“Here we go again!” she shouted as Wanda Sue, an O’day 222, suddenly listed 20 degrees to starboard and settled into the mud. The amazing tides in the northern Sea of Cortez rushed out from under our boat leaving us high and dry and on our side for the third time. Four days before, Jan and I drove into Puerto Penasco, “Rocky Point”, Mexico and, following the directions from the Lake Pleasant Sailing Club, found an alleyway across from Pompano’s Market. This is the old “boat launching” area. It’s actually a section of hard beach near the mouth of the harbor that supports a thriving tourist fishing business.

 With the collapse of the fishing industry in town, the fishermen now catch tourists, load them into their little Pangas and take them out for the day. The beach is crowded with these little boats, pelicans, vehicles of every description, shacks and fishermen. As you pull in, your car is surrounded and, by some mysterious seniority system, you are assigned a helper.

The sky was clear and blue and it was unseasonably warm – 80 degrees. “Can you believe this is February?” Jan smiled. Although our original plan had called for spending the night in the harbor, our first anchorage was only eight miles down the coast. The wind was fresh and promised an easy downwind run. It didn’t take much prompting for us to decide to leave the noise of the crowded harbor and make for “Estuary #1."

We rounded the point, passed the lighthouse and sailed east, just off shore. We slipped past new beachfront homes, CEDO (the Intercultural Center for the Study of Deserts and Oceans) and watched the sun go down. I carefully plotted our position but it was impossible to find the mouth of the estuary in the dark. The wind continued to build and the roller-coaster waves tossed us about the boat. The prudentthing to do was drop the hook and wait for dawn. The wind and the waves promised a very  uncomfortable night. Jan braced herself in her sleeping bag in the vee berth and I settled down to a familiar fitful sleep on the quarter berth wondering if the anchor would hold.

 The mast slapped from side to side. I hadn’t had time to tighten the shrouds properly in the rush to get started and now the sea was getting worse. Finally, at 3:00 A.M., I woke Jan and we pulled out, sailing slowly up and down the coast on furled sails. An hour before dawn the winds calmed down and I dropped the hook a second time in exactly the same spot. Sunrise was spectacular but I should have listened to the old adage, “Red Sky in the Morning, Sailor take warning!” Exhausted, I fell back into my bunk and slept for a couple of hours.

Jan passed me a banana nut muffin and a big glass of milk. I wiped my eyes and we went on deck. “Let’s find that anchorage and some calm water!” Jan scoured the shoreline with the binoculars but nothing looked promising. The estuary was there, but the entrance wasn’t clear. We motored closer but we were getting precariously close to the beach and the breakers. With two feet below the keel, I turned us back to sea and we gave up. “Let’s just go on to Isla San Jorge (“Bird Island”),” I said. It was a beautiful day but there was precious little wind. Jan went back to sleep while I adjusted the sails on one tack and then another. We were making a little over 1 knot of headway. At this rate, we would reach the island in 18 hours! But we were on vacation, it was a beautiful day and the week looked promising.

 An hour later Jan relieved me and I curled up on the quarter berth to drift off into a luxurious deep sleep. When I awoke two hours later we were making over four knots and it felt like we were finally sailing. Bird Island was getting closer and the coast had disappeared behind us. Although the sky was still clear, the winds were building rapidly. We were now approaching our hull speed and I reefed the jib. The tops of the waves were being blown off. Jan took the tiller and I climbed up to tuck in a reef for the main. It was none too soon. Winds topped 30 miles per hour when I hooked the cringle on the horn. Then, suddenly the boat came about. Jan shouted that she’d lost the rudder. It didn’t make sense. The tiller was in her hand. I hung on to the boom as another wave pushed us sideways.

“John!” she screamed. I shouted back something less polite and fell into the cockpit. The rudder had snapped cleanly and was folded in half. We pulled it up and tossed it below. Then Jan slammed the hatch boards into place and I fired up the outboard. The main was spilled everywhere and one of the sail slugs was jammed in the track. I told Jan to take the helm but she told me to stay put.

 “If you fell overboard I don’t think I could get you but I know you can get me,” she reasoned. She grabbed the boom under her arm and worked her way on top of the cabin.  I tried to take the waves at an angle but the ice cold spray poured over us anyway. Finally, Jan grabbed the luff of the sail with both hands and pulled the main down. A couple of sail ties and we were secure. Our “bail out” anchorage was nearly five miles east in Bahia Salina. It was a good choice since we could run before the wind and waves. The problem was, we were two miles south of the point and would have to work our way north between the waves. There was one other problem. Between the point and us, the chart was marked with “shoal water – outline approximate.” Fortunately the Wanda Sue only takes 21 inches with the board up but I was afraid these huge waves would be breaking in such shallow water. Jan kept watch for white caps before us while I kept an eye on the waves behind us. Three times waves swallowed our little outboard and it stalled but three times she roared back to life.

