Sailing and Yachting News

By now we’ve all heard that we should be taking 10,000 steps a day for a happier, healthier life. Devices like the Fitbit make it easy to record your strides through out the day. At the end, if you’ve managed the requisite 10,000 steps, you’ll have logged about 5 miles. Not four miles or six but — five.

While researching this post, the number 5 kept popping up. I couldn’t get away from it. I dare say it might be the most important number ever.

Since I’m out on the “that’s a bold statement limb,” I might as well go a bit further and say, I don’t think you need to take 10,000 steps to live a happier life. I think you need to take five. Five steps.

What in the hell am I talking about? Right… let me explain.

My wife and I just returned from a long weekend away. We drove to a very small and undiscovered beach on Mexico’s Pacific coast. From the outside, it looks as if we live a carefree existence. But we too tend to get bogged down by the daily B.S. that seems to circumnavigate the globe, hustling to make ends meet, to be productive, and to stave off the worries of the future. While we are away in every sense of the word, every now and then, it pays to get farther away.

From a weather-worn Adirondack chair perched a couple meters above the toasty sand, I watched the sun sink behind the cliffs. When it disappeared, I watched the people around me and I noticed few, if any of them, were staring at the palm of their hand. At a device.

Except for the annoying, selfie obsessed couple from who-the-fuck-cares, most were strolling along, lost in thought. Some played with their dogs, while others just sat on the sand, watching the same sun I was watching; staring out at the surf break.

As the condensation from my perfectly-chilled Victoria dripped down my shin, I realized just how much life we miss every day in our distracted lives. I’ve known it for years. We all have. Technology served up the false promise that with it, things would be easier. And we swallowed it — hook, line, and sinker.

Phones with the computing power of spaceships hypnotize us. Our refrigerators will order groceries when it detects we’re running low. God help us if they ever perfect the self-driving car. How far removed from life do we need to be if we can’t stop long enough to drive ourselves.

I’m sorry… I’m out.

It’s become glaringly obvious to me that people love their distractions. They love distractions almost as much as they love their excuses. Having an excuse gives you an out. It gives you a reason to remain just as you are. You don’t have to lift a finger to change because — [insert excuse].

Hell, if you do it correctly, being distracted keeps you from ever having to make the excuse. It’s a perpetual cycle that prevents many of us from noticing the ticking of the clock. I know this, because I made excuses for years. Fed myself Bullshit Flakes for breakfast and created a forcefield fed by the power supply, “I’ll be happy when…”

When we left to go sailing in 2012, I made a promise to myself that I’d stop. I shut down the forcefield and it worked for a while but — like everyone else, I got distracted. I’m now redoubling my efforts to focus on what is and not on what is… ahead.

Just for fun, I googled “How to be happy.” 204,000,000 results. Damn! That’s a lot. I clicked the top result: wikiHow: 3 Ways to Be Happy. There weren’t 3. There were 22 different steps. See the irony?

My friends, there’s no riddle to life. If there was, there would most likely be 3 or… 22 different answers. We hear all the time about the secret to happiness. I’m here to tell you, it’s not a secret. And there aren’t 3, or 22 or 10,000 steps.

From that Adirondack chair I deciphered the Code of the Perpetual Wanderer. Wanna take a guess at how many steps to happiness there are in my code? Exactly — 5. Just five simple steps on the Path of the Perpetual Wanderer (It’s a very short path).

• Simplify. Everything
• Move more — eat less
• Get more sleep
• Get off your fucking phone
• Walk barefoot

The universe has been trying to tell us about 5’s importance all along. We’ve simply been too distracted to notice. How many fingers do we have? 5. Toes? 5. Senses? 5. How many Jackson’s were there? 5. We don’t call it a four o’clock shadow, and everybody knows about the five goldennnn rinnnnggggs!

There are 5 days to a work-week, 5 Great Lakes, 5 vowels (a, e, i, o, u), 5 food groups, and 5 boroughs in Manhattan.

Chanel No. 6 would have been a bit over the top, and Jack Nicholson would never have wasted his time on a movie called Two Easy Pieces.

There are the 5 Epochs of Civilization, 5 Pillars of Islam, and 5 Precepts of Buddhism.

I’m not done yet.

Five elements in Western alchemy (earth, air, fire, water, spirit) and 5 in Chinese philosophy (wood, water, fire, earth, metal). There are five stages of grief, five guys named Moe, and when cut horizontally, an apple has five seeds in the shape of a five-pointed star. Go ahead, look it up.

I assure you, deciphering the Code of the Perpetual Wanderer was not an easy task. Countless cervezas gave their lives in the name of discovery. The above 5 tenets have been time-tested and painstakingly pondered over the last decade at least.

Please — be careful with the aforementioned information as it may lead to sudden job-quitting, debtlessness, and a heightened sense of I don’t give a fuck-itis.

Don’t believe me? Care to remain as you are? No problem. Keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll keep enjoying that secluded beach and chilly Victorias.

After all, it’s 4 o’clock somewhere.

The post It’s Four O’clock Somewhere appeared first on Vacilando.

As you all know by now, we sold our boat. And, after a decade of working towards our goal of living tiny aboard a sailboat, we now find ourselves traveling via the Shoe Leather Express instead of aboard our trusty steed, Vacilando.

I’m not going to lie, it’s been hard. We’re having (I’ll speak for myself here), I’m having a bit of an identity crisis. At least once a day, I think to myself, this has been a really cool break but, I can’t wait to get back to the boat. Then, the reality hits. We don’t have a boat.

We’ve gone from house to sailboat to suitcase and it got me thinking. Is there life after living aboard?

The short answer; not really. Living and traveling aboard a sailboat is unlike any other experience I’ve ever had. When you travel with your entire house, much like in an RV, I’d imagine, you’re never without a place to stay. You have all of your stuff and you never have to worry if you left the iron plugged in back at the house.

Is it difficult? Yes, of course. Nothing worth having is easy. Scary? At times, sure. The weather these days has changed and sometimes storms at sea can be downright terrifying. But, along with the weather, technology has also changed. It’s much easier to keep track of the weather and plan accordingly. It’s been the most incredible and rewarding experience of my life. I’ll go all in and say the same for Melody, too.

Living aboard, as we did for six years, we became professionals at living small. Tiny, even. Our 35-foot sailboat had about 115 square feet of living space.

At times, like after a week straight of rain, it could feel like the inside of one of my nasty running shoes. And then, just like that it could change. A hot shower and glass of wine after a frigid day on the water and it was better than the Ritz Carlton. Hitting both ends of that spectrum might happen within the same hour sometimes. That’s what was so cool about living on a sailboat. That’s what we miss.

For the last seven months, we’ve been landlubbers. After selling V and leaving the Rio Dulce, we rented an apartment in Antigua, Guatemala for 6 months, then Xela (Quetzaltenango) for a month, and now we are in another apartment in the hills above Oaxaca, Mexico.

We’ve experienced a lot of change. What hasn’t changed though, is our ability and desire to live small. Simple. Going from sailboat to suitcase hasn’t been too difficult because we’ve trained ourselves. If we buy something, we usually get rid of something. We try to keep a zero balance with what he have to drag around with us.

