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Sailing the “Happy Coast” with Dad





If you were to make a graph, where age is the x-axis and parent/child animosity is the y-axis, you would get the most perfect bell curve a TI-86 calculator could produce. Everyone’s bell curve is a little different in size, but it’s ultimately the same in shape. I am 26 years old and have finally started rebuilding the harmony with my parents, my dad especially. As much as I would like kids, knowing that one day they will despise me makes for effective birth control – even if I know they will eventually come full circle. Seeing that I was on the downward slope in the “parent/child animosity” curve, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to expedite my progress and get one of my parents to crew aboard Panache.

I have always been my mother’s son. We just think alike. So my dad was the obvious choice to bring along because our relationship needed the most work. In the infancy of planning this trip, my father always seemed to be envious but verging on jealousy. He never said this directly, but I could tell. He had done his fair share of sailing, nothing offshore or even coastal, but he had sailed nonetheless. Inviting him aboard was like hitting two birds with one stone; I’d get both the quintessential father son retreat and competent crew. It was also an opportunity to share my wonderful experience with someone who helped create it.

When I broke the news to my friends they had to pause and compute what was just said. I received varying responses from “I think I would end up killing my father. Slowly.” to “Oh, that will be great!” I landed somewhere in the middle of the two extremes, but it started making me second guess the whole thing. This could really turn ugly. It could poison what relationship I do have with my dad. Those thoughts were always short lived and, for better or for worse, I knew that in the end I would be glad we had the time we did aboard Panache.

My buddy Ben from the boat formally known as Jace (now Knee Deep) had a very similar trip with his father. I heard about this trip back in San Diego, before the Baja Ha Ha, so I guess the idea of sailing with my father was planted early on and finally manifested itself. Ben described the experience as an opportunity for both parties to say everything they needed to say; a venting session that would allow movement through the rough part of the bell curve. He described the trip as having some good parts and lots of bad. But in the end, he felt it was ultimately beneficial. That’s what I wanted.

The first day my dad, Steven, arrived, we hit the ground running by jumping on the bus to provision and copy some charts. After wasting 3 hours slugging around Puerto Vallarta trying to find an appropriate copy center, we abandoned the charts and strolled through the aisles of a nearby supermarket. Provisioning in the past was simple; my crew and I would roam through every aisle and pick out items from a general list, as well as food stuff that can’t be ignored, i.e., Doritos. Food discussions blossomed, and the cart filled with food. Simple. However, shopping with my dad was anything but easy. Everything had to be a discussion. As I put a small bag of flour in the cart he asks me in a clearly condescending tone “So what’s that for?!” Do I really need to explain the uses for flour! I guess so. I bit my tongue and told him it’s mainly for breading fish. “Oh,” he replies as if not satisfied, “Is there another SMALLER bag?” I told him there wasn't, that this was the smallest one, and this ended the conversation. We did this for the entire shopping trip. I noted his complete disapproval of a box of cookies and stored this ammunition for the exact moment he started snacking on them. This was war! To give my dad credit, it was a travel day, it was hot as hell and we had been bouncing around PV with little to show for it. I give him a hard time, but that’s what sons are for.

With the boat topped off with food, fuel and water, we set sail for our first destination as captain and crew. Our first stop was Yelapa, an old village on the south end of Banderas Bay that boasts being completely cut off from everything by the thick jungle. Beautiful, yes. Tourist trap, double yes. The rough anchorage relies on expensive moorings policed by rude panga drivers. The jungle was nice to walk through, and the waterfalls that trickle into the bay were some serious eye candy, but I just couldn't shake feeling like the locals just didn't want me there. When we had lunch, the waiter tried to overcharge us for everything we ordered, and if it wasn't for Nicole, this guy would've gotten away with it. I was over Yelapa. I was ready to leave. So Panache, Bella Star and Ventured—cleverly coined Belvenache—all departed Yelapa right before dark and headed towards Chamela. (I’m not sure who came up with the name Belvenache, but it materialized somewhere in La Cruz and came in handy when one boat was trying to hail the other two over the VHF radio. We were a mafia; a force to be reckoned with.)



Cheers in Yelapa.



Redhead in a waterfall. This is probably bad luck.



Waterfall in Yelapa.







Spider world.





Yelapa at low tide.



I really was looking forward to sailing with my dad and showing how capable I was as a captain, and Panache as a boat, but the wind wasn't in our favor. My engine isn’t impressive or fast, which made for a very slow, painful passage. The lack of forward momentum made for a rocky ride, and my dad got sick. It was a rough start with the only glimmer of happiness brought by two sexing turtles. Sorry, but I wasn't quick enough to take a picture.

