soon interrupted by a light rain. Thankfully, almost immediately after we had donned our rain gear, an old worn out pick-up with a sturdy tarp canopy stopped and offered us a ride. As it turned out, this was a local door-to-door grocery truck, and the gentleman driving it took us through all kinds of tiny rural neighborhoods, selling his goods along the way.

When he had taken us as far as he could, we made our way to the nearest suitable stretch of road, and again managed to swing a ride within minutes from two kindly middle-aged Mexican men. The driver of the vehicle was on his way into Guadalajara, but the other fellow was being dropped along the way, in the city of Mascota, which, we were told, was where we'd have to catch a bus in order to get to San Miguel. The gentleman stopping there said he'd be more than happy to show us to the station. Once there, we asked about bus times to San Miguel de Allende, and found, to our surprise, that no one had heard of it.

Confused, we purchased a map of Mexico, and after scouring it for a time, and chatting up various locals, realized that San Miguel de Allende, while indeed very beautiful, and a lovely place to visit, was in fact some thousand miles or so away in the neighboring state of Guanajuato, obviously quite unreachable within the remaining travel time of the day. Lesson four: If you're going sans-guidebook, at least pack a map.

Our destination having disappeared from reach, we resolved to keep heading East anyway, at least to the nearest town or city. But in the confusion of sorting out our error, we had missed our bus, and so we decided to make for the edge of town and keep hitching. Not far out of downtown, however, the rain returned, this time in earnest, and we were forced to take shelter beneath a large tree across from an automobile repair shop.

There we stood, thumbs out, for a few minutes, contemplating returning to town to catch a later bus, until fortuitously, a car emerged from the repair shop, and a sprightly moustachioed Mexican man poked out his head and offered us a ride. Loading our soaking packs into the rear of his brand new Nissan, we exchanged introductions and were pleased to find that our ride spoke both Spanish and French, as well as a touch of English. Suffice it to say that our third ride of the day turned out to be one of the best either of us have ever had. For starters, before leaving town, our ride had to make a quick stop at the local booze shop to buy up a bunch of Rompope, a delicious egg-nog-like liquor, flavored with coffee and hazelnut. We three shared a toast of the stuff, and Eden and I were given the bottle as a gift from our new friend.

To make a long story short, over the next six hours or so we spent together, this gentleman really sorted us out. Offering detailed answers to all of our questions, and volunteering all kinds of useful and interesting information, he spoke of everything from Mexican history, politics, and religion, to the various details of his job as a land-surveyor and claims officer of sorts, eventually talking us out of our plan of stopping at Ameca - a dirty little industrial town about which we knew nothing whatsoever - and drove us all the way into his home town of Guadalajara. We arrived quite late, and were taken to his home, where we gulped down hot coffee and managed to find ourselves a hostel online, at the doorstep of which our generous friend dropped us, a little damp but incredibly thankful. Lesson five: Learn to ask for help. There are loads of good people out there who will offer you the shirt off their back given half a chance.

Guadalajara is a gigantic and beautiful city, and it was a pleasure to wander the criss-cross of its numerous streets for a few days. Highlights included the insanity of the Saturday morning market, where seemingly anything and everything can be found at discount prices, from parakeets and pig-face tacos, to cellphones, starfruit, and sequin-studded Chuck-Taylors. A dizzying assortment of all manner of wearable, edible, portable, and otherwise material goods beyond imagination. Another pleasure was the chance to enjoy one of Guadalajara's weekly car-free Sundays, an impressive custom given the fact that the city is home to some 4 million people (making it the second most populous city in the country, after Mexico City). Every sunday morning, a number of major streets are closed to automotive users until mid-afternoon, allowing a veritable flood of bicycle, tricycle, skateboard, roller-blade, and pedestrian traffic to take over. Bikeless, we nevertheless took to the streets, and walked for hours, soaking up the sights.

Returning again to the choas and creativity of the big city was surprisingly nice, and seemed an appropriate place for Eden and I to end our journey together. She had been in email contact with a photo-journalist with whom she planned to meet in a few days, and I was thinking more and more about travel to Paracho, a smallish city in the state of Michoacan, famous throughout Mexico as ''The Guitar Capital of The World.'' And so, on Monday morning, the 18th, I left Guadalajara by bus, on my own once more. Traveling as a pair was a real pleasure for me, and I am very grateful to have met Eden and shared a few weeks with her. Lesson six: You can make friends anywhere!