While in Antigua, we bought a spatula. Yep… a spatula for .75 cents. Melody bought some beautiful hand-made boots and a poncho. In Xela, we found a gorgeous hand-made wool blanket and, I too got a poncho. I had been wanting one since we got to the interior towns of Guatemala where they’re famous for their wool products. It’s stuff we may never have the chance to get again.

This is how we’re viewing this section of our journey. A lot of what we took off the boat was the stuff we didn’t want to buy again when we got the next boat. Navigation tools, chart books, and not much else. That’s all been shipped back to the states.

Before we left Guatemala for Mexico, we went through all 14 pieces of luggage we made off with when we left Vacilando for the last time. Our room looked like a cyclone hit it. “Why are we keeping this?” Mel would ask. “I have no idea, let’s get rid of it.”

After two days of that, we donated several pairs of shoes, jackets, sweaters, GoPro accessories, cups, coffee mugs, and God knows what else. And, you know what? It felt great! Just like it did when we downsized to move onto our sailboat the first time.

We transited the border with 11 bags, one guitar, a dog, and yes — the spatula. Our traveling band of gypsies is slowly making its way north. To what end, we have no idea.

I know blue water, beach and sunset photos have been conspicuously absent from my recent posts. Some folks have unfriended us on our Facebook page, I guess no longer feeling the need to follow a “bunch of quitters.” But, I assure you all; our feet may no longer be sandy but, our souls are.

We are forever sailors. We will never be able to return to the life once lived. The life pre-boat. I’ll admit, at the moment, life is weird. That’s not a word I use, ever.

Our little apartment in San Felipe is absolutely beautiful. Jet has trouble with the stairs. I carry him up and down several times a day. Just like I used to do to get him up and down the companionway ladder. So, as far from the water as we may be physically, I am ankle deep in salt water in my mind.

I peruse sailboatlistings.com at least once a day. I fantasize about a day sailor, just until we’re ready to go again. Then, I think about our savings. I think about the plan we made and I come to grips, once again, with the reality that we are just having to change — for the moment. The way one has to change when the wind shifts.

This is our wind shift. I hope some of you hang around to see what happens at the weather mark.

Be good. We miss you guys!

 

The post Still Living Tiny: From Sailboat to Suitcase appeared first on Vacilando.

Her name? Quetzaltenango (ket-zal-ten-an-goh). Her Mayan name is Xelajú (Shay-la-ju) but, everyone just calls her Xela. She’s the second largest city in Guatemala and widely referred to as the cultural capital of the country. Sitting at eight-thousand feet above sea level, Xela is big city with over two-hundred and fifty thousand people. The architecture is strangely more inline with New York City or Boston than the Spanish colonial style seen in Antigua.

The vast city’s skyline is dominated by peaks and volcanoes. In fact, the name Xelajú translates to “under ten mountains.” In the 1930, Xela had the first electric railway. How amazing is that! Of course it was demolished by landslides three years later and that’s the hard part. Earthquakes and volcanoes limit mass transit options around these parts to smoke billowing buses and may be why the tallest building is only fifteen stories tall.

Xela isn’t on the “gringo trail.” You have to want to get here. We came because we wanted to see something other than Antigua. We’d been there for five months. If we stayed any longer, we might not have left at all. Traveling with Jet makes things interesting so a little extra planning is required whenever we want to move. We can’t just jump on the local chicken bus or collectivo with our big dog and all our bags. The three times we’ve moved, we arranged private transportation and while not super expensive, it does add significantly to the budget. It’s an easy trade off for us; stress vs. dollars.

If you’re serious about your Spanish study, this is where you need to be. Antigua is great too but, there are so many places in Antigua that speak and understand English, you aren’t hard pressed to use your Spanish. You can get lazy. Here in Xela, good luck finding anyone outside the hostel or hotel that understands a single word you’re saying.

This past weekend, Melody and I hopped on a chicken bus (sans Jet) and took a long ride to an even higher town about an hour and half away called, Momostenango, a small mountain pueblo famous for its wool. We were the only pale skins for miles. The looks were priceless. Normally, I’d go on for days, rambling about just how beautiful it is in Guatemala but, I’m not going to. I will however, share the photos and you can create your own stories.

You see, I stand by my assessment that travel bloggers are ruining everything but, we’ve worked really hard on this blog for over a decade so it’s difficult to let it go. I truly believe that travel is the death of bigotry and ignorance and I’m conflicted when I think about how I present things now. I believe that everyone of us should have to stand in the middle of a market as the minority. And, I won’t ever forget the times I’ve butchered my Spanish asking for directions or needed help ordering a meal and, expecting a look of frustration, received nothing but a smile and a laugh in return. Go somewhere you’ve never been. Do something you’ve never done. Be patient. Be kind. Take care.

The post Her name is Xela. appeared first on Vacilando.

I grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the youngest of five children born to Italian parents. It’s 1975. The Vietnam war ends; the Dow closes at 858, gas costs an astronomical 44 cents a gallon, and some kid named Bill Gates creates a little company called Microsoft.

I’m a nine-year-old with crud under my nails, ripped Toughskins, and a foul mouth. Things move slower. Nobody has a smartphone, families eat meals together. Food connects us.

(I wish I had access to my old photos for this part)

I can remember how my cousins and I spent many a Sunday afternoon at my grandmother’s West Philly row house watching the Eagles play. Pots taller than me bubbled away on her pink porcelain stove. If you’ve never bathed in the aroma of home-grown tomatoes reducing in red wine, garlic, onion, and oregano, you haven’t lived.

Constance made everything from scratch and picked most of the veggies from her modest garden. She used both veal and pork in her meatballs, soaking day-old bread in whole milk before mashing it into the meat with her crooked hands.

My grandmother has long since passed. Things…life…moves at a rapid clip, which is starkly juxtaposed against my current existence. I live on a sailboat with my wife and our dog. To give you an idea, it takes us a full day of sailing to cover the distance most vehicles cover in one hour.

For the last six years, I’ve felt how a bubble might feel (if bubbles had feelings) floating through Manhattan. It can be difficult to keep up. If there’s no wifi, I’m off the grid. No email, no Facebook, no texts. It’s wonderful.

At the current moment, I am connected. We’re taking a break from sea life and have landed in Guatemala. Antigua, Guatemala to be exact. And this is where the story begins.

A few weeks ago, Mel and I strolled the cobblestone streets on a chilly, moonlit night. Neither of us knew where we were going, but neither one of us wanted to go home. We wandered by a place a few blocks from our apartment and decided…check that. We didn’t decide anything, the place pulled us in. We didn’t have a choice.

Once inside, I knew I had found the coolest restaurant on the planet.

It’s the tiniest restaurant on the quietest street, far away from the main square. If you blink, you could miss it.

There are no windows. There’s barely a kitchen. Some people see it and walk right on by. Some might stick their head in the door and say, “What the hell is this place?” Some might not dig the Robert Johnson or Chet Baker wafting from crackling speakers.

The graffitied walls might scare others. Names, countries of origin, poems, and plain gibberish cover the place from floor to ceiling. It’s not for everyone…and that’s just fine. Because what makes this place so special is that it’s just right for just the right people.

I like to think of it as the “Goldilocks” of restaurants.

Por Que No began six years ago quite accidentally, when a young couple, deciding they didn’t want to raise their daughter within the madness of Guatemala City, moved an hour west to the city of Antigua. In their new city, they struggled to make enough money to make ends meet.