Sailing Panache.



The lumpy ride was redeemed a bit when we pulled into the awesome anchorage at Chamela. It was calm as cream, protected by several islands smattering the huge bay. They begged to be visited. After poking around the town and exploring a collapsed hotel, we headed for the most central island to go snorkeling and set up a beach bonfire.

Once settled on the beach, everyone crammed sardine style into Ventured’s dinghy and headed for the south end of the island. When we found a suitable spot to anchor, I took the small steel-pronged anchor, swam down to the bottom and buried it with basketball-sized chunks of coral. The clarity was great, and the sea life was everywhere. The bathymetry of the snorkeling grounds was uneven with many peaks breaking the water’s surface. If you squinted, it almost looked like a ruffled blanket. With swell pouring around the island, a strong current swiftly pushed and pulled everything swimming over the ocean floor. I spotted two octopuses that were quick to jet off and under rocks for protection.

Beach walk. Chamela.



You like dags?



Broken building in Chamela.



Chamela





Redhead in a collapsed building. This is probably bad luck.



Brown pelican and babies.



Gobie and urchin.



Hawkfish



Octopus chase.



After an hour or so of frolicking in the shallows, the group was bushed and ready for a snack. The Belvanache crew opted for a beach potluck for dinner. Panache didn't have much of anything appealing, so I decided to torment the surface-waters with my spear. I speared four Hawkfish, and my dad whipped up some amazing fresh ceviche. We turned out to be a good team in the kitchen. Under a full moon, a smorgasbord of food was laid out, a bonfire was blazing hot, and the Nicaraguan rum was flowing like MCA. I brought my slingshot for some healthy competitive sport. Drinking and slingshots are a tough combination. Between ricochets, trying complex trick shots and shooting at targets while people are setting them back up, the night became progressively dangerous. As the night went on, the drinks continued and my shots (pardon the pun) got worse. The rest of the night was a little blurry/nonexistent in my mind.







Hermit crab race.



Beach Bonfire, Chamela.



Bonfire in full swing.



Steven and the bonfire. Note how hight the flames are.



Chamela at night.



When I woke up, I had a terrible headache and a slight recollection of walking across fire. Turns out that was no dream. I did walk across the fire. Twice. I also threw Bella Star’s expensive plush towel in the fire for no apparent reason. It was a successful bonfire that made the trip south that morning disagreeable. My father seemed to take my behavior the night before and my current physical state pretty well. I was surprised how understanding and accommodating he was. I guess only someone who understands the pain of a hangover can provide the slack necessary to someone who needs to recover from one.

Despite the hangover, we made it to Paraiso - a little nook inside a larger bay filled with rocky islands. The beautiful morning we had transitioned to a typical Pacific Northwest afternoon, and the anchorage was defenseless against the southwesterly swell, rain and wind. On the up side, the inclement weather gave me an excuse to sleep and fully recover from my hangover. I vowed to never drink again, but I have said that before and will do it again.

The Big Yam Himself!



While I tried to sleep off my hangover, my dad kept me awake with the noisy single sideband radio. My dad is a HAM. Not the slang term for “Hot Ass Mess” or “Hard Ass Mother-fucker,” but a guy who is involved in amateur radio. Don't be confused. My single sideband radio has seen limited use, but with my dad’s presence, the little Icom-707 has seen more action than any other piece of electronics on the boat. I am just glad I installed solar otherwise my batteries would be fried. He spent an hour or more every day making contacts and delivering messages to my mom. It’s a pretty cool tool to have, and makes Panache seem a little bigger. Between conversations with someone in Idaho and another in California, I was able to get several cat naps.

Belvenache. Like a boss.



Palms at Paraiso.







Shell Eyes. What have you done with my father?



Once rested, the swell forced the boats of Belvenache to set a stern anchors. I was familiar with the concept, but my knowledge was all theoretical. Armed with a 30-pound Fortress, I motored my dinghy 150 feet towards the beach and heaved the aluminum fluke overboard with an air of confidence so any potential onlooker would assume I knew what I was doing. With the secondary port winch, I sucked Panache in-line with the waves, making for a smooth stay in Paraiso. The stern anchor made all the difference. But one night here was enough, so in the morning we pulled both anchors and got underway for the next anchorage, Tenacatita.