Once, while I was trying to start the motor again, the waves were spinning us. It looked really bad but then a pod of four dolphinssurrounded us. I know it is hard to believe but it seemed like they knew we were in trouble. They stayed with us, off and on, for the rest of the trip to Bahia Salina.We had to round Punta La Salina in order to reach the bay. But, in order to do that, we had to sail parallel to the waves and wind. I was afraid they would break and capsize us so I had to steer between them alternately turning into the waves as we crested them and parallel to them in the troughs. The breakers on the point were awfully close. We were in twelve feet of water when a wave swallowed the outboard again. It died and wouldn’t restart. With no power, no rudder, and no sail, I climbed onto the bow and dropped the anchor. It was horrific but we were safe – for now. We were freezing as I pulled out the manual and started down the checklist. Fuel? Check.  Choke? Full. Gearshift? Neutral. I pulled the rope again and again but it wouldn’t budge. It felt frozen. With the cover off I could move the flywheel but the starter wouldn’t engage. Then I realized the throttle had to be in the starting position. I cursed, reset the throttle and the little Evinrude roared to life again. In the storm, I couldn’t pull the anchor in so I cut the line and watched it sink.

As it was getting dark, we passed the point but the storm didn’t subside. The wind and the waves were pouring into the mouth of the bay. The water kept getting shallower. At six feet, I gave up and dropped our second anchor – a brand new CQR with twenty-five feet of chain. It was going to be a rough night but at least we were safe. As I was setting the anchor on the bow, Jan screamed, “Shark!” as two dorsal fins raced towards me. I looked up just in time to see Flipper lift his head out of the water and smile.

“Shark!” she screamed again. I looked over my shoulder, gave her a funny look and laughed. The dolphins swam back out to sea and then we both held each other and laughed together. “One fin good, two fins bad.”

After half an hour I decided to try and sail farther into the bay in hopes of finding the anchorage Cunningham had marked on his chart. It was getting too dark to see things clearly so I dropped the hook again, made some Dinty Moore stew and we collapsed onto our bunks. I was so totally exhausted that the “bucking bronco” couldn’t disturb my sleep. I wrapped my legs around the back of the settee and visited Never-Never Land.Eight hours later the Wanda Sue started making a bumping noise. When I poked my head out of the hatch, the stars weren’t where they were supposed to be and neither were we! The bow was hitting a sandbar and I could see land all around us. The wind was driving us aground. The anchor was gone. Just frayed rode was left where the CQR was supposed to be!

In sock feet I sprang into the cockpit and pulled the starter. It was no good. The little Evinrude couldn’t budge us. Seconds counted so I pulled out my third anchor and began kedging us off. It was working! We were moving. Jan stuck her head out of the hatch and I told her to pull on the anchor line. The wind made communication nearly impossible. I balanced in sock feet on the transom to throw the anchor out again but when I let go, the anchor went nowhere! Jan didn’t understand what was going on and had wrapped the line around the winch. 

I cursed, hauled in the anchor again and gave it a mighty heave. Unfortunately I followed the anchor off the stern headfirst and spread-eagled into the bay. I was lucky I didn’t break my neck but I buried my head into the mud. When I stood up Jan was screaming and trying to throw me the life sling. I climbed the ladder, pulled in the anchor and the Wanda Sue broke free of the shore. We motored backwards into the storm, completely blind. No moon, no stars, no light and the transducer for the depth gauge was covered in mud. We felt our way along but as we motored, the mud was washed away. The gauge read “1 foot,” “1.5,” “1 foot,” and then it started getting deeper. “Two feet,” “five feet” and I sighed when the bottom dropped off, “28 feet,” and finally, “34 feet.” Rather than risk running aground again, I dropped the hook and we settled down. I was starting to shiver badly now so I stripped off my clothes. The wind dried me before I could even get below. Jan wrapped me in a sleeping bag and wiped the mud off my face and leg.  She dutifully covered my wounds with antiseptic and bandages and we went back to sleep. An hour later the Wanda Sue came to rest on the bottom and as the tide ran out I realized the depth gauge had said, “3.4 feet” not “34 feet.” Some days you just can’t win. 

The next morning, it was clear that after the anchor line let go, we had drifted over half a mile farther into the salt marsh. When the tide went out, the bay was a mile and a half away! Tides in the northern Sea of Cortez can vary as much as 23 feet. There was nothing to do until high tide late in the afternoon. Jan got out the binoculars and the Audubon bird book and I walked around the boat inspecting for damage. We couldn’t have chosen a better place to go aground. The sandy mud and thick salt grass supported us nicely. I warmed some water and took a bath. We refilled the gas tank on dry ground. Jan hiked to the sand dunes and I pulled out the tool kit. It was a great place to adjust the shrouds, splice new anchor lines and put things back in order. By the time the tide came in (and it came in suddenly) we were ship shape again.

This time we motored north and anchored close to where we should have been before. We dropped the hook in ten feet of water and settled in for the night. Dinner was an extravaganza and we played cards watching the sunset and the stars come out. That night we settled into the mud once more but only for an hour.

The next day we stayed put and tried to enjoy what was left of our vacation. Jan watched the birds and I tackled repairing the rudder. We were over 30 miles from Rocky Point and we needed a way to steer, at least for a little while. Steering by outboard alone is exhausting! I took the aluminum oar handles from our dingy, and splinted them on either side of the rudder with splices and duct tape.

The next morning, we got up before the sun, had a big breakfast and motored out on a rising tide with a following wind all the way to Rocky Point. The lashings held and we were even able to use the auto tiller to steer home by. Along the way another pod of dolphins played with us and we fed the pelicans that crossed our path.

Friday and his crew met us at the “boat ramp” and our rudder caused quite a stir among the sailors who gathered round. Now we weren’t just “touristas,” we were “los marineros.” The car was packed, the rigging stowed but already we were talking about our next grand adventure.