One day while walking through the neighborhood discussing their dwindling savings, Carlos and his wife, Carolina stumbled upon a small vacant building.

“I was standing there with tears running down my face and Carlos says, “let’s open a restaurant. Right here.” Carolina laughs as she recounts the details. “I said, honey… You don’t cook. We have no idea how to open a restaurant. He knocked on the door and after speaking to the owner of the building for a few minutes, rented the place on the spot. We immediately started cleaning.”

They opened two weeks later using pots, pans, plates, and utensils from their apartment.

Por Que’ No is…compact. The main floor is about 1o’ x 10′. Upstairs in a small loft, you’ll find six tables, each one bearing the scars from the conversations of movers, shakers, lovers, and leavers. The “staircase” leading to the loft is so steep, a rope runs the length of it so you can pull yourself up. If you arrive early, you’ll be rewarded with one of four bar stools and oh, if you’re looking for a sign, forget it. When they opened they couldn’t afford the permit for one. There’s still no sign. Just an old weathered chessboard nailed to the wall above the door.

The food is fantastic, but it’s only part of the appeal. And that’s what got me thinking about all of this in the first place. Yes, it starts with the food. It has to. But, everything about Por Que No seems to be about drawing people together rather than focusing on the individual dining experience.

Sometimes the line stretches around the building, but nobody gets upset. When Carolina apologizes, patrons say, “It’s cool. We’ll wait.”

And wait they do because it’s worth it.

Carlos cooks five feet from the bar over open blue flames, and there are no plans to expand. I could go on and on about the love and attention to detail Carlos bestows upon the tenderloin or curry camarones, but it would fill volumes.

Honestly, the aromas shooting through the air on a heavenly cloud of combustion has to be experienced in the flesh. You have to feel the steam on your face when he hits the pan with a blast of water or cream for the reduction. You can’t focus on one aspect of Por Que No without including the others, just like you can’t focus on one single string on a guitar.

In an age where a single scallop, centered on a 14-inch plate, grazed by a molecule of wasabi mayo, and garnished with a feather cut from virgin kale masquerades as a meal, places like Por Que No are more valuable than ever.

As far as I’m concerned, you can keep your slick 3000-square-foot Manhattan restaurant that charges $24 dollars for a martini. Keep their 6000-bottle wine cellar and their ‘82 Lafite Rothschild.

For me, food isn’t fashion and fashion isn’t food.

Por Que No isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a tiny little window to your soul. It’s not for everyone. And thank God for that.

The news is getting out. Travel magazines, bloggers, and foodies from all over the world are now seeking out this magical little place. And, I have always said, when a restaurant or bar starts printing hats and shirts, it’s over. But… I may have to change my position on that.

If you go, make a reservation. Dispense with any notion that you’ll be popping in for a “quick bite.” If there’s a line, you’ll have to wait.

Carlos won’t rush to turn tables over. His food is his handshake. The ever charming Carolina will keep you entertained with her amazing personality and Nalo will pour you a lovely Carménère if you like.

But you’re still going to have to wait.

Lest we forget, our diners, pubs, and funky neighborhood joints are our identity. They tell the story of who we are. Where we came from. When a stranger wanders in, they do so with the hope of discovering something new about themselves and their surroundings.

Even at our most nationalistic, if we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll realize we are a community of wanderers from the farthest reaches of the planet who’ve decided to mash our crooked little hands into the meat.

The post Por Qué No? The Coolest Restaurant on the Planet. appeared first on Vacilando.

I grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the youngest of five children born to Italian parents. It’s 1975. The Vietnam war ends; the Dow closes at 858, gas costs an astronomical 44 cents a gallon, and some kid named Bill Gates creates a little company called Microsoft.

I’m a nine-year-old with crud under my nails, ripped Toughskins, and a foul mouth. Things move slower. Nobody has a smartphone, families eat meals together. Food connects us.

(I wish I had access to my old photos for this part)

I can remember how my cousins and I spent many a Sunday afternoon at my grandmother’s West Philly row house watching the Eagles play. Pots taller than me bubbled away on her pink porcelain stove. If you’ve never bathed in the aroma of home-grown tomatoes reducing in red wine, garlic, onion, and oregano, you haven’t lived.

Constance made everything from scratch and picked most of the veggies from her modest garden. She used both veal and pork in her meatballs, soaking day-old bread in whole milk before mashing it into the meat with her crooked hands.

My grandmother has long since passed. Things…life…moves at a rapid clip, which is starkly juxtaposed against my current existence. I live on a sailboat with my wife and our dog. To give you an idea, it takes us a full day of sailing to cover the distance most vehicles cover in one hour.

For the last six years, I’ve felt how a bubble might feel (if bubbles had feelings) floating through Manhattan. It can be difficult to keep up. If there’s no wifi, I’m off the grid. No email, no Facebook, no texts. It’s wonderful.

At the current moment, I am connected. We’re taking a break from sea life and have landed in Guatemala. Antigua, Guatemala to be exact. And this is where the story begins.

A few weeks ago, Mel and I strolled the cobblestone streets on a chilly, moonlit night. Neither of us knew where we were going, but neither one of us wanted to go home. We wandered by a place a few blocks from our apartment and decided…check that. We didn’t decide anything, the place pulled us in. We didn’t have a choice.

Once inside, I knew I had found the coolest restaurant on the planet.

It’s the tiniest restaurant on the quietest street, far away from the main square. If you blink, you could miss it.

There are no windows. There’s barely a kitchen. Some people see it and walk right on by. Some might stick their head in the door and say, “What the hell is this place?” Some might not dig the Robert Johnson or Chet Baker wafting from crackling speakers.

The graffitied walls might scare others. Names, countries of origin, poems, and plain gibberish cover the place from floor to ceiling. It’s not for everyone…and that’s just fine. Because what makes this place so special is that it’s just right for just the right people.

I like to think of it as the “Goldilocks” of restaurants.

Por Que No began six years ago quite accidentally, when a young couple, deciding they didn’t want to raise their daughter within the madness of Guatemala City, moved an hour west to the city of Antigua. In their new city, they struggled to make enough money to make ends meet.

One day while walking through the neighborhood discussing their dwindling savings, Carlos and his wife, Carolina stumbled upon a small vacant building.

“I was standing there with tears running down my face and Carlos says, “let’s open a restaurant. Right here.” Carolina laughs as she recounts the details. “I said, honey… You don’t cook. We have no idea how to open a restaurant. He knocked on the door and after speaking to the owner of the building for a few minutes, rented the place on the spot. We immediately started cleaning.”

They opened two weeks later using pots, pans, plates, and utensils from their apartment.

Por Que’ No is…compact. The main floor is about 1o’ x 10′. Upstairs in a small loft, you’ll find six tables, each one bearing the scars from the conversations of movers, shakers, lovers, and leavers. The “staircase” leading to the loft is so steep, a rope runs the length of it so you can pull yourself up. If you arrive early, you’ll be rewarded with one of four bar stools and oh, if you’re looking for a sign, forget it. When they opened they couldn’t afford the permit for one. There’s still no sign. Just an old weathered chessboard nailed to the wall above the door.

The food is fantastic, but it’s only part of the appeal. And that’s what got me thinking about all of this in the first place. Yes, it starts with the food. It has to. But, everything about Por Que No seems to be about drawing people together rather than focusing on the individual dining experience.

