Early August, 2010 - Our last chapter in Ensenada, after all the fun, faces

& races we'd enjoyed over the past six months, was a visit to the Baja

Naval boatyard.  Groovy needed a new coat of paint on the bottom to

prevent the sea critters from homesteading and slowing us down.  We had

gotten quotes from yards in San Diego as well as Ensenada's yard Baja

Naval, and we debated where the service, quality and price would be best.

From a distance, having boat work done in Mexico seemed potentially

problem ridden, and we had heard boat yard horror stories that gave us

pause.  In the end, however, several friends blazed a trail before us and

came back from Baja Naval with glowing reports.

The travel lift for hauling boats out of the

water has to cross the Málecon

(harborfront boardwalk) in order to take the

boats from the water to the yard, so the

Málecon is closed off by gates for a few

minutes each time a boat is hauled or

launched.  This gave Groovy quite

an audience of tourists as it was

lifted and then carried to its parking

space in the yard.  Groovy got a

spot on the edge of the yard looking

out over the harbor, but before we

had time to set up housekeeping

and figure out how to live in our boat

as if it were an RV, the guys got to

work on the bottom.

"Conscientious," "hard-working," "punctual" and "meticulous" are all

words that immediately come to mind when describing the workers

at Baja Naval.  Every morning just before 8:00 we could here the

laughter and chatter of the guys as they got ready to begin work.  At

precisely 8:00, according to our atomic clock, the machines would all

roar to a start and the boatyard would come to life with the sounds of

sanding and pounding and the beep of the travel lift as it criss-

crossed the yard carrying boats in its slings.  Like Marina Coral,

everyone works a six-day week.  Saturday work goes from 8:00 to

2:00 with no lunch break.

For several days we danced the Boatyard Blues.  Rather than a

small step up onto the boat from the dock, we had to climb a tall

ladder to get aboard.  Because boat grey water tanks flush directly

into the water below the boat, we had to quit using our sinks during

the day.  It isn't pretty, but after the workers left in the evening, every

boat with people living aboard quietly opened the thru-hull valve for

their grey water and let it pour out onto the pavement below.  Unlike

an RV, which has a long sewer hose that can take the grey water

from the rig to a thirsty bush, the water would simply gush from a

hole in the bottom of the boat 8 feet up in the air.  Look out below!

At exactly 1:00 the workers all take a lunch break.  Sometime after

1:30 they roll out a volleyball net and a fierce game of volleyball

ensues.  They played just outside our boat everyday, and the ball

landed in our cockpit a few times, eliciting laughter all around as we

tossed it back down.

One of our projects was to install a thru-hull valve for a water

maker (a water desalination system that converts ocean water to

drinking water).  It was a little odd to watch a guy take a hole saw

to the bottom of the boat, but the finished installation was

impeccable.  Because we had some interior work going on too, the

workers covered our entire floor with cardboard to keep it from

getting scratched or harmed by workers traipsing in and out.  In

addition, the workers put booties on top

of their shoes every time they came

aboard. We appreciated the care they

took with the boat, although we found it a little weird to lose all our privacy each day.  At any time

between 8:00 and 5:00 one or several workers might show up, tools in hand, asking permission to

come aboard and do their thing.

Baja Naval has three levels of workers.  Each boat is assigned a desk-based supervisor who

speaks fluent English.  This fellow reviews every aspect of every project with you both before and

after the work is done, and he can produce a bill for all work done to date at any moment during

your stay.  These parts-and-labor bills are detailed down to the individual plastic cups used to

decant varnish and paint for small paint jobs ($0.84 per cup).  Mario, our supervisor, was easy to

work with, courteous, detail oriented and professional.

The next level of workers is the

"managers" who are masters of each

trade (Master Carpenter, Master Mechanic, etc.).  These guys

come up with the designs and solutions and oversee the actual

work done on the boat.  Very skilled in their trades, most speak

English very well.  However, to ensure nothing is lost in translation,

the supervisor always acts as a translator, presenting everything

the manager proposes in excellent English.

The guys that really get the work done are the next level down.

Young, friendly and energetic, these guys are good.  Perhaps what I

liked most was the camaraderie and good spirit shared between all

the workers.  It seemed that the managers were teachers as much as

they were bosses, and each of them gave direction to their

subordinates with good will, humor and patience.  During our entire

stay I never saw a sullen face or got the sense that anyone resented

their job, the yard, the boss or anybody else.  That seems so rare in

the modern workplace.

Baja Naval has a reputation for nickel and diming its customers a bit,

and that seemed true to a certain extent.  We were present on the

boat all day every day, holding flashlights and lending tools where

helpful, to spare workers from climbing down the ladder, crossing

the yard to get the necessary tool and climbing back up again.  This

way we knew exactly how long each person had been on the boat

and we could intercept anything that didn't look right.  The

supervisor and managers were always happy to review what was

going on, and at one point we had two supervisors, the yard

manager, a trade manager and two workers on the boat all at once.

Spanish and English flew as we all discussed the challenge at hand.

Diagnostic time like that isn't charged, but what impressed me was

that everyone wanted to make sure the right solution was found.

The labor hours were padded by anywhere from 10% to 30%, but

since the labor rates were $22 to $30 per hour (as compared to $75

to $100 in California), the labor was still less expensive.  Some

customers felt they paid the same as they would have in a California

boat yard but got better quality work, while others felt they paid less

but got the same quality.  Some of it depends on how much of the

final bill is labor or materials, as the labor costs less but the materials

cost more.  If a worker does something for the boat, a minimum of

one hour is charged, and if he doesn't arrive at the boat until 8:30 his

clock still starts ticking at 8:00 because he is getting direction from

his manager and is gathering tools and materials needed for the job.

We didn't understand these nuances of their billing policies at first,

but once explained to us it made sense.

If you know which materials you need in advance,

bottom paint for instance, you can provide your

own, buying the goods stateside and bringing

them across the border.  However, as we learned

with our thru-hull project, you might not buy quite

the right stuff.

After six months in the water at Marina Coral,

always sitting in the same orientation, it was

exciting to have a new vantage point.  One night

we heard fireworks and I poked my head out to

see a beautiful display coming from the Riviera

Cultural Center.  It was the kickoff party for the La

Vendimia festival which celebrates the wine grape

harvest.  The ensuing days were filled with all

kinds of activities downtown.  La Vendimia is

celebrated for several weeks each year,

but the first weekend draws the biggest

crowds.

We strolled down Gringo Gulch to

find a huge wine tasting and food

festival going on.  Not only were the

streets filled with booths from many

of the local wineries, but catering

outfits and restaurants were

offering gourmet food, cheese and

baked goods as well.  Music

thumped loudly from a set of

speakers and a local acrobatic

troop did tricks for the crowd.

Wine flowed freely all

around and we had a

happy afternoon of

sampling.

Street performers wowed the

crowds, and people showed up in

all kinds of crazy get-ups.

Leaving Gringo Gulch, we

wandered down to the waterfront

and found a Sushi festival going

on.  A singer crooned to a large

seated audience from a raised stage, and

a line of booths was set up for sampling

Sushi.  That evening we drove by the city

park to find it overflowing with people,

tents, booths, music and action too.  La

Vendimia is celebrated to the fullest in this

town. Months ago we had discovered

that you can always gauge the popularity

of what's going on in Ensenada by the

room rate posted on the neon sign in

front of Hotel Santo Tomas.  On the

opening weekend of La Vendimia we

noticed that the price had soared from a

mid-winter mid-week low of $240 pesos

per night (~$19 US) to $770 pesos (~$62

US) for this special weekend.

As work progressed on our boat we

began saying goodbye to all our favorite

places and people.  One afternoon we retraced our steps through our old daily patterns at Hotel

Coral, walking down to the docks and up to the spa and around the grounds, sadly leltting this

unique chapter in our lives come to a close.  We went to our final

cruisers' happy hour on our last Thursday night in Ensenada, and

all our new-found friends gathered to bid us farewell.

It was during that last happy hour of our stay, as everyone

surrounded us for final hugs and goodbyes, that I realized just

how many great friends we had made in such a short time.

After living on the road in our trailer for two and a half years,

without a regular, daily circle of friendships, this six month

pause in Ensenada had suddenly introduced us to a wonderful

social life.

We went to Ensenada to learn as much as possible about our new

means of transport and to outfit our boat for cruising.  We never

anticipated that in the process we would fall in love with the town,

the local people and the cruising community there.

We left Ensenada in stages, first leaving Hotel Coral &

Marina to stay at the Baja Naval boatyard, and then

leaving the bay all together to sail north.  This gradual

departure helped ease the parting.  However, while at Baja

Naval we kept bumping into friends in town, and we ended

up saying "goodbye" to some of them quite a few times

before we finally left for real.

There is a Mexican saying:  "El que mucho se despide pocas ganas tiene de

irse," which means roughly, "He who says a lot of goodbyes doesn't really

want to leave."  This was true for us, but once Groovy was launched back in

the water and we heard the waves lapping the hull as we laid in bed at night,

we felt a growing excitement about where this new life might take us.  Mark

stocked up on brownies from Peter the Brownie Man, and we made our last

errand runs around town.  When we finally untied the lines and motored out of

the harbor, bound for San Diego, we felt the same giddy, happy, butterflies-

in-the-stomach scary feelings we had felt when we first left Phoenix and drove

to Dallas to start our fulltime RV lifestyle three years ago.  Goodbye friends,

goodbye security, goodbye safety and certainty.  And hello world.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.