That said, I am also happy to be flying solo again, and looking forward to the next adventure! The past two days here in Paracho have seen me touching, smelling and playing all manner of beautiful guitars, big, small, cheap, costly, and fretting about whether or not I can afford the burden/luxury of traveling with one. Presently, I am planning to leave town tomorrow, and as the sun sets on today, I have still yet to make my decision. Neither do I have the foggiest idea where I will be celebrating my birthday a few days from now. Such is life on the road, I suppose.

Hasta luego, and best wishes from sunny Paracho!

PS - Those of you interested in following Eden's past and future exploits can find her at: edenicmigration.wordpress.com

SV Boomer

It had only been two nights on land – no more than a weekend, I thought to myself, as I packed up my precious few belongings and made for the lavish Costa Baja Resort & Marina, in La Paz - and here I was signing up for another big sail. This trip, however, across the Sea of Cortez, and down through a patch of the Pacific to balmy Puerto Vallarta, would likely be a bit easier, I imagined, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, it would be shorter: three nights and four days, as opposed to my seven nights aboard SV Rosalita. Secondly, I'd heard ocean sailing was usually calmer than sea sailing, with large rolling swells, widely spaced, as opposed to smaller more frequent meddlesome waves. Thirdly, this second trip was to be on a far larger vessel - Boomer was a 42-foot downeaster, over 10 feet longer than Rosalita, a 29-foot sloop. But it was not only size that distinguished these two boats.

While Rosalita had captured my heart from the outset with her sleek form and cozy cabin, Boomer, while not as big as some of the serious luxury sailboats, boasted enough floor space for a sizable shag rug, easily room enough for a quaint dance floor (and the satellite radio and surround sound stereo to go with it). Having begun my sailing career with Rosalita's modest comforts and effective use of space (I pooped in a bucket for six days, and slept on a slim bench padded with settee cushions), I was understandably surprised by Boomer's push-button flush toilet, high-pressure hot & cold water, on-board shower, and freezer nearly big enough to crawl into. Add her sizable flat-screen TV, plush seats, and beautiful hardwood interior, and Boomer resembled more closely a kind of floating penthouse than a sailboat. Surely, this would be a smoother journey, I reasoned.

After a day or so of running around and last minute preparation, sailing vessel Boomer departed La Paz early on January 4th, a lovely clear Monday morning, and made way out around the hook of the bay within which the city is nestled. Our destination that first day was another little bay on the south-eastern tip of the Baja facing into mainland Mexico called Bahia De Los Muertos – Bay of the Dead. With luck, we would be there by sunset.

This first day's journey would afford the novice crew a chance to familiarize ourselves with the workings of the boat. Said crew consisted only of myself and another hitcher-of-rides, Eden, a lovely young woman from Seattle, who has been travelling about Central America for over a year, and who shows no signs of slowing down. Like myself, Eden had absolutely no experience whatsoever with sailing but was game to have a go. The captain of our fine boat was a decidedly memorable man by the name of Byron ''Boomer'' Alperstein.

Where to begin my account of captain Byron? A jet pilot by training – his dog-fighting prowess having won him his explosive handle – Byron is relatively new to sailing himself, having purchased his boat only a short time ago, but has quickly made himself at home. For the past few years, he’s been busy Byronizing his baby Boomer in all manner of ways – the lavish ship is adorned throughout with various tweakings major and minor, from the custom door flaps, and marble tile countertops to the wonderful underwater lights installed to reveal the denizens of the deep in on dark evenings.

In addition to being a fighter pilot and sailor, Byron also told us various stories of his exploits as a champion fencer, downhill skier, and American 100-meter dash record holder. We were in the presence of quite a well-rounded athlete, and as we would come to learn, that was hardly even the half of it.

Weather on that first day was fair at first, but as we made our way out into bigger water, conditions gradually worsened until, around mid-day, our smiles began to droop in the face of five or six foot waves flanking us and tossing the stern of the boat to and fro. Nausea was not a major issue, but for a time it was all one could do to cope with the heavy movement of the boat, and stay standing, or even seated. Captain Byron related to us later, that this day was one of the worst he’d seen on the Sea Of Cortez in his time, a body of water known for its habitually smooth conditions. Apart from that however, day one was quite a success. Only a minor blinking in and out of the ship's radar early in the day had the captain a little worried, but that seemed to have sorted itself out by sundown. We moored and supped at Muertos, as the darkness arose around us, and prepared for the second leg of the journey.

