Full Throttle

It happened suddenly. One moment Habibi’s depth-sounder read 19.2 feet, the next moment – at the same time I felt a bump – it read 4. Her draft is 5-6, though the sounder is at least a foot below the water line. 

I wrenched the wheel to port and full throttled. After an excruciating half minute of roaring engine, smoking exhaust, and spinning keel, we burst free. Five feet, five and a half. Six. Ten. Back the way we’d come at 5:30 a.m.

I was exhausted after three full days of sailing north single-handed from Mazatlán, though extremely satisfied. For the first time, I sailed off the anchor one morning, which means I didn’t start the motor in advance. Instead I prepared the mainsail, and flaked the jib sheets and furling line back in the cockpit in readiness. Then hauled anchor, ran back to the helm, and pulled the lines to unfurl the foresail (jib). And we were off in a light breeze from the east. Lovely! And quiet.

But after a violently bumpy night – have you ever tried to stand on a balance ball? Try living on one in the ain’t-called-bounding-for-nothin’ Main — my nerves were shot. Extreme rocking and the resultant crashing crockery (in their closed cupboards, nothing broken) prevented sleep, so as soon as it was light, Fury and Deprivation started the motor, hauled anchor, and headed for Puerto Altata, several nautical miles away. We were done.

Not the easiest port to enter, Bahía Altata, with breakers all along both sides of a half-mile gap into the narrow bay. I researched it beforehand, tracking down boater reviews and tide tables. It’s half moon, so tides aren’t extreme, and now is slowly rising until 8 a.m. Senses on high alert (as if they haven’t been since birth), I watch the tubular waves to the north. Ah, dissipating. Okay. An hour later, we’re in. Sigh of relief until I realize how shallow the bay is. Three knots seems like a good speed, no, let’s make it two-and-a-half. And still we touch bottom.

Afterward, I see the green buoy, waaaay over on the eastside of the channel. A marker. Yeah. Go around here! So I did. Plenty of depth. Then I turned and headed north again. Only to find a pod of dolphins swimming beside Habibi. Maybe we won’t sink after all. Maybe the keel is not irreparably damaged. 

The port itself is still miles farther up and in. Must I continue onto that anchorage reviewed and approved? No. No can do. Must stop. 

A spot on the west of the channel, nineteen feet deep again, says “Hey.” Near scrub-covered dunes, and one big tree. On the eastside are a few houses, as well as cell phone towers so I can access the hurricane site for updates. Calm water, light breeze from the west, protection. Anchor down. 

Below, I lift the floor boards to check the bilge for water. Shit. About a cup. But – don’t panic – I haven’t checked it in days. I mop it dry and monitor it throughout the day. The bilge pump hasn’t activated, but maybe the automatic system isn’t working. It’s an old boat. 

And still I prefer this life to all others. I make up songs and sing them loudly. I swim naked. I create books. I cook duck and quinoa, and eat it with my fingers. No one bangs on the hull or strafes Habibi – oops, spoke too soon. Fifteen minutes after setting the anchor, Omar and Pati greet me in their covered panga. (Ximena is written on the hull, the same name as the store where I bought five brightly colored cotton skirts last year – a good sign?) We exchange phone numbers so I can hire him to guide me out when I’m ready (in a week? a month? Super tired).

The bilge remains dry, and Omar and Pati promise to take me grocery shopping next week. The anchor holds, and deep sleep restores joie de vivre. Sounds of crashing waves waft over the dunes, and the air is fresh. Balance is restored.