On the Friday afternoon before the regatta, Bill and I were out sailing and testing systems when we decided to join the boats in Martini Cove. We glided slowly into the anchorage and dropped the hook near Mark McDade and his two comely young crew persons (his daughter Licia and her friend). We put the engine in reverse and gave it a shot to back down on the anchor rode. Nothing happened. Were we in neutral? We tried again. Nothing. I grabbed my mask and jumped overboard to have a look. Guess what? No propeller! The bloody thing had fallen off sometime in the last few minutes. Consternation reigned supreme. Then I dug out the spare, two-blade, fixed prop that Bob Patrick had left with the boat. Mark and I dived, tried to affix the spare, and discovered that the bolt which had held the other prop (an expensive folding job) had broken off inside the housing, and we could not fasten the spare prop on the shaft.

Kindly Mark then offered to tow us back to the marina so we could get hauled and see what could be done. As Mark pulled us toward the ramp, I called dry storage and got them to send the tractor with our trailer. This was a lucky stroke since it was almost five PM , and dry storage was about to close for the day. We were relieved to see Macario standing by with the trailer in the water as we glided away from our tow and got pulled by the bow and stern lines onto the trailer.

Examination on the hard revealed that the bold had, indeed, broken off after twenty years or so of reliable service. We decided to try to borrow or steal a tapper from Olie Taylor and remove the remnant of the bolt on Saturday morning. This threw the Race Committee for a small loop, and they started making desperate arrangements for a backup committee boat in case we wouldn't be ready next morning.

We did find Olie, and he agreed to come by the launch ramp in the morning with his EZ Out set.

Saturday morning found Bill and I examining the prop shaft and waiting for Olie. Bill decided to try tapping the broken bolt with a punch. Perhaps a reverse-direction knock or two would dislodge the thing. And that's just what happened! Bill applied his magic touch with hammer and punch, the bolt budged, the bolt turned, the bolt came out! We bolted on the fixed prop and got back into the water in time to motor out for the start of Saturday's race. Olie cam driving up just as we were getting launched, and he was as relieved as were we that things had gone well.

Moral of that story: Replace the prop bolt every five years or so--just as one should do with the keel cable.

We served as committee boat for the regatta along with David Brinkley, and things ran smoothly. My son Ken flew in just in time for the awards banquet/party and renewed many old acquaintances.

We had planned to take off on our cruise the following day (Monday, May 28), but after Bill and David had spent some hours re-checking our electrical system, we started the engine. The next hurdle developed when an ominous puddle of oil beneath the pressure sensing connection had us hopping about trying various unsuccessful solutions. Finally, we pulled the sensing unit and stuck a plug into the hole where the unit had lived. No pressure gauge, but no leak, either.

Tuesday, May 29, 2001: We departed a day behind our fellow cruisers, spent a pleasant night at Caleta Venecia, and caught up with them on the evening of Wednesday, May 30, at Dog Bay on Tiburon Island near Kino Bay.

In that anchorage our little flotilla gathered: Jim Burke and Bob DeNegris (sp?) on Jim's Ranger 26, LA VERONICA; Ken Neal singlehanding on his Santana 22 SINBAD; Scott Sebree and Loretta Peto on their Spirit 28 HALF CAT; Jim and James Schaff with Gene Tackett on the Hunter 26 MORNING GLORY.

Thursday morning saw us heading west through the Cactus Pass south of Tiburon on course for the rolly East Bay anchorage on Isla San Esteban. We hiked the wide canyon of Esteban and saw some weird, manmade rock formations; then we heard some stirrings in the undergrowth. and our wondering eyes beheld the famous two-foot-long lizards of Esteban. There seemed to be two varieties: one bright yellow, and the other kind of gray/green. But definitely LARGE.

We then headed north on a fog-shrouded sail through some powerful tidal rips, standing waves, and whirlpools to the secure anchorage at Salsipuedes. Ken and I ducked into Calotte Blanca on the north end of Isle Animas to chat with our old pals, Ralph

and Annette Sidle on their Catalina 27, ANNABELLE LEE. It was while talking with the Seedless that Ralph told us he had a pamphlet describing the workings of the Spa Creek charging system. Although it wasn't the exact booklet for our system, Ken found out enough info to make ours work better. We intended to make the short hop that evening to Salsipuedes, but the fog rolled back in, and we didn't rejoin our fleet until the next morning--when, it seems--the folks there were all suffering from some strange malady caused by late night revelries involving mind-altering liquid substances imported from Jamaica.

