I have succumbed to the calls of the ocean; here I sit, back aboard Shearwater in the glorious waterways of Mexico. But zooming in: at anchor in a stunning bay (yellow bellied sea snakes aside) at the periphery of La Paz, Baja California Sur this is already not how it was meant to go.

When last able to wrap up local obligations in Oregon, I rushed back to my boat in Mazatlan, Sinaloa. Was this fumbling rush because I was striving to meet the dwindling weather window for pushing the sailboat north along the Pacific coast towards San Diego or merely because I’m incapable of operating at peace in my surroundings and need to constantly dress myself with some narrative tension to cut through this existence? Nevermind, don’t answer that. Rush back I did, though, and kicked the ‘for sale’ sign off the deck to spend the week testing systems, making repairs, and scrubbing the inside of my diesel tank. As one does.

3AM local time on the Day of the Dead saw Shearwater nosing out of the harbor into the Pacific Ocean with Baja on unseen horizons. The plan was to sail to Cabo (or thereabouts) in order to stage for the next big leg on the journey to Alta California. This type of voyage is also dubbed a ‘shake down sail’ as it gives the boat systems a real-world test that isn’t fairly recreated at the dock; I was certain to find further operational deficiencies with this ol’ gal and had intention to address them on the hook in southern Baja while waiting for auspicious weather forecast for the roughly 200nm (rhumb line) between the Cape of Baja and the nearest protected bay that I might stop at.

As it goes, the sail from mainland Mexico to Baja California Sur was fairly delightful. I ended up dropping my hook at Cabo Frailes after a meandering sail in which I covered upwards of 200nm. I’ve done that journey in reverse at about 170nm total, but lesson numero uno of sailboating is it isn’t about what the captain wants to take it’s about what the ocean wants to give. Winds on the journey were consistently 11-14 knots, the ocean was choppy but I didn’t have steep waves stacked perilously on top of each other so I felt no stress. Did I throw up a handful of times? Well, sure, there’s that. I honestly don’t think I was sea sick but rather done in by the unforgiving schedule of the previous week all while poorly acclimating to the heat and humidity of these parts. Oregon this ain’t. Regardless of how I parse the words though, if I wasn’t sea sick I was certainly sick at sea. And yes, at some undocumented point in the wee hours of Monday I was hurling obscenities into the wind because I just so dearly wanted the breezes to shift so I could actually move in the direction I wanted to go. I’m not proud of it but I won’t deny it. I may lean into monastic living sometimes but I’m not a fucking monk, ok? I get frustrated. And this is a voyage that I thoroughly enjoyed! Little wonder I’m so starkly single.

Once in Baja, the forecasts continued to confound my plans for the next leg. Seasonal weather windows offer probability but no guarantees of suitable conditions. As of writing I see a little pocket on the 16th/17th that might be suitable–best glimmer I’ve seen yet at least. However, it’s all academic because I altered course and am now planning to spend a few months sailing the Bay of California and Baja again. This decision was informed by myriad influences. Impatience at the weather? Check. Snooty attitudes at Cabo San Lucas? Check. I was informed that I’m prohibited from rowing my dinghy to their dock; no motor no bueno, apparently. They’d happily take Shearwater-at-large except, uh no, they claim not to have transient slips any more either. The welcome mat was pretty effectively drawn up for my purposes. So I need to look elsewhere to give some real attention to some primary boat systems: I’m having trouble with my jib furler, my transmission has yet another leak at the shifter arm gasket, my autopilot seems to be slipping more and more in heavy torque situations (like heading North into the Pacific swell), mounting screws for my radar pole are stripped from the teak rail which is putting more stress than I’d prefer onto the stainless cage my solar panels are mounted to. These are all eminently solvable troubles but they do require that I address them before subjecting my boat to the kind of punishment that bashing a thousand miles into the wind and waves carries with it. I don’t think I’m deflecting when I say that Shearwater just isn’t ready for that and I don’t see the season waiting for me.

It would be disingenuous of me to not include (and emphasize) the draw of sailboating around this area. The island of Espiritu Santo is, humbly, probably my favorite place in this world. Earth is chockers with astounding jewels and crown jewels and whatever else is more rarified than that. Papal jewels? You’ll have to let me know. That nearby island is objectively no greater than anywhere else, but to me it has a magic that begs no further explanation. I love it. So the fact that in spite of my best efforts I find myself in the neighborhood again with my very own sailboat offers a pretty compelling suggestion that I seize the opportunity.

Twenty months ago, heartbroken and disillusioned with the far-from-frictionless interface of “sailboat cruising” in Mexico I left my boat in Mazatlan with the hopes that I could sell it and never see it again. Two weeks ago I came back to the sailboat with the desire to sail it to Alta California, sell it, and never see it again. Still, someday I would looove to sell it and never see it again but on this day, today, and for at probably a few more months of today I’m going to be focused on reconnecting with some areas that are special to me, finding new ones, and figuring out just what relationship I have with this pastime called sailboating. My relationship to it continues to evolve. At first the boat was a kind of black box, of sorts, this opaque and terrifying thing called a sailboat. In time it became a home. Then I got to know it a little better and it started to scare me a little less and it became a chariot to pursue good times. Then it scared me even less and I decided to push further with it, seeking new horizons and new challenges. Soon it felt chafing, a cargo that, daily, clipped the very roots that I was endeavoring to grow. Now, in these nascent days, it just feels like a boat: a collection of systems on a vehicle just like any other. Diesel propulsion, sail propulsion, electrical wires, fiberglass, siliconized caulking–it is the sum of its parts, no greater. Today it doesn’t feel like a home, perhaps because I cleared it of furnishings in preparation for the apparitional sale, perhaps because I no longer have First Mate Momo along for the ride; indeed, much of life’s luster carries more tarnish for that.

Talking broad strokes? Maybe I spend the remainder of 2025 in and around La Paz, then make my way north up along inner Baja and over to Sonora. Taste winter in the Sonoran desert and strike for San Diego in late April when maybe just maybe winter’s wind/wave pattern will be loosening its grip on Pacific Baja. Trips to the US and around Mexico scattered therein, and a framing job lined up in Oregon kicking off in June. I’m not super keen to have this boat dominate every moment of my life, and I guess that’s the rub, finding elusive balance. In this. In that. In whatever. Thank goodness I’m known for my deft touch on the tightrope. And time will undoubtedly reveal what era of sailboating I am in. Good times? I certainly hope to corral some of those. Confronting anxieties? Yum! Perfecting my state of monastic bliss? I mean, that feels like pretty low hanging fruit but, ok.