At around 9 or 10 that Monday evening, we hauled up anchor and set out in the dark of night straight into open water – it would be some 36 hours before we reached our next stop, on Wednesday morning. On Rosalita we had slept all our nights at anchor, and I was nervous and excited about the prospect of sailing all night. I had heard several people talk about phosphorescence, a term used to describe the emission of light by bioluminescent plankton, and so was pleased when Byron called us out to the cockpit shortly after we got underway to gaze at the beautiful swirls in the twilit water.

As I emerged from the cabin however, Byron, unsure if we had heard him the first time, turned to call us again, and as he swung around, landed a solid karate-chop style blow to my naked left eye. I keeled over in pain, but did not fall (this detail will be important later) thinking that worst-case scenario, my eyeball itself must have been ruptured – I tell you, this was a good chop – and best case scenario, I'd have wrecked my brand-new ocular epithelia, and would be off to the eye doctor to assess the damage as soon as we hit land. After retiring to the ship's head to examine the damage, which to my surprise, appeared minimal, I sat, deflated and somber in the dark of the cockpit, as my eye put out a steady stream of tears. A dandy start to the trip, I thought. (As it happened, the pain eventually receded to a dull ache after an hour or so and a good lay-down, and I was good to go within a day or so – I count myself very lucky.)

The first evening of watch-duty went smoothly, and our three-person crew coped quite well with sleeping in shifts, aided by numerous cups of captain Byron's delicious imported hazelnut coffee. The radar, which had threatened to give out earlier in the day, eventually did so, and so we were forced to be extra-vigilant in carrying out our watch duties at night. Needless to say, I was pleased when the sun came back around – it was one of my loveliest memories in fact, to see the sun come up over the ocean, without a speck of land anywhere in sight.

Tuesday would be our only full day underway, and although the weather was still a little rough in the early hours, things did improve later in the day as we drew closer to the Pacific. Tuesday also occasioned another brief visit of dolphins off the bow, and I am pleased to report, my first-ever whale sightings! Many were from quite a ways off, but we were lucky enough to see several spectacular jumps from relatively close quarters. I cannot quite tell you how it feels to see a creature roughly the same size as our boat emerge almost completely from the water, look over its shoulder, and crash back down onto its back swallowed by a splash of water easily as tall as a house. Suffice it to say, I was glad we were not any closer.

On this day we were also treated to our best bout of incredible stories from the captain – as we all sat around in the cockpit that afternoon, Byron "Boomer" Alperstein suddenly launched into a lengthy monologue detailing his various adventures in the realm of martial arts. There was a time, he told us, when he was so deep into the world of training and competing that it essentially consumed his whole life, and not without result. We came to learn that he had competed in, and won several world class tournaments, and also come into contact with such famed individuals as Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee. To our astonishment, he admitted cavalierly that he was, in fact, one of the few people to have ever beaten the former in competition, although he didn’t mention ever fighting the latter. (It was with great pleasure that I realized that I was now in a position to claim that I had withstood a karate-chop to the eye by the same hand that once felled Chuck Norris.) His run-in with Mr. Lee however, is no less intriguing.

In his glory days, Byron related to us, that his striking speed was such that often his blows would go un-detected by referees, and as a result he would often receive less than his full allotment of points. In order to counteract this phenomenon, he developed the habit, after having landed such a lightning-fast blow, of letting out a kiai, and posing with the striking hand raised behind the head, and the other pointing at the opponent, so as to make plain the fact that he had made a point, a gesture he would come to refer to as ''doing a Byron."

As it happens, at one particularly important championship bout, Bruce Lee was to be the guest referee, and after the match, within which Byron had been forced to indicate a few of his strikes, the former approached him personally to chat. It was not at all common at this time for combatants to pose in the midst of a bout, and Mr. Lee was curious if Byron would mind his borrowing the signature move. The captain had replied, of course, that he did not mind, and the rest, as they say, is history. If you pay close attention in watching such well-known films as ''Enter the Dragon'' you will undoubtedly see Mr. Lee doing a Byron.