July, 2010 - Although we ventured out of town for a wonderful

day on La Ruta del Vino, we found there was always more

than enough action in town to keep us very busy.  Marina

Coral is one of three major marinas in Ensenada, and boating

travelers heading both north and south stop here for fuel,

provisions, rest and a spell in the hot tub.  Many mornings

we'd be woken at oh-dark-thirty by the sound of an engine in

the water as a new boat arrived or as a boat we had just met

pulled out.

The marina can handle boats over 100' long, but some

travelers float about in such grand style that their yacht can neither negotiate the skinny entrance nor tie up at the docks

without hanging way over.  These guys have to anchor outside the marina entrance.  Whenever one showed up it was always

worth a kayak ride to go check it out.  Seeing a helicopter perched on deck, ready to take the owners ashore, was proof

enough that these people lived in a different economic stratosphere than any we'd ever know.

Even more fun was meeting all the folks returning from their adventures down south during

the springtime migration up the west coast.  As hurricane season approaches each year,

the cruisers in southern Mexico either stay close to harbors where they can find refuge

from sudden tempests or they come north to spend the summer sailing in southern

California.  All had fascinating tales of their adventures in the tropics, and on many

occasions we sat spellbound in their cockpits, our Mexican cruising guide opened wide and

pen in hand, as we listened to them describe the places they had been.

Once in a while a boat would take off in the opposite direction, heading south towards the

Panama Canal for adventures in the Caribbean.  Aptly named Inspiration, a motor yacht left

the marina one grey morning bound for Alabama via the Central American coast, Panama

Canal and Western Caribbean.  The final destination wasn't particularly exotic, but most

ports in between would surely offer up adventures of all kinds.

The travelers stopping in at Hotel Coral & Marina ranged from a young couple in their early

thirties fresh off an 8 month Mexican sabbatical escaping high paying jobs at Microsoft to a

nearly 80-year-old retired physician who had spent the last 17 years cruising Central

America.  One couple had purchased a big beautiful brand new catamaran right from the

factory in France and sailed it from France to Ensenada via the Caribbean, while another

couple set out on a tiny 1970's vintage thirty footer to see what they could find in the South

Pacific and New Zealand.  Meeting people like this on a daily basis was refreshing and eye opening.

But perhaps the most inspirational story of all was that of Richard

Dreschler aboard Last Resort, a Catalina 470.  Diagnosed in 2005 with

a particularly complicated form of throat cancer that was expected to

kill him in a few months, Richard battled the disease into remission and

in 2008 took off with his wife Sharon to go cruising.  Alaska was first on

their agenda, and a year later they went south to Mexico.  We met

them on their way back to California before they restarted their

journey, this time for Central America, through the Canal, the

Caribbean and on to the Mediterranean.  All this exotic travel, and yet

Richard is unable to eat.  He survives on a special medically

formulated liquid diet because his esophagus is only a pencil thickness

wide.  As he said to me casually, "My neck has been completely

reconstructed."  For anyone who is letting fear hold them from

pursuing their dreams, this man is an inspiration.

While pondering the meaning of life and dreams,

we got daily entertainment from a charming pair

of boys who lived aboard a boat in a slip nearby.

Aged five and seven, and growing up with a

degree of freedom that would make most kids

extremely jealous, we watched them cavorting

everywhere.  They rode their bikes up and down

the docks, catching air whenever possible,

terrifying all us wiser folks that they would fly off

into the water.  But they had the confidence of top

BMX racers and never missed.  When they

wanted to climb the rigging, their parents simply

strung them up in their sailing harnesses so they

could play safely.  Families with children are rare

in traveling lifestyles, and it was pure joy to watch these

little monkeys as they hung by their knees and chased

each other all over the docks.

Out in the bay many mini whale families

had migrated up from the south.  Mama

whales could be seen all around

babysitting their calves.  Unlike the

wintertime when the whales had been on

a mission to get from Point A to Point B,

we now found them lolling around, resting,

sleeping, and probably watching their

calves cavorting under water as we had

been watching those boys on the docks.

Another creature arrived at the marina

around this time too.  Late each afternoon

a flock of big, noisy birds would show up,

taking over the marina as if it were their own.  We didn't pay much attention at first, simply

tuning out their shrill, raucous cries.  But when we found evidence of their nightly fishing

expeditions all over the deck of our boat in the form of bird poop, we stood up and took notice.

These bombers were big and loud, and when they dropped their payload it sounded like

someone was spraying the boat with a hose.  But they were wonderfully funny characters too.

They were black crowned night herons, and once darkness fell their favorite fishing spots were

on the docklines that each boat had tied across its slip.  Marina Coral is only half-full at the

moment, so every boat enjoyed a double slip to itself.  Because the surge is significant, most

boats tied several docklines across the adjacent empty slip to the cleats on the far side.  As

evening fell, each heron would choose a dockline and then gingerly step out onto it like a tight

rope walker, testing the line with its toes a few times before venturing out.

Once out in the middle of the line, the bird would patiently ride

up and down as the line tightened and loosened below him,

rising and falling with the surge.  Scanning the water for fish

(and on many nights the water was literally boiling and popping

because there were so many small fish near the surface), the bird would time his catch with

the movement of the rope.  But sometimes he would line up his perfect catch, extend his neck

and beak towards the water ready to snatch the fish, only to have the line begin to tighten

below him and raise him up and out of reach of his prey.  Oh well, better luck next time.  We

laughed out loud watching these antics through the window.  However, despite the

complication of fishing from a rising and falling platform, the herons always got their fill by

night's end and deposited the digested remains on the deck of our boat and all over the

docks.  Personally, I thought the evening's comedy show was worth the mess in the morning.

A brief stop at a running store in town got us hooked on running

once again.  A 6K running race was coming up, sponsored by the Port of Ensenada, and

suddenly we found ourselves in training.  I did too much too soon on broken down shoes and

put myself out of commission with a bum knee almost immediately, but Mark trained diligently,

increasing his efforts slowly.  By race day his bib #1 looked pretty good on his chest.  Usually

reserved for seeded racers, he got the number by virtue of having been the first to sign up for

the race.

We didn't know what to expect, but Glenda, the race

organizer said free t-shirts would go to the first 600 runners.

Would that many people sign up in the remaining 3 weeks?

What a shock on race day to find the plaza around the

waterfront packed to overflowing with runners, walkers and

families.

Music blared and people of all shapes and sizes stretched and

warmed up around us.  Amazingly, there were 900 entrants,

and from what I could see we were the only Gringos to show

up.  But running has a culture and a language all its own.  This

was a day for racers and a day for families, and it didn't matter

if you were on foot or on wheels, it was all about having a good

time.

Unlike races in the US where there is a hefty entrance fee,

timing chips tied into your shoelaces, and special recognition for

winners of different age groups, this race was free and your

finishing time was a private matter between you and the race clock.  However, a huge raffle at the end made many folks

winners -- of gym memberships, running shoe discounts, and even an all expense paid vacation to Las Vegas.  What a fun

way to celebrate the running spirit.

Back at Hotel Coral we discovered that July is

wedding month.  During our runs and walks along

the waterfront into town we could see catering

trucks and wedding receptions being set up at villas

all along our route every weekend.  One Saturday

morning we counted nine different weddings under

construction for that afternoon.  Hotel Coral is a

picturesque spot for a wedding, and while sitting in

the hot tub with a wedding party on the day of their

rehearsal, I found out the hour of the wedding the

next day and snuck back with my camera.

Mark's race time in the Re-Corre tu Puerto race

wasn't quite up to the standard he sets for himself.

So he was thrilled to find out there was another

race in a few weeks sponsored by the popular bar

Papas & Beer ("Papas" are potatoes).

He trained carefully and hard,

and was definitely in high

spirits when race day

arrived.  Even bigger than

the previous running race,

this one attracted 1500

entrants, and again we

were just about the only

Gringos that I could see.

Running clubs gathered

here and there, and a

high school team did

group stretches nearby.

Mark took off to warm up while the sexy Sol Beer gals entertained the

rest of us on the stage.  A cheerleading group did acrobatics nearby.

The music was loud and the place was

humming as everyone gathered under the

Tecate beer sign for the start of the race.  Suddenly

the gun sounded and they were off.  Milling around

the now empty streets, we all waited with high

anticipation for racers to bring the life back to the

party.  The Sol Beer gals played with the finish line

tape and the race clock slowly ticked away.

Suddenly the winner appeared, led by a police

car with sirens wailing and lights flashing, and

the excitement returned.  Mark shaved a few

minutes off his time and was ecstatic that at 56

he hasn't lost it yet.  But checking the world

track and field records online a little later, he

discovered that in his age group the 5K world record is 15:37, faster, ahem, than his fastest pace in his

prime.  Those records hold a lot of hope, however, as there is a 100+ age group for several distances.

For the 400 meter (~1/4 mile), the 100-year-old world record holder cooked along at less than a 15

minute per mile pace.  Merely being alive at 100, never mind donning running shorts, pinning on a race

number and jogging around a track, is remarkable.

