Navigating the uneasy distance between isolation and connection and facing the unfamiliar familiarities of the seasons pasts

By Christopher Neely

The first light in the Sea of Cortez doesn’t arrive all at once, but rather spills in slowly, like carefully pouring my coffee into my mug while the stove continues to gimbal and my cat twists below my feet. By the time the sun found us, Avocet was already in motion, her sails breathing easy in a gentle morning breeze. Dolphins stitched silver arcs through the bow wake, keeping pace as if they had somewhere to be and we were lucky enough to follow. It was a beautiful day on the Sea and I was experiencing a dream come true – literally.

A few months prior I was tinkering with things in my workshop in the heart of California’s Sierra Nevada, where Marissa and I purchased 5 acres we dubbed Runaground Ranch. Oil-streaked hands, a wrench somewhere between tightening and slipping, and the quiet hum of a life paused on land. After six years of calling Avocet home, the shift to a small house, land and a workshop in the mountains felt foreign in a way neither of us expected. What was meant to be a six-month intermission stretched into nearly two years, the gravity of land life pulling us further from the rhythm we once knew so well. Somewhere between fixing and making more problems inside my trucks engine bay, my mind wandered off into pondering where I wanted to spend my upcoming sailing season aboard Avocet. Without hesitation, I began dreaming of the anchorages we had loved so deeply during the previous seasons prior. Snorkeling around Punta Pulpito, wakeboarding around Isla Coronados, and dreamy beach days on Isla Carmen. Based off those extremely positive experiences, it was easy to convince myself to go back somewhere with some familiarity, especially since this season I would be doing something very different, solo sailing.

After two weeks of boat work at Gabriels Boat Yard in Guaymas, Avocet’s hull touched water again after two years of baking in the desert heat. Everything performed as usual, and muscle memory took over as I set her sails and our course for Punta Pulpito. Despite the comfort of Avocet’s familiar sounds and motion, beneath the routine was something quieter, and harder to name.

 

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There was no one to meet. No timeline to chase. No raft-ups waiting on the horizon or familiar burgee spotted in the anchorage ahead. Just open water and the unsettling, intoxicating realization that I could go anywhere—or nowhere at all. That’s the part people don’t always talk about when they romanticize cruising. It’s not just the places, but it’s the absence of urgency. The way life simplifies itself when the sun dictates your schedule and the wind decides your next move. After nearly two years back in California’s rat race, I wasn’t just ready for that shift—I desperately needed it. Even though I was already alone (minus Cleo, of course) I lusted for a further sense of seclusion. Punta Púlpito was a good compromise; close enough to populated Loreto but far enough away from the charter boat chaos. 

Maybe I forgot how fast Avocet was, especially with fresh bottom paint, but we left Guaymas and made consistent 7.5 knots towards our anchorage which meant I would be anchoring around 2:00 am… woops. Effortless and eager. Too eager. A midnight landfall wasn’t exactly the plan, but out there, plans tend to dissolve anyway. I prefer to arrive in daylight, especially since I was single handing. So around midnight I brought in the genoa and ghosted along until sunrise with just the main, still making a pleasant 3 knots. 

The early morning sun kissed my skin while the breeze played with my hair as the clock hit 6:00 and the massive rock drew closer. Punta Púlpito is a Pleistocene obsidian dome dated at about 0.5 million years that forms a small peninsula along the Gulf of California, east of the southern tip of Bahía Concepción in southern Baja California. The gigantic 400+ foot tall Púlpito monolith is visible from over 30 miles away on clear days, and provides a stunning backdrop to the anchorage at any time of day or night.The bay could have held a dozen boats or more, but it was just Avocet and me. No other hulls on the horizon. No footprints in the sand. No chatter on the radio—only the quiet creak of rigging and the rhythmic hush of water against fiberglass. Avocet lay still, settled and content, in a place that felt both deeply familiar and completely untouched.

I spent six days in Pulpito doing whatever I wanted. Most mornings started the same way—an early 2–3 mile paddleboard ride along the shoreline, the water so clear it felt like I was floating above it rather than moving through it. Somewhere out there, away from the boat, it would hit me—I was truly alone. Alone in a way I hadn’t experienced before and completely in charge of my own destiny.