The story-telling went on and on like this, for what must have been an hour, and I for one, was not about to interrupt. Eventually, however, captain Byron grew weary of showering us with florid accounts of his adventures, and we returned to the business of sailing. Before long, day had turned to night yet again, and we did our best to eat, still underway, and slowly slid into another blurry round of late night watch shifts, until finally, not long after sunrise, we arrived at the end of the second leg of our journey.

Our moorage was none other than the beautiful Isla Isabella, a famed volcanic island just off the coast of mainland Mexico a little south of Mazatlan, known for the blue-footed boobies and frigate birds that abound there, unhindered by predators. The island is also famous for having been the site of a well-known Jacques Cousteau documentary, and I can tell you, it was quite a day exploring the various trails of this tiny island peopled only by the occasional team of Mexican biology students. On one such trail, we were led down into the center of the island, to an incredible circular lake – the silent mouth of the volcano which once gave birth to the island itself – and spent a few moments in repose there, soaking up the view and the magnificent avian soundscape.

A wonderful climax to my journey! – I thought to myself. It was only a day’s sail into Puerto Vallarta now, what a pleasure it had been. We dined aboard another boat which had departed La Paz at the same time as us, and discussed the wonders we had seen that day, and our plans for the coming year.

We began the final leg of our journey well before sunrise on Thursday morning, and it was about half-way through our trip that things began to fall apart. The first stumbling block came when Byron momentarily left me to mind our course, and I unknowingly allowed the boat's autopilot to run us over the sunken (and, I might add, poorly identified) line of a local fishing boat. All the ocean to drive through, and I manage to hit the one tiny obstacle for miles around. There was no damage to the boat, but I felt poorly at having potentially lost the fishermen a day's catch.

A short while later, as I was relaxing in the cabin, Byron came down to check the engine, as he did periodically, but had neglected to earlier that morning, and upon open lifting the hatch in the cabin floor, found that the belly of the boat had taken on about two feet of water, the surface of which must have been slowly climbing for hours, and was just beginning to engulf the bottom of the boats engine! If it had gone unchecked much longer, we would have been in real trouble. Neither of the ship's two automatic bilge pumps were functioning, and the handle on the manual pump in the cockpit had broken off some time ago, so we were forced to jimmy it with a set of locking pliers, and pump away for some thirty minutes or so. We had feared that we might have to do so all the way into Puerto Vallarta, but happily, once the bilge was relatively empty, the leak seemed to stop, or at least to slow. A relief to us all, especially since the radio had begun to fail on us, and it would likely have been difficult to call for help if we’d really started taking on water.

Still later, the winds began to pick-up and shift direction, and captain Byron decided to make some changes to the mainsail. He steered the boat into the wind to facilitate this process, and asked me this time to "mind the helm," and keep our course. I assumed that this phrase meant that the autopilot had been turned off, and that I was effectively steering – something I had practiced only a little thus far. Wanting to do my part however, I obliged, and when I noticed the ship begin to drift, I attempted to correct it, but the more I tried, the harder the ship seemed to resist, and soon enough we'd fallen into a full-on accidental jibe, causing the ship to jar, and the boom to swing violently about.

This kind of event is obviously quite dangerous, and is precisely what I was meant to prevent, as captain Byron explained to me just then, doing his best to remain calm. He put us back on course, and we tried it again. Sure enough, the ship slowly began to veer to one side, and again I set about correcting it, as I thought was expected of me, grabbing the steering and attempting a counter-turn with all my strength. Again, to my astonishment and frustration, we fell into a dangerous accidental jibe, swinging the boom around, and throwing the boat topsy-turvy. This time, captain Byron was understandingly less patient, and made it clear to me that I was not meant to be steering at all, but merely observing as the autopilot kept us on course. By attempting to counter-turn, I had actually inadvertently overridden the autopilot causing it to malfunction, and in doing so, over-stressed the ship’s steering mechanism, rendering the vessel essentially un-drivable.

Suffice it to say, the captain was not impressed. Thankfully, he had been through such situations himself, and was prepared to deal it with it immediately. He cut the motor, and set about opening up the seats of the cockpit, exposing the guts of the boat, and repairing the steering cables. Next he made a few attempts at resetting to autopilot, unfortunately, in vain. We would be forced to hand-steer the remaining five hours or so into Puerto Vallarta. Byron again put me behind the wheel, this time offering a quick lesson at steering the ship, and I, determined to get back on the horse, did manage to steer the boat effectively. At least we still had the GPS, right? Unfortunately, only a few minutes later it also cut out. Ok, maybe we should try the radio. Dead. Cell-phones? No service: we’re in the middle of the ocean.