The Papas & Beer race is all about family fun, not record setting,

however.  The party went on for hours as sweaty runners downed water

and oranges and bananas.  Cheering spouses, grandparents and

children exchanged proud smiles.  As with the previous race, all the

prizes were awarded through a raffle, and the grand prize was an all

expense paid trip to New York.  Of course visiting the US requires

government paperwork, and these days the US is not making it easy for

Mexicans to vacation north of the border.  As a Mexican friend

explained to me, applying for the mandatory $200 US visa is not as

easy as it sounds.  The visa might or might not be granted by the US

government, and sadly, if your application is rejected you won't get a

refund.  This makes it a risky bit of government paperwork to purchase,

especially since the minimum wage in Mexico is around $5 per day.

The grand prize trip to NYC was won by four different raffle ticket

holders before the eventual winner -- a bona fide US travel visa holder -- was actually able to accept it.

Government policies pale next to personal friendships,

however, and Mark discovered he had a lot in common with

race organizer Emeterio Nava.  Both had raced in the same

era, and they knew a lot of the same runners.  Mark

mentioned Mexican legend Arturo Barrios whom he had long

admired for setting the open road 10K world record (among

several other world records) in 1989.  Emeterio grinned

broadly and said, "He's a good friend of mine!" and promptly

called him on his cell phone and handed the phone to Mark.

What do you say to an idol?

These were our final weeks in Ensenada.  Our emotions were

becoming bittersweet as we realized we could count the days until

our departure.  One last week at the Baja Naval boatyard would

complete our stay before we headed off into the sunrise for

anchorages unknown.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.

Mid-July, 2010 - One of the charms of northern Baja California, and quite

different than the dusty, speedy, beerfest of the Baja 500, is a visit to the

delightful wine country.  The Guadalupe Valley is about two-thirds the size

of Napa Valley in California, and has the same climate as southern

France, making it an ideal location for wine making.  We had driven

through these pretty vineyard landscapes several times when we drove

up to the border crossing at Tecate, and we had sampled wines at two

tasting rooms in Ensenada, however we had not yet visited any wineries.

During our stay in

Ensenada, the fog

of "June Gloom"

had spread its

chilly, grey misery

well into July, and we were tired of waking up to damp, dark skies and

living under their scowls all day.  Knowing that the sun was shining and

summer was happily swinging away just a few miles inland, we piled

into a car with friends for a day tour of Ensenada's wine region along

"La Ruta del Vino," the wine route.

During grape growing season, the Guadalupe Valley is a

desert landscape that gets cooled by breezes from the

same misty spring and summer fog that had engulfed us at

the coast.  It is an ideal climate for grapes if not always for

people's moods.  This valley, along with the famed valleys in

California, is so perfect for grape growing that, after first

encouraging the development of New World wine

production, Spain ultimately banned it all together in 1699 to

avoid competition.

Visiting the scenic L.A. Cetto winery, our tour guide Gilberto explained

that wine making really got established in this area at the turn of the

last century when Russian Molokan immigrants settled the region.

Tracing their roots to a Christian sect that rejected the Russian

Orthodox Church in the 1500's, these faithful Slavs insisted upon

eating dairy products during official Church fasting days, earning them

the label "Molokans" (milk drinkers).  In 1904 a few hundred of them

left Russia, bringing wine grape saplings to their new home in Mexico.

We followed Gilberto under a

beautiful grape arbor where

ripe, juicy green grapes

dangled overhead in easy

reach.  Passing some towering

tanks, he described life in this

area during Prohibition when

thirsty Americans provided a

ready market for the sherries

and port wines that came out of those

very same tanks at the hands of Italian

Don Angelo Cetto.  He set up shop in

northern Baja in 1926, bringing a

knowledge of wine making from his

birthplace in Trento in northern Italy.

Today L.A. Cetto produces a million cases of wine each year,

the less expensive varieties aged in steel tanks and the more

select varieties aged in oak casks.  We had joined a family

group of Mexicans for the tour, and we all got a kick out of

listening to Gilberto's presentation in both Spanish and English.

We took turns taking photos of ourselves with the oak barrels in

the background, while we exchanged appreciative nods and

mumbled what we could in each other's languages.

Along with the other immigrant winemakers of the region, Cetto's

winery grew slowly, and in 1951 his son Don Luis Agustin Cetto

took over the reins.  The winery's fortunes really changed in 1965

when the talented young Italian winemaker Camillo Magoni joined

the team.  He overhauled the equipment in 1967, adding

refrigeration.  Amazingly, Camillo is with the winery to this day, and

in 2004 was selected as the top wine maker in the world by the

Dutch magazine Vinbladet.

These days the vineyard is run by grandson Luis Alberto Cetto.  The

wines are exported to 27 countries, and in 2010 they received the

Vinalies Paris International Gold Medal for their 2007 Petite Syrah.

While tasting this delicious wine, I marveled at the wall of awards

behind Gilberto's back.  I asked him which one the winery was most

proud of.  He shrugged, and I got the sense that even with over 130

awards to their credit, award winning is not what makes this place tick.

L.A. Cetto's free wine tastings are offered with an eye towards

educating the public in the joys of wine and its culture.  The

lovely grounds shelter a myriad of picnic areas tucked all around

the main building, and visitors are encouraged to buy a bottle

and enjoy a serene moment of classy outdoor elegance.  We

settled into a private nook with an engaging view of flowers and

fountains, and feasted on a spread of L.A. Cetto's homemade

bread and olive oil accompanied by a delicious Cabernet.  It is no

surprise that when President Obama recently entertained

Mexican President Felipe Caldarón at the White House, L.A.

Cetto wine was served.

We knew it would be hard to top this

introduction to Baja Mexico's wine

region, but we soldiered on.  We

stopped at Doña Lupe's tasting room

where little jars of gourmet goodies

filled the store from floor to ceiling.

Jams, jellies and honeys were all on

offer, and we sampled around the

room with delight.

Guadalupe Valley is filled with little

boutique wineries, but many require

advance appointments and most

require a healthy fee for tasting.  Our

taste buds had lost a little spark after

tasting at least eight wines at L.A.

Cetto and sharing a bottle in the

garden, so we weren't sure they

deserved much further investment for

the afternoon.  However, pulling up at

the gate to Adobe Guadalupe brought

all our senses to a peak once again.

This beautiful winerey / B&B

guesthouse / horse farm is the delightful opposite

extreme to L.A. Cetto.  After taking photos at the gate,

and of the gatehouse itself, a little man came out and

explained to me that there was a group arriving at 3:00

to take a tour.  I asked if we could join them, and after making a phone call, he said yes.

The short wait until their arrival gave us time to wander around outside the gate and get

a few photogrpahs.  Horses are near and dear to the owner's heart, and I especially liked

the picture Mark got of a Pegasus-inspired sculpture.

The vineyard is set back from the

main road, and the entire property

feels like a desert oasis basking in

the sun.  The rows of grape vines

seem to stretch all the way to the

distant mountains, and the

buildings, although new, have a

delicious old world feel.

Unlike L.A. Cetto where the history

of the vineyard is intertwined with

Mexico's history of the settling of the Baja Peninsula, the winery called

Adobe Guadalupe was created just over ten years ago to be a living,

spiritual memorial for a lost and beloved son.  Tru Miller's adult son Arlo

died tragically in a car accident.  While in Paris shortly after his death, his mother visited

the Notre Dame cathedral and received what she felt was a sign from God telling her how

to share and honor his memory.

Arlo had loved Mexican culture,

and there inside Notre Dame

Cathedral his mother saw a

Mexican chair covered with a

Mexican serape.  Upon a return

visit to the cathedral two years

later, she found the chair had

been incorporated into a altar

dedicated to the Virgin of

Guadalupe.  She decided right

then and there to settle in

Mexico's Guadalupe Valley, and

together with her husband Don,

they have created a property as

relaxing and welcoming as it is

stunning in its beauty.

Our hostess, Minerva,

told us this tale as she

poured our selection of

seven wines, each

named for an arch

angel.  As we savored

these rich bodied red

wines, we all scratched

our heads trying to

remember the English

names of the arch

angels, and stumbled a bit

over whether there were

really four or seven.  Miguel

and Gabriel were easy, but

Serafiel and

Kerubiel had us

stumped.  But

when Lucifer

showed up in

our glasses at

the end, we all

knew exactly

who he was.

Tru and Don live

in this glorious

property, but they keep most of it

open for visitors to explore.

Minerva led us down some

fantastic arched walkways into a

bright and airy living room.  Six

guest rooms are available in the

B&B, and I could easily imagine a

fantastic weekend of rest and

relaxation in this romantic setting.

We were led outside through

another hallway of arches and

then stepped into a palm tree

filled courtyard that embraced a

sparkling fountain.  Our cameras

snapped continuously as we

walked.

Finally emerging on the far side of

the building, a row of lounge chairs

lined up in front of the swimming

pool and invited us to take a load

off.  I have to admit that our heads

were spinning a little by this time,

what with all of the heavenly arch

angels paying us a visit through

their rich red nectar.  When we

finally left, our spirits were high and

our souls were refreshed.  I had

been waiting for a special day and

special friends to share a waltz

through Ensenada's wine country,

and this had been the perfect day.

All this wine and good cheer meant it was time to get serious

about our waist lines once again, and two Ensenada running

races got us inspired to get a little fitness back.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.

June, 2010 - Now into our fifth of six months in Ensenada, we took a

break from the local tourist scene and began to zero in on final boat-

related projects to prepare Groovy for cruising.  Our major project was to

install an arch support for three large 24-volt solar panels.  This involved

shipping parts to San Diego, picking them up and hauling them here in

our truck, as well as having a local stainless steel expert design and build

the arch support.  Not a trivial project.

