It's pretty bad when you get performance anxiety while sitting in front of a computer ... but since our last newsletter, something I had written was accepted for publication by SAIL magazine. Now I'm scared to write anything, for fear it just won't measure up. But this is it: I just watched a beautiful sunrise over the Sea of Cortez, I have coffee by my side ... I'm ready to create.
Hi, folks! We've been busy since our last newsletter. After the visit from the Pardeys, Leslie and I spent three feverish days assembling a package to mail to SAIL magazine. We had manuscripts, photos and drawings scattered over every horizontal surface on Kestrel. The computer was on the table, the printer was on the floor, computer cables were everywhere. We typed, we corrected, we modified, we collected; we changed, we worried, we argued and we hurried. Finally, we slapped several stamps on the envelope and tried to stick it through the slot in the wall of the post office ... but it didn't fit. The lady behind the counter told us to leave it on the typewriter next to the slot. Ooooh-kay (doubtfully). We laid the envelope on the table, said a little prayer, and went off to do battle with the Mexican Bureaucracy.
Believe it or not, dealing with the Customs and Immigration officials was not that bad. Sure, there was some interesting paperwork, (Go down to the copy shop and buy 2 copies of Form #5. Bring them back to Immigration. Stand in line. Wait while official fills out forms. Take forms to bank. Wait in line. Listen while bank teller explains that you need another copy of form. Go to back of bank and plead with assistant manager to pleeeease make a Xerox copy of the form so you don't have to walk 4 blocks to the copy shop. Thank assistant manager profusely. Stand in line. Pay fee. Take stamped copies of form back to Immigration. Wait in line ...) but almost all of the officials were pleasant, helpful, and had a sense of humor. From what we've heard from the Canadians, the paperwork is worse for them in the U.S.
After applying for an "FM-3" temporary residency permit, Leslie and I had 2 weeks to wait while the application was processed. We decided to head out to the islands: just Kestrel, Leslie and Jay -- no guests, no worries. We stocked up with food, topped off the fuel and water tanks, told the marina we'd be gone for at least 10 days, and headed out. For a couple hours we sailed in the morning breeze, but the wind died down and we decided to motor. Folklore tells us that the two best sounds in sailing are the silence after you stop the motor, and the sound of the motor starting when you need it. It follows that the second worst sound in sailing is the sound of the engine *not* starting when you need it. (The worst sound is the sound of splintering fiberglass, but that's another story.)
From that lead-in, you can probably guess that when we turned the key, we were greeted by some extremely foul-sounding ratchety-grinding-whirly noises. We stopped the motor, took the cover off, looked at everything and found nothing wrong ... but I'm no diesel mechanic. After a few futile attempts at discovering the problem, we used our radio to hail some friends from Portland, "Sashay", and they towed us back to La Paz. Docking the boat was a little tricky: our friends were going to tow us past our slip and drop the tow line, and we were had to steer the boat into the slip and stop it with the dock lines before it crashed into the dock. We couldn't go too fast (no brakes!), and if we went too slow we would loose the ability to steer. Leslie handled the wheel with style and panache, and I handled the dock lines without loosing any body parts.
As luck would have it, one of the first people I met on the dock was an acquaintance who is a decent mechanic. Rick of "Cape Starr" consented to come down and look at the engine. To make a long story a little shorter, Rick (with help from another friend Ed, "Fernweh") repaired the engine. He then found several other potential problems and fixed them, and it gave me a lesson in the "Care and Feeding of Diesel Engines."
For those of you who are not boat people, I think I should probably point something out: Kestrel's engine ("Suzi" -- short for Isuzu) lives in a box in our living quarters. You have to step on the box to go below on our boat, and you sit on the box while you're working in the galley. In order to do any major work on the engine (the problem was major), it is necessary to pull the engine out of the box. The only convenient place to put the 500 lb. hunk of iron is in the middle of the living quarters. The effect of having a 27-horse engine in our little salon is roughly equivalent to having a medium-sized bulldozer in your living room. So you can imagine our relief when we put Suzi back into her box.
The completion of the repairs on Suzi coincided with a dock-party: Jim (who towed us back to the marina) was having his 50th birthday. A good time was had by all, but half-way through the party I realized that someone was missing out on all the fun. I went back to our boat, and Leslie followed a while later:
"Jay, what's this fluid all over Suzi?"
"Scotch. I figured Suzi deserved to join the party."
"Hmmm... Good Idea."
Two days later (three weeks after the first try) we were re-fueled, re-provisioned, and headed North once again.
Jay & Leslie