Capitana

“¿Capitana?” asks Guillermina, the manager of Marina Mazatlán. Are you the Captain?

“Sí,” I reply, yes, and she smiles widely.

A man comes in the office while I am signing the docking contract. “She is the Captain,” she brags, and he gives me a thumbs-up.

Role model! Because I am doing what I am supposed to do: listen to the Sea, and learn to live in her full-time. I will make shirts that proclaim, I AM THE CAPTAIN, just to remind me. I buy Martinelli’s sparkling cider to celebrate. As a professor to my mother at UCLA, and co-owner of the company, Serena Martinelli was an early role model.

Solitaria is the name of the big rock just outside Agua Verde that greeted me before we cross the Gulf of California. It looks like a wind sculpture of a Polynesian/Mexican Madonna. La Virgen, not the singer. My Irish grandmother collected Marys, and I have a Navajo Mary on the altar. Solitaria is a good sign for this usually solitary sailor.

It took four full days to sail southeast over the Sea from the peninsula to mainland México. The crossing was a trial, physically and emotionally. The expert I hired to help does not inspire confidence. And questionable ceviche (raw fish) incites seasickness. I also lament the angel I left behind, as well as the hard-won familiarity of Baja Sur. Seven months by the comforting mountains of La Sierra de la Giganta, now herstory.

Singing helped: “Amazing Grace,” “I’m Checking Out,” “Break These Chains,” “Miss Celie’s Blues (Sister),” and “I Feel a Sin Coming On.” My voice is strong and clear and resonant. One night, at a low point, two bioluminescent dolphins surf the bow wave, stars numerous and bright above. In the morning, a baby humpback investigates Habibi. I keep a worried eye out for her mama, and bang a clave rhythm on the hull to communicate our whereabouts.

After days and nights of continuous sailing and motor-sailing, we arrive in Mazatlán in the wee hours, exhausted. The Old Port is crowded. It’s hard to see straight, let alone the other boats. Scared, I sit on the foredeck and call on the Ancestors to help us. They answer, and I tell the expert that I want to go to Stone Island, which may not be so congested. So we do. Because I am the captain.

Anchoring is tricky, and I’m afraid of backing into a catamaran. But finally the anchor digs in and holds. He checks it. I check it, then crash into bed. After a few hours’ sleep, I clean up and putter around, dumping and organizing. In the late afternoon, on the rising tide, we motor to the marina. A windsurfer strafes us. Party boats play loud music. Fishing pangas zoom by.

The entrance is shallow, we sort of surf in the port (left) side, then glide by resorts and condos. I watch the depth, and am relieved when we dock. 350 nautical miles under my belt. The first long haul on Habibi. Safe and free. The biggest lesson? Trust my SELF. Soy la Capitana.