The La Paz Waltz

Some evenings, the "La Paz Waltz" Ð the disconcerting dance of boats on and over and around their anchors to the contrary rhythms of tide and wind in this Baja California, Mexico, anchorage Ð is the stately, refined, aloof dance it is named after.

Other evenings, it is more like a hoedown

This is one of those evenings, Spring Cruising Season, 1998. As the boats begin to kick up their heels, the heads of their owners come popping out. Without seeing them, I know their expressions are full of concern and worry. Like defensive drivers on LA highways, they jerk their heads this way and that, knowing that it's the other guy's boat that will drag its anchor and come do-si-doing their way.

It's part of an afternoon ritual in the otherwise accommodating La Paz anchorage; we park ourselves attentively in our cockpits and listen for panicky voices on VHF channel 22.

Out of respect for my neighbors and out of duty to my captainhood, I'm taking a seat where the others can see me. But I'm not worried. I've got my popcorn, root beer, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I know I picked a good spot to drop the hook, with adequate elbow room. And I know my 66-pound Bruce anchor got a good mouthful of mud when I set it, and that my fat-line snubber is hard at work.

All this do-si-doing and Virginia Reeling must make tough work for my big ol' anchor. It warms my heart to think of him hugging the bottom with muscular, flexing arms, keeping his girls Ð "Hio" and me Ð safe. And "Jack" the dinghy is bobbing around and behind "Hio" like a happy, loyal puppy.

I'm warm with pride for my whole "Hio" family. I love and admire this peace I've earned with experience.

We have all come a long way in a year.

3:30 PM, March 2, 1998

The La Paz Waltz is more like a La Paz Bring In Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk.

And I'm all by myself. Sarah, my captain, my boat partner, my best friend, has left me alone with our boat, "Hio Avae". So now I'm in charge.

Fortunately, I stopped crying about an hour ago, and the calm after my weepy storm, plus a can of Coke which washed down my Marezine have kicked in to keep me out of a paralyzing panic.

Upon my return from a 4-hour drive to get Sarah to the airport on time, my teenaged friend Jokton, who lives seasonally aboard his family's ferrocement boat, "Oceanis", had this to report: You guys had some excitement this morning. You almost got run down by the garbage barge as it came into the channel! They called you on the VHF and blasted their horn at you for about 10 minutes and then went ahead and squeaked by.

I could see my face go gray-green in the reflection of his laughing eyes.

Yeah, he continued. I think you guys may have dragged a bit last night, and you're beyond the anchorage and sitting in the channel.

And I'm all by myself. And I still have to return the rental car. And I don't know what to do. What if "Hio" is still dragging? Do I move the boat now, or wait?

And while I'm panicking and indecisive and about to cry, Jokton is watching with amusement. I can't take it.

I decide to take the car back to the rental place now and deal with the boat laterÉ.then think of Tania Aebi, my heroine since this sailing dream of mine began, and turn back to the dinghy. Her experiences plus my time on boats have taught me that procrastination magnifies problems. I can't hesitate. I can't wait for the situation to possibly get worse. I need to get back to the boat now.

As I pull up to "Hio's" exhaust-blackened stern, the daily dance is about to begin. I can't tell if the anchor has held or not, because I had not taken any bearings when we originally lay anchor. I'm not sure how I'd take a bearing, anyway Ð the boat swings around so much that her relative position is always changing. The chain is certainly making creaking, dragging kinds of sounds, but when I put my hand on it to feel for the bounce, I don't feel anything. It could be that the chain is just rubbing against itself, or a rock, but I can't be sure. I don't have enough experience to know. I don't want to have to reanchor Ð I've never done it myself, and find anchoring to be an unfathomable mystery Ð scope, swinging room, setting, knowing we're hooked. I always trust Sarah's judgment in all these things. However, "Hio" is bobbing beyond the buoy boundary for the channel, so I decide I do need to reanchor now, so that I might be able to sleep through the night. I'm exhausted.

That decision made, I scurry about, clearing stray cushions and garbage out of the cockpit to help me clear my head.

Then I call Jokton, who, with his dad, Jacques, encourage me to wait until the "La Paz Waltz" is over or until the new day has begun, to give myself the benefit of calm waters for my first solo anchoring. Their local knowledge tells them that no big ships should be coming through for the next day or so, and I don't seem to be dragging any further into the channel, or towards any of my neighbors.

I am easily convinced. Another couple of cruising friends, Canadians Francine and Jerry on "Zingaro", have offered to help me reanchor, if necessary, and I call them up on the VHF to request their help tomorrow. I am near tears as I sign off, grateful for them, ashamed at my own incompetence.

Then, I cry. I sit down on the fiberglass floor and bawl. I laugh hysterically, And I calm myself down, taking big, deep breaths. I can do this.