Tenacatita is a popular cruiser destination, for good reason; its freaking beautiful, has crazy good snorkeling and has an estuary you can motor your dinghy through! One thing Tenacatita doesn't have is enough people to support a morning cruisers net. Somehow this didn't stop people from trying. Every morning, the net would come on around 8am, it would wake me up, and I would have the pleasure of listening to the net controller jabber on with not a single sole responding. “Any emergency traffic... No reply. Any new arrivals... No reply. Moving on, any blah blah blah blah.” You get the idea. The only real information that is communicated, is the daily volleyball and bocce game that rarely takes place. The estuary tour was fun, but with my dad driving, I couldn't help critiquing his technique. On the way out of the estuary, I drove, and the difficulty became apparent.

Get your lean on.



Hooks hooks and more hooks.



Estuary dinghy tour.







Photag



The hot weather was put on hold for a little rainstorm that ended up lasting all day. Around 3pm, my cabin fever was pushed to an all time high after several hours of listening to my dad on the SSB. Snorkeling was the escape. It might be raining, but underwater was wet anyway. With a wetsuit on, the rain above water wasn't even cold. The snorkeling was in fact amazing, but one of the reefs was wrapped in a gill net. The net must have drifted in during a bad blow. Several fish were still alive when I found the net, and I freed them promptly. Nicole helped me pull the net off the coral, and all our effort was compensated by a juicy spiny lobster that was kicking and screaming at the end of the net. I pulled the "finders keepers," rule on Nicole, and my dad and I enjoyed Lobster Pasta that night. With our bellies still full from the lobster, Belvenache, plus Knee Deep (we weren't sure how to add them into Belvenache), headed for Christmas Bay.

Spiny Lobster. Yum!



Sailing still was no good. Either no wind, or it was so light the sails would flop back and forth. We had been using an insane amount of fuel to keep up with the flotilla, and I was feeling extremely guilty. Until La Cruz, the sailing had been fantastic, but on this stretch Panache was lucky to be going 4 knots! The weather was anything but cooperative. A little blow in the morning and evening and nothing in between. Woof. When Panache finally saw wind it was during one of the shortest hops down the coast! Figures. Heading into Barra de Navidad, we kept a consistent 5.5 - 6 knots. We even raised the spinnaker and hit 7 knots. This exhilaration was short lived because we made our final tack into Barra and wrapped the spinnaker around the forward shroud. My dad wasn't a huge fan of the spinnaker. He thought it was pretty, and it sure made the boat speed up, but it was just too much sail area to handle.

My dad was ready for a break from the boat, so we decided to dock Panache at the local marina. Nobody was answering on the VHF, so we pulled into the first free slip that was available and started to gather ourselves for relaxation on terra firma. This plan turned sour when the marina tried to charge $2.60 per foot. This isn't the United States. Or Cabo! No wonder the marina isn't even to 10% capacity. Turns out the huge hotel owns the marina, and boats aren't their priority. I was able to get the harbormaster to level with me and admit that the prices were a bit ridiculous but that the hotel owner sets the prices. We pulled out of the slip, hit up the fuel dock and headed for the anchorage in the lagoon.

We were puttering along fine until the bow suddenly reared up, and Panache grinded to a halt. This happened while chatting with Bella Star on the VHF. “Ok, I am heading towards the anchorage... Oh jeez... Yep, I just beached Panache.” This conversation received lots of attention from the anchorage. The thing about Barra, and especially the anchorage, is that it is total crap, and you need some pretty solid waypoints to enter and exit. I knew this, but was so preoccupied with the marina debacle that I forgot to input the points into the plotter. Now I was stuck on a sandbar on an ebbing tide while tourists took pictures of Panache in passing pangas. Steam was coming out of my ears. My dad and I had to move quickly before our circumstance got worse.

My dad put the fluke anchor out as far out as we could, and we were able to winch ourselves off the sandbar. But it took running aground two more times and having my dad run out of gas in the dinghy before we were safely anchored in the lagoon. Aaron told me you need to run aground three times before you are a real cruiser and that it was convenient that I took care of all three in short order. Thinking on the bright side, I guess I don't need to scrub my bottom as much when the time comes. Believe me when I say we followed those waypoints when leaving Barra.

