Turning northwest from the Bay of Manzanillo, the crew of little Faith tacked ten miles off shore and set a course for Puerto Vallarta. It was smooth, sweet wind with low seas � almost an apology for the explosive fury of two nights previous. Faith bared her underside in a coquettish heel, her sails pressed buxomly before the breeze. Into the thrill of rising darkness we sped.
The night was clear, a waxing moon set before us as the witching hour approached leaving the bright swath of stars hanging above to light our way. Eric plied the tiller, guiding us by setting the forestay on a star just west of the extremity of the Big Dipper's handle. Sunrise, relaxing wind, radiance browning our skins. A warm day opening before us lit the mountains in bright green, the cliffs at water's edge in tans and ruddy oranges. Still we were propelled beneath the gentle soughing of the sails, the waves parting before the bow splashed giddily. Sleep shifts were a joy of being rocked in the cradle, dreams an ecstatic fantasy.
Brian was on the helm at sunset with a clear horizon off the beam where the vermilion sphere sank slowly down. Eric slept and I sat on my bunk spinning the tale of the journey in a digital dialog with the electron strafed screen in my lap. So it was that Brian alone witnessed the spectacular and elusive enigma many have spent thousands of sunsets searching for: the Green Flash. As the sun swelled at the base of its daily arc and ran red as it plunged below his line of sight there appeared an orb � all at once � to his eyes floating just above the zenith of the falling globe. It was the brilliant green of a street light for long seconds, then gone. Just like that. And a wish was granted to the Navigator. He'd been one of the watchers of a thousand of sunsets hoping one day to experience the mystery.
With the return of night we began what had become a ritual in each of our childhoods. We watched the stars bleed into silvery white existence. Constellations coalesced from the purpling firmament: the Big and Little Dippers, there the North Star at the end of the Little one's handle; Cassiopeia eternally dancing opposite the Big Dipper; the two Coronas; the Archer; the Summer, or Navigator's, Triangle of Vega, Deneb and Altair; Scorpius (and early in the morning as the summer passes, Orion); the Southern Cross; the ecliptic, where sun, moon and planets sail the heavens; the Milky Way, with its wide galactic center predominant in midsummer. Since our arrival on the oceans we've begun to read the moon phases to predict the timing of the tides. Brian has become savvy enough to tell me what time it is within ten minutes each night by watching Venus set. My favorite, the Southern Cross, we watched rise into the night's sky as we first swung south from Isla Mujeres. Now we wished it farewell as the northern latitudes once again hid it below the curvature of the Earth. On clear nights one can watch the great lathe that is the rotation of the planet revealing constellations in the east as the western ones dive Phoenix-like into the edge of the ocean. If you keep looking, marking the passage of months, the vast machine that is our Solar System reveals itself in the revolution of the Earth around Sol � the rise and fall of the seasonal constellations. With the coming of dawn, with the upper arms of Orion reaching above the horizon as though the Great Hunter would climb right into the daylight sky to capture the sun, we attended a silent vigil. Sunlight breaking across the mountains to the east spread its rays across the jubilant sea to sweep beneath our hull, illuminating the path before us in golden flagging.
Onward, ever onward, we coursed. Eric prepared a breakfast of "gruel," the taste of which is indirectly proportional to the sound of the name. Cream of wheat or instant oatmeal loaded with dried fruit soaked in warming water. Mmmmm! Coffee, which we usually drink cold. It's amazing how good things are which you might scorn on land. Take the coffee: some brand of maliciously bitter instant that stains the deck a horrifying rust color when you spill a few grains. It wouldn't be fit to spit in on land....but in the heat of the morning twenty miles off shore it seems a blessing. Then there's cheese. I can't stand spray or squeeze cheese when I can get milky cheddar or sharp Monterey Jack, but we can't store that on the boat. At sea I actually crave the simulated version. It makes you think about the nature of taste and how much it's really in your head....but enough of all that.
We changed shifts, the sailor below napping as he would, the two on deck responding and responsible to the circumstances of the moment. Slight wind changes cause a tightening or slackening of the sheets, sometimes a course adjustment. Sails are switched, reefed, or unreefed with the ebb and flow of air currents. And always I expect something to malfunction....but that would not happen this day. We watched the passage of the sun, we watched the approach of the southern point off Banderas Bay. At twilight we made the turn into the largest bay on the Mexican coast. Now we were headed straight for Puerto Vallarta....thirty miles into the bay. Our favorable wind was blocked by the shore. On engine! We're almost there.....hang on, we're....almost....almo...st.... hmmm. We settled in. For the night, it became apparent.
As the sun returned Brian and I had finally made the breakwater of Marina Vallarta. The guides warned of a congested, narrow channel with a gas dock at its narrowest, most congested point before the widened marina basin. They weren't kidding. We had no trouble navigating along the channel, passing outgoing fishermen eager to get onto Banderas with first light. More and more fisherman clogged the channel with pangas, midsized and large boats, and there didn't seem to be any order or preferred side of the stream to be on. We staked out the lane on our right, ready to dodge or reverse engine at a moment's notice. As we passed the gas dock we were nearly collided with by an exceptionally long panga with twin engines that roared across our bow � I could have stepped aboard this jokers boat right from the pulpit. Brian shook his fist at the offender, but he had already escaped. We toyed with the idea of unlimbering one of the flare guns.... but then the marina basin opened before us. We picked a seemingly out of the way spot at the end of a dock, came silently and perfectly to dock. Eric didn't even stir, so soft was our landing. Not that he'd have been likely to unless we had been run over...and even then....
So we let the second mate and Cook sleep a well deserved sleep while we walked the length of the dock to begin our exploration of the newest conquest of Faith: Puerto Vallarta!!