Jorge had been fiddling with his engine when he noticed how far the tide had receded. He glanced over at the Faith, gaged what he knew about the depth where the little sailboat was situated against what he figured the draw of the boat was. Realization boomed audibly in his head. He leaped over the rail of the panga, sprinting a few meters through the shallow water, using the top of his voice to send a warning. He splashed to a halt when the captain�s head popped out of the water, watched with gnawing anticipation as the crew sprang into action. Then he was sprinting back to the panga. He lifted the bow from the sand where it was beached and hurled it backward, followed with a swinging motion that brought his body into the boat. He sprang from seat to seat, his feet still finding purchase as his hands tore at the starter cord of the engine. Chug-chug-sputter. Choke! Chug. Chug. Start goddamnit! Chug-chug-wirrrrrrrrr!! Reverse!
The panga whipped out around the rock, flew at the mired vessel, was at the bow. �Take this!� Jorge tossed a thin nylon cord to Brian, who lashed it to the bow cleat. Forward! Faith�s nose rounded toward the panga, then the cord snapped. The captain was there from out of the blue, handing him the end of a stout line, his first mate taking the other end. Forward! The stern of the panga sunk into the water, the line went tight � Faith�s bow dropped, she leaned over on her starboard side � and she slid � out � to � deep water!
�I thought you guys would be done before�,� Jorge offered by way of explanation.
�We thought the water was already low,� we returned.
Everyone breathed a great sigh of relief. Except for Eric. �The galley�s a mess again,� he said poking his head into the cabin, �every time, I tell you.�
It took only a few more minutes submerged to complete the task. Brian returned to straightening the decks, Eric assisted with driving the nails through the back of the rudder and fastening the straps and lines. In the end we had a functional steering mechanism far superior to our emergency repair.
Jorge was as good as his word with the water. He delivered twenty gallons at the promised price, and if he got a kickback more power to him.
It was evening when the crew of Faith dragged the inflatable well up onto the sand and sauntered over to the palm-shaded beach store for a beer. We kicked up our feet, leaned our backs against the comfortable chairs and told each other the story of our newest near miss. All agreed we should take Jorge out for dinner, if we could find him. We were discussing where to go when we noticed a small boarding party of juveniles sneaking over to the boat on a surfboard. Eric marched down to the waterline and yelled �HEY!� just as three sets of marauding hands were reaching for the gunrail. Three sets of chastised paws cringed back and the pirate board headed in a new direction. �Move the boat first?� No question.
As it turned out Jorge had disappeared � to bed I suppose � when we returned to shore. The three of us wandered to a nearby eating establishment to gorge our bellies with a well earned feast. It was delicious, and we made our way back to the boat quite ready to call it one hell of a day.
We didn�t rise early. But rise we did, ready to head back out onto the deep blue. Clearing the narrows of the entrance we found a sweet southwest wind. The sails were set, the engine made silent, and embrace of the Pacific met. Just three hundred and thirty miles separated us from our last Mexican port: Ensenada! Onward!