Depth

The depth-sounder reads 4.3 feet. Habibi’s draft is 4.6. Had we run aground?

I was so close to the marina, sailboats only a few yards away. I turn and gun the throttle. Are we moving? The water churns with mud. More throttle. Slowly, slowly, yes. Hallelujah.

When I hauled anchor at Isla Isabela, single-handed, without buddies, I was anxious. San Blas was 40 miles away – a long day with light wind. But I was able to harness what there was, first from the north, then from the west, motorsailing between four and five knots. And for some reason I always had a following sea, pushing me along. 

I was still hyper-alert when a pod of dolphins adopted me. Buddies after all! They accompanied me off and on for hours, and I finally relaxed into the day. And what’s that? Whale spouts in the distance!

With so many hours at sea, I finally figure out the mainsail. It’s one thing to follow orders on a boat full of other students, it’s another to be able to sit and contemplate exactly how all the parts move in symphony. Yes, I have used the traveller and the boom vang and the mainsheet, but today it all clicks for me. What if I adjust this pulley? What if I pull this line in, or let it out  – what happens? With all this space and time without distractions, it comes together. Ha!

In the afternoon, the wind is light and shifty, coming from behind. Hmm. Should I try wing-on-wing? Leaving the mainsail on the port side, I unfurl the jib (the foresail at the bow) to starboard. Beauty! We are angels in flight, our wings spread wide on either side of Habibi. Neato! Plus we pick up a little more speed.

It’s after sunset by the time I arrive at Bahía Mantanchén. It’s easier for me to anchor in the dark than mess with docking at the marina, though San Blas had been closer. Also, gorgeous high mountains to the east called me, the Sierra Madres. 

After resting two nights, I’m ready to tackle the marina. A man shouts from the fuel dock that it’s deeper there. Sure enough, the depth-sounder is happier, though the current still pushes me toward the submerged shoal. Breathe, baby. Almost there.

And we’re docked! five weeks and a day after leaving Mazatlán. Which is about how long Habibi’s two water tanks (a hundred gallons) last me, and one reason I left Isabela’s paradise. The other reason was food. Quinoa and lentils have lost their thrill, and I haven’t had fruit for awhile. I knew it was time when I discovered an avocado and did a happy dance.

Water, food, showers – I stay two nights. I even start a bucket of laundry. But then it’s time to go, the no-see-ums and mosquitos so delighted with my presence. I ask the lone woman dock-worker to help me. Now I understand why competant crew is so prized. Even with the language barrier, we work well together, and soon the lines are cast off and I motor away with the falling tide.

Anxiety sits on my shoulder while I exit the channel, but she’s quiet. Plenty of water beneath us. A big swell at the mouth reminds me to look up and out, away from the screen of charts. The map is not the territory, to paraphrase philosopher Alfred Korzybski. I turn Habibi to face the waves, and continue the voyage.