So it came as welcome relief

when our new Australian friends

who had come through the

marina on their way south in April

returned to Ensenada once again

on their way north.  As we

watched their videos of leaping dolphins and exotic rock formations in the more remote

parts of the Sea of Cortez, our appetites were whetted for upcoming Groovy

adventures, making all that work on our solar charging system seem very worthwhile.

At the same time, we had a chance to show them one of our newest Ensenada

discoveries: the Riviera Cultural Center.

This special spot in town is

impossible to miss, as it is

a huge, white, ornate

building with many wings

right on the main drag.  The architecture is grand and historic

looking, and the grounds are meticulously maintained.  However,

it was not obvious to me that the building was open to the public.

Two lions guard one

entrance, gifts to Ensenada

in a spirit of brotherhood by

the cities of Pulandia and

Dalian in Liaoning Province,

China.

A statue of the last leader of the Aztecs,

Cuauhtemoc, graces another part of the front lawn

of the Riviera.  Cuauhtemoc ruled Tenochtitlan

from 1520-21 before it fell to the Spanish and was

rebuilt as Mexico City.  His name alludes to an

eagle diving for its prey, in reference to his

determination and aggressiveness.  Assuming

leadership at just 18, probably no amount of

determination, youth or aggression could have

stopped the Spanish from decimating the Aztecs.

When he would not reveal where the (nonexistent)

gold treasure was hidden, he was tortured by

having his feet put to fire.  He died at 25 when

Cortez deceived him and had him killed.

On a lighter note, the Riviera is a beautiful and

unique property.  The cultural center hosts a wide

variety of events all year long, and there is an art

gallery at one end.  But perhaps its best feature is

the famed Bar Andaluz which not only makes the

best Margaritas in town, but claims to be where the

Margarita was first invented.

After walking through the prettily landscaped

grounds, you pass through an arched entrance into

a wooden ceilinged hallway of arches.

From there you emerge out into a back open air

courtyard of lined with more arches.  The walls are

decorated with tiled images of all kinds.  Many tiles

depict various mission churches that are located

throughout Mexico.  Each mission tile painting is

accompanied with a quote from a famous thinker,

ranging from Confucius to Francisco de Quevedo

(a 17th century Spanish writer) to John F. Kennedy.

The decorative tiles also tell the

building's history.  First opened

as the Riviera Hotel and Casino

in 1930, it was occupied by the

Mexican military in 1941-42.  In

1948 it came under the proprietorship of one Señora Margarita Plant.

After the "Golden Age" of the 1950's, the hotel changed hands several

times and was renovated as a cultural center in 1990.  Back in 1948,

the fussy Sra. Margarita Plant wanted a tasty drink but disliked the

flavor of Mexico's native libation, tequila.  So she asked her bartender,

David Negrete, to create a special drink for her.  Combining the tequila

with lime juice and Controy (a

Mexican orange liqueur like

Triple Sec, Cointreau or Grand

Marnier), and rimming the glass

with salt, the Margarita was born.

Looking online for a little more info on the history of the Margarita, I discovered the

drink is attributed to several possible inventors, but Sr. Negrete in Ensenada, Mexico is

definitely a front runner.  Interestingly, most English language histories list this

bartender as "Daniel" Negrete, not "David," while in

Spanish they all point to "David" Negrete.

The bar is small but cozy, and the back wall is

covered with a dramatic mural depicting all kinds of

Spanish icons, including a lovely Flamenco dancer.

The Margaritas are truly the best

I've ever had, made with lime

juice so fresh it is squeezed into

your glass.  We returned yet

another night to watch a free

classical guitar concert put on by

local university students.

Ensenada boasts five universities

in and around town, and the bar

room was packed with university

people.  As we sat

there listening to

guitar and flute

duets by Bach, I

felt that we had discovered yet another side to Ensenada, one that has

nothing to do with the tourist party scene or the boating, biking and off-road

racing scene.  Our musical evening at the Riviera was enchanting.

Back out on Gringo

Gulch one day, we

heard a commotion

ahead and saw an

open air double

decker bus coming

towards us beeping

its horn loudly.  It was

decorated with posters and filled with people wearing matching hats and

waving flags.  As they went by we realized it was a local politician out

campaigning, Mexican style, for the upcoming elections.

Not long after that, the Baja 500 Boys showed up in the Hotel

Coral & Marina parking lot for their annual 500 mile off-road

race through the desert.  In just hours the marina parking lot

was transformed from a ho-hum dirt lot partially filled with

boaters' cars to a high intensity, high profile, home base for

the two major teams that were in contention for overall race

honors this year.

We watched in awe as the two million dollar Prevost motorhomes owned

by Terrible Herbst (the same folks who own the Terrible's casino and

convenience store chains in Nevada), circled each other in the parking

lot and made space between them for coolers, barbecues and camp

chairs, not to mention exotic race cars and mechanics to work on them.

Hoods went up, wheels came off, and many pairs of hands reached into

the bellies of these vehicles to tweak them to max power.

Just moments later

the McMillin team

appeared and set up

a large tent for their

racing fleet and

mechanical wizards.

I knew we were in the

presence of the titans

of this sport when one

fellow I'd been talking

to suddenly told me in

hushed tones, "See

that guy over there in

the blue ballcap

looking at that

engine?  His

name's Larry

Roeseler and he

won the Baja 1000

a bunch of times."

But this visiting crowd of desert speedsters weren't the only new kids on

the block.  As I looked around at my cruising friends who had joined us

in the parking lot, I suddenly I saw them metamorphose.  Men whom I'd

known only as sailors outfitting their boats with Single Sideband Radios

and heavy duty ground tackle while comparing notes on how to read

the weather offshore, suddenly began to ooh and aah over custom

steering linkages, big lobe cams and long travel suspensions.

Throughout the week leading up to the race we heard the rumbling

thunder of race cars coming and going from the hotel all day and

seemingly all night too.  A small portion of the racetrack was open

for practice runs, and the teams took full advantage.  The gates

leading out of the marina hotel are on an uphill, and the drivers

would rev the engines to max volume in salute to their friends each

time they left through those gates.

The Baja 500 is definitely a testosterone fest.  The day before

the race all the vehicles (cars, trucks, buggies and motorcycles)

paraded through town on their way to the inspection area.  The

crowd was so thick you had to bump your way through to get

anywhere.  People hung over the cars, patting them, posing

their kids in front of them for photos, and asking the drivers for

autographs.

Beer was stacked in front of every bar in anticipation of a rowdy

weekend, and the all the sponsors brought the hottest gals they could

find.  All the vehicles were exotic looking, tricked out to the max and

ready to take on the challenging dirt roads of the desert.

Checking out a friend's

photos from the Baja 500 on

his cell phone a few days

later confirmed my suspicion

that the guys there took as

many photos of the leggy,

scantily dressed promo gals

as they did of the cars.  They

were everywhere, and they

posed with everyone, from

tyke to teen to grandpa.

One all pink race car bore the

license plate "Alotta" (in

reference to the first name of

Austin Powers' hottie?) while

lots of folks paraded around

in crazy hats and getups.

One of the race cars

had a chihuahua atop

as a mascot, and Mark

found a Tecate can he

couldn't quite lift.

The race featured 289 entrants from 26

states and 13 countries.   Starting in

Ensenada, the course took a loop through

the interior of the northern Baja peninsula,

returning to town after 438+ miles.  The

motorcycles left at 6:00 a.m. followed by

the four wheeled vehicles in various

categories a little later.

I had hurt my knee so I decided

not go to the race start, but Mark

put his camera into video mode so

I wouldn't miss a thing.

Unfortunately, he didn't check the

camera settings before he started

shooting.  When he sat down to

show me his very cool videos, all

he had were still images of the

empty track before and after each

car zoomed pass.  Oh well.  He

said it was truly awesome, rockets

on wheels flying by in thunderous

clouds of dust.

The first motorcycles could be

heard screaming back to town a

few hours after lunch, while the first

four wheelers didn't get back until

dinnertime.  Slower buggies and

trucks could be heard roaring

across the finish line in town all

night long.

Walking by the McMillin tent near

sunset we suddenly heard their

radios crackle to life with chatter.

Their car had just won the main

event of the race.  Drivers Scott

and Andy McMillin, father and son, are the 2nd and 3rd generation of desert drivers in this

legendary racing family.  They finished in just over 9 hours, averaging 47+ mph.  When

the pair returned to the hotel, we heard the distinct roar of their triumphant, tricked out

850 hp Ford 150 truck as it took a noisy victory lap down through the entrance gates and

into the marina parking lot.

The next few weeks found us in constant motion as we ticked down our "to do" list of boat

projects that we wanted to finish before leaving the luxury of Hotel Coral & Marina.  But

friends finally swept us away to a delightful day

in Ensenada's Wine Country.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.

Early May, 2010 - After the excitement of the bike and boat races, life at

Hotel Coral & Marina simmered way down again.  The weather slowly

began to show signs of warming, letting us run around in t-shirts and

shorts for a few hours every day.  We passed the halfway mark of our six

month stay in Ensenada, and the pace of our preparations for a life "on the

hook" at sea began to quicken.  Even though Groovy is virtually brand

new, there were still puzzling things to fix and many things to maintain as

well as lots of things to add to make the boat cruise-ready.

