Cental America
And Back
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Chickens in the MizzenForecasters should all have to sail around in their own forecasts. Dois and I spent the last two weeks checking all the forecasts for a good weather window to continue our journey north up into the Sea of Cortez. So why is Dois sitting in the cockpit dripping wet trying to get Hal, our autopilot to behave? And why is the boat pitching steeply to and fro, leaving me walking on the walls? And why is the cabin illuminated like paparazzi have found Lindsey Lohan in our boat? Because my friends, the weather men have forsaken us and we are smack dab in the middle of a nasty storm. Off with their heads. A bolt strikes the water oh so close to and brings me out of my fantasy be-headings. I discovered recently that I am an astraphobic. So is Ginger. We both suffer from the fear of lightening. Giant zippers of electricity are running along the clouds and brightening the sea around us like high noon. The occasional prayer-evoking bolt feels like it stops my heart. What was I thinking? The radar screen shows us in the middle of a giant red blob of nastiness. When my heart resumes pounding, I have to have a talk with Ginger. She cannot understand why Dois is outside with the thunder monsters. She wants to go get him, protect him, guide him back down below, as if he might not understand the danger outside. But it's way too crazy in the cockpit for a little dog; wind howling like a banshee trying to break through the dodger windows, rain blowing sideways making it's way around all the barriers to entry I have painstakingly built. Then again, there's the noise. I'm always slightly concerned that Ginger might decide that swimming to shore is preferable to the thunder, and it's a long way to shore. We sit and talk and soothe each other through the worst of it. Dawn comes slowly and the clouds retreat, seemingly embarrassed by the light, taking their rain with them. Mazatlan glows brightly against the dawn sky and we can see remaining clouds still dumping their remains on the inner city. If we weren't so tired, we'd congratulate each other. Instead, I put on a pot of water for tea. The cinnamon rolls are history, but we are consoled with a package of Oreo's with our tea. Dois hails Mazatlan Port Control for permission to enter. He speaks English and grants immediate entry. We sit on wet towels in the cockpit, but hardly notice as everything is damp. Our Mexican heat has not failed us though, it's still a balmy 75 degrees and a shirtless Captain Dois goes forward to set the anchor in Mazatlan's old harbor. We are the only cruising boat here, but we don't mind as we get the choice of anchor spots, a benefit of being on the wrong side of a cruising season. We awake (not enough) hours later to the sound of ferries over-weighed with festive tourists, their waterline is now an underwater line. The scruffy looking vessels roll precariously in the aftermath of stormy seas, but the passengers are celebrating and wave to us. The sun peeks through cotton ball clouds and there is steam rising from the damp teak of our cockpit settee. This inner harbor is run down and suffers the effects of years of neglect, but it is a safe harbor for some very tired travelers. I hear the cluck cluck cluck of our stow-away. We first heard it yesterday, a soft chuckle, a few little chirps, then more insistent barking. I narrowed the sound down to the mizzen. Do we have a chicken in the mizzen? Perhaps a miniature monkey? I peeled back the sail cover to reveal a frog. A 4" green tree frog that seems to have mistaken our mizzen for a tree, stowing-away at some point along the way. I suppose we'll have to find him a new home soon, but his cluck is adorable and soon I am dreaming of Amazon forests and chickens in the mizzen. Peace.
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