Saturday we said goodbye to Doni, who would make the drive back to LA. Next we prepared the boat for the short hop to San Diego. Take on water, have laundry done, organize food, get gas, pay the marina bill, stow the gear that had migrated up to the decks and dock. With The Reverend aboard the forward quarters will become a little tighter: his large backpack has to be squeezed in on the port side, leaving just enough room for one sleeper during the sailing. This shouldn�t present a problem � two of us are always on watch. By early evening all had been made ready. We settled in for an early night, anticipating a relaxed departure and a short hop � a mere 65 miles � across the boarder.
I sat up in the cockpit where I�d made my bed a little later than the crew. This was to be our last night in a foreign port and I wanted to take a moment to reflect. It was amazing that we�d come so far. I thought about the trepidation, anticipation and remarkable lack of knowledge with which we�d set out on this journey. I felt a melancholic nostalgia for our entrances to places like Belize and Panama. I knew I would miss the feeling of stepping onto shore in some Spanish speaking country, ready to brave whatever was necessary to get a few stamps on the old passport. Ready to learn something new about a people I had only a vague impression of from a random newscast or a few paragraphs in a book. Yes, departing this port would symbolize the completion of the really radical part of our voyage.
And then I remembered: next we�d be in California. I went to sleep assured that our venture into strange lands and foreign waters was not over just yet.