We’ve been cruising down the outside of the Baja via Vizcaíno Bay; a stretch of water whose reputation precedes it. Local winds higher than predicted? Check. Local winds lower than predicted? Check. Seas rougher than we thought they would be? Double check. Anchorages that offer little protection from the prevailing NW winds and seas? Not so fast.

While this stretch of coast is also known as the coast of ‘little hopes’; referencing the many small bites in the land that can barely be referenced as ‘anchorages’, our experience has been that, at least during this trip, we have found not only good holding, but also mostly a good night’s sleep. The only thing small about the hopes along this coastline have been the hopes that we would ever get to go to shore and explore the myriads of beautiful beaches and their accompanying rock formations. Those hopes were small because the rompientes, a Spanish word which means breaking surf, was muy grande in each and every anchorage. I mean, we know we are on the coast of the wild ocean but at some point we hoped for at least a large enough rock along the shore that we could scoot behind to land Sea Pony, our trusty True Kit dinghy.

After reaching Isla San Jeronimo and being turned away from shore by the workers on the island, who explained that the island was protected and we could not land and walk around (Huge disappointment. Not small.) I found myself becoming hopeful for a miracle of beach combing at each additional stop, only for my hopes and dreams to be dashed expertly by the desire to stay alive for one more day. It’s not that the dinghy cannot handle a surf landing. It’s that I probably can’t, at least not with a heavy engine on the back of the little boat. If the water were only 10 degrees warmer I would willingly swim to shore and feel safer. But out here where we are literally the only cruising boat and we have no one to help us if we get ourselves in trouble; we just can’t risk it. Even for interesting rocks.

So this begs the question: how did we find ourselves here on this wild coast and not doing the route most people take, which is an overnight sail to Isla Cedros from points north, skipping this entire area altogether?  I’d like to say it’s because the Galapagos crew likes a challenge. Or that following the guide book is just not our style. I mean, last time we sailed down here, we skipped this part altogether by diverting to Isla Guadeloupe in search of more elephant seals. Alas. The real answer is much more mundane than that. It began with what can only be termed complacency. Every sailor knows that complacency is the enemy. And yet we all get used to living this way and even old salts like us forget to ask ourselves ‘What are we overlooking today? What decisions could we be making that would make our lives easier, not harder?”. One small decision. And then the rest kind of falls into place.

That decision we made was, by default, to hoist the dinghy up behind the boat on its davits and tie it securely. After all, we are ‘coastal cruising’, right? We are not doing any offshore passages. If you were to ask us, “Team Galapagos, would you ever, in your wildest dreams consider towing a dinghy on an offshore passage, or even leaving it on the davits on the stern of the boat?” we would have been absolutely insulted by the question. The implications of that question would have had a profound effect on our feelings of self esteem; that you thought we were somehow stupid or prone to just in general being yahoos. And yet, here we are. Feeling like chumps.

The winds at Isla San Jeronimo were light on the morning in question. We left with a blue sky and a song in our hearts, having decided to do the dreaded overnight to Isla Cedros, dinghy hanging smartly on the back of the boat. I was not excited about this upcoming passage because I hate overnights of a single night. They drag on, the moon was a crescent so it wouldn’t shed much light, and no one gets sleep. The next day feels a lot like jet lag.

But we were committed as we set a course for well outside the horrible, terrible, very bad and dangerous Sacramento Reef, completely ignoring the fact that this passage was, by definition, an offshore passage across 55 miles or so of open water. By the time the island was behind us, the winds had begun to be reasonable for sailing and we put out the headsail, going downwind at a nice clip. All was well until the following seas got bigger. And then even bigger. And experienced offshore sailors know what we began to fear. They intuitively understand the locked-jawed look my dear husband was sporting right about then.

That’s right. Looking behind us as wave after wave bore down on our unprotected and vulnerable Sea Pony, we saw the bottom of her inflatable tubes begin to skim the water as swells rose up underneath her. Our stress levels began to rise. My teeth began to clinch. At that point we knew: we had made a critical error. We had been in ‘default’ mode and things were absolutely no bueno. If the dinghy took a breaking wave, it could be ripped off the davits. It could, at the very least, cause damage to the dinghy and to Galapagos. Even the sailing wasn’t fun as the waves had started breaking behind us and the interval between waves was short.

Even on a good day, it would have been a challenge to sail in those conditions in the direction we were going. The old fun/suck ratio began to swing alarmingly into the ‘this sucks’ realm. We absolutely live to check the weather and usually what we see on the ground, as it were, jives with the forecasts. Somehow, though, this caught us off guard. Were the waves supposed to be this steep? Was the interval supposed to be this short? As a rule we would whip out our phones or the tablet and check the weather again, but what is the use?  Here we were. I imagine that the sea floor topography in this area makes predicting things like wave patterns more challenging. This direction we were heading was going to cause all kinds of grief.

So we stopped going in that direction. Checking the chart I saw that one of our ‘bailout locations’ was available to us.  Since we were past the reef, we could turn to port, get the wind and swells on our aft quarter instead of right behind us, and find anchorage and peace of mind around Punta San Carlos. Now, to be fair to us, we generally have multiple plans so that if something happens we have a backup idea of what to do. Setting this different course allowed the boat to sail better and more comfortably, which relieved some stress. The seas were still of concern but we were sailing fast enough to just barely stay ahead of the breaking waves (and only every few sets did they break on this trajectory) and as long as I didn’t keep my eyes glued to the dinghy I could contain my anxiety about it.  We saw winds as high as 30 knots but, of course, Galapagos loves that. It’s just her owners who prefer tamer conditions. The anchorage was about 10 miles away, so it would take a little over an hour to get there.

