Beginning at the Berkeley marina, I drive south for days, seeking out sailboats and surfing when I can: Santa Cruz, Morro Bay, Santa Barbara, Oxnard, Long Beach, Newport, Dana Point, Oceanside, San Diego. Cross the border into México and check out San Felipe, Bahía Tortugas, Santa Rosalia.
Spend an afternoon and night at Playa El Coyote, a busy place, but swim three times. Ah, the glory and healing of the sea!
At dawn a guy parks his pickup beside me and proceeds to trim palm trees. Fine. Moving on to Loreto. Nope. No boat feels like home.
I chance across a sentence in a guidebook that suggests Puerto Escondido for boats with deeper drafts. So several miles down the road, I take a left toward the port. Hot, cranky, the cool of the morning history.
Takes a few tries to find the right office with the right person who knows what is for sale. “I’m looking to buy a sailboat between 24 and 34 feet,” I say.
“I only have two right now,” the woman glances at me briefly, “both 37 feet.” She continues to work on a computer.
“Okay,” I say. I’m here. It’s good practice. I want to see them.
While waiting, I wander the marina and boatyard, stopping by the travel lift to watch the haul out process with a small sailboat. The woman finds me, and her assistant takes me aboard the first boat for sale.
Voilà: Irritation disappears immediately. This is a well-kept boat, tidy and elegant. The rigging looks okay, and the interior does not smell of mold, sweat, or diesel. The sleeping quarters are roomy, as is the bathroom (aka, head) and saloon. The galley (kitchen) boasts a gimbaled stove, which can swing back and forth under sail (you bolt the pots to it). There is a thick binder with manuals about everything, including a watermaker (desalinator) so you don’t have to haul so much H2O. Navigation electronics are new, including an autopilot, which is handy for a solo sailor. The engine is clean and dry, and I even like the swirly designs on the upholstery. Obviously I cannot afford her in a million years.
“What is she called?” I ask Irvin, marveling at the beauty.
“Habibi,” he says.
Whoa. Cruise on over to my Facebook page and see habibi writ large above me. An all-time favorite song is “Ya Habibi” by Malouma Mint Meideh. What does Habibi mean? Beloved in Arabic. Shé means Beloved. Obviously this boat is made for me.
I tear myself away and exit the boat as soon as possible, can’t afford it, can’t afford it, can’t afford it ringing in my ears. Back on dock, I turn to face her one last time and see that she hails from Oceanside CA, a favored surf spot. Oh boy.
In the marina parking lot I email the broker and dare to ask the price. Late the next day he replies, and — holy moly! — I. CAN. SWING. IT. Laughing, I ponder this, as I continue south toward La Paz. I’ve signed up for more intense sailing instruction, five days with six strangers now. (Lunacy? Perhaps, but I really want to live on the ocean without damaging myself or others.)
Sleeping in my tiny house in an oasis more than a hundred miles away, I wonder if I am — once again — running away from Love. Hello, Habit!
No-o-o-o-o. What if I try something new? a deletion, two more letters: Habibi.
What if I bravely choose Love? What if we all did?
essays by shé 
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