There’s no real safety net out there. If the wind or current decided to take me, that would be it. No one would know. Not for days. And while that might sound extreme, it’s not about being reckless—it’s about awareness, or perhaps responsibility. Those moments force you to recognize how alone you are, and how important every single decision becomes. It sharpens you. When you’re in that mindset, things come into clarity. The noise falls away. The distractions, the stress, the unnecessary weight of everyday life—it all disappears, leaving only what matters. Sailing has a way of doing that. Some people need to hang off a cliff to feel it like —rock climbing, adrenaline, pushing limits. For me, it’s this. It’s thrilling, sure, but underneath that, the core feeling is control. Real control. In a world where so much of our lives are dictated by schedules, obligations, mortgages, and car payments—where we fall into patterns that quietly box us in—this is one of the few places I’ve found where that control comes back. 

Over those six days, I watched more than ten boats come and go through the Pulpito anchorage.

Not a single one launched a dinghy.
Not one crew went ashore.
Not one person got in the water.

No one hiked to the top. No one explored the pinnacle rocks or the shallow reefs that stretch for miles beneath the surface. I realized I’ve been that cruiser before, on a tight schedule, chasing miles instead of moments—so focused on the next destination that I didn’t even make time for a swim to shore. This time, I wasn’t doing that.

With a strong northwest wind in the forecast, I pulled the anchor and sailed off the hook, setting my course for Isla Coronado—another island I’ve spent many wonderful days at before. A steady 25 knots on my stern had Avocet absolutely charging down the Sea of Cortez, a bone in her teeth and no interest in slowing down. The kind of sailing that feels incredible—right up until it starts demanding more from you. This was the first time I really understood the limitations of my autopilot.

With short, steep waves crashing into the stern and loading up the rudder, she needed constant correction—more than the little trusty CPT could keep up with. I had too much sail up, and Avocet was starting to get a bit squirrely, so I decided to take the main down. One of the great advantages of a battenless main is that I can drop, hoist, or reef it on any point of sail without having to come head-to-wind. So, with the autopilot at the helm, I went forward to bring it down. At this point we were doing over 9 knots, the stern lifting and twisting in the chop, the boat feeling just a little too alive beneath my feet. And that’s when it happened. As Avocet stiffened up on a wave, the autopilot lagged just enough. It couldn’t correct fast enough, and suddenly we were into an accidental jibe with my bare white ass on the wrong side of the boom.

Earlier that morning, I made a decision. Well, two decisions. The first was to sail naked to cross that off my bucket list, and the second was to rig a boom preventer. And thank God I did, because without it, I wouldn’t just have had one problem—I would’ve had a much bigger one. Watching Avocet sail away from me at 9+ knots would’ve been the least of it. That’s the thing about sailing solo—you have to put thought into the decisions that actually matter. The ones that quietly protect you when things don’t go according to plan. If I had been lazy that morning leaving Pulpito and skipped rigging the preventer, I would’ve been dealing with more than one issue, and none of them small.

Coming around the south side of Isla Coronado, the energy shifted. The leeward anchorage came into view, dotted with well over ten cruising boats taking refuge from the fierce Norte. After the isolation of Pulpito, it almost felt crowded and just beyond them, in the channel between Carmen and Coronado, whales. At least three. One with a very small calf tucked close, mimicking their mother’s movements—surfacing, diving, learning—playing in the same rough water I had just come charging through. It slowed everything down for a moment.

This season, more than any before, I’ve been determined not to use the diesel unless I absolutely have to. A lot of that comes down to one simple thing: I don’t have a schedule. I’ve given myself the time to work with the wind instead of against it, even here in the Sea of Cortez where the patterns can be inconsistent at best. I remember a cruiser once telling me that motoring here was a necessity, that the wind was too far and few between to rely on sailing alone, and honestly, if you’re on a timeline… they’re not wrong. But looking back on this 2026 season, short as it’s been, I’ve covered over 250 miles in two months and used the engine for a total of an hour and a half. That’s a dramatic shift. Our first year heading north to Peñasco, we motored close to 500 hours from La Cruz. The timeline was tight, and we didn’t have the luxury of waiting on weather or wind. This time, I did, and it changed everything.

Sailing onto the hook in Isla Coronado’s southern anchorage—even with a good number of boats already there—was easy. It’s wide open, and with 25 knots still blowing, getting the hook to bite wasn’t much of a challenge. Avocet settled in quickly, tugging gently at her chain while the rest of the fleet rode it out around me.