Sometimes the line stretches around the building, but nobody gets upset. When Carolina apologizes, patrons say, “It’s cool. We’ll wait.”

And wait they do because it’s worth it.

Carlos cooks five feet from the bar over open blue flames, and there are no plans to expand. I could go on and on about the love and attention to detail Carlos bestows upon the tenderloin or curry camarones, but it would fill volumes.

Honestly, the aromas shooting through the air on a heavenly cloud of combustion has to be experienced in the flesh. You have to feel the steam on your face when he hits the pan with a blast of water or cream for the reduction. You can’t focus on one aspect of Por Que No without including the others, just like you can’t focus on one single string on a guitar.

In an age where a single scallop, centered on a 14-inch plate, grazed by a molecule of wasabi mayo, and garnished with a feather cut from virgin kale masquerades as a meal, places like Por Que No are more valuable than ever.

As far as I’m concerned, you can keep your slick 3000-square-foot Manhattan restaurant that charges $24 dollars for a martini. Keep their 6000-bottle wine cellar and their ‘82 Lafite Rothschild.

For me, food isn’t fashion and fashion isn’t food.

Por Que No isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a tiny little window to your soul. It’s not for everyone. And thank God for that.

The news is getting out. Travel magazines, bloggers, and foodies from all over the world are now seeking out this magical little place. And, I have always said, when a restaurant or bar starts printing hats and shirts, it’s over. But… I may have to change my position on that.

If you go, make a reservation. Dispense with any notion that you’ll be popping in for a “quick bite.” If there’s a line, you’ll have to wait.

Carlos won’t rush to turn tables over. His food is his handshake. The ever charming Carolina will keep you entertained with her amazing personality and Nalo will pour you a lovely Carménère if you like.

But you’re still going to have to wait.

Lest we forget, our diners, pubs, and funky neighborhood joints are our identity. They tell the story of who we are. Where we came from. When a stranger wanders in, they do so with the hope of discovering something new about themselves and their surroundings.

Even at our most nationalistic, if we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll realize we are a community of wanderers from the farthest reaches of the planet who’ve decided to mash our crooked little hands into the meat.

The post Por Qué No? The Coolest Restaurant on the Planet. appeared first on Vacilando.

November 1 is a very big holiday in Guatemala and Latin America. Some call it Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Others call it Día de Todos los Santos or All Saints Day. Many believe on this day, two worlds mesh and become one. Where the spirits of the dead return from heaven to communicate with family. In return, families prepare a local dish called Fiambre and gather by the grave of their relatives to celebrate.

The celebration culminates with the festivals of kites in Sumpango and Santiago. After weeks of preparation, locals gather to assemble and display the enormous colorful kites. This festival began in these cities about 40 years ago, but the tradition of building and flying the massive structures is an age-old practice rooted in Ancient Mayan culture.

Known as “barilletes gigantes” in Spanish, the giant kites of Santiago and Sumpango are incredible works of art constructed with cloth, tissue paper, and bamboo. Most of them contain religious or folkloric themes. The smaller kites range from 3-4 meters (9-12 feet) across and are the only kites that attempt to lift off in the afternoon. It’s harrowing to watch as they lift off, dip and dive over spectators and then rise; slowly drifting over a dramatic landscape.

Many believe that on this day, their dead relatives return to “check up on them.” Some attach messages to their loved ones to the kites hoping that the messages reach the heavens. Once the messages are received, the wind will tear the kites to pieces, which is symbolic of life and death. The kites are then brought back down and burned. The smoke helps guide their loved ones back up to the heavens. These days, it’s become more of a competition to see who can build the largest, most beautiful kite with prizes being awarded to the winners.

The largest barilletes can be up to 24 meters. That’s over 70 feet! These big boys never leave the ground. They’re assembled face down on the dirt. Once done, the locals gather around to watch as many more make ready the lines and hoist the masterpiece to a vertical position. The reveal is exciting. The crowd goes nuts with much-deserved appreciation.

We chose to visit Sumpango rather than Santiago. It’s a little closer to Antigua. There are tons of options for transportation. Most of the tour companies have vans going. All of the local hostels and hotels also arrange trips and for the bravest of the brave, you can cram yourself onto one of the local chicken buses if you’re looking for a death-defying afternoon.

The organized shuttle we took was Q120 (around $18.00 US). That included transport to and from Sampungo, lunch, and a beer. If you want just the shuttle, it’s around Q75 or $11.00. I will say, the “lunch” was a terrible chicken salad sandwich and bruised fruit but the beer was cold. I wouldn’t go that way again. Having no idea what to expect at the festival, I elected to go the “safe” route.

Once we got there, food was everywhere! Delicious local tacos, burritos, empanadas, roasted corn and pork. Lots of pork. It was cheaper and WAY better than the chicken salad. Mel fed her sandwich to a local stray pooch who… refused it. The beers at the festival were ice cold and cost Q10. That’s just over a buck!

The trip from Antigua to Sumpango is about 29 kilometers. That means nothing on this day because traffic, breakdowns, and weather turn that trip from a 30-minute drive into a one hour commute. Picture Nascar featuring customized school buses, motor scooters with three or four people on them, and small cars vying for the same ten feet of dusty tarmac. Throw in a few bicycles and stray dogs and, well- you get the picture.

Once you “get there,” which consists of the driver stopping the van in the middle of the road to let you out, you’ll be greeted with a 200-foot dirt hill to climb. At the summit, prepare to walk a gauntlet that is 5000 of your closest friends shuffling through a dirt floor alley about 6 feet wide. Vendors line the sides with smoking hot grills and cooktops. It takes a great deal of patience and effort to keep from becoming one with whatever is on the grill. This is where most of the pick-pockets make their daily fortunes.

For someone who absolutely hates large crowds, this was the anxiety moment of the day. Luckily- Melody kept me from losing my mind. In a soft, loving voice saying, “Honey… shut up. Relax… stop pushing me.” Ah… total zen, right?

When that joy ends, you walk out onto a large dirt soccer pitch where you’ll be rewarded for your efforts. Cold beers, tasty rum drinks, and the beautiful kites await. There are plenty of places to sit in the shade if you need a break. Most folks carried colorful umbrellas to protect them from the sun. That was a great idea and one I wish we’d thought of.

If you’ve had your fill of the kites and wanna actually see a cemetery bustling with the kind of activity only spirits can muster, take the fifteen-minute walk through town to the cemetery. Once inside the colorful walls, you’ll see hundreds of people celebrating at the grave sites of their lost loved ones. The ground is covered in fresh pine needles and, if you’re hungry, there’s a guy selling popcorn. Quite different from the somber tone in American cemeteries.

Now, for the security issues. When you google the festival or get to the point of booking a shuttle, you’ll find many people talking about the criminal element. You’ll read how some had wallets, passports, and cell phones stolen. Some will make it sound as if you’re walking into a war zone. You’re not. You’re walking into a small and very poor village in Guatemalan hills. Crimes are crimes of necessity and opportunity. You should behave as you would if you were going to a Soccer game in London or to New York City for New Years Eve festivities. Behave as if you were going to any big event, anywhere in the world where thousands of people are crammed into confined spaces.