My dad and I ended up leaving Panache in the anchorage and getting a reasonably nice and cockroach-free hotel room. Barra had enough restaurants and young people to keep Belvanache interested for a full week. It was a great stop, and the charm of the town definitely overshadowed the stress of beaching Panache. I particularly loved the panga water taxi service that ran 24 hours, the French Baker who delivered fresh French things to the anchorage every morning and the raft up Knee Deep, Ventured, Bella Star and I had. If you are headed down the coast, I would stop. Just be sure to get those waypoints. I would also keep your dinghy and stern anchor ready 🙂

Barra like a fox.



Biking with babes in Barra.



Raft up in Barra!



Our next anchorage was supposed to provide phenomenal snorkeling but provided little visibility. We tried a bonfire on the beach, but it was cut short after a scorpion tried to join the party. Everyone was more occupied with the ground after that. The real name of the bay was Ensenada Carrizal, but we just called it Scorpion Bay after that.

Scorpion bay.



Watch out for the Scorpion.



Scorpion bay at night.



Father & Son Cactus photo. Classic.







On the way to Las Hadas from Scorpion Bay, my dad informed me he was going to fly back to the States. He was burned out and ready to go home. He had spent almost a full month with me, covered almost all the expenses and was a great sport considering the wind had been terrible. Panache is a working boat that requires lots of physical labor. It is taxing for a 26-year-old, and it’s awesome that my father was able to keep up. I understood and wasn't sour, but I was sad to hear the news. After processing the conversation, I needed to cool down by dragging myself behind Panache like a huge fishing lure.

I tied off a line, looped it around the winch and started to repel into the water. To my surprise, the winch drum popped off and both the drum and I flew into the water. People say time slows in instances like this, and they are right. I even tried to catch the drum on the way down. I’m glad I have secondary winches, but Jebus, this is not an external cost I want to deal with. I hung onto the boat for a moment to let my loss fully sink in. My dad was recording the whole thing and you can watch the Human Lure Fail in all its glory below.



The marina at Las Hadas had nothing but Mediterranean mooring – the equivalent to parallel parking in the boat world. The anchorage was good enough, so we didn't bother. Essentially, Las Hadas was a classy hotel built on a hill. Pool with a swim-up bar, internet, restaurants, spa, the whole shebang. After several days of lounging around, and sourcing my new winch, it was time to say goodbye to my dad. It felt like an abrupt goodbye. No tears, but a breathtaking bear hug and he was off. I think we were both ready to move on, but I was disappointed to see him leave. The trip itself, represented progress with our relationship. By simply going on the trip, my father was acknowledging I was an adult worthy of making decisions. Being on my boat, and having to take direction from your son takes lots of maturity. Despite all the bickering, we both found a new respect for each other. If you are reading this dad, know you always have a spot on Panache.

Separation was the theme of Las Hadas. Not only did my father go back home, but Ventured was planning to head back up north to the Sea of Cortez. It is hard to say goodbye in bulk. I have never been good with goodbyes, but this was a little different; the friends you make cruising, for whatever reason, are closer. You are all in the same frame of mind, doing the same things. Simply put, it’s an intense bonding experience that breeds close friendships. Jenn and Erlin (and their evil cat, Minion) hail from Seattle, so a reunion is not completely out of the question. Our paths will cross again.

It was official. I was not going to be alone. I would still buddy boat with Bella Star, and Knee Deep, but sailing solo was going to test my prudence, knowledge and judgment. When do I go to bed, and how do I make going to bed safe? What would happen if I fall off the boat? I had questions, but they could only be answered on the water.

Try and make ZSOL smile.



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Wind: The Difference Between Exciting and Frightening

  SIDE NOTE: I have always written my posts chronologically, but this post will be the exception. Don't be alarmed. El Salvador has provided the most consistent cruising experience. This is not necessarily a good thing. The rhythm of this place is hard to break, and the nearest town - a typical rhythm breaker - is an hour bus ride away. If you have ever seen the movie Groundhog Day, you know exactly how a month at Bahia Del Sol plays out. Essentially, the only decision you have is whether or not to get into the pool, and most days it’s so hot that it isn't even a decision you can make. Molly, from Knee Deep, described it perfectly: I wake up bored So why mention all this monotony. Well, The Gods must have listened to all the apathetic pleas for excitement, because they responded with a Microburst, a surprise weather phenomenon that left the cruising community more scared than excited. The day started out hot. The week had progressively gotten hotter, and I was staring up at the sun at the peak of this burning weather. I was on the run, hunting down all the necessary pieces for my new custom stove I was having fabricated in Zacatecoluca. Nicole from Bella Star was nice enough to be my translator during the whole transaction, and by the end of the day I had spent $40 and I had a one of a kind industrial strength propane cooking machine. If the weather wasn't hot enough for us, the bus ride back pushed my understanding of heat. Every time the bus stopped, the cool breeze did too, and the temperature shot up a good 20 degrees. Or at least felt like it.