Mark did some engine maintenance,

changing the engine oil and

transmission oil and cleaning out the

strainer that filters the engine's sea

water intake (the engine is cooled by

sea water rather than by a radiator).  It

was amazing to see the little oceanic ecosystem that had been growing in the sea strainer,

and the engine sparkled once he was finished.

The outside of the boat

needed a good wax job

too, and we tackled it in

stages.  Everyday we'd

do a small section, using

two different waxes, first

removing oxidation and

then giving it a real

shine.  We decided to

use the kayak to wax

the sides of the hull,

kneeling in it side by side.  All went well on the aft section of

the boat as we got used to maneuvering on a moving platform.  I hopped out to grab fresh towels for us while Mark moved the

kayak forward a few feet and tied it off to Groovy.  This time, rather than climbing in from the dock, I had to lower myself down

to the kayak from the deck of the boat.  I grabbed the stainless steel stanchions at the gate and began to lower myself down.

"I'll guide your foot," Mark said helpfully as he grabbed my ankle.  That was a relief, as I suddenly realized the kayak was a lot

further down than I thought.

I soon found myself doing a full split, with one foot still on the boat

and the other groping frantically for the kayak.  Suddenly I felt my

grip loosen on the stanchions and I said a quick prayer that

Mark's expert guidance would land my foot and the rest of me in

the kayak.  No such luck.  My foot found the water and then the

water found my whole body as I plunged in.  Mark had a death-

grip on my shirt as I spluttered to the surface.  "Let go of my

shirt!" I shrieked as I splashed towards the dock.  I heaved myself

onto the warm concrete dock and laid there on my back like a

beached whale, laughing til my sides ached.

Miraculously, no one had seen our stunt.  Usually, anything you

do around your slip in a marina is done in front of an appreciative audience, complete with cheers and heckles and

goodnatured ribbing.  Well, at least I got out of the waxing chore for the rest of the day.  Our friends who work in the marina,

Chilly, Ivan and Christopher all got a kick out of our tale.  Ivan and Chris spend their days diving in the marina, cleaning the

bottoms of the boats.  Chris and Chilly speak English very well, and they patiently help us through our halting Spanish.

One of our boat preparation projects was to upgrade our

anchor and replace our chain/rope anchor rode combination

with one that was all chain.  In the process I learned more

about types of chain, manufacturers of chain, dimensions

and galvanizing of chain, and the vagaries of Chinese-made

chain than I ever thought I could know.  Our boat had left the

factory with a modest anchor setup, but the previous owner's

attempt at upgrading the rode had resulted in the wrong size

chain attached to a wonderful length of brand new anchor

line.  In the end, we wanted to attach this new rope to a short

length of the right size chain to use as a spare.

Chain and anchor line get connected to each other with a

beautiful type of braiding that allows the transition point to

slip through the anchor windlass without binding it up.  I

found a great website that explains how to do this kind of

knot and it looked so easy (here).  I laid out the chain and opened the end of the three-strand nylon rope and started the

process.  After about an hour of starting and re-starting, replaying the knot-tying video over and over and struggling to open

the tight twists of line to weave the ends through, I asked Chilly if he could help.

Chilly spent many years as a commercial fisherman, plying the entire eastern Pacific coast from Alaska to Peru, and not only

can he do a hilarious imitation of all the different Spanish accents (and facial expressions) that can be found along that coast,

he is a whiz with knot-tying.

I had figured I'd take photos of his hands as he went along so next time I could do it myself.  I also figured he'd scratch his

head at least once before getting going.  But his hands flew, fast and furious, right from the start.  Accompanied by occasional

om-like chants of "mmm-Hmmm,"  the rope flip-flopped in his hands as he wove the ends back on themselves effortlessly.  He

paused now and then just long enough to give it a firm tug and utter a satisfied "hmmm."

"You see, you skip one then go under the next one."  It sounded good, but I didn't quite see.  "This is easy rope to work with

because it's brand new.  It's much harder on the ships when the line is old and filled with salt."  I tried my hand at the final few

braids, grunting as I tried to open the impossibly tight weave.  The line was ultra stiff and the pattern still escaped me.  I

suspect it takes a lot of hours on a rolling boat (and probably with a demanding captain) to master that knot like Chilly has.

But the finished product was a lovely braided section.  Chilly

grabbed a hot-knife and sealed off the three ends.  He handed the

finished work to me with a shrug.  "See, it's not hard,"  he smiled --

and winked.

Out in town we kept exploring new neighborhoods.  In many ways,

walking the streets of Ensenada is like stepping back in time.  The

storefronts are small, jammed together cheek by jowl, and most

shopkeepers have a specialty.  We passed a barbershop with no

patrons and saw the barber snoozing peacefully in his chair, head

thrown back and mouth open.  Next door was a shoeshine shop

overflowing with patrons.  The brushes, polish and banter flew as the

customers held their shoes out for buffing.

I heard the familiar chirping of

parakeets and stopped at a gate to

gaze at a huge aviary set back from

the street in a garden.  A lady came to the gate and let us in as I explained that I used to raise

budgies and am a bird lover.  These guys were making a happy racket, and we discovered

nest boxes filled with cockatiels, conures and lovebirds as well.  "Do you know that the English

word for these birds is 'love bird?'" I asked her in Spanish.  She told me the Spanish word for

them is "párajo de amor," which has the same meaning.  I was surprised the birds would take

the same name in two languages until I looked it up later: their scientific name, "agapornis,"

comes from the Greek words for "love bird."  Of course anyone who has hung around these

colorful little stubby birds knows that they can be rather argumentative, even crotchety, lovers.

Around the corner we found the back end

of the huge in-town sales complex for the

nearby winery Santo Tomás.  First we saw

the wine barrels lined up outside the

building.  The brick wall had intriguing

"windows" that had been constructed of

liquor bottles stacked on their sides.

Pretty purple flowers hung down from a

trellis.

Out front the wine tasting room features a

grand entrance and and equally elegant

interior.  We haven't yet been out to the

vineyard itself, but some time spent with

the salespeople here has put a trip to the

vineyard high on our "to do" list.

The Mexican wines of this region are

becoming internationally recognized,

and this winery has a strong line-up of

medal winning wines.

Outside the winery is a

French Fromagerie in a

little brick kiosk structure.

How funny to walk into a

little brick building filled

with huge rounds of French

cheese.

This whole neighborhood has a

colorful flair.  There is a French

bakery and a natural food store

and other specialty shops that

give these few blocks an

international aura.  Each shop is

barely 12'x12' inside, but what

fun to duck inside each one and

find gourmet products from around the world.

Strawberries were in season, and we picked up several boxes.

Rather than leaving them in their cartons, as would be done

back home, all our little boxes were emptied into a big plastic

bag for easy carrying.

Wandering back towards the tourist roads along the harbor front, I again

got a chance to catch a horse-and-buggy in my lens.  Mexicans so often

love a photo op, and this guy was no exception, giving me a wave and

suggesting we hop in for a $3 ride around town.  Another time.

We turned up another street and heard all kinds of noise blaring from a

vehicle as someone yelled incomprehensible Spanish in a loudspeaker.  I

turned and saw a pickup pulling two cages, one containing a black

panther and one with two tigers.  Where were they off to?  Who knows.

Gotta learn more Spanish so I can understand these things!

Every Thursday night the cruisers from the

marinas around town all gather at a restaurant

called "La Vendimia" ("The Grape Harvest").  Run

by Katrina, a Liverpool-raised British ex-pat who

knew George Harrison and watched the Beatles

play at The Cavern Club every week before they

hit the international stage, this little gem of a

watering hole offers two-for-one specials for

Happy Hour and a free spaghetti dinner.  So for $7 or $8 we can

both have a few beers and dinner and see all the faces behind the

boat names we hear on the Cruiser's Radio Net every morning.

Besides the fun ambiance, Katrina's

charm and the amazing prices, the thing

that keeps the cruisers coming back

week after week is the guest stars who

drop by every Thursday.  Most

important is Jacko, a Huichol

descendent of the Aztecs who is an

artist and has studied Linguistics at

prestigious American universities.  He

comes to La Vendimia every Thursday

night to take orders for and deliver very

inexpensive movies and music on DVD

and CD.  These then get passed around and shared at the

Wednesday morning cruisers breakfast.  When Jacko arrives,

eager customers jump up from their barstools to hand him their

lists of "must have" movies and to pick up their delivery from the previous week.

The other main event on Thursday nights is the arrival of the Vegetable Lady.  She grows

organic vegetables in her garden and comes with a huge box of beautiful vegetables for

sale.  When she shows up another group of happy customers all vanish from the bar and

pack around her like flies, oohing and aahing over the beauty of her baby carrots, zucchini,

sweet peppers and shelled peas.

Usually a Mariachi band will wander

through at some point, stopping for

an appreciative table and singing

their hearts out.  One evening they

even inspired Mark to take me to

the dance floor, and soon almost the whole motley crew of sailors was

jigging around on the dance floor.  The Flower Guy swings through

every Thursday as well, offering beautiful flowers for romantic men to

buy for their starry eyed loves.  I have a feeling he has better luck at

the bars where the cruise ship tourists go than with the crusty old

salts at La Vendimia.