To put it simply… Don’t be an idiot. Don’t wear your beautiful wedding ring or Rolex. Don’t wear 4-inch open toe shoes and don’t keep your wallet and passport in your back pocket. Make a copy of your passport if you feel you need to have it on you. Melody has a great sports bra that has a pocket inside. She kept our money in there. Yes, it’s bit awkward when she digs in there to get money for tacos, but hey… whatever works. Who doesn’t like boob money? For the record, we only brought a few hundred Q for the entire day.

To give you an idea, seven Quetzals equal approximately one dollar. Q300 amounts to around $43. We only brought that much in case of emergency. For instance, if our shuttle didn’t show for the ride home and we had to take a chicken bus. I kept my cell phone in my front pocket. Mel also brought a heavy canvas purse that’s about the size of an iPad and incredibly difficult to cut through. In it, we had an extra phone battery and some toilet paper. At no point did we feel unsafe.

If you have any desire to see Guatemala, and you should, because it’s an amazingly beautiful country, travel during this time and make sure to see one of the kite festivals. It will stick with you forever. If not now, then for Easter, Christmas, or New Years. They know how to throw a party around here.

I can’t speak to the festival in Santiago, but if you go to Sumpango, wear comfortable shoes that are good for climbing hills. Don’t take valuables. Tap into the section of your brain responsible for patience, and then… have a freaking blast.

The post Día de los Muertos. It’s Alive! appeared first on Vacilando.

November 1 is a very big holiday in Guatemala and Latin America. Some call it Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Others call it Día de Todos los Santos or All Saints Day. Many believe on this day, two worlds mesh and become one. Where the spirits of the dead return from heaven to communicate with family. In return, families prepare a local dish called Fiambre and gather by the grave of their relatives to celebrate.

The celebration culminates with the festivals of kites in Sumpango and Santiago. After weeks of preparation, locals gather to assemble and display the enormous colorful kites. This festival began in these cities about 40 years ago, but the tradition of building and flying the massive structures is an age-old practice rooted in Ancient Mayan culture.

Known as “barilletes gigantes” in Spanish, the giant kites of Santiago and Sumpango are incredible works of art constructed with cloth, tissue paper, and bamboo. Most of them contain religious or folkloric themes. The smaller kites range from 3-4 meters (9-12 feet) across and are the only kites that attempt to lift off in the afternoon. It’s harrowing to watch as they lift off, dip and dive over spectators and then rise; slowly drifting over a dramatic landscape.

Many believe that on this day, their dead relatives return to “check up on them.” Some attach messages to their loved ones to the kites hoping that the messages reach the heavens. Once the messages are received, the wind will tear the kites to pieces, which is symbolic of life and death. The kites are then brought back down and burned. The smoke helps guide their loved ones back up to the heavens. These days, it’s become more of a competition to see who can build the largest, most beautiful kite with prizes being awarded to the winners.

The largest barilletes can be up to 24 meters. That’s over 70 feet! These big boys never leave the ground. They’re assembled face down on the dirt. Once done, the locals gather around to watch as many more make ready the lines and hoist the masterpiece to a vertical position. The reveal is exciting. The crowd goes nuts with much-deserved appreciation.

We chose to visit Sumpango rather than Santiago. It’s a little closer to Antigua. There are tons of options for transportation. Most of the tour companies have vans going. All of the local hostels and hotels also arrange trips and for the bravest of the brave, you can cram yourself onto one of the local chicken buses if you’re looking for a death-defying afternoon.

The organized shuttle we took was Q120 (around $18.00 US). That included transport to and from Sampungo, lunch, and a beer. If you want just the shuttle, it’s around Q75 or $11.00. I will say, the “lunch” was a terrible chicken salad sandwich and bruised fruit but the beer was cold. I wouldn’t go that way again. Having no idea what to expect at the festival, I elected to go the “safe” route.

Once we got there, food was everywhere! Delicious local tacos, burritos, empanadas, roasted corn and pork. Lots of pork. It was cheaper and WAY better than the chicken salad. Mel fed her sandwich to a local stray pooch who… refused it. The beers at the festival were ice cold and cost Q10. That’s just over a buck!

The trip from Antigua to Sumpango is about 29 kilometers. That means nothing on this day because traffic, breakdowns, and weather turn that trip from a 30-minute drive into a one hour commute. Picture Nascar featuring customized school buses, motor scooters with three or four people on them, and small cars vying for the same ten feet of dusty tarmac. Throw in a few bicycles and stray dogs and, well- you get the picture.

Once you “get there,” which consists of the driver stopping the van in the middle of the road to let you out, you’ll be greeted with a 200-foot dirt hill to climb. At the summit, prepare to walk a gauntlet that is 5000 of your closest friends shuffling through a dirt floor alley about 6 feet wide. Vendors line the sides with smoking hot grills and cooktops. It takes a great deal of patience and effort to keep from becoming one with whatever is on the grill. This is where most of the pick-pockets make their daily fortunes.

For someone who absolutely hates large crowds, this was the anxiety moment of the day. Luckily- Melody kept me from losing my mind. In a soft, loving voice saying, “Honey… shut up. Relax… stop pushing me.” Ah… total zen, right?

When that joy ends, you walk out onto a large dirt soccer pitch where you’ll be rewarded for your efforts. Cold beers, tasty rum drinks, and the beautiful kites await. There are plenty of places to sit in the shade if you need a break. Most folks carried colorful umbrellas to protect them from the sun. That was a great idea and one I wish we’d thought of.

If you’ve had your fill of the kites and wanna actually see a cemetery bustling with the kind of activity only spirits can muster, take the fifteen-minute walk through town to the cemetery. Once inside the colorful walls, you’ll see hundreds of people celebrating at the grave sites of their lost loved ones. The ground is covered in fresh pine needles and, if you’re hungry, there’s a guy selling popcorn. Quite different from the somber tone in American cemeteries.

Now, for the security issues. When you google the festival or get to the point of booking a shuttle, you’ll find many people talking about the criminal element. You’ll read how some had wallets, passports, and cell phones stolen. Some will make it sound as if you’re walking into a war zone. You’re not. You’re walking into a small and very poor village in Guatemalan hills. Crimes are crimes of necessity and opportunity. You should behave as you would if you were going to a Soccer game in London or to New York City for New Years Eve festivities. Behave as if you were going to any big event, anywhere in the world where thousands of people are crammed into confined spaces.

To put it simply… Don’t be an idiot. Don’t wear your beautiful wedding ring or Rolex. Don’t wear 4-inch open toe shoes and don’t keep your wallet and passport in your back pocket. Make a copy of your passport if you feel you need to have it on you. Melody has a great sports bra that has a pocket inside. She kept our money in there. Yes, it’s bit awkward when she digs in there to get money for tacos, but hey… whatever works. Who doesn’t like boob money? For the record, we only brought a few hundred Q for the entire day.

To give you an idea, seven Quetzals equal approximately one dollar. Q300 amounts to around $43. We only brought that much in case of emergency. For instance, if our shuttle didn’t show for the ride home and we had to take a chicken bus. I kept my cell phone in my front pocket. Mel also brought a heavy canvas purse that’s about the size of an iPad and incredibly difficult to cut through. In it, we had an extra phone battery and some toilet paper. At no point did we feel unsafe.

If you have any desire to see Guatemala, and you should, because it’s an amazingly beautiful country, travel during this time and make sure to see one of the kite festivals. It will stick with you forever. If not now, then for Easter, Christmas, or New Years. They know how to throw a party around here.

