It’s November 22, 2008. I’m watching the fog roll in from the ocean as the sun lowers itself behind the clouds and the white hotel behind us lights up in reflected brilliance, the first color it’s had all day. I don’t know why more boats don’t come in here. Sixteen hours plus or minus south of Ensenada, it provides shelter from the prevailing northwesterly winds. Our hook grabbed immediately, and the swells have been so benign that we’ve barely straightened the chain. The dance recorded by our gps lets us know we haven’t dragged, a comfort when the surf breaks less than a mile away.
Ducks woke me around five this morning. Their quacks sounded odd in the stillness. When we first arrived yesterday at 10 AM, I feared the greeting sea lions would be as raucus as those in Ensenada, but they merely swam over to welcome us, then backed off to sun themselves, flippers raised in a salute to the day.
Coming from Ensenada, where noise levels required two pillows over my head to get any sleep—why do those discos think music must be loud to be enjoyed?—we rejoice in the silence. Waves crash against the beach; we can hear them and the occasional bird, but nothing more than our own survival noises as Michael uses his power tools to make a bracket for his watermaker membranes and another small pump. (See the Sea Venture Workshop on deck.) Once that is completed, we’ll have the capability of making 45 gallons of pure water every hour. Luxury, cocooned in our traveling home.
