The harbor entrance to Puesta del Sol is the narrow, winding but well dredged conduit into a manicured mangrove swamp. Brand new floating docks jut out into the marsh below a sculpted stone patio. The resort hotel and its accoutrements stand grandly above the harbor. Eric stood grandly at the helm as we made our entrance, tying up at a slip near the end of the dock as directed by several marina staff who'd noticed our arrival. We'd expected to be able to clear our papers immediately but found that the authorities had already made their appearance that day � a Friday � and wouldn't likely be back.... who knew when?
Instead we registered at the marina. The hotel and grounds are something of a gated and guarded community, rooms starting at $110 dollars a night. Boaters, a society of which the owner and manager of the place is a member, get in through the proverbial back door. Our slip would cost $12.50 per night.
We sidled over to the dockside bar for cold drinks (a tradition we love, lacking anything cooler than room temperature while sailing) then hit the showers. Those who enjoy roughing it in the outdoors can appreciate the simple ecstasy of the first shower upon return to civilization (or at least running water). For us this means rinsing off layers of salt, sweat, and several species of grime, and allowing clean, cool, cleansing water � and a liberal application of soap � to salve whatever wounds we've accumulated. On an average day I manage to cut or scrape myself at least once, scratch a couple bug bites raw, and pop five or six salt or sun induced blisters on my arms and legs. Luckily, I heal almost as fast as I get injured under normal conditions, which is to say when an ample supply of fresh water is available and I'm not soaking in brine several hours out of the day.... Eric and Brian share the same proclivities. So it is with great relish that we anticipate the ritual cleansing at each port of call. The facilities at Puesta del Sol were the best we've encountered: the showers like Greco-Roman baths, low lit mirrors reflecting the sparkling fixtures at the sinks, complimentary toiletry products. Ahhhh!
We returned to the Faith refreshed. Next ensued another tradition: drying out all the clothes, blankets and towels we'd worn through rainstorms and splashing seas. Normally we'd hang them all about the boat, even setting up clotheslines from bow to stern. There was a sign in the harbormasters office, though, that specifically forbade turning your boat into a country backyard. Eric scouted around for the laundry and set up a time for our washables to be washed. In the meantime we began making acquaintance with the other boaters. We were invited to sashimi (raw fish) the following afternoon at the Great Beach Palapa about a mile from the marina. The other mariners where shocked and amazed when we assured them we'd bring the soy sauce, wasabi and ginger. (How can one travel without, I ask you?). The next morning I assisted Eric in getting started patching the jib. On our run north from Costa Rica we'd been becalmed a lot. With the sails up some of the corkscrewing was reduced but the fabric paid a heavy price. We popped two seams in the main (short, six inch repairs that merely required re-threading the pre-existing holes) and wore a foot-long stretch of tears in the jib where it had contacted the spreaders (the arms sticking off the mast that make it look like a cross). The protective tape on the starboard spreader had worn off, unbeknownst to us, permitting the rough aluminum end to quickly worry holes in our poor jib. Thereafter we avoided keeping the canvas (well, actually nylon polyfiber but that doesn't sound as good) flying when the wind vanished but the damage had been done.
Thanks to Alex the Sailmistress back on Isla Mujeres, I had a functional model to study where she'd mended the main. The stitch is the universal ziz-zag pattern found on almost all sails. All you need to do is have some strong, flexible, water resistant material that won't fall apart with a couple of beatings from the sun, sea and sky. Aye, there's the rub. Sailtape � the true patching material � is pretty much unavailable (Alex had expressed her consternation over the difficulties in finding it in northern Mexico, near any number of large US cities). I inventoried all the cloth aboard that could be sacrificed for the cause: too soft, too hard, too brittle, too useful in present capacity.....AhHa! I transferred my clothes from my sailbag. It was made of a tough, water resistant nylon of the right weight, thickness, ect. Cutting pieces from it, I matched the patch to the repair area. Then I applied the boat epoxy given to us by Tim Mateo, the pirate of Belize, over the afflicted areas and slapped on the patch. Each tear got stitches of its own. Then Eric took over, fastening the edge of the patch to surround the scars.
Eric got about a third of the way through the work when we were called off task for the rendezvous at the beach. We hiked the mile. It was bitterly enlightening to see the world outside the confines of the marina. Shacks sprung up in clearings within the mangroves. Electricity seemed scarce. The eyes that looked up to mark our passing were neither hateful nor kind but tired, wary. Smiles would inevitably crease the faces of the tenants with our calls of "Hola" and "Buenos dias" but the joy would stop short of the eyes. There probably isn't much room for gladness at foreign congeniality in the hearts of people who scratch out their existence, who are not permitted ownership of the land they inhabit. And this is the case here. When the Sandinista government stepped in and claimed the land they took it from the deedholders � including our host, Roberto, the owner/manager of the marina. Roberto had some recourse to political action to at least nominally recover his property. None of these people did. In effect they are now squatters on their own land.
But it is a beautiful land and we recognized that our sympathy could carry neither weight nor assistance for the populace. We walked through the mangroves, leaving short-lived tracks, but learning, gathering memories that might be less temporary.
We arrived at the Great Palapa and our somber moods were interrupted by the welcoming shouts of the other cruisers gathered around several tables placed together in the center of the building. The ahi tuna had been caught by Smitty and his son Alex that morning. We brought out the wasabi and ginger, mixing them in a pair of bowls with the soy. Also, we proffered the spiced rum we'd been leaving aside to season properly. I think the decanter, a classic honey-drop shape, went over as well as the rum. The sashimi was fabulous, though I think each member of the party could have eaten the entire allotment by him or herself. We traded stories and cruising information with the others for a couple of hours as the sun neared the horizon. Alex, it turned out, was going to be attending UC Berkeley (the eventual destination of our voyage.) We plan to hang out this winter.
During the party I went for a walk down the beach to get a look at what was washing up on shore, enjoy the sand and wind and water, and generally be contemplative and quiet. I spied a pair of dunes close in to the tree line on the edge of the beach. Then I began to note the abundance of driftwood along the high tide lines....
Later that night Brian, Eric and I slipped out to the road and headed for the Great Palapa once more. Along the way we greeted the native with the shotgun standing guard at a crossroads (OK to go to the beach, definitely inadvisable to take a leisurely stroll around the grounds of his estate). When we arrived at the thatched rotunda we were accosted by a second shotgun wielding guard. He quickly warmed up to us as we explained that we were sailors and just wanted to go off on the beach and have a fire. Two factors probably influenced his attitude: 1. We asked his permission to go build our beach fire. 2. Eric and I jumped around like buffoons chasing the palm-sized crabs that surrounded and infiltrated the monumental cupola. His shoulders were visibly shaking as we pounced on the skittering crustaceans then shook them off of our fingers with loud cries when they retaliated with their exceptionally strong pinchers. Brian stood with the guard, no less amused, I assume, and chatted him up. They were fast friends by the time the welts on our hands started to form.