Rounding the low point at the head of the San Carlos anchorage, there were sighs of relief all around as we furled in the headsail and motored slowly into the shallower water to drop the hook, well in the lee of the land. We found 10 feet of water under the keel and dropped 100 feet of chain, plus an extra 30 feet with the anchor snubber, just for good measure. Based on the reviews of the anchorage Michael had read, and the guidebooks we had, we didn’t expect to have the peaceful night that awaited us.

Honestly, I’m not sure what people expect in an anchorage off this coast in order for it to be given some kind of a gold star in the guidebooks. “Small hope”, indeed. It’s the Pacific freaking ocean. Yes, there will be swells. Sometimes pretty big ones. There might even be wind, especially in the afternoon! It’s possible that you will have some rolling of the boat overnight, so it’s ok to expect that. Considering that we came into this anchorage running from winds gusting to 30 knots and following seas big enough they were cresting way too close for comfort, I’m not sure how much worse it needs to be for this to be considered a great anchorage. All I know is that Michael’s worry about whether we were going to be ‘disappointed’ in this anchorage turned pretty fast to a real sense of relief as the anchor bit deep into the sand,  we deployed the trusty Magma swell reducer, and then settled in for a peaceful night’s sleep.

The following day we put the dinghy in the water and drove around for a bit, hoping for a safe landing somewhere but it was not to be. And a good thing, too. Even if we had been able to land safely, I doubt we would have been able to get off the shore again until the winds died down at night. Just say ‘no thanks’ to crashing surf. Back at the big boat,  dinghy tied down on the deck, I decided I like it this way. It makes a great place to ride the bow.  Can’t say we don’t learn from our mistakes.

In all we have stopped at three anchorages along this coast of small hopes. Punta Blanca offered excellent holding and beautiful scenery in exchange for some rolling around. The swells can be big, so anchor well out from shore and put out a lot of chain. Currently sitting in Santa Rosalillita, I think this is the worst of the three. The marked anchorage is close to the town, but we found that the swells and breaking waves were too sporty for comfort there, especially since the water was fairly shallow. We found it to be better in about 30 feet of water, at the SE edge of town, close to where the camper vans park. Out here the swells can ride under us and it’s quite comfortable even though the boat rises and falls remarkably, adding sometimes 6 feet to the depth here.  (I am reminded of the anchorage is Isla San Benedicto, well offshore from mainland Mexico, where the swells added 15 feet to our depth each time we rode up and over one. These are not quite that bad.) We’re also far enough,, about half a mile,  from the thundering surf that it doesn’t ramp up our nervous systems hearing that constant roar.

Do plan to enter these anchorages with plenty of daylight on your side. Not only are most of the charts for this area way off, sometimes dangerously so, but fishermen leave floats in the bays and good luck seeing them, even in broad daylight. At night you would be at their mercy.

And speaking of fishing floats, if you decide to follow in our wake, a reminder that fishermen do frequent these waters close in to shore, and, just like the crab pots back in our home waters, you’ll find floats marking the spots where traps or even long lines have been left behind.  And just like back home, it’s not the floats that you FIND that cause a problem. It’s the ones you don’t find, usually because either you are not looking, or because they are black and blend in with the sea in a strangely uncanny way (Black? Really?? Why??), or because they are actually just underneath the surface of the water and you can’t see them until they find your hull. And that’s how we picked up this bad boy in about 120 feet of water, on our way out to deeper parts.

It was unfortunate that we happened to be motoring at the time. But Michael was instantly at the helm and throwing the engine in neutral. The sound of something scraping the underside of your hull is straight up a sickening sound. There was almost no wind, but there are always swells around here. With no dinghy on the back of the boat (yay, we’re smart again!) we could clearly see that now we were trailing a line. That’s not really something anyone wants to see. Was it just caught? Was it wrapped? Would Michael have to get in the water? Because that is a dangerous proposition out here. And yes, it would have to be Michael because this maneuver would require strength I just do not have. The water is cold, and we have a big steel swim step that rises and falls with the swells. You do not want to be underneath that thing when it comes down. Whatever we could do to keep him out of the water would be the best thing. Still, he put on the offshore life vest (in case he fell), tethered himself to the pad eye on the back of the boat (installed for exactly this scenario), and stepped onto the swim step, wrapping a leg around the ladder for stability.

I handed him the boat hook, hoping he could hook the offending line and pull it up. Through a massive show of manly strength where in I swear I saw weasels rip his very flesh, he got the slimy thing up and I held it with the hook while he managed to get it around a hard point on the boat to keep it from sliding back into the water. All without losing a limb or even a finger, although he did get a few dunkings in the cold ocean. Handy knife at the ready he cut the offending line free of whatever evil it was attached to and it receded into the deep like a kraken.

In the past, when we have been unlucky enough to grab something on the prop, we have been able to get it off by putting the engine in reverse in short bursts. Would it work this time? It did! Two very quick bursts of engine reverse and Michael was able to pull the line free. No harm, no foul. No pun intended. (Those of you who have room for a line cutter on your shaft should consider yourselves lucky. We have zero room for anything like that but sure wish we did.)

Crisis averted this time, we made a hard right and scurried out to deeper water instead of using the more gradual approach we had been on. Spooked, I stood watch on the bow.

The sun’s going down over the anchorage. Hoping for an easy passage to Isla Cedros tomorrow. We’ll probably be there a few days waiting for the big low north of us to stop throwing huge swells our way. Maybe we can even go ashore. I have a small hope.

S/V Galapagos, standing by on Channels 16 and 22, even though there’s no one else out here to talk to.