In short, within the span of about an hour, just about everything that can go wrong on an ocean voyage, did. No radar, no radio, no GPS, no autopilot, and taking on water. Even the coffee machine pooped out on us. All we knew was that we had to keep our bearing of 150° for the next 5 hours or so.

Needless to say, we were all a little morose at this point. For a short moment, it seemed like we'd spoiled an otherwise wonderful trip, and so close to finishing too. But then, an amazing thing happened - for some reason, we became happy. The wind had died down, and the waters were very forgiving. Eden and I were taking turns steering the ship, and doing our best to laugh at ourselves and our unlikely predicament. Slowly, a great sense of relief began to flood the boat as land was spotted and began to emerge on the horizon, and the next thing I knew the whales began to jump, and the Pointer Sisters began to sing out from Boomer's belly, and we passed through a bubble of cell phone service large enough to afford us a call into land explaining our situation, and we laughed and danced, and relished in what turned out to be one of the most enjoyable portions of our trip. Having come through nearly every imaginable crisis, we had exhausted all reason to be anything but jovial, and so we smiled as SV Boomer carried us into the welcoming arms of the mainland, and the Mexican sun set over the lush tropical mountaintops.

All in all, I thought this a splendid way to conclude my initiation into the world of sailing.

Plans at present have me casting my eyes inland to Mexico city and points south, and I have a feeling this country will keep me at least until my birthday toward the latter part of the month.

I miss you all very much, and send along my best wishes from sunny old-town Puerto Vallarta.

¡Hasta luego!

SV Rosalita

Those of you who know me at all will likely be aware of the fact that I am not a sailor. In fact, until a little over a week ago, I had never set foot on a sailboat in all my life. This didn't stop me however, from signing on for a five-day journey with two other men - a father and son team from Portland - down the Sea of Cortez, on a 29-foot sailing-vessel named Rosalita. What's the big deal, people do that kind of thing all the time, right?

''Are you OK with sleeping in the cockpit?'' Captain Larry asked me when first we spoke.

''Absolutely!'' I responded without hesitation, omiting to share with him the fact that I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

What did I care - I was going sailing! As long as I had plenty of food, I told myself I'd be fine, so the day before our departure, I made the journey by thumb to the nearest town and stocked up on groceries - fruits, veggies, cereals, dairy and meat - several days worth of good looking grub. I would later learn that my shipmates had done the same, and that at a result, we were far from understocked. Good news to my ears.

We departed Puerto Escondido on a glorious Mexican Christmas morning, in full sun. There had been some jokes made about it being bad luck beginning your voyage on a Friday and - rather oddly I thought - bringing bananas on a boat, but we laughed-off the fact that we were guilty of both, our eyes cast out to the open water ahead of us. It wasn't long however, before the reality of what I'd signed on for began to present itself.

Shortly after we were motored out of port, we came into some pretty good winds, and so Captain Larry decided to raise up the spinnaker (a very large, and thin, almost parachute-like sail) to see if we could get some real sailing done right off the bat. His son John and I were instructed to remain in the cock-pit while he attempted this task for what he confessed to us was his first time. The Captain deftly unpacked the sail, and raised it up singlehandedly, all the while moving about the modest deck barefoot. (For those unfamiliar with sailboats, a Columbia-29 like Rosalita is a relatively small vessel, hardly large enough to justify any kind of safety railing around the deck, and I found myself a little anxious watching Larry dance about in his bare feet as we rocked to and fro in the waves.) The spinnaker seemed at first to be working quite well, but as the wind died down, the large sail quickly becames tangled among the rigging of the boat, and had to be taken down. The motor would have to do for now.

Sitting in the exhaust-ridden cockpit all this time, as we swayed about, had begun to make me feel a little queasy, and I found myself wondering if this was to be my fate for the remainder of the trip? I was understandably pleased, therefore, when the winds picked-up once more, and Captain Larry decided to hoist up the mainsail, which he had taken down upon raising the spinnaker. I closed my eyes and anxiously awaited for him to finish, so that we might finally cut the engine. They opened with a start however, when I heard a dull crack, and looked up to see Captain Larry crumpled in a ball on the deck, his head in his hands. After having raised the main, Larry was making his way back to the cockpit, at which time the boat had pitched a little, causing him to slip, and as he fell, he was struck in the head by the ship's boom! He assured us both that he was fine, but remained there a moment laying on the deck, collecting himself, before joining us in the cockpit, revealing the healthy mandarin-sized bump on his forehead. No blood, just a small abrasion, but a sizable bump to be sure. Eventually it was decided that perhaps we should settle on motoring the first leg of our journey.