My own love surprised me one

day by putting a sweet note in my

shower bag.  I always stop for a

few minutes to talk to the women that give out the towels at the hotel spa where we

grungy cruisers get to take our luxurious showers (such a life!).  Their English is just a

smidgeon better than my Spanish, but they get a kick out of watching me stammer

through whatever I have to say.  I always rehearse a little something before I walk in so I

can try to improve.  When Mark's note fluttered out of my shower bag onto the floor I saw

a perfect opportunity to engage Erica, a sweet young girl at the desk who blushes and

giggles every time she says something in English.  "Mark wrote this for me," I said.  "It's in

English."  She examined the note and I gave her a start, "I..."  "love you," she finished.

Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at me.  She pointed to a flower on her desk from her

"novio" (boyfriend) who is "muy guapo" (very handsome).  What fun.  This is a truly

magical time in our lives.

A week later my mom came to visit, and we had a chance to share with her some of Ensenada's treasures, including the

famous blow hole and zany crazy tourist scene at La Bufadora.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.

Late May, 2010 - We had been enjoying Ensenada so much over the past few months

that when my mother came to visit for her 80th birthday week we couldn't wait to share

the treasures we had found and do a little further exploring with her.  She got a kick out of

taking the bus to town.

Once we got there we were greeted

by a vintage car flying two huge

Mexican flags.  We had seen an

impromptu parade of antique cars

and low-riders the week before, but I

hadn't had my camera with me then,

so I was happy to catch this

one on camera as it went by.

We had come across The

Brownie Man a few weeks earlier and still had vivid memories of his heavenly

chocolate brownies baked by his Norwegian wife.  What luck to find him once again,

strolling along Gringo Gulch with his tray of baked delights.

Following our tummies across town,

we stopped at Taqueria Las Brisas,

a taco stand that came highly

recommended by all the workers at

the marina.  "Go along the Costero

past Hotel Corona and you'll see three taco stands in a row.  Go to the middle

one.  They are the best tacos in town"  We followed their advice and directions

and had a scrumptious meal.  The tortillas were handmade on the spot, from a

huge mountain of dough, and the steak and seasonings were sensational.

For $1 a taco we gorged ourselves, murmuring "mmm...mmm" with every bite.

Having house

guests is always a

great excuse to run

out and do all the

fun tourist things, so off we went in search of the perfect tequila for

mom to take home to my sister's family as a souvenir.  A little open

air liquor store offered tequila tastings, and we soon found

ourselves sampling all kinds of tequilas we'd never heard of (and it

well before noon!), comparing this "reposado" to that "añejo."

Mom found a

tequila that really

hit the spot, and

no doubt Corona

macaw painted

on the wall

approved of her

selection.

Of course we had to get photos with each of us

sporting Corona sunglasses, and our moods were

quite light as we strolled the streets of Ensenada

all afternoon.

Hussong's Cantina is the oldest bar in

Ensenada (founded in 1881).  My first

impression weeks ago was that it was a

tourist trap, filled with cruise ship visitors

getting a taste of Mexico ashore, so we had

never been inside.  We poked our heads inside with mom during

daylight hours and saw nothing more than a gaping room filled with

chairs and tables, bereft of any spirit.  She insisted we return after

dark to see if it livened up.  Being Tuesday, two-for-one night, we

returned to find it packed to overflowing, absolutely jumping with

happy Mexican revelers.  We were the only gringos in the crowd.

Mark ordered up a song from a Mariachi band that strolled in, and

soon our toes were tapping and grins flashing as the table next to us

ordered up another half-hour's worth of music.  Mom's dance card

filled up, and she easily outpaced us youngsters, protesting that

"the fun was just getting started" when we got up to leave.

Returning to the Malecon (the waterfront boardwalk) the next

day, we saw dozens of seals draping themselves across the

docks.  They seemed to feel about the way I did:  exhausted.

With the image of their slowly swaying heads and mournful

barks vivid in our minds, we snuck away from the tourist zone

and headed out along the scenic drive to one of Ensenada's

highlights: La Bufadora.

Driving along Estero Beach, we didn't get the perfect day for

a sightseeing tour, but seeing the outlying farmlands and

famed blow hole at La Bufadora were what this drive was all

about.

Mark spotted a guy selling cherries by the side of the road and we quickly

pulled alongside to get some.  "Where are the cherry orchards around here?"

I asked in the best Spanish I could muster as he handed me my bag.  "There

aren't cherry trees any in Mexico.  These are from the US."  Oops!  So much

for the authentic Mexican farm stand experience.  We all got a great laugh,

but the cherries were so delicious it didn't matter where they were from.

Oregon's finest from a Mexican roadside vendor.  What next?

We drove through

farmlands nestled

behind a row of

oceanfront mountains,

and we breathed

deeply as the road

swept around towards the point that marks the far end of the bay.

This point drifts in and out of the fog every day as we look out across

the bay from the marina.  Driving the road perched on the edge of the

hills, we had a chance to see its rugged, steep cliffs up close.

La Bufadora is simply a blow hole, a craggy tidal cavern in some steep cliffs

where ocean water periodically shoots sky high in great gusts of salty white

spray.  However, it is really so much more than that, as an entire cottage

industry of tourism has grown up around it.  We got our first sampling a few

miles out when a painted pony posed for us.

In a little closer we walked under a grand entrance that announced

our arrival at La Bufadora.  For the next quarter mile or so the road

was thickly lined with vendors selling everything from sweets to

colorful masks to cheerful dresses to swinging hammocks.

Vendors stood outside every

shop inviting the tourists to

come inside and look around.

"Come in and see what

we're selling.  It won't cost

you anything."  "Would you

like a dress, a t-shirt, a bag

-- look, this bag would be

perfect for you ma'am.  We

have it in red or blue or

green..."  "Come on in and

buy something you don't

need!" one guy said as I

walked by.  It was a little

overwhelming and very

amusing.

Some of the

artwork and

crafts were

intriguing,

but we'd

need a

bigger boat

to indulge.

Suddenly a busload

of tourists

disembarked and a

wave of people walked

past in a flurry, like the

first rush of flood water

plunging down a dry

desert wash.  We got

swept up and swept

away and separated.  I

waited for Mark to

appear in the crowd

and then we spotted

each other, cameras

clicking.

The busload of tourist surged past, leaving

some small-fry in their wake.  The kids

played hide-and-seek among the vendors'

stalls, and a group of squirrels scampered

after food scraps.

Musicians and street

performers pulled out all the

stops while the sea of

vendors finally parted,

revealing the crashing surf

and rugged cliffs of this

popular landmark.

Fortunately La Bufadora was doing her thing in style that day.

Somehow we timed the tides and winds just right for our visit,

and ended up with salt spray on our hair.

Leaving the crazy Bufadora scene behind, we stopped at a roadside

stand on our return trip home to buy some honey.  Sold in jars and

bottles of all shapes and sizes sporting familiar labels and bottle

tops that reveal their former contents, each jar of honey was a

different shade of golden brown.  We picked a nice dark one and

headed home with plans for a late-night after-dinner tea sweetened

with our new honey.

We retreated into boat projects for a few weeks, but emerged again

for two enduring but contrasting Ensenada experiences:  the

Riviera Cultural Center and Baja 500 off-road race.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.

Late March / Early April, 2010 - Since our border crossings,

the days having been passing too quickly.  Each day we

wake up to a myriad of possibilities of things to do.  Try as

we might, they never all seem to get done.  We have found

that Bahía Todos Santos, the bay in which Ensenada is

perched, is a beautiful place for day sailing.  So we have

taken the boat out for a sail once or twice a week since we

got here.  The bay is a very large basin that is about 7 miles

by 10 miles or so.  It is defined by a large hook in the land,

and some islands in the distance fringe the outer edge.

There are rarely any boats out on the water.  During most

day sails we see a powerboat or two, usually sport

fishermen.  So far we have seen only a handful of sailboats

all together, and generally we are the only one.  Yet the bay

sports a delightful wind most days and the wildlife is plentiful.  One day, while sailing, a

huge whale surfaced just a few feet from the boat, making us both jump.  On another

day we came across a clump of harbor seals floating and snoozing together, flippers,

tails and heads intertwined as they drifted on the waves.  From a distance we thought it

might be the remains of a bush or a tree, but on closer inspection those things sticking

up in the air were the seals' fins.  Their deep, satisfied breathing gave them away.

Besides being a fantastic place to

sail, we wanted to use these months

in Ensenada to learn as much about

the boat as possible.  Hunter, the

manufacturer of the boat, kindly put a

little sticker near the stairs going into the cabin advising us to read the

owner's manual before operating the boat.  Very cute.

On two occasions

we have sailed

with another

boat.  On one

day in particular

we shared the

bay with a Hunter

49, a big sister to

our boat.  It was

the ideal sailing day with

modest winds, no waves

whatsoever, and bright

sunshine all day.  For five

hours we tacked back and

forth, zig-zagging out

towards the islands.  Then

we both slipped home with

the wind lightly pushing us

from behind.  We were so

free and happy, soaring on

the air in a light dance upon

the water.

These energetic days haven't been

getting their start with a Wheaties

breakfast, however.  Mark discovered

that the Mexican equivalent of one of his favorites, Coco

Krispies, can be found with Melvin on the front under the

label "Choco Kripis."  It's reassuring to start the day with

something familiar, even if it comes with a slight Mexican

accent.

But all that sugar can send you back to bed for a nap.

Where better than in the cockpit, even if you have to pile

on the blankets to keep warm?

The winter of 2009/2010 has turned out to be an El Niño

winter.  El Niño refers to the boy child, or more specifically

the Christ child, whom Peruvian farmers always thanked,

long ago, when this unusual weather effect would bless their fields with lots of rain.