Dinghy raft up El Salvador Rally. The calm before the storm.

Nirvana was a dingy raft-up back at the marina that quickly broke our feverish body temperature. This is exactly what I needed after scrambling all day in a constant sticky sweat. Free beer and bragging rights for the great deal I scored on the propane stove. After the last beer was opened and drunk, Aaron, Nicole and I motored back to the marina to stabilize a strong buzz with dinner. Bella Star has practically adopted me as their problem and renamed me Chivo, meaning goat in Spanish. Tonight they decided to feed Chivo once again. It was burrito night. During preparation, night settled in and thunder and lightning started to grumble in the distance. This was standard.

Free beers at the dinghy raft up!

Chill time with Bella Star.

Lightning was a nightly occurrence but was usually several miles away from the marina. Only on two occasions did lightning strike within a mile and produce winds around Force 5, or 30ish knots. The rainy season was on top of everyone in Central America, but I was oblivious to how bad it could get. Gusts of wind were blowing into the cabin, and a storm was definitely on its way, but nothing to get excited about. The burritos were done and being served. We expected another Force 5 on the Beaufort Scale, like in previous weekends. Bring on the 30 knots. Whatever. Half way through burning my mouth off with the first burrito, the rain started. By the time I was finished with dinner, wind was creeping to the high 20s and low 30s. I was starting to get worried, but equally satisfied with finishing dinner and continuing to listen to loud music. Some radio chatter started but Nicole, Aaron, and I decided to turn the radio off and turn the music up. Little did we know, that radio call was a warning from upwind of the shit-storm that was about to hit Bahia del Sol. Lightning was now striking within a mile or so. I stuck my head out of the companion way and saw Mick from Tolerance race out to his boat that was anchored right next to Panache. The burritos were finished but I was questioning my 3-horsepower outboard’s ability to get me to my boat. While I was perched halfway in Bella Star watching Aaron and Nicole in unison call out the knot meter reading, “35 knots, 40 knots ... 50 knots!!!!” My eyes were like saucers, “67 KNOTS!!!” By the time I turned around, the rain literally blinded me. By the time I acclimated to the wind speed and rain all I could see was black. A huge bolt of lightning struck the background less than a mile away and lit up everything for only a moment and then faded back to complete darkness. Was Panache safe at anchor? I was in panic mode, and I could see nothing. The wind was without a doubt too strong to dinghy out - dangerous even - and I was certainly underscoped for these conditions. Between the blinding lightning strikes I could see nothing. Aaron handed me the flashlight (I’d really like to call it a torch, but I’m not British), and I pointed it towards Panache. Through my squinted eyes I could make out three bands of reflective tape bounding briskly towards us. Upon closer inspection, I realized the boat was in fact Panache. The blood in my body had all but disappeared. I grabbed my point-and-shoot camera and rushed out onto the dock. Panache had broken free from the ground and was dragging rapidly and recklessly towards the marina.

Panache in the distance dragging anchor while I helplessly watch from the dock.

Panache, completely unmanned, drifted within 30 feet from creaming Swift Current, a beautiful 40ish foot Saber. I ran along the dock as Panache plowed parallel to me. As rough as the sea state was, Panache seemed to slow. Did she catch the ground? I didn't have time answer because when I looked back to Bella Star, Swift Current had ripped out the stern cleat from the dock and were starting to swing away from the dock. I rushed over and started to help pull the huge Saber back into place while the bow sawed the dock apart. Amidst all the craziness there was no point one could reflect on what was happening. It sounds stupid, but I never had an opportunity to get scared in the moment. However, it is a little chilling in reflection. The dock was getting thrashed from the several tons of yachts rocking within. Fifty-gallon barnacle-encrusted drums the marina used to float the dock were popping out from under the floorboards and causing dangerous footing for the barefoot crowd. The sensation of of hot water gushing up from the dock coupled with the ice cold rain firing at my body made for a strange sensation. The dock was moving like it was an earthquake, and the rain was lit-up like comets making for a dreamlike, correction, nightmare-like landscape. Once the line handlers seemed to have Swift Current under control, I ran back to Panache who seemed to have stopped but was dipping alarmingly close to the end of the dock.

Force 12 wind. All hell is breaking loose.

