I talked with my brother about the lack of materials, (�See,� he said, �I told you we�d never find oak until we got back to the States,�) and told him I�d take a look at the rudder the next morning. Maybe we could make use the plank after all, just temporarily. Since we knew pulling the boat out here was not an option (the marina had quoted us three hundred dollars just to pull it out for twenty minutes!) we were leaning toward waiting until US arrival for the replacement in any case. I�d have to go for a swim on the morrow to find out.
Brian and Doni offered to take the four of us out to eat with them, which we refused, our bellies still distended from the back to back lunchfest we�d had that afternoon. But we did recommend a really great little place with chili pepper decorations and Christmas lights�.just watch out for rabid fenders�. The First Mate and Donisha bid us adieu for the night. Rather eagerly. Maybe the hotel guy should have made them get separate beds.
The remaining four scallywags settled into the cockpit to watch the sun set over the breakwater. We sat up late talking, reminiscing, enjoying each other�s company. Once full darkness came on we got a truly special treat. The red tide was in, the water a murky, rusty, blood color. Looking at the waterline of the boat next to us I saw something weird. As the tiny chop kicked up against the hull the water was igniting in fiery swirls of bioluminescence. Unlike the blue-green phosphorescence we�d become accustomed to at sea, this glow was bright red-orange like a stove burner turned on high. The crew exclaimed happily when I pointed it out. We spent the next half hour swirling our fingers in the water, watching the magical trails linger and disappear. Tossing clamshells from the stern also offered intermittent enjoyment. Every now and then one of us would huck a shell into the water and we�d all �ooooo� and �ahhhh� at the brilliant light display. We drifted off to sleep one by one, and dreamed of magical places where the water burns coolly and the moonbeams radiate warmth.
The coffee had been brewed, the mates were up and the day was new. Friday was to be a bit sad. Stacy had to bus back to San Diego to spend some time with Steve before catching her flight the next day for Idaho. Well, we decided, we�d pretty much covered all the necessities of a Stacy and Sean adventure: cuts, contusions, great stories and wacky adventures. And all in the course of twenty four hours. We�re getting efficient at this, we agreed. Another reason it was sad was that I would have to go in the water.
This was an especially gruesome task in Ensenada. Not only was the water cold, but here in the harbor it was also oily, scummy, and not particularly clear under normal conditions. We were lucky enough to couple these conditions with the fact that a red tide was in. I shuddered as I slipped into my bathing suit. As I stared at the purplish water pondering my doom Stace offered aid in the guise of her wetsuit. �Hell yes!� I replied when she asked if it would help. I put that sucker on (a teensy bit tight and lacking arms or legs but soooo much better than going in with nothing between torso and filth!) and plunged into the chill slime and sludge, noting that some water was actually in there, too. Not wanting to exacerbate the process, I ducked under the hull. It took ten seconds below to realize that this was a futile effort. I couldn�t see a foot in front of my mask. The rudder actually surprised me when I found it, appearing suddenly from the brackish murk. I took exactly two seconds to make sure the nails holding the strap were OK � they were � then resurfaced and practically jumped from the water onto the dock. Uh! This crap is in my hair, and my ears, and� I turned to Stacy: �Thanks! That was great! Here let me give you a hug!� Stacy recoiled as if I was covered in toxic waste. Well, maybe not �as if��
I left Eric, The Reverend, and Stacy to entertain themselves while I jogged up to the marina�s showers with a bottle of high-test detergent. When I returned half an hour later they were sitting quietly reading, writing in journals, and relaxing. Stacy gave me a perfunctory sniff (just to be sure) and then a hug. �I suppose we should go get this Capitania business taken care of,� I suggested, �it�s already eleven and there�s no way I�m doing any more work on that rudder here. It looks fine for the time being anyway.� Now I understood how the marina could get away with such high rates.
Stacy gathered her gear, graciously letting me borrow the wetsuit for the rest of the trip, and she, The Reverend and I departed. Eric, I believe, went back to sleep, treasuring every hour of uninterrupted, dry, stable rest he could get.
Stacy took her leave at the doorstep of the Capitania, disappearing around a corner on her way to the bus station. Fond farewell, my friend!
The Reverend and I went in to face the process. This took three hours, for reasons unexplained. Migracion was quick. I brought our four visas (The Rev would be accompanying us on the leg to San Diego) to the official, who wanted to know why I hadn�t yet paid the sixty dollars due on Brian�s, Eric�s and mine. �They told me in Puerto Madero to do that here,� I explained. He shook his head, looked around to see if any other customers were eavesdropping (they weren�t) and offered his solution, �you want to pay thirty dollars instead?�
�Sure!�
�Ok, follow me.� We followed him outside, handed the visas over, and waited for him while he skipped over to the adjoining bank. He returned moments later, escorted us inside, and ushered me into his office. He opened a drawer, pushing his chair back from his desk and looking away. �Thirty dollars,� he said. I dropped the money into the drawer, he slid it shut, and exclaimed, �Thank you for coming to Mexico!�
�Absolutely! I love it here!�
Then we sat and waited at the service windows of the Capitania while nothing seemed to happen behind them. With us was a couple from San Francisco, Dave and Mary Ann Plumb, also waiting. I struck up a conversation with them and it turned out that Dave was a former Commodore at Berkeley Yacht Club. What a coincidence, no?
We chatted with them until our Zarpes were ready, then parted company with Dave offering to send an email to the folks at Berkeley introducing Faith and her crew. Odd how things work out