Once things calmed down a bit and we were able to laugh a little about the mornings events, I decided that I'd move out to the deck, to sit in the sun at the foot of the mast, where I imagined the motion would be least, to see if I could burn off some of my queasiness. This worked well, and I spent the better part of the remaining day there, eventually sprawled out on my back in the sun, enjoying the gentle sway of the boat. Maybe this sailing thing wouldn't be so bad, afterall...

It was a full day, and we cruised into our first port about an hour or so before sundown. Nothing more than a small circular bay, really, Agua Verde is a beautiful little spot, shielded from the winds of the Cortez by the beautiful orange hills of the Baja, all speckled with various species of cacti and other scrubby little plants. There is a tiny village nearby, with a small tienda where basic provisions can be bought by the few folks who make it down that far - Agua Verde is the last piece of civilization reachable by road on the eastern coast of the Baja, from there traffic must head inland to get further South.


One other boat had left Puerto Escondido that morning, and we met them there in Agua Verde, and shared a lovely supper together that first night - enjoying the bay all to ourselves. We liked it so much in fact that we stayed another two nights, making day-trips on foot out to ancient cave-paintings nearby, swimming in the glorious clear-green water, and enjoying the abundant marine and avian life that dwelled there. As more boats arrived however, we decided to move on - we still had a ways to go to La Paz, if we wished to be there by New Years Eve. In the days that followed I quickly learned that the few setbacks we experienced at the outset of our journey were anything but indicative of the trip to come, and we had virtually no further problems throughout the remainder of our journey. It was, as they say, smooth-sailing from then on.

I will not attempt to provide a detailed account of all my days aboard Rosalita, or to describe the beauty of the various secluded locations at which we moored along the way, but a few highlights included: the excitement of catching a sizable tunafish (Black Skipjack, to be specific) which we later discovered was very poor eating and so were forced to throw back, and the even greater excitement, of nearly catching a huge Dorado, which would have been terrific eating. We were pleased though, just to see the beautiful thing sail through the air on the end of the line (Dorado are also known as Mahi Mahi). For the most part, waters were calm, but we did hit some pretty good swells which occasionally sent food and other items carreening about the cabin. The biggest pleasure though, was by far the marine life we didn't try to catch - several huge manta-rays jumping, often 8-10 feet out of the water, and groups of dolphins playing nearby. Indeed, at one point, a gang of some dozen or so dolphins sped along just off the bow of our boat, jumping and playing as we smiled down at them. This must have lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed like they were there for hours, darting to and fro, jostling each other, swimming upside-down, and the like. A beautiful sight.


I'll conclude by relating that although one or both of my crewmates were ill for the better part of the trip, I managed to escape what eventually became seven nights aboard that boat with them without catching whatever they had. I attribute this to the fact that while they both spent nights in the cabin, I slept, as I mentioned earlier, in the cockpit, which, I came to learn, was outside! And so, while they coughed and sniffled in Rosalita's warm belly, I gazed up at the Mexican stars, and dreamed of the coming months on the road.

Eventually, on the evening of December 30th, we made it to La Paz, and I can tell you, I was quite pleased to have arrived. Taking the advice of the folks I met in Puerto Escondido, and Captain Larry, I wasted no time in setting about finding another ride, across the Sea of Cortez this time, to the mainland of Mexico, and by a stroke of goodluck, managed to find one, before I could even pin my sign up on the local message board. It's not a sure thing just yet, but with luck, I'll be leaving for Puerto Vallarta this coming Monday, aboard a much larger boat this time, along with a new crew - it looks to be a three or four-day trip.

The past few days here in La Paz have been lovely. I enjoyed a pleasant New Years Eve with Larry and John at a local blues roadhouse called El Paraje, and last night's sleep in a real bed - my first since arriving - was a joy. Only today is the steady rhythmic wobbling of the world around me beginning to fade as I slowly shed my sealegs.

Thanks again to those of you who from whom I've received emails recently. I hope you all had a great New Years celebration!

¡Adios!