Apparently difficult to predict but easy to

identify once it has arrived, this odd El

Niño weather pattern robs Montana of all moisture and totally soaks the

coasts of Southern California and Northern Baja Mexico.  El Niño has

other far-reaching impacts around the globe, generally reversing the

usual weather and delivering the exact opposite.

While the Peruvian farmers may have been elated this year, El Niño

hasn't left our rancher friends in Montana or us very happy.  The

Montanans don't mind the cold and desperately need the rain, and we

would have liked a nice warm dry season here.  However, Mother

Nature has her own, wise agenda, and the southwestern desert hasn't

been this green and lush in ages.

Our weeks get scheduled around which

day looks like it will be best for sailing, as far as temperature and wind strength are concerned.

Of course, weather prediction here has proven to be quite a challenge.  We check several

different websites, listen to Duck Breath's lengthy forecast on the VHF radio cruiser's net each

morning, and stand in the cockpit and scratch our heads.

One day that was predicted to have 9 knots of wind turned out to have 25-30 knots once we

got out into the bay, and another series of days that were supposed to inflict a torrent of

storms turned out to be balmy and pleasant.  We missed one of the most dramatic natural

events of the season during the week we drove to Phoenix.  A large earthquake in Chile

suddenly threatened to unleash a tsunami all the way up the Pacific coast to southern

California.  In anticipation, some folks took their boats out to sea, others doubled up their dock

lines and moved to higher ground, and all nervously stared out to sea and waited.

At the appointed hour the wave

arrived.  Fortunately it was far smaller

than expected.  The floating docks in

the marina rose and fell four feet in 10 minutes, but there was no

damage.  Up in San Diego, where the entrance to the bay is much

narrower and the surge is more forceful, there was some damage to

various shoreline structures.

We were blissfully unaware of any of this until the day after it

happened.  Casually reading the newspaper headlines in a Phoenix

coffee shop, my heart jumped when I saw the words "tsunami" and

"Baja Mexico" in one sentence.  But I quickly realized that the wave

had already come and gone 24 hours earlier.

The event we did not miss was the earthquake that struck just 100 miles inland in

Mexicali, California.  We didn't get sloshed around in the hotel's hot tub or get a good

shake-up in their restaurant like so many others here.  Instead, we were quietly sitting

below decks listening to the snap, crackle and pop that goes on under our hull all the

time.  We have been listening to this noise since we moved aboard, and we had heard it

years ago during sailing lessons in San Diego bay.  We had asked other cruisers about it

and been variously told it was marine creatures eating the scum off the bottom of our

hull, it was electrical activity in the water, it was the new-boat fiberglass settling in, or it

was the bottom paint flaking off into the water.

None of these explanations seemed right, but with so many other exciting things going on

in our lives, who had time to research a noise that all the other cruisers seemed to accept

without concern?  Not us.  Not us, that is, until the earthquake hit.

There we were, quietly relaxing, when suddenly the volume of the snap, crackle, pop

increased to 4-5 times its usual volume.  Mark sat bolt upright and looked at me wide-

eyed.  We both shot out of the boat and looked around to see what might be causing the

popping to get so loud.  Mark thought maybe someone was spraying our hull with a hose,

and I thought maybe something had sent a huge electrical surge through the water.  But

everything out in the marina looked just the way it always does.

So we ducked back down in the cabin where the noise soon subsided

and resumed its familiar peaceful crackling.  I didn't think anything

more of it until we walked up to the hotel later in the day and learned

about the earthquake.  What pandemonium.  People had leapt out of

the hot tubs and pools like greased lightning, screaming as they ran

off.  The earthquake had hit right about the time our boat was

engulfed in crackling.  Suddenly I put two and two together:  the noise

must be caused by creatures who were unnerved by the quake.

I had heard the likely noise-creating

marine creature was "krill" eating the

stuff that grows on the bottom of the

boat.  But why would the appetite of

krill, a small crustacean, suddenly

increase during an earthquake?  Not to mention, how can the tearing of soft, scummy tissues

off the bottom of a boat make such a sharp, popping noise (like bacon frying) that resonates

throughout the hull?  Furthermore, why didn't the noise abate for a few days after a diver had

scrubbed the bottom of the boat clean?  The crackling was always present, regardless of how

little marine growth our boat seemed to have.  Lastly, no diver had ever seen any creatures

munching on our boat's (or any other boat's) bottom.

A little more research and I finally discovered

who our creatures were: "snapping" shrimp, or

"pistol" shrimp, from the family Alpheidae and

genus Alpheus of which there are some 250

members.  These little guys sport a large

asymmetrical claw that they cock and then snap

shut to stun and kill their prey.  But this is no ordinary claw snap.  These guys

aim the claw between the eyes of their prey and snap it shut at such lightning

speed that an air bubble is emitted and bursts with a huge POW.  This releases

a blast of light and heat that is equivalent to that found on the surface of the sun.

The noise of these pistol shots ranks these little half inch shrimp among the

noisiest of the sea's creatures, right up there with sperm and beluga whales.

These crazy, noisy

shrimp aren't

feasting on the

underside of our

boat.  Instead, they live in the nooks and crannies of the seabed

floor below us, and they snap their way through life,

communicating with each other via snap language and killing their

dinner as it crawls by.  They form male/female pair bonds, sharing

a home and food, and some species even take up communal

residence in sponges, behaving much like bees in a hive.

Sound a little unlikely?  I discovered a wonderful website of a

biologist who has studied these fellows in depth.  We had a

delightful, lively exchange of email messages about these shrimp.

She explained that they live among the rocks below us in little

burrows they build for themselves, but their noise is so loud, even

15 feet below us, that we hear it as if it were right outside.  During the earthquake, she explained, they not only felt the earth

move, but they probably saw their burrows crumbling all around them.  No wonder they started snapping like mad.  They were

reacting just like the folks did in the pools and restaurant up at the hotel.

The website pointed me to two terrific YouTube links where you can see what these guys are all about:   A Brief (cute) BBC

Documentary shows the shrimp in action, and The Snap explains the physics and biology behind the shrimp's lethal claw.

Before all the excitement surrounding the earthquake, Holy

Week brought lots of Mexican Spring Breakers to Ensenada

and the area's beaches.  Easter Sunday the town was hopping

and the horses and carriages were lined up to take tourists to

see the sights.

We went downtown to see just how Spring Break was progressing.

The energy was high and the mood was a party.  Several young

boys were break-dancing and doing crazy gymnastics moves

outside a street-side bar.  It's an unusual kind of grace, but their

strength and coordination were impressive.

On two subsequent April weekends we

watched another kind of strength, agility and

sportiness in action during two long-running

Ensenada races.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.

February/March, 2010 - As Carnaval weekend drew to a close, we realized it was time for us to wrap up the long trail of loose

ends that had begun to form in our wake.  Projects, errands and obligations took us to southern California twice and Phoenix

once, adding up to 1500 miles of driving in just a few exhausting weeks.

With all this driving, we inadvertently became quite familiar

with three of southern California's US/Mexico border

crossings.  No longer an easy drive-by affair where you

blithely wave your driver's license as you pass, the borders

are now formidable, intimidating, and very time consuming.

California's I-5 interstate goes right through San Diego to

the biggest border crossing at San Ysidro, delivering you

into Tijuana, Mexico and onto the beautiful, scenic toll road

that runs along the Mexican coast to Ensenada.  A few

miles east of that crossing is a newer crossing at Otay

Mesa.  Some 20 or so miles east of that one is another

crossing at Tecate.

Each crossing has its own peculiarities.  Tecate is the most remote and least busy, and we crossed there twice.  The drive

from Ensenada to Tecate runs along a beautiful, winding road through the mountains.  The valleys are filled with vineyards

and pretty winery estates, and the hillsides are strewn with huge boulders that were scattered across the land long ago.  The

recent El Nino storms had delivered torrents of rain, and the grass everywhere was bright green and lush.  Just as we drove

under the "Thank you for visiting Wine Country" sign and said to each other, "That was really nice," we were stopped by a

group of camoflage-clad soldiers sitting amid sandbags, machine guns at the ready.  A young soldier approached us and

rattled something in Spanish that we didn't quite catch.  While driving, we had been practicing a Spanish vocabulary worksheet

for a Spanish class Mark was taking, and we showed the young men our word list.  "Pencil," "pen," "desk," "door," "window."

He handed the silly word list to his friends and they all got a chuckle as they passed it around.

A few miles further was the actual border crossing.  The

advantage in Tecate is a shorter wait going into the US.  It was

just 45 minutes.  We snaked along the newly erected wall that

separates the US and Mexico.  The wall was brightly painted on

the Mexican side with ads for services of all kinds that could be

found on both sides of the border.  Whether you wanted pizza,

tire repair, or legal advice, you could find it among the ads on

the wall, usually with a hand-drawn map to the exact spot.

On one of our Tecate crossings we got pulled over after we had

cleared into the US.  We were asked to step out of the car.  Our

truck and two other lucky cars had been chosen for an x-ray

scan.  We all stood to one side while a large windowless truck

drove slowly alongside our vehicles.  On the top of the truck a

light flashed "x-ray scanning" as it passed by.  I wondered if 20

years from now a high incidence of cancer would be linked to

those unfortunate souls who got picked out of US border crossing lines and told to stand off to one side while their vehicles

were x-rayed.

