February 6, 2010 8th Day on the Sea
10:07
I write this, today, after successfully making anchorage in Ensenada Harbor last night! As I look out of the companionway (entrance to cabin), I realize I am surrounded by a sight very similar to our last port, but smaller in size. There are the ubiquitous off-loading cranes with freighter beneath, a breakwater utterly covered in bird guano, and a mountain, on which resides many a house. The atmosphere is filled with the buzz of machinery, engines, and alarms. The air ripe with the scent of seagulls and low tide. It's just like home.
We started making our second attempt at Ensenada early yesterday morning. After an uneasy night of heaving to (the new direction of the waves made the boat feel like it was sailing forward, thus prompting numerous coordinate checks) we woke up to a nice southwesterly breeze. Being southwest of Bahia de Toros Santos ourselves, we immediately seized the opportunity. We had been becalmed for too many days this voyage to not hurriedly jump on a stiff breeze in the right direction.
We instantly threw up all the sail we could (without having to manage a spinnaker). I took down our down-sized heaving-to jib and replaced it with our 160% genoa; followed that with hoisting up the main. It was another downwind approach (this time from the south rather than the north) so we went wing and wing most of the way. We had to tack (bringing the bow of the vessel through the wind in order to change direction of sail) back a few times to avoid a lengthly rock formation off the tip of Punta Banda, but eventually we were in the mouth of the Bahia.
The sight was truly incredible. The sheer size of the bay was a masterful work of art by mother nature. A natural formation on the northern part of the Baha Peninsula, the bay spans ten miles across and twelve deep. As we entered around the tip of Cabo Punta Banda, there could be seen a tall formation of reddish-brown bluffs on the right that slowly came down to sea level as you pan to the left. When the cliffs reached the ocean, they turned into golden sandy beaches that practically lined the rest of the entire bay. Little towns had sprung up and seemed to have attempted to build as close to the beach as possible creating crowded spots of population on the water. That is until you looked far enough north to find Ensenada. It had the same crowded look, but it was no spot. This city, the first to populate the bay, was vast. It extends several miles along the beach waterfront and several more miles up into the Sierra Madres behind it.
Continuing to make our way in, we contemplated our new dilema: where to drop the anchor. Dan scouted the bay with binoculars while I held the course to Ensenada (northeast portion of the bay). Glances at the dated chart and glances around the bay revealed no promising anchorages. Our guide stated anchoring was prohibited within Ensenada Harbor but it, too, was also a year dated. So we made a phone call. The call was to a marina within Ensenada Harbor explaining our situation: we had to motor to maneuver into a slip, were unfamiliar with the bay and harbor, and we required an anchorage or moor before nightfall. The man, very helpfully, told us his mooring balls were full due to the impending storm, but described a location where we could anchor in the harbor.
As we made our way in, the sun, once again, began to decline quickly. But this time the wind was in our favour. We managed to sail into the harbor and drop the main to prepare for anchoring maneuvers. We came in and spotted our anchorage: right in front of the Mexican Navy base. After some tacks, I dropped the anchor and, to my relief, it hit bottom in about thirty feet. I let out some rode (chain and line that attaches the anchor to the boat) and we were safely anchored. The wind pulled us back on the hook, setting it. And then we examined our position further. We were flanked on one side by a marked off underwater wreck it seemed and the other by the Navy. All a bit off the main channel where all the big boys come in. It was perfect.
We fooled around with the electrical system to try and get the anchor light nice and bright before finally just stringing a 12 volt light up one of the flag halyards. I then, exhausted from our days at sea, quickly fell asleep. Today we are in the familiar condition of being rained in, but this time in Mexico! We were going to check into the country today, but a quick glance at our guide reports that the immigration office (Centro Integral de Servicos) is closed on the weekends. So I'm not sure what we're going to do. We'll probably just hang around the boat entertaining ourselves with paper-based media and, if the rain ceases, we may row to shore to check our Ensenada proper.
14:57
Well the storm we were warned of did blow in. We didn't expect too much due to the weather report of 13 mph winds. When we anchored last night, we had no idea which way it would be coming from and only hoped that it didn't come from the south (the only direction the breakwater doesn't cover). Well, it ended up coming from the south. We hoped this only meant a rock n roll ride and nothing more. As I was drafting up a post for the internets, I took a look behind me at the buoy line (the only way to get a connection here is to sit in the companionway entrance) to notice that the buoyed off line we anchored outside of was a bit close. I mentioned it to Dan and he clarified that that was the usual distance and to warn him if it got any closer.
In about another 30 seconds, I once again peered back to check it's distance. I mentioned my concern that I thought it had gotten closer and Dan sprung up and took a look himself. We both agreed that it had shortened its proximity. We both hastily threw on our raincoats and stepped into the weather to assess the situation. We were drifting back onto a lee shore (the boat is in between the wind and the shore) and our anchor was no longer catching. Quick decisions had to be made at this point. We were already breaking through the blocked off buoy line that seemed to prevent mariners from going into debris-littered waters. To the lee (in the direction of wind flow) of the debris was a shore of rocks that the now-growing swells were crashing against. Not a good situation.