Saturday, June 2, 01: With a rather late start, we sailed smartly north past the bird refuge at Isle Razz and made it safely to the pond-like anchorage at Isle Stance (Pond Island--very apt name) just off the southeast corner of Isle Angel de la Guard. You enter the huge pond through a narrow, very shallow (6 feet, ten-inch) channel and then are safe in a spacious, nicely protected little lake, completely surrounded (almost) by land. HALF CAT arrived an hour or two later and announced that her engine is kaput. They anchored outside the pond and Jim Burke motored out to tow them in. The tide had risen somewhat, so we didn't worry about HALF CAT's six-foot draft clearing the entrance bar.

We spent two nights there, did some dinghying over to de la Guarda, spent considerable time bleeding HALF CAT's fuel system, negotiated for scallops from a panga crew and had a fine scallop dinner aboard HALF CAT--followed by a slumber party aboard that fine vessel You'll have to ask Scott and Loretta how the slumber party came about. Unfortunately, the crew of MORNING GLORY, on a rather tight schedule, had departed for home prior to the scallop feast and subsequent frolic.

What really happened: During the dinner, nicely prepared by Ken and Loretta, the wind came up well into the 30's. Our inflatable dinghies did not look too substantial for the trip back to our boats, so we just hunkered down where we were and went home in the morning. S & L were good-humored hosts, and cheerfully took us all in.

The next morning-- we staggered back to our boats, cleaned up, and watched the wind climb back into the 30's. At 1100 the wind dropped to a comfortable level, and we took off around the southern tip of la Guarda, then turned northwest, and made it into the friendly port of Bahia de los Angeles. BDLA is a neat little place, hunkered down beneath some huge mountain ridges. Ken wanted to see the famous "Elefante" winds which occasionally come up in the late afternoon and pour down the mountainsides in long gray columns.

He got his wish. Be careful what you wish for.

However, we all made it--more or less. HALF CAT developed the recurring engine trouble in the dying breezes and had to be assisted into port by the local panga guys. The call for a tow of a sailboat made Scott and Loretta somewhat famous around the little town; everyone there has a VHF radio; therefore, everywhere we went we asked: "Are you the folks on a sailboat with the broken motor?" At one point a guy popped up out of a trench where he was repairing a water line and asked us that wearisome question.

We ate a fine breakfast our first morning in BDLA at Guillermo's and met the proprietor, the one and only Guillermo, who is a very accommodating sort. He informed us that his driver was making the 200 km drive that morning to Guerrero Negro for gas and diesel and that we could send a jerrycan along for additional fuel at a very nominal cost. Jose took off at 0900 and was back on the ramp at 1500. The total for 6 gallons of diesel was 1600 pesos, plus a tip for Jose. Guillermo also has a phone which one may use for $1.50 per minute for calls to the U.S.

After ratting around in BDLA (the Californians who frequent the place call it "Bola."), we said goodbye to Jim and Bob, who had to return to Kino Bay. Now we were three, and we set off for Puerto Don Juan, just around the corner from BDLA. Don Juan is another "perfect" anchorage: totally landlocked with lots of room and good sand bottom at twenty feet. Furthermore, there is a nice sand beach nearby with tons of clams. We gathered a bucket of those rascals in anticipation of a big clam chowder feast. However, Ken and I sampled a few of them and discovered them to be really rank: full of green slime and very bitter. The clams were returned to their home waters. Nevertheless we all gathered that night on NINA for a fine dinner before separating in the morning. Scott, Loretta, and Ken Neal decided to head back then for San Carlos, and Ken and I wanted to see two more anchorage's.

Ken Neal entertained us with stories of his long military and sailing careers. He's a genuinely entertaining man--never has a bad word for anyone and can tell hilarious tales about his various misadventures. Ken is also a supremely resourceful single-hand sailor. Never a tick of trouble anchoring or running his spinnaker--and everything on his boat works! What a guy! We really enjoyed his presence. Ask him sometime (when conditions are just right) for his penicillin story.

Wednesday, June 6, 01: We left Don Juan early. Ken and I went south about 15 miles and into Puertocito Enmedios, just south of Animas Slot. Animas Slot is really pretty, but there was another boat there, so we opted for the next cove south, which proved to be just fine. We hiked the hills nearby and talked to HALF CAT on the handheld VHF. We could see them tacking southward and looking like America's Cup contenders. They were obviously doing well and optimistic about reaching San Carlos with a day or two.