I can’t speak to the festival in Santiago, but if you go to Sumpango, wear comfortable shoes that are good for climbing hills. Don’t take valuables. Tap into the section of your brain responsible for patience, and then… have a freaking blast.

The post Día de los Muertos. It’s Alive! appeared first on Vacilando.

I’ve been meaning to post an update on our travels for a little while now but I’ve struggled. With all the devastation that’s taken place with Hurricanes Irma and Maria, I find it difficult to post about the beautiful town we’ve landed in. It feels irrelevant and trivial. As I start this for about the tenth time, Mexico is now digging out from a devastating earthquake and in the states, wild fires are raging out west. If I were a religious man, I’d say all we need now are the locust. (*Update 10/2/17: and now the mass shooting in Vegas…)

The political and social discord in America is bit unnerving as well. It’s understandable how one can find it daunting to remain hopeful with so much turmoil swirling around. For the last six years, we’ve purposely gone without a television. As a news junkie, I had to cut myself off. The sensationalism was too much. No news. Just drama. But every so often, during our travels, we’d dial up the interweb (when it worked) and dip a toe in to see what was happening. Not surprisingly a quick retreat to the bubble soon followed.

Now that we’re on land again (for the moment), current events and the “news” is front and center. And honestly, a bit depressing. In the interest of capturing that bubble before it floats away forever, I will try to type a post about our silly little life travels. Who knows, somebody may need the escape.

Palm Trees… Always good for an escape to include some palm trees.

First, let me back up a bit. In late August we, quite unexpectedly, sold Vacilando to a wonderful man from Panama. Once the reality set in that the deal was in fact going through, Mel and I were struck with a new reality; we had no idea what we were going to do.

As we formulated what we thought was a plan, things got murkier and murkier. Ultimately, we decided to head to Antigua for a two-week pit stop where we could regroup and process everything. After Antigua, we’d head north to Merida, Mexico. It’s close to Cancun, and an easy jumping off point when the time comes to fly back to the states. In addition, it’s got a rich history and culture, tons of great art, and great food. It’s a big town that we’ve always wanted to see. Porque’ No?

With a loose plan in place, we spent the next few days selling and giving stuff away, and then several more days trying to decide how we were going to keep the things that we wanted. For the record, our boat was not cluttered with stuff. We had no hammocks hanging or quarter berths stuffed with plastic bins. In fact, some of our storage spaces went unused.

But…when you have to pack your life into ten bags, you realized rather quickly that those tools you spent all that money on are not coming with you. Those cool wine glasses? Nope. That collection of books with everything you’d ever need to know about diesels? Uh-uh. Nada.

Once we stopped crying and arguing (which we never do), we buckled down and got real with ourselves. The bare essentials. After all, the only thing we really knew was that we were going to Antigua, Guatemala for two weeks to think through the process of getting all our stuff and our dog to Mexico.

Merida would be a good place to sit for a couple more months and figure out how to fly Jet back to the states without having him riding in the baggage compartment. After reading several horror stories, we decided Jet wasn’t being subjected to that.

To get from the Rio to Antigua, we hired a private shuttle. It was about a seven-hour drive. The roads in Guatemala are okay, but you never know when a mudslide has taken out a portion of the highway. Sometimes construction can cause major backups as well. If you’re traveling Guatemala, you have to be flexible.

For this trip, the bus wasn’t an option. Again, Jet would have been resigned to the baggage compartment, which is hot and miserable. Sometimes the bus ride to Guatemala City alone can top out at 9 or 10 hours. I doubt he’d live through it. But, for $175 USD, we got our own little van and crammed it full of crap.

Our driver William, with Otti Tours was awesome. He was friendly and a great driver. He drove us right to the door of our Airbnb in Antigua. The expression on our host’s face when he saw us unloading all those bags was priceless. I quickly reassured him we weren’t moving in.

I have to say, the first couple days in Antigua were spent sitting in front of the television watching as Irma destroyed the islands and our friends’ homes and businesses. We were texting, checking email and hoping against hope that things would be different.

Outside, the streets of Antigua were alive with celebration. September 15th was Guatemala’s Independence Day. And these folks know how to celebrate. They kicked it off early and the celebration went all week.

One of the events is the run of Antorchas, when a group of youngsters from different schools dress up in blue and white (Guatemala’s colors) and run through the streets carrying a burning torch. The group of kids grows as locals join in to run with them. Some sing, some bang drums and some blow whistles and horns. It’s boisterous and fun to watch. I, too, wanted to join in and run with them, but I might have frightened them as the gringo loco running in flip-flops.

Throughout my life, I’ve seen high peaks and low valleys. Through all of it, there has been one constant, travel. I’ve been lucky or crazy enough to end up in some kooky place that I never planned to be in. Sometimes with nothing more than a few hundred dollars to my name.

Out of all the places I’ve been, Antigua sits firmly near the top. I think Mel feels the same. It’s beautiful beyond belief. It’s streets are alive and filled with color. The food is delicious and the people are fantastic.

We’ve enrolled in one of the many Spanish schools down here, determined to make our time in Central America count. I love learning the language. It’s incredibly hard for me, but I’m trying… estoy intendando. Tonight, I have my first Guatemalan cooking class.

So where does that leave us? Well, like so many before us, we’ve fallen in love with this small city nestled in the hills of Guatemala. We’ve been discovering the incredible food, and we wake up every morning and feel as if we live in a fantasy land. Everywhere you turn, it’s a postcard photograph. Surrounded by volcanoes, one of which (Fuego) pops off several times a day, we keep saying, “Okay. We’ll stay one more week.”

Now… we’ve bumped it up to, “Okay, we’ll stay a month, and then off we go.”

Well… we just rented an apartment. Is that bad?

Stay safe out there. Pray for all of our friends in Texas, Florida, The Caribbean, and Puerto Rico. So many have lost everything and they need help. Try not to get discouraged by the negative news. Stay positive. Stay focused and don’t stop traveling.

Mark Twain once said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

This is never more true than at this very moment. So many with the broadest and loudest opinions have never left their home towns. Ignore the blasts from their trumpets.

Love you guys! Stay in touch. And… I say it all the time, we love hearing from you. Peace.

The post Still is still moving appeared first on Vacilando.

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Some of you may know this and some of you may not, but a couple of months ago, we fairly quietly listed Vacilando for sale. I say fairly quietly, because we put up an ad on Sailboat Listings, then posted 2 Facebook posts about it. That was it.

You see, once we made it down to Guatemala for hurricane season and had a chance to take a bit of a rest, we noticed for the first time that Jet’s getting old. It’s hard to believe he’s over 10 because he still acts like a pup sometimes. During the trip down, he was a rockstar. I mean, seriously, we couldn’t have asked for more when it came to him (except the time he pooped in the dinghy and we had to… well, if you haven’t read our latest post, you’ll have to just read for yourself).

Anyway, he was a champ. He stayed calm in rough seas, tolerated getting in and out of the dinghy several times a day, and behaved himself with territorial stray dogs throughout Isla Mujeres.

But a couple months ago, Chris and I had a long talk. We didn’t like the thought of putting him through more tough cruising right now. His pannus (eye disease) is getting worse, and he will eventually go blind. To sail with him not being able to see would be cruel and stressful, and he deserves better.

In addition, with neither of us being “retired” yet, trying to work while cruising has honestly been tougher than we thought it would be. Finding good wifi in the states was a bitch, and in the Western Caribbean, even tougher.