The next day, I went ashore with a fellow cruiser from SV Pilgrim. We made our way across to the crescent-shaped beach on the western side of the island, expecting something quiet, maybe even a little remote. Instead, we were greeted by over 50 people scattered across the sand, with at least 25 pangas buzzing around the bay. On a Tuesday. So much for feeding my lust for seclusion.  Between the crowds, the lack of protection, and not much in the way of water activities on that side, I found myself ready for my Isla Carmen fix. Bahía Balandra was only a couple hours away, and with a strong northerly filling in, it lined up as a perfect beam reach. Somewhere along the way, I decided to drop a handline in the water.

Within minutes I had a fish on, and dinner figured out. I never did much fishing before, especially since Marissa doesn’t eat seafood (weird, she knows) but of course, right as the fish bit, I cleared the wind shadow of Isla Coronado and found myself fully exposed again, doing entirely too much speed with entirely too much sail up… and now with a 25-pound yellowtail on the end of the line. About halfway to Balandra, I finally got the fish in—arms burning, boat still moving, adrenaline doing its thing. I radioed my new friend on Pilgrim and told him I’d be sharing some fresh yellowtail that night.

The last time I was in Balandra, it was my 26th birthday what now feels like a lifetime ago. Since then, I’d become a licensed contractor, started a business, submitted to the rat race, lost some friends … and the love of my life. Coming back to this anchorage that was so special, hit differently.

Instead of a cove full of friends, laughter, and someone beside me in the cockpit, I found myself surrounded by boats full of strangers. The anchorage was the same—the same curve of sand, the same golden light at sunset—but the feeling was completely different. The magic didn’t land the way it used to, in fact it wasn’t there at all. It felt… heavy. The memories were still there, but instead of warming me, they cut. Sharp, unexpected, and hard to shake. They pulled me out of the moment instead of grounding me in it, and for the first time all season, I felt disconnected from a place I used to love.

After one night crammed along the northwest edge of the cove, boats stacked off my stern and starboard side, I knew I wasn’t going to find what I was looking for there. Seclusion was calling again, so I left.  With barely 3–5 knots of wind, I ghosted past the other anchored boats in silence, slipping out of the bay and turning north. The plan wasn’t just to move—it was to rewrite something. To come back to a familiar place with a different mindset and see if it could feel new again. After about six hours under light sail, V-Cove came into view and this time, I knew better than to try and sail onto the hook.

It’s tight—really tight—and this would be one of the more technical anchoring situations I’d done solo. Normally, I’d set the primary anchor, hop in the dinghy, and use the outboard to pull Avocet’s stern exactly where I wanted it before dropping the stern hook. But this time, I didn’t have my co-captain at the helm to help with this maneuver. I was alone, and also no dinghy outboard due to it being abused by the Mexican sun in our long-absence. 

So, I set my 50-pound Vulcan as best I could, aiming toward shore, and waited. For a few minutes, it felt fine—but as the southerly started to bend and wrap around the cliffs, Avocet’s stern began creeping uncomfortably close to the rock walls of the narrow bay. Too close. So in lieu of the dinghy, I grabbed the paddle board. What followed was about ten minutes of what can only be described as a one-man tug-of-war between me and 29,000 pounds of boat. Paddling, pulling, adjusting, trying to muscle her stern into position while not getting swept sideways in the process. It was a bit comical, honestly, but eventually, I got her where I needed her. Stern pulled off the rocks, Fortress anchor set, lines tensioned just right.

And just like that—

Stillness again.

This anchorage, like Balandra, held its own set of memories. Some good, some not. But this time, something shifted. I was finally getting what I had come out here for. Avocet was alone again. I spent four days in V-Cove doing exactly what you’re supposed to do there—snorkeling through clear, fish-filled water, paddle boarding into sea caves carved into the cliffs, and, this time, hiking. That was new for me here. Climbing up above the anchorage, finding vantage points 60 feet up the cliffside, looking down at Avocet sitting perfectly still in that narrow strip of water—it hit different. That felt good. I also met someone out there, a woman preparing to solo circumnavigate Isla Carmen by ocean kayak.