Dan exclaimed that we had to kick on the diesel and use it to get away from the rocks and redrop the anchor. But the buoy line was directly under the boat at this point. If we had turned on the diesel, the line would wrap around the prop shaft and render the engine even more useless. So I clambered forward to crank in the anchor rode and bring us off the line. Hauling it in eventually turned into a hand-work job as our gypsy (the winch used to pull in the anchor) started tangling the chain due to improper installation.
I managed to bring her off the line while Dan started the engine. I finishing hauling up the Rocna right as he started making speed away from the rocks. As I sat on the bow, holding the anchor up, gasping for air, the downpour caused me to look back in order to shield my face. Dan and I's eyes caught and we flashed each other smiles. Although there was a bit of fear involved, we had broke through it and made all the right choices. I was sitting on the bow in my pajama pants and a raincoat readying to make another drop while Dan, wearing the same attire, was motoring us away from those aforementioned dangers. And we knew we were in the green. This is all part of cruising.
He came up to a spot he deemed good for our second anchorage and told me to release the anchor. I dropped it down and untangled all the snags that had made their way onto the foredeck. We threw out the anchor buoy and pulled back on the anchor, resetting it in the mud. I let out a bit of scope and we made our way back inside to dry off and warm up.
I set up two reference points, one behind the other, and watched them religiously to determine if we were drifting back. Ten minutes passed without an inch lost. We gave each other manly sailor hugs and had delicious chocolate cake to celebrate. While I'd never wish for this to happen again, this was an incredibly exhilarating experience and one we would have probably found eventually. It appears our problem stemmed from the way we setup our anchor buoy. We had cleated one of the ropes coming off of it to our bow to ease its recovery. It seemed this line, as we were pushed back by the wind, pulled on the anchor and tripped it out. From now on we obviously won't secure the buoy to the boat in any way. And once we reset the Rocna, she held beautifully. This experience was truly a testament to the mariner's saying: “A boat is only as good as its ground tackle”.
Here's a shot to help understand the situation. The wind was basically blowing in the direction I was facing when I snapped the shot.
10:07
I write this, today, after successfully making anchorage in Ensenada Harbor last night! As I look out of the companionway (entrance to cabin), I realize I am surrounded by a sight very similar to our last port, but smaller in size. There are the ubiquitous off-loading cranes with freighter beneath, a breakwater utterly covered in bird guano, and a mountain, on which resides many a house. The atmosphere is filled with the buzz of machinery, engines, and alarms. The air ripe with the scent of seagulls and low tide. It's just like home.
We started making our second attempt at Ensenada early yesterday morning. After an uneasy night of heaving to (the new direction of the waves made the boat feel like it was sailing forward, thus prompting numerous coordinate checks) we woke up to a nice southwesterly breeze. Being southwest of Bahia de Toros Santos ourselves, we immediately seized the opportunity. We had been becalmed for too many days this voyage to not hurriedly jump on a stiff breeze in the right direction.
We instantly threw up all the sail we could (without having to manage a spinnaker). I took down our down-sized heaving-to jib and replaced it with our 160% genoa; followed that with hoisting up the main. It was another downwind approach (this time from the south rather than the north) so we went wing and wing most of the way. We had to tack (bringing the bow of the vessel through the wind in order to change direction of sail) back a few times to avoid a lengthly rock formation off the tip of Punta Banda, but eventually we were in the mouth of the Bahia.
The sight was truly incredible. The sheer size of the bay was a masterful work of art by mother nature. A natural formation on the northern part of the Baha Peninsula, the bay spans ten miles across and twelve deep. As we entered around the tip of Cabo Punta Banda, there could be seen a tall formation of reddish-brown bluffs on the right that slowly came down to sea level as you pan to the left. When the cliffs reached the ocean, they turned into golden sandy beaches that practically lined the rest of the entire bay. Little towns had sprung up and seemed to have attempted to build as close to the beach as possible creating crowded spots of population on the water. That is until you looked far enough north to find Ensenada. It had the same crowded look, but it was no spot. This city, the first to populate the bay, was vast. It extends several miles along the beach waterfront and several more miles up into the Sierra Madres behind it.
Continuing to make our way in, we contemplated our new dilema: where to drop the anchor. Dan scouted the bay with binoculars while I held the course to Ensenada (northeast portion of the bay). Glances at the dated chart and glances around the bay revealed no promising anchorages. Our guide stated anchoring was prohibited within Ensenada Harbor but it, too, was also a year dated. So we made a phone call. The call was to a marina within Ensenada Harbor explaining our situation: we had to motor to maneuver into a slip, were unfamiliar with the bay and harbor, and we required an anchorage or moor before nightfall. The man, very helpfully, told us his mooring balls were full due to the impending storm, but described a location where we could anchor in the harbor.