Once we were free we looked back at the "Entering Mexico" sign.  Not a single car in line.  We drove east towards Phoenix,

watching the new border wall take its own path across the mountains and valleys in the distance.  Not as lush as the Mexican

side, this area is rugged and remote.  As the wall disappeared and reappeared in the distance I couldn't help but remember

my walk along the eastern side of Berlin wall in 1982.  A visit to the Berlin Zoo and a drift down the Rhine past the many

medieval walled castles had gotten me thinking a lot about walls back then.  There is a fine line between a wall built to keep

folks out and one that ultimately pens people in.  Most walls don't last, even one as frightening as Berlin's.  But in 1982, with its

machine gun turrets, tanks and a double wall enclosing a minefield, who knew

anything would change?

The crossing at San Ysidro is a totally different experience.  Driving up the

scenic oceanside toll road from Ensenada, traffic slowed to a stop as we

neared the border.  Suddenly all the cars approaching the border were

surrounded by street vendors, and a party atmosphere filled the air.  I

couldn't count all the lanes

of traffic on either side of

us, but not one car was

moving.  The vendors

moved nimbly between us,

watching hopefully for signs

someone might be a buyer.

A vendor approached us

selling Jesus-on-the-cross

statues.  No, gracias.

Another had wooden

children's desks, cleverly

made with opening tops and

fold-out seats and Barbie

painted on the top.  Very

cool, but no, gracias.

Lots of vendors had

refreshments.  Bags of

snack foods were

clothes-pinned to ropes and mounted on makeshift scaffolds with

wheels.  One guy was selling soft drinks from a cooler.  We eased on

through the traffic, windows down, trading quips with the vendors.  No

one was forceful or aggressive and we had some good laughs as Mark

tried laying his newfound Spanish on them.  "Three years and you'll be

able to speak Spanish," one fellow said encouragingly.

We turned a corner and instantly the scene intensified.  Booths of

all kinds were set up along the edge of the road.  Any souvenir item

you forgot to get down at Gringo Gulch in Ensenada was available

here, haggling and all.  A few daring souls set up taco stands

between the lanes and the smell of frying meat made our tummies

rumble.  Suddenly ahead of us we saw a guy rushing between the

cars with two huge umbrella drinks in his hands.  He stopped at a

car window and passed them in, grinning as he got a fistful of

pesos in return.

And if food or

souvenirs

wasn't your

thing, there was

an express

pharmacy to

dispense your

last minute pills

before leaving

Mexico.

Two young kids

were running from

car to car washing

windows.  They

weren't doing a

very good job but

they didn't seem to

care.  They weren't

asking for money

and no one offered

them any either.

We laughed long and hard as we drove through this crazy spectacle.  In what seemed like no time at all the border booths

came into sight.  Checking the clock, we had actually been sitting in this wacky traffic jam for an hour and a quarter.  One final

tap on the window got Mark's attention.  "Are you American?  You look American!"  A young blond (and obviously non-

Mexican) kid asked, staring in the truck window.  Mark batted his baby blues at him.  "Hey, my wallet was stolen here last

night.  Can you give me some money?"  Mark rolled his eyes, closed the window and pulled forward.  That kid was missing the

whole enterprising spirit of the game.  He needed to go make something cool and sell it between the lanes like everyone else.

Coming back towards this main crossing at San Ysidro a few days later, the line going into Mexico looked almost as long as

the one for the US.  We drove down some side streets to where we could get a better view of the actual border booths, and

sure enough, the Mexican officials were as busy pulling people over to check them out as the Americans officials were on the

other side.  So we thought we'd give the third crossing point, Otay Mesa, a try.  Once we wound our way around to get to that

border crossing point we found the line was just 45 minutes long.  Finally emerging on the Mexican side, we found ourselves in

a regular Tijuana rush hour

traffic jam, with no map to find

our way across the city to the

scenic toll road to Ensenada.

To our surprise, a stunt man

was entertaining everyone at

an intersection by swishing a

mouthful of gasoline and then

blowing on a match.  He

produced some amazing

flame balls, but what a lousy

aftertaste that must have

been.

We were really glad when

all the driving trips were

finished and we could get

back to our simple life at

the marina, learning about

our boat and getting ready

for new aqua-adventures.

I tested out the dinghy and

felt like a kid again, rowing

around in a little boat.

Mark went up the mast to install a spinnaker halyard.  Our

new friends Bob and Dan manned the winches and slowly

hoisted him to the top.  Once there the view was spectacular

-- if scary.  Looking at the photos later, I was relieved Mark

hadn't taken me up on my offer to go to the top of the mast

instead.  He said he just tried not

to think about it all too much once

he got up there, some 60 feet

straight up in the air.

The more we settled into this new

home, the more we liked it.  The

surrounding area is very pretty, but

it is the community of liveaboards

that has really made us feel at

home.

All the boats are equipped

with a VHF radio for safety

purposes.  These are radios where one person talks and the whole world nearby

can listen.  This is very helpful in emergency situations where a boater in distress

can call out for help, but cruisers use it for social purposes as well.  Every morning

at 8:00 on channel 21a the cruisers at the various marinas and anchorages in

Ensenada all get together on the radio.  One person moderates the conversation,

inviting each boat to identify itself at the beginning (the "Cruiser Check-In"), and

then guiding the conversation through various topics:  people looking for help on

boat projects, people driving into town who can offer car-less boaters a lift, people

crossing the border who can take mail and/or passengers to San Diego, etc.  This

is then followed by an in-depth weather report from a retired airline pilot who lives

locally ("firmly bolted to the hill") and has a passion for weather.

The whole process takes just 15 minutes or so, but it gets the day off to a

nice start and bonds everyone regardless of boat size or type, level of

experience, or even which marina they are currently calling home.  This

radio net gave us a sense of community from our very first day in the

marina, and instantly transformed us from being mere new boat owners to

being "cruisers."  Within a few days of our arrival we got volunteered to be

hosts of the cruisers' net on Wednesdays.  The very first Wednesday

happened also to be my 50th birthday, and Mark decided to announce it on

the radio.  We were both in stitches as one boat after another checked in

and then wished me a happy birthday.  Few people knew who I was, but

those two little words, "happy birthday," repeated over and over by as-yet

faceless radio voices, made me feel very much at home.

One morning this

cruisers' net came to a boater's aid as well.  The net always starts with a

an open query regarding emergencies where folks need immediate help.

Our host (and comedian) that day, Dan, had just made a smart remark

about how there were no emergencies, "as usual," when a new voice

piped up that a crew member on his boat had just collapsed and needed

help.  You could hear the collective gasp across the net.  The voice then

identified his boat as being on D-dock at our marina.  That is our dock.

We popped our heads

out of our boat just as

ten other heads popped

out of theirs.  Suddenly

the whole marina was

swarming with cruisers

looking for a boater in

need.  After massive confusion, we discovered the boat was actually on F-

dock, and quickly a (very sleepy) retired paramedic cruiser was on his way

to help.  The boat had just arrived early that morning.  What good fortune

for the crew member that the radio net existed and a skilled paramedic was

part of the community, as it was nearly an hour before the ambulance

arrived.

In our search for a boat I

followed the blogs of several cruisers who were traveling on a boat similar to

the one we wanted.  One I had read periodically was by Allan and Rina

aboard Follow You Follow Me, a 2003 Hunter 466 that had crossed the

Pacific from Puerto Vallarta to the Marquesas islands in 2008.  What a

surprise when I heard our marina manager on the phone making

arrangements for them to berth here for a few days.  It turned out that they

had chosen to ship their boat back to the west coast via the transport

company Dockwise, as they were under a time constraint to return to work

after their two year sabbatical at sea.  It was quite a thrill to meet

them, hear about their travels, see their boat, and discover the real people

behind the blog.

The Dockwise ship

came from New Zealand to Ensenada and was headed on to Florida

via the Panama Canal.  Several boats came into our marina from the

Dockwise ship, and we enjoyed many interesting tales of life in the

South Pacific.  Most Ensenada cruisers we had met so far were on the

beginning leg of their adventures, having sailed down from points north

and stopped here on their way south.  But these folks coming in from

New Zealand had all just spent a year or more traversing the exotic

tropical Pacific isles.  A mega power yacht at the end of our dock was

headed to Florida via the same Dockwise ship, and they boarded once

the arriving boats had been floated off.  Chatting with a crew member,

we learned that the bill for the owner to ship his 94' yacht from

Ensenada to Florida was going to be $84,000.

The same day that the boats arrived on the Dockwise ship, Gracie & Jerry aboard Pacific High left our marina for San Diego

on a different kind of adventure.  Their engine had died completely and they needed to go to San Diego to install a new

engine.  Friends on two inflatable dinghies pushed the boat out of its slip and into deep water outside the marina where they

could put their sails up.  We decided to go for a sail ourselves a little later that morning, and because the wind had been

almost nonexistent, they were still nearby when we got underway.  We sailed with them for a while up the coast.

They emailed us a few days later to

say that they had arrived in San Diego

safely and gotten a tow in.  During

their trip they had passed the towing

favor on: a little dove landed on the aft

rail of their boat when they were about

30 miles into their trip, and she stayed

with them until they reached the

mouth of San Diego harbor.  She

didn't appear to have a passport

under her wing, so she must have

bypassed the authorities.  Or perhaps

her plans were to return to Ensenada

one day.

Find Ensenada on Mexico Maps.