After a pleasant night we sailed off the anchor and headed for Punta San Gabriel and the sweet little inner cove of Bahia San Francisquito. A funny thing happened on the way into the outer bay. We had plotted a GPS waypoint right in the middle of the that anchorage. As we approached the waypoint--verified by the latitude and longitude positions, our GPS kept pointing us back a mile or so; it said we were past the waypoint. Finally, as we sailed right over the actual position we had marked, the Garmin unit corrected itself and told us we were "right on." Which we knew.

Moral: always double check with charts and accurate positioning. If we had followed the arrows on the unit, we would have ended up on the beach.

We dropped the CQR in fifteen feet on sand inside the inner cove and dinghied in to talk with the fishermen under a Ramada in the corner of the lovely cove. Jose, the more expressive of the two, told us they were waiting for the ice truck to arrive from El Arco so they could resume fishing. He also said the airstrip resort was open, so we began the long hike over the little hill and along the runway to the palapa-style buildings on the beach.

Lots of Tucson sailors have told us of the delights of this terrific little hotel/airstrip/restaurant. They are right. The beach is beautiful, the restaurant is clean, and Chary, the hostess/chef, is a real doll. She rustled up two fantastic plates of fresh yellowtail

in garlic sauce along with rice, beans, tortillas and salad--and ice cold Pacificos. As we were polishing off our plates and thinking about the long, hot walk back to our dinghy, an SUV pulled up and a fortyish Gringa lady emerged. On chatting with her, we learned that Diane is a friend of Chary's and has been hanging around this area for the last seven years--when she was not in Reno with her husband, who runs the offroad racing program for Goodyear Tires. She was on her way to the fishing camp we had visited to go snorkeling, and she offered us a lift, which we eagerly accepted.

We were relaxing in the cockpit of NINA when Diane and Jose motored on by. We invited them for a beer when they would return from their fishing excursion. Sure enough, just about dusk we saw them rumble on up. Diane had caught a forty-pound yellowtail and ecstatically held it up for our cameras. She and Jose came aboard, and we learned a good deal about him. He's a recent abuelo--his first grandchild having been born just a few days before in Guerrero Negro. Also, he's been fishing for 29 years and has some fantastic stories to tell. One of which has him paddling a panga from Tiburon to San Franquito--solo--over a three-day period.

It was getting dark, so our new friends departed and we hit the sleeping bags in the cockpit.

A word about the weather in the Midriffs: The daytime temperature on the water rarely exceeded 75. The nights were in the low sixties. Just perfect weather for sailing, exploring, and sleeping. Inland temps went much higher, but when one got near the water, all was fine. However, as soon as we rounded Punta San Gabriel and headed for San Carlos, conditions were quite San Carlos-like: warm and humid. The Midriffs are sites of huge upwelling of very cold water from over 3,000 feet below the surface. The snorkeling can be rather shriveling, but the air is delightful in June.

Friday, June 8, 2001: The next morning we rounded the point, crossed the last of the Midriff whirlpools, and took a course west of Isla San Pedro Martir for San Carlos--only one hundred nautical miles away. Checking the radio, we made contact with HALF CAT. They told us they and SINBAD were in the vicinity of Isla San Pedro Nolasco, approximately twenty miles from home. We wished them well and continued motorsailing through a long lazy day. The sunset was brief and unspectacular, and darkness settled in abruptly.

Shortly after dusk, HALF CAT called and told us they were turning Punta Doble and heading into San Carlos with SINBAD. Gladdened for them, Ken and I had a short meal and settled down--hoping to get in around 0200. Ken even made some idle remark about how easy this cruise had been, how benign the weather, how peaceful in general.

Oh, well. Shortly after dark the tide turned against the southwest breeze; the breeze increased. We took a reef in the main and switched to the 110 jib. The breeze became a wind in the 30's; we dropped the jib and double-reefed. Tide confounding the wind, a constant steam of water came over us as we huddled in the cockpit. It was like one of those phony movies where they throw buckets of waters over the actors. Whenever we tried to look forward--splash!--water in the face. There was nothing to do but endure. Fortunately, the engine throbbed relentlessly, driving us through chop which would have stopped us had we been under sail alone.

Along about midnight Ken decided we needed some cheering up and found a Guaymas radio station which played endless successions of Sinaloa band music (tubas and shrilling reeds), rancheras, and cumbias. Amazing how something as silly as that can perk you up!

At 0300 we saw the entrance light for the San Carlos channel, at 0330 we were secured in our dock, and at 0400 we were showered and dry in our beds at the Motel Creston.