As we made our way in, the sun, once again, began to decline quickly. But this time the wind was in our favour. We managed to sail into the harbor and drop the main to prepare for anchoring maneuvers. We came in and spotted our anchorage: right in front of the Mexican Navy base. After some tacks, I dropped the anchor and, to my relief, it hit bottom in about thirty feet. I let out some rode (chain and line that attaches the anchor to the boat) and we were safely anchored. The wind pulled us back on the hook, setting it. And then we examined our position further. We were flanked on one side by a marked off underwater wreck it seemed and the other by the Navy. All a bit off the main channel where all the big boys come in. It was perfect.
We fooled around with the electrical system to try and get the anchor light nice and bright before finally just stringing a 12 volt light up one of the flag halyards. I then, exhausted from our days at sea, quickly fell asleep. Today we are in the familiar condition of being rained in, but this time in Mexico! We were going to check into the country today, but a quick glance at our guide reports that the immigration office (Centro Integral de Servicos) is closed on the weekends. So I'm not sure what we're going to do. We'll probably just hang around the boat entertaining ourselves with paper-based media and, if the rain ceases, we may row to shore to check our Ensenada proper.
14:57
Well the storm we were warned of did blow in. We didn't expect too much due to the weather report of 13 mph winds. When we anchored last night, we had no idea which way it would be coming from and only hoped that it didn't come from the south (the only direction the breakwater doesn't cover). Well, it ended up coming from the south. We hoped this only meant a rock n roll ride and nothing more. As I was drafting up a post for the internets, I took a look behind me at the buoy line (the only way to get a connection here is to sit in the companionway entrance) to notice that the buoyed off line we anchored outside of was a bit close. I mentioned it to Dan and he clarified that that was the usual distance and to warn him if it got any closer.
In about another 30 seconds, I once again peered back to check it's distance. I mentioned my concern that I thought it had gotten closer and Dan sprung up and took a look himself. We both agreed that it had shortened its proximity. We both hastily threw on our raincoats and stepped into the weather to assess the situation. We were drifting back onto a lee shore (the boat is in between the wind and the shore) and our anchor was no longer catching. Quick decisions had to be made at this point. We were already breaking through the blocked off buoy line that seemed to prevent mariners from going into debris-littered waters. To the lee (in the direction of wind flow) of the debris was a shore of rocks that the now-growing swells were crashing against. Not a good situation.
Dan exclaimed that we had to kick on the diesel and use it to get away from the rocks and redrop the anchor. But the buoy line was directly under the boat at this point. If we had turned on the diesel, the line would wrap around the prop shaft and render the engine even more useless. So I clambered forward to crank in the anchor rode and bring us off the line. Hauling it in eventually turned into a hand-work job as our gypsy (the winch used to pull in the anchor) started tangling the chain due to improper installation.
I managed to bring her off the line while Dan started the engine. I finishing hauling up the Rocna right as he started making speed away from the rocks. As I sat on the bow, holding the anchor up, gasping for air, the downpour caused me to look back in order to shield my face. Dan and I's eyes caught and we flashed each other smiles. Although there was a bit of fear involved, we had broke through it and made all the right choices. I was sitting on the bow in my pajama pants and a raincoat readying to make another drop while Dan, wearing the same attire, was motoring us away from those aforementioned dangers. And we knew we were in the green. This is all part of cruising.
He came up to a spot he deemed good for our second anchorage and told me to release the anchor. I dropped it down and untangled all the snags that had made their way onto the foredeck. We threw out the anchor buoy and pulled back on the anchor, resetting it in the mud. I let out a bit of scope and we made our way back inside to dry off and warm up.
I set up two reference points, one behind the other, and watched them religiously to determine if we were drifting back. Ten minutes passed without an inch lost. We gave each other manly sailor hugs and had delicious chocolate cake to celebrate. While I'd never wish for this to happen again, this was an incredibly exhilarating experience and one we would have probably found eventually. It appears our problem stemmed from the way we setup our anchor buoy. We had cleated one of the ropes coming off of it to our bow to ease its recovery. It seemed this line, as we were pushed back by the wind, pulled on the anchor and tripped it out. From now on we obviously won't secure the buoy to the boat in any way. And once we reset the Rocna, she held beautifully. This experience was truly a testament to the mariner's saying: “A boat is only as good as its ground tackle”.
Here's a shot to help understand the situation. The wind was basically blowing in the direction I was facing when I snapped the shot.
We figured out you guys left when we came back to the dock one day and found your boat gone. I kept meaning to read your blog to catch up with your progress and I have finally slowed down to do just that. You guys are making good progress! Great to know that you have finally made it to Mexico.
ReplyDeleteWe haven't been down to the boat for about 2 weeks now. Work has kept us extremely busy. We may not be down there for another week.
BTW, we finally bought a fishing license! :)