We were still in the beginning of our travels when we heading up the Sea of Cortez for some harbor hopping. Another sailboat had joined us since they also had a couple of kids that were badly in need of playmates. The two families would find a pleasant cove and anchor for the night and then explore the area the next morning; we would jump in the dinghies and row to shore, we’d check out the surf and do some boogie boarding, then we’d go spear fishing in the afternoon for some dinner. Then we’d sail to the next harbor to see what awaited us.
After a few weeks of this we came to a crowded bay by the name of El Mangre (the Mangroves) above Loreto. It was a crowded anchorage with something like twelve boats anchored in the northern protected part of the bay so, as was our custom, we anchored far away from the other boats so as not to annoy them with the yelling and boisterousness of all us kids. This was the summer of 1987 and it proved to be one of the hottest we’d ever experience. It was so hot that after trying to sleep belowdecks we all stripped to nothing and moved to the deck in order to let the breeze – little that there was – cool us down enough to allow us to sleep. It was one of the calmest nights, when we were rowing back from shore one of us even mentioned how tranquil the night was as the sliver of moon reflected off the water twice as bright as the actual thing. One after the other we drifted to sleep.
At around three in the morning we awoke to winds around 20 knots sending white-capped waves into the hull. Then gusts up to forty knots. Then sixty. And then eighty mile per hour winds were creating seven foot waves within ten minutes. It was what we were later to learn was a summer Chubasco, common to the area and much like a white squall but without the rain but also without any warning. As we began the task of buttoning down all of the hatches which were straining in the breeze the anchor bridle (a secondary system to secure the anchor line) snapped sending the rest of the anchor chain spinning out of its hold and into the surf. We began to be driven towards shore. Dad raced to the cockpit and started the 50 horsepower engine put it in forward and faced the boat into the wind and waves. But the seven foot swells were stronger than the fifty horses and the boat was losing ground.
The end of the anchor chain was securely fixed to the hull but this was only after 300 feet of chain. It sprang taut but we were already aground. With the force of the waves and what little use was left of the anchor the boat broached upon its side and lay with its left side (port side) bare to the waves. My brothers and my mom and I went below to close the port holes (three on each side of the hull) but it was too late. I couldn’t get mine closed and the others weren’t much use when they were closed. We were taking on a lot of water. Dad was still trying to use the engine to get us off of the beach when it sunk below the thrashing water and died.
Now we were really at the mercy of the storm. The cabin of the boat was filling faster than the bilge pump could get rid of the water before it was plugged by the pulp of what was left of our collection of books. Diesel fuel had leaked somehow and was spreading out over the water and all over us. All of our things floated by us and threatened to knock us unconscious as the waves kept crashing against the hull and throwing us around like one of those unpleasant carnival rides. My mom told my brother and me, the two youngest, to go on deck and grab two cushions out of the cockpit and jump overboard to try and make it ashore.
As we clambered out of the campanionway hatch we saw the top of our dad’s head disappear over the side of the boat where the waves were coming from. We ran to the cockpit and peered over the side as we grabbed some cushions to see dad with a huge anchor around his neck and a line coiled around his right shoulder. Using the weight of the anchor he was trudging along the bottom of the bay away from the boat. We could see him take a giant breath during the trough of the wave and holding it as the crest crashed into him, then he’d walk a little bit more before repeating this. Our mom yelled something and we took the cushions and jumped overboard and surfed our way to the beach.
We waited for hours until the storm began to subside and the sun began to shine as sundry possessions of ours began to pile on the beach around us. The sailboat was beached about a hundred yards offshore and looked a bit like an awkward whale that had been stabbed by a giant mast and seemed a bit stunned by what had just happened. We kept on waiting. Now the sun was really shinning. And it was hotter than the day before. And we were still naked.
“Send in some shorts,” each of us took turns yelling until we were hoarse.
But they never seemed to be able to hear us or if they did they didn’t acknowledge our dire need. We could see our oldest brother on deck being handed stuff that he would promptly throw overboard and which would eventually make it to us. We made ourselves useful by picking the stuff out of the surfline and putting them in a pile but we never lost track of our real need, “Send in some shorts!”
They never did.
It turned out that when we saw our dad doing what we considered insane (and in retrospect rightly so) was an attempt to pull the stern of the boat off with a second anchor that he was trotting out to set. Then he tried to use the winch and tug on this second anchor to no avail. Meanwhile mother and our other brother were trying to save anything they could and throwing anything dangerous (i.e. big or flammable) overboard. During this process my mother was in the aft cabin (“the master suite” as we liked to call it) and a bottle of industrial strength glue called epoxy ruptured and coated most of her body. To make matters worse her feather pillows had all broken and were floating throughout the boat. We were picking feathers off of her skin for the next month.
Three of the boats that had anchored in the protected part of the anchorage (they then told us why) were able to tow the boat off after four hours of trying. That night our parents came ashore to asses what we had collected and they were able to salvage a handful of things but the rest had been infused with diesel and epoxy or otherwise destroyed. We all slowly made a giant pile and stared as flames lit up the beach. Needless to say, we slept on deck that night.
The next day we all set to cleaning the boat (ten hours of cleaning and it wasn’t done) while dad tried to fix the engine. It was beyond being fixed. I remember it was a very quiet day that was only pierced sporadically by a few juicily chosen curses by dad and some extremely explicit ones by mom. At around sunset a bunch of dinghy’s filled with people from the anchorage descended upon our stricken boat. They had pots of food, piles of clothes and blankets, fresh water, and the most sincere sympathy I’ve ever witnessed. We all went below and ate and were grateful for what was left which I guess was either us or that the hull was still intact. We had no electricity so a kerosene lamp lit the cabin along with some donated candles. It got quiet and someone presented our parents with a Mexican metal jewelry holder that had been coiffed entirely in vivid pesos; deep purples, clear blues, cactus greens, and fiery reds. All our money had been pulped along with the books so we were actually broke until this magnificent gift. To this day I get emotional just thinking about how caring and charitable everyone was that night.
The next day one of the bigger boats towed us back to Escondido so that we could fix the engine. After a month of waiting for parts we were able to finally motor to La Paz where we decided to live ashore for a while.