I (Mel) had a great freelance gig come up while we were in Belize and we had to change our plans and stay in Caye Caulker an extra week because we knew I wouldn’t be able to get wifi further down in the outer islands. Even in Caye Caulker the wifi was slow, so it took me twice as long to finish the project than it normally would have, and time is money.

As you know, we released Chris’ book Burning Man in June, and it’s been tough to market it like we wanted from all the way down here (even though it did hit the Amazon bestseller list!). He has also been writing a few scripts for a TV show and unfortunately, the wifi here in Rio Dulce can be unpredictable at times, too. We are, after all, in the jungle. But the entertainment business doesn’t care that we’re in the jungle and that the howler monkeys took down a power line. They just want their script.

We have a few other potentially awesome things coming down the pipeline, and we’d like to be prepared for them.

All that to say… Vacilando is SOLD.

Yes, as of yesterday, the old girl no longer belongs to us, and has a new owner who we are confident will love her as much as we have. I’m not gonna lie… even though we knew this was the right decision, every time we got closer to a done deal, we had reservations. After all, this has been our home for almost 6 years.

We’ve laughed, cried, and loved on this boat. She has carried us safely through calm seas and angry storms, never judging us – just doing her job. She’s been our safe harbor in so many ways. It’s hard to let go of something you love… but it’s time.

As for what we’ll do now?

Well, the truth is, we’re not sure. We’ve run so many possible scenarios through our heads and our minds change daily… Get a catamaran? Easier on Jet, more room, we can just park it somewhere (with good wifi) and live/work on her until the time is right to go cruising again… Or maybe an RV? A “land yacht” where if Jet needs to go we just pull off the side of the road – no crazy dinghy rides looking for a place to poop. We can do a state and national park tour… something we’ve both dreamed about.

But to be honest, we don’t know if we’re ready to head back stateside quite yet. We’ve loved the challenges that being among other cultures has presented us, and we’d love to see more and learn more. Our Spanish is still pretty terrible, and we’d like to improve that.

All we know for sure is that we’re going to spend a month in a cool little place to decompress. You may hear from us, or you may not. We just need a little time to figure out our next steps and how to navigate our way through this new way of life, whatever that is.

We’re a mix of emotions right now, but we know there’s a new adventure around the corner, and we’re excited to see what it is.

To everyone who has inspired, encouraged, and helped us throughout the past 6 years…we cherish each and every one of you.

Thank you for coming along for the ride.

Vacilando out.

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While it’s not quite long enough to be a “channel” nor narrow enough to be a “strait,” it is a force to be reckoned with. At just over 200 kilometers (120 miles) wide and 2,800 meters (that’s over 9,000 feet deep), the Canal de Yucatan connects the Yucatan Basin of the western Caribbean to the Gulf of Mexico.

Here’s the crazy thing about this body of water. At the surface, along the east coast of the Yucatan Peninsula, the current known as the Yucatan Current, flows north. Along the southern coast of Cuba, a counter current, aptly named the Cuban Countercurrent, flows east. Underneath the north flowing Yucatan current, the flow feeding the Gulf of Mexico, a separate countercurrent flows south drawing water from the Gulf of Mexico. That’s crazy right? Add the Campeche Banks (a large coral mass in the middle of it all) and you have all the makings for one seriously unpredictable body of water.

A little history of the Yucatan Channel: Back in 1973, some scientists discovered that a massive upwelling of water caused constant confused seas in the area. They theorized that something they termed “bottom friction” was a significant factor in these upwellings. Basically, when water flows from a depth of 9000 feet into the coastline shelfs, where depths quickly shallow to 150 to 200 feet, shit gets crazy.

That’s not how they put it, of course. That’s my paraphrasing, if you will. I don’t think “shit gets crazy” is acceptable scientific lingo. None-the-less…

Way, way back, when preparing for this adventure, I had done a lot of research on the north coast of Cuba and the Yucatan coastline. There wasn’t too much to be had on the Western Caribbean, but what I did find was that the water in this area was unpredictable and in a “constant state of confusion.” Think washing machine. I figured, “How bad could it be?” As long as the wind and current weren’t opposed and we picked our weather windows carefully, it shouldn’t be anything we haven’t seen.

Our departure from Isla was fantastic. The wind was blowing 15 knots from the ENE. The sun was shining. We made great time down to Hut Point. We wanted to anchor at Puerto Morelos, but we were informed that anchoring off the beach was no longer permitted due to the fact that they’ve turned the area into a marine preserve.

At around three o’clock that afternoon, we ducked into the break in the reef (that still never gets any less stressful) and dropped the hook in about 8-9 feet of water. The sand at Hut Point is a very thin layer covering a limestone base. We were forewarned, but followed the GPS points that another boater gave us for a decent spot to anchor with supposed good holding.

Once we backed her down and the anchor was set, Melody dove on the anchor and came up with a confused look on her face. “Ummm… the anchor isn’t set.”

“Huh?” I asked, confused because our Mantus has never not set. Ever.

“Yep – she’s not set. She’s just laying there on top of the bottom with about an inch of the tip dug in.”

I dove in to see for myself. Nope – not set! I start the engine back up and attempt to back her down again, hoping the Mantus would find something to grip into. Mel was in the water and watched from below the surface, ready to give me a thumbs up, but instead, nothing. The chain would pull tight, but the anchor would not budge – even lying on top of the limestone like that.

Not very comforting, but with a 10:1 scope laying on the bottom, we “slept” through the night. The beach off our stern provided a nice landing point for Jet.

Late that night, we were awakened by beams of light shining into our salon. We got up and popped into the cockpit and saw that they were coming from the beach off our stern. A couple of people were walking the beach with flashlights. We didn’t think too much of it until I took Jet the next morning for a potty break and I saw a couple of holes along the beach with boot prints nearby.

Our guess was they were poaching turtle eggs. Yes, that sucks. Hopefully they’ll realize, at some point, that the pristine water and abundant wild life is more precious than a short-term financial boost. But that’s not reality. The poverty is reality. Turtle shells and turtle eggs provide an income. It sucks.

The trip south from Hut Point to Puerto Aventuras, our next stop, introduced us to the infamous Yucatan Current. You see, it’s a graceful introduction at first, because on this short run south, one is still a bit tucked in behind the lee of the island of Cozumel and the ENE swell doesn’t fully smash you until the next leg. But, I’ll get to that in a minute.

Puerto Aventuras is an ex-pat resort/marina/development tucked away amongst the beautiful Mayan Rivera. We chose it because there are few other places along the Yucatan coast to stop, and we wanted to do some land travel to see some of the nearby Mayan ruins.

The inlet is a tricky, tricky beast. We called Gerardo, the dockmaster, on the phone and he talked us in and made sure we understood how to line up the range markers. There’s a reef on your port side coming in, and a stone jetty to starboard, and it’s pretty narrow, so the range is necessary, even in good weather.

His directions were spot on. We made it in without a hitch and were soon tied up to the wall and ready to check into the marina. The office manager, Gabriela, also made us feel welcome the minute we arrived. Once we got everything in order with the marina, we set out to explore the resort.

The inlet (looking out). As you can see, it’s very narrow, with rock jetties and a reef just below the surface if you stray too far on either side.