There’s something inspiring about watching someone else step into the same kind of solitude you’re navigating in your own way. It got me thinking about parts of the island I hadn’t seen yet, specifically the eastern side of Carmen. V-Cove, though, has its rules. It’s a south wind anchorage. South winds only. The moment it clocks west, east, or north, it turns uncomfortable fast. After four days of relatively calm conditions, I took the win. Tuesday morning, with a north wind beginning to build, I pulled both hooks and sailed off the anchor, despite how tempting it was to just fire up the Perkins 4.108 and make things easy.

I worked my way north, close-hauled to clear Point Lobos, then broke off onto a starboard tack and eventually settled into a gentle 10-knot Norte. New sights ahead and familiar feelings, just… a little different this time. The north end of Carmen—specifically Point Lobos—reminded me so much of my humble beginnings. The sharp, steep cliffs dropping straight into the water felt eerily similar to Anacapa Island’s jagged, unforgiving coastline. It had that same raw, untamed energy.  As I made my way north, the pangas and cruising boats became fewer and farther between, and I could feel that sense of isolation creeping back in, the kind I had been chasing for weeks at this point. My destination was Salinas Anchorage, a place that had always captured my curiosity, mostly because of the old salt mine infrastructure still standing on the beach. 

From miles out, the beach plays tricks on you. The white sand reflects so brightly off the water that it looks like a sheer white cliff stretching endlessly along the shoreline. It isn’t until you get closer that the illusion breaks, revealing a long, untouched strip of sand—easily a mile or more—quiet and empty.  I dropped the hook next to another bluewater cruiser—a beautiful Crealock 39—and set plenty of scope with 30+ knots of northwesterly forecasted for the next few days. With no functional outboard and weather keeping me in place, I took the opportunity to head ashore and stretch my legs, exploring what was left of a town from another time. 

According to the guidebooks, a hunting outfit now occupies part of the area near the old church, and it looked like they were repurposing some of the remaining structures. As I approached where the pier once stood—now nothing more than memory—I was met by a man who made it clear I wasn’t allowed beyond that point. The salt flats and the rest of the beach were open, but the town itself was off-limits. Alone, and with a language barrier between us, I didn’t push it. Some things, I guess, are meant for next time. 

Even without access to the town, there was plenty to take in. Old artifacts from the salt mining days were scattered between the beach and the flats—rusted metal, remnants of machinery, pieces of a life that once existed out there. And, in true Mexico fashion, there was also a fair amount of trash, which was a bit of a shame. Hard to say what was left over from the miners and what was more recent.  It looked like when the operation shut down, they gathered everything—cars, locomotives, equipment—and simply burned it all in place.

The salt flats themselves were unlike anything I’d seen before. Even having been to Salt Lake City, this felt different. The water was a surreal, almost glowing aqua blue, set against a perfectly white, crystallized floor and edges where the salt had solidified. It was quiet out there—bright, reflective, and still. The kind of place you don’t rush through. I sat for a while just taking it in… and, of course, pocketed a couple “organic” salt souvenirs to bring home. What really stuck with me, though, was the scale of what had been built here. Power poles still run straight through the salt flats, stretching north as far as you can see, once feeding electricity to the refinery on the beach. Where did that power even come from?

My best guess is some connection to Puerto de la Lancha, just around the corner from V-Cove—a supply port back in the day. But even still… it’s wild to think about. The amount of effort it must have taken to build something like that, in a place this remote, only for it to exist for such a short time. A massive undertaking for a relatively brief chapter.  Salinas is known for the salt mines, but honestly, I think it should be known for the beach. It might be the best white sand beach in the entire Sea of Cortez. Clear water, open shoreline, no crowds. A full mile of untouched sand. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t busier than Isla Coronado. But I guess that’s exactly why it isn’t. It’s just far enough out of the way. 

Another standout feature of the bay is the two shipwrecks. One sits right on the beach—easy to walk up to and explore. The other, a massive 120+ foot tuna boat, lies sunk in about 20–30 feet of water in the middle of the bay, and I’ll be honest… I didn’t have the guts to dive it alone. I’m perfectly comfortable sailing solo out in the open ocean—but dropping down onto a wreck by myself? That’s a different kind of exposure. I did paddleboard over it, though. And since parts of it sit just a few feet below the surface, you can take in a surprising amount from above. It’s massive—bigger than you expect—and completely alive with fish. Reef life has taken it over, turning it into something entirely new. Next time, with a buddy, I’ll go down. 

