The Gulf of Tehuantepec. Flat calm. I’ve been gritting my teeth for days now, in anticipation of crossing this 240 miles where it blows gale force 140 days per year. But today, nothing. Other than a little unpleasantness this afternoon — 20 or 25 knots on the nose with some steep chop — it’s been benign. Still, it will feel good to be across. Even though it is flat calm now, I feel on edge. It’s like having dinner with a murderer.
I guess I should change the name of the web site to “2people1boat.” Gunilla came down to Huatulco a few days ago, carrying two huge duffel bags of spare parts. There was much chatter in Marina Chahue in Huatulco in advance of Gunilla’s arrival. I had spent some time with some of the cruising couples. (Just as an aside, singlehanders get treated like stray, sick kittens in harbors. People put milk out for you, scratch you behind the ears and say things like, “poor boy, how did you get so messed up, well, it will be all right.”)
Anyway, I think some of them were curious as to how it would go when another person moved into “Ventura.” I wasn’t curious, I was terrified. “Ventura” has been a singlehander’s boat for 16 years. Everything on board has its specific place. I am surrounded by familiarity. Being on “Ventura” is for me like lying against a lover. Every curve of my body knows every curve of hers. I love this boat. I love Gunilla, too. Like I said, people were curious, especially the women.
It’s been hard. I’ve been stupid, and I think now both Gunilla and “Ventura” are angry with me. It seems the boat is siding with the wife. I could feel that this afternoon as we were bucking the short seas. “Ventura” had no rhythm. She was glaring and tense, pounding onto the waves, crash, splash, spray up over the boat as if “Ventura” had hit the water with a sledgehammer. There was nothing seductive. Even the rainbows in the high, arching spray seemed violent, like the splatter of blood between boxers. I was curt and irritable, cursing at anything around me, which, of course, consisted of Gunilla, “Ventura,” and the ocean.
I told Gunilla I would try to improve, to be more welcoming, more flexible, more open. Tonight, in the blackness, in the weak and anxious light of a waning moon, I kissed “Ventura” and told her I would be hers, as well. And the ocean. Well, it is no more the medium of our travels than a parent is the medium of our success. I forgot it the past few days, and it seems also to know. I am no longer alone out here, and to give proper attention to all whom I love, well, that is more than I could do. I need to match my breathing to theirs.
Huatulco was fun. Finally a Mexican town with Mexicans. After Cabo, which is a mental suburb of Los Angeles, the towns of Huatulco felt real. It was like putting on a cotton shirt after years of wearing synthetics. Kids everywhere. I have read that Mexico’s population is younger than in the U.S. Here I could see that it is. 11:00 at night, and the town square is full of youngsters, teenagers laughing, people relaxing under huge trees full of chattering birds, all savoring the shade of night.
The boat is fixed. Most important, I have fixed the gooseneck fitting, boring out and tapping new, larger holes in the mast, and then screwing the gooseneck on, bedded down with gobs of compound. I think it is better than when it was new.
So we set off today, we and four other boats, to cross the infamous Tehuantepec. I will write more later. In the meantime, Gunilla is sleeping, I am relaxing in a bath of faint red night lights, eating peanut butter and jelly and drinking a Coca-Cola. It’s almost like singlehanding.
Crossing the gulf,
David