One thing that we noticed immediately was that it was more like being in Florida, or even Disneyworld, than in Mexico. There was a Starbucks, a Subway, a Dolphin Discovery, and a lot of Americans on vacation, speaking English of course. They took US Dollars in all of the restaurants, bars, and shops, and we quickly found out that usually if you paid in US Dollars, you were charged slightly more.

Our first night there, we decided to splurge and ate our first “American” cheeseburger since leaving Florida, and I will admit, it was delicious. However, our stomachs weren’t used to the grease and we quickly regretted it.

On day 3, we decided to rent a car and brave the inland roads to explore the ruins of Coba. We were advised by a few others that Coba was better than Tulum because it had the tallest of the Mayan pyramids, which you could actually climb, and it was far less crowded than Tulum. We decided to visit Coba.

The car rental was just outside of the resort gates and cost us $50 USD per day. The ride to Coba was great, and made it possible for us to stop along the road and eat in the small, family run eateries and explore the shops. It provided us the opportunity to interact with the locals, try our Spanish and see things we might not otherwise see.

Coba was awesome. The site dates somewhere around 600-900 AD, and it was pretty amazing to see such amazing pieces of architecture still standing after so many years. We did a lot of walking – the entire site covers a pretty good-sized area, and explored the many sites, alters, and heiroglyphics.

The pyramid was the highlight of the trip, and we climbed it to the top, where there were several other people taking photos, meditating, doing yoga. Pretty magical all around.

Heiroglyphics One of the Mayan temples at Coba. Just about to climb to the top. Taking in the view from the top.

On the way back, we stopped at a wonderful little local restaurant to sample some of the Mayan flavor. We also stopped at a honey shop to get some fresh honey, which is actually the Mayan’s biggest export in that area. (It was delicious!)

We had only planned on staying in Puerto Aventuras for a few days, but weather came in and they actually closed the inlet to all boats due to 25+ knot SE winds.

We met some wonderful people during our time there and developed some fast friendships. Our new friends took us in, cooked us ribs, and lavished hospitality on us as if we were family. Thank you Nell! Thank you O’Farrell clan! They were kindred spirits, and we had a blast getting to know all of them.

Me and Nell, who was gracious enough to entertain us from her penthouse Mel and Nell. The view from Nell’s condo was pretty spectacular

All told, we were in Puerto Aventuras for 11 days! Sitting for so long takes us out of travel mode and we didn’t really dig that, although Jet loved it when the dolphins at Dolphin Discovery would rush over when they saw him and they’d all have a dockside chat.

It was nice on day 11 when we finally awoke to see the yellow flag indicating the inlet was back open. We were off the dock within 15 minutes!

The trip south from Aventuras is where the Yucatan Channel unleashes itself upon you. Once south of Cozumel, the ENE winds push an already washing machine-like sea state to another level. With the wind at only 15 knots, the seas were over 6 feet. We’d be sailing along with what was supposed to be following seas, only to slam into a bow wave that would break over the entire boat. The next wave would scream up from the beam and roll us over hard to starboard and upon recovering, a special little friend would roll up from behind and slam into our stern, swerving us thirty degrees off track. Surprise! Welcome to the upwelling!

We did day hops to keep Jet from going crazy. Okay… me, too. To keep me and Jet from going crazy. Punta Allen, Bahia Espiritu, and finally the overnight run to San Pedro, Belize.

Punta Allen was, dare I say, the low point. We dropped anchor on the western side of the peninsula and decided to make the trek around to the east side town dock. We were so eager to check out this tiny little fishing village that we’d read so much about. After Puerto Aventuras, we needed a dose of “local” life.

We hopped in the dinghy with Jet, eager to explore (and give him a proper walk and potty break) and as soon as we rounded the corner, the east winds hit us, splashing us with salty chop. Sargasso grass started to clog the intake of our outboard, so every 15 seconds, I had to stop the dinghy to unclog it, which left us soaking wet and asking why we were doing this.

But that’s not the worst part. I guess the constant chop was just too much for Jet to take. Melody noticed that he was pacing and turning circles in the dinghy, just like he does when he’s ready to poop on the grass. She screamed, “I think he’s gonna go!” Before we knew it, he was shitting, and shitting, and shitting… all in the dinghy. Poor guy couldn’t help it. We had nothing to scoop it out with, so yes, folks…we used our hands. Welcome to “the glamorous life.”

By this point, we were all miserable. I thought about turning us around, but Melody was like, “Oh no, we’ve come this far, we should keep going.” So keep going, we did…the rest of the 5-mile dinghy ride.

I took off my shirt and Melody used it to wipe out the remaining mess in the dinghy while I continued to go 50 yards, then unclog the intake…rinse and repeat. Luckily I had another shirt in my backpack to throw on.

We beached the dinghy atop the huge mound of sargasso and tried not to think about how we were going to get out of there and back to the boat in the wind and waves.

The rest of the day was not the best. We were both in foul moods at that point, but we tried to enjoy Punta Allen as best as we could. It is a pretty awesome little village, picturesque in its beauty and in its quaintness.

Just after our dinghy ride…not our best day. “Downtown” Punta Allen.

The next day, we were off, headed for Bahia Espiritu.

When leaving the bays at Punta Allen and Espiritu, you punch due east, and even early in the morning before the afternoon winds pipe up, it’s a nasty slog out to safe water. Once past the reefs, you turn south and experience all that washing machine love all over again.

Bahia Espiritu was nice, albeit a somewhat stressful ride in through a few parts due to shallows. We draw 5 feet and were seeing less than that in one spot on our depth gauge, but we think the soft sand and wave action helped push us through, and we never ran aground.

We anchored in a little cove off of Isla Chal, and were able to anchor just about 150 feet off the beach! We didn’t even have to launch the outboard – we just rowed across. We were all in better spirits, and cracked open a couple of beers and stripped off our clothes because we had this awesome little island all to ourselves. Jet got to run around, and we looked for shells, relaxed, and swam until the sea nettles started getting us.

We had this little island all to ourselves. A carefree day.

The next morning, we were finally off to San Pedro, Belize. We loved Mexico, but were getting excited to get to Belize.

The apex of the sailing misery came on the overnight run to San Pedro. The winds were 15, gusting to 20 so I tucked in the first reef for the overnight hours. I wanted to keep the boat going fast enough to diminish the effects of the sea state as much as possible. It didn’t matter. The results were the same. Lift with a swell. Slam into the back of a steep dropping wave. Pitch. Seas abeam. Roll… way… over. Drop into the trough. Crashing waves astern.

Twenty. Four. Hours. Of. This.

When we arrived to San Pedro (Ambergris Caye), we were exhausted. Fortunately, the passage through the reef was easy. Active Captain notes and Freya’s bearings were spot on. We dropped anchor in the crowded harbor amid the discourteous tour boats, fishing charters and water taxis, and promptly fell asleep.

I think I now understand why most people elect to take the Bahamian route to Belize and the Rio versus the Mexican route. When we were in Cuba, I thought the north coast was some of the more challenging sailing I’ve ever done. That sailing pales in comparison to sailing south via the Yucatan Channel. No matter what causes that “upwelling” they discovered back in 1973, it deserves… check that. It commands respect.

The Yucatan coast is beautiful. The people are incredible. I long to go back. I hear from those who’ve done it that the sail north is better. I’ll need a few months to let my amnesia kick in for that thought to sink in.