Aaron from Bella Star going GI Joe on something while I watch and take pictures.

The epitome of helplessness was reached while standing on the fracturing dock, watching my lonesome Panache bob dangerously close to destruction. I was so close to her I could almost reach out my hand and grab her lifelines. I could even jump in and swim aboard to take active control of the situation. I hated just sitting by and watching. It was painfully frustrating. Aaron and Nicole discarded my thoughts of rescue, deeming it too dangerous. The current/wind/lightning was still ripping the world apart. I clearly wasn't thinking straight. Boats are replaceable. People aren't. While my drama was unfolding, another drama was occurring out in the mooring field. Sundancer broke free from its mooring and safely drifted its way through the mooring field. Talaria saw Sundancer pass by, and in the confusion thought they had broken from their mooring. Talaria’s fears were realized shortly there after when they broke from their mooring and smashed into Hotspur, smashing cap rail, stanchions, and solar panels on both boats. When Talaria de-tangled from Hotspur, they motored over to where Panache was violently resting at anchor so they could tie up to the dock that was surprisingly still intact. I helped get Talaria settled and noticed another boat that had broken from their mooring just past Panache.

Talaria docking after breaking free from a mooring.

Damage on Talaria.

Talaria’s mooring chain that broke free.

It was Knee Deep. I could tell because Ben, possibly the tallest man on Earth, was wandering around on deck. On the surface everything seemed ok on Knee Deep. At that moment, a moment where everything might be ok, I found out that Tolerance, the boat anchored just 100 feet from Panache, had dragged violently into the concrete pier and was under threat of sinking. I glanced at Panache and my whole body shivered. I have never felt so lucky and yet strangely guilty for dodging such a huge bullet. Panache could have easily joined Tolerance against the pier.

Surveying the damage on Tolerance.

I ran as fast as I could to Tolerance to help in whatever way I could. Hurtling around the barnacle covered barrels that littered the dock, the yacht owners that were tending to their rocky boats and marina workers who were busily doing their best to manage a degenerating dock. The reality was worse than my thoughts, Tolerance was being pressed like a grape against the pier. Hopping on deck to help Mick pull up his anchor, I could see a concrete column stretching out of the fiberglass with a huge gash in its wake. This was bad. Luckily, the gash ended literally right at the waterline. The weather was fading and Knee Deep, now in a slip, rallied to help get Tolerance off the pier. With all the weight on the port side, wounded Tolerance puttered into a slip and the total damage washed over all the gawking onlookers.

The concrete pier became part of Tolerance during the wind storm.

A concrete pier sticking into Tolerance.

Mick was given Tolerance by the previous owner a month prior, and while his blood, sweat, and tears weren’t part of the boat, it still didn't change the crushing feeling of losing his home. I was speechless. So was Mick.

Pushing Tolerance off the pier.

The damage report from Tolerance.

It was time to tend to Panache. Aaron and I tried to free the anchor, but we determined that it had caught on one of the underwater cables stabilizing the dock. If it wasn’t for that cable, who knows where Panache would have ended up. So let’s tally Panache’s score: 1. I missed smashing into the pier. 2. My anchor magically caught on an underwater cable, preventing me from causing Panache, or other boats, potential damage. 3. I was anchored close enough to the dock that I was able to weasel a slip at the end of the marina even while my anchor was fouled. The only blemish on Panache’s tally sheet was that I left my forward hatch open. I was one lucky son of a bitch.

The view looking out from Tolerance.

A Bahia del Sol worker holding up a cleat that snaped free from the dock.

More 50 Gallon drums

50 Gallon drums popping up from the docks make for challenging footing.

This account covered less than an hour of time. The actual storm was categorized as a microburst, “a very localized column of sinking air ... similar to, but distinguished from, tornadoes.” The worst of the weather lasted maybe 15 minutes, but the wind speed topped out at 73 knots ~ 84 miles per hour. That is Force 12 on the Beaufort scale, or in landlubber’s speak, hurricane force. Oh, and there is no Force 13; the Beaufort Scale only goes up to 12. In that short 15-minute period, one boat was totaled and numerous others were severely damaged. Miraculously nobody was hurt. The locals said they hadn't seen wind like that for 30 years. I can only imagine what 15 more minutes of weather like that would have done. The next day I welcomed the rhythm of Bahia del Sol, El Salvador. And yes, I was going in the pool.

It seemed that everyone was scared except the boys from Knee Deep. Troopers!

Hugging Panace after a really close call.

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