I put on the edgy, solid sounds of "Sun Volt", loud, and begin to deal with what "Hio" needs from me right now. The painter on "The Jack" wants some leather to fight chafe, the boat is a mess, and I need to teach myself how to anchor. The music and the proactivity soothe me, but I still need that Marezine, because the dance has kicked into high gear.

As the wind howls with laughter at me, and the current tugs "Hio" in the opposite direction like a spoiled child fighting for attention, I pull out the Bluewater Handbook, the Annapolis Book of Seamanship, and The Offshore Cruising Encyclopedia, and read everything each book has to say about anchoring. It all seems so straightforward on paper, but mysterious in the doing.

The inappropriately-named "waltz" settles down at nightfall, but the wind does not. I have to face the windswept (20-plus knots) sea to get back to the Marina to return my rental car. I put it off as long as I can, then, motivated by the desire for a hot shower, take the plunge.

Literally.

I'm still more land-smart than sea-smart; heading into big seas (relative to my little 8-foot hard dinghy and its 4-horsepower Evinrude outboard), I load the bow down with the full freshwater jerryjugs I couldn't lift onto "Hio" by myself Ð for stability, I think, to balance my weight back aft. And am subsequently swamped by wave after crashing wave for the 15 minutes it takes me to get to the marina. Drenched. No dry clothes to change into after the shower, so why shower? Anyway, we have a full tank of freshwater at home, right?

I return the rental car, dripping. Jose Manuel, at the agency, just smiles at me with his distracting light eyes.

When I return to the Marina, I double-check my dinghy-loading logic with another friend, David, of the vessel "RayaniÓ. Now, going back to "Hio" with the wind and seas, I do want that weight in the bow, right?

Right.

Now if I could only make a clean landing onto "Hio" under power. Sarah usually drives the dinghy, because having her watch me fumble with the outboard makes me nervous. I can land the "Jack" when I'm rowing, but the approach Ð slow down Ð shift gear to neutral Ð and cut throttle drill is a whole new adventure. Thankfully, it's dark.

And, thankfully, I can take a shower and settle in for the night.

But when I turn on the fresh water pump, it simply coughs and sputters. OK, I think. Par for the course. I can handle this: I'll get the manual and troubleshoot.

I read through the manual, check hose fittings and tank valves. Everything seems to be in working order. The last thing I check? The forward tank. It sounds oddly hollow when I knock on it, so I go to the trouble to open it up.

Dry as a bone. Dry.

So I'm confounded yet again. I still can't get those heavy jerryjugs out of the dinghy alone. I've got a half of a half gallon of drinking water that might get the salt off my butt, if I'm frugal with the washrag.

I call Jokton to let him know I've arrived back at the boat safely, if wet and disgruntled. After hearing the latest of my misfortunes, he replies with a chuckle: "I guess this just isn't your day."

Wrong. It IS my day. It's my day to be captain, and this is what being captain is.

I pop in a gospel music tape to keep me company as I sit, alone on the boat, in the dark. The tape-recorded voice of my old choir director, Marichal Monts, feeds my strength. He says: "Hallelujah. We're gonna make it. Hey, listen. Nobody else encourages you to know that you're gonna make it. You sometimes have to encourage yourself and say, "I'm gonna make it."

I did not know then how much strength and courage I would need to find in myself, in order to pursue my cruising dream. I did not know that I would, a year later, become captain and sole owner of this boat I originally shared with my best friend. There I was a year ago, afraid to reanchor "HioÓ, let alone take her any further.

And here I am now, sitting in the cockpit with my popcorn and root beer, confident in the set of my anchor upon my return from my first singlehanded week-long excursion to nearby Islas San Francisco and Partida. Back in my familiar La Paz neighborhood alongside the Magote, the marshy finger of land opposite town, I stopped the boat, ran forward and dropped the hook confidently, behind and between a couple of boats, and paid out enough chain to leave myself plenty of elbow room Ð and securing scope -- to dance out the wildest of Waltzes. I'm still a bit mystified by the concept of "swinging room", so I just keep well away from everybody else. But I am no longer intimidated by anchoring Ð I know when the Bruce has set, I know how to monitor my position relative to land and other boats, and I know I can pull up the anchor with the electric windlass and move whenever I need or want to.

It's amazing, really. There I was a year ago, never expecting to be much more than "Gilligan" to Sarah's "Skipper". Here I am now, preparing to cross the Pacific towards New Zealand

Here I am, capitana.

It feels remarkable and exceptional and ridiculously normal. This feeling doesn't just come from being one of so few young, single, on-a-mission women who own a boat and came into her cruising dream not on the heels of a man. More than that, it comes from seeing how far I've come in a year. It's not often that I find myself in a place where I can so readily measure the changes in myself - like I have a pen in my hand and am marking my height on the kitchen doorway.

Every time I set an anchor, or set sail, I make a mark.