After three days of 25+ knots howling out of the north, the weather finally eased. I pulled the hook and set sail south toward Punta Colorado, the last anchorage on the southeastern side of Isla Carmen.  Working my way out of Salinas close-hauled, the wind shifted—from south to east—and then softened to almost nothing. No sea state, barely six knots of breeze. Just enough. So I broke out my favorite sail. Main down. Spinnaker up. There wasn’t even enough wind to ripple the water, but somehow it was enough to keep the asymmetrical full. Avocet slipped along at a quiet 3.5 knots, the sail breathing gently above me as the Sea of Cortez turned to glass.  From that side of the island, the Sierra de la Giganta mountains came into view, rising up behind the low southern end of Carmen—layered, hazy, and massive against the horizon.

Punta Colorado is easy to spot thanks to the large cone-shaped mountain just northeast of the anchorage. It looks like something straight out of the California desert; deep red tones with green vegetation gathered at its base. The anchorage itself requires a bit of awareness. The bottom is scattered with rock, and large pinnacle formations extend well beyond the shoreline on both sides, so giving everything a wide berth is key, but once you’re in, the views are incredible.

To the south, a chain of islands. To the west, the towering mountain ranges of Baja, and at sunrise and sunset, the low-angle light brings out every color baked into those hills; reds, golds, browns…all shifting by the minute.  I spent a few days there, taking long paddle board rides over the reefs and the fish life was unreal! Dorado, yellowtail, triggerfish, rockfish—thousands of reef fish moving beneath me. And then… a Panamic green moray eel. Easily five feet long which was a little unsettling to come face-to-face with in the water. 

After a few days, I felt the itch to move again. It had been about a month since I left Guaymas, and despite living off of my caught fish, the rest of my fresh food was just about gone. I was ready for a little bit of civilization. So I rounded the southern tip of Carmen and tightened up the sails, heading close-hauled for Loreto. This would be my first time anchoring out front of the marina—a fully exposed roadstead that only really works in settled conditions or westerlies. As I approached, a handful of boats came into view, which was honestly reassuring. It’s always nice to know you’re not the only one thinking it’s a good idea. 

And just like that—

I was back in it.

People. Cars. Restaurants. Planes overhead.

After weeks of quiet, it hits you all at once.

Overwhelming—but not unwelcome.

First order of business: laundry. Then groceries. And finally, a well-earned dinner at Mi Loreto—an old favorite. The chicken mole absolutely lived up to the hype and memory. With my to-do’s all done and ready to settle in for the night, I got a message on NoForeignLand… A couple on a Catalina-Morgan 45 asking if I wanted to hang out. They had followed our adventures online for a while and were thrilled to see Avocet next to them in the anchorage. I later learned that it was the Mexican-Natives first time visiting the Loreto area, so I took it upon myself to show them around starting with a high bar: Bahía Balandra. 

After a lovely sail over, we dropped the hook in a much quieter anchorage than my last visit. Fewer boats, more space to breathe. It already felt different, and I was determined to give it another shot. Soon after anchoring, we were all in the water, snorkeling along the south side of the bay where the reef stretches northward—clear water, fish everywhere, the kind of easy beauty that reminds you why you came out here in the first place. They invited me over to SV WING IT  for freshly caught octopus and drinks. And just like that I had what was missing the first time I came back to Balandra this season. Community.

Although I had been chasing seclusion, Balandra, in my mind, was never meant to be experienced alone. It had been wired into me as a place of shared sunsets, laughter, stories, and connection. Sitting there with new friends, eating fresh food, watching the sun drop behind Baja as the whole cove lit up in gold… it finally felt right again.  After a couple days, we needed groceries, so we sailed back to Loreto and ended up celebrating St. Patty’s Day at a local watering hol…and got entirely too drunk. I will say this though—the teachings of Max and Karen have clearly seasoned my liver. The gringo had no hangover, and the two Mexico City natives were in rough shape the next morning. They had Lustied themselves while I was, admittedly, pretty proud of myself. 

On our last night together, I invited them over to Avocet for a proper sendoff—a classic they hadn’t yet been introduced to: Captain Ron. Watching that movie with people whose first language isn’t English was… enlightening. They loved it overall, but a lot of the jokes that had me absolutely losing it didn’t quite translate. Still, it landed well enough. Afterward, we said our goodbyes, they signed Avocet’s guestbook, and we turned in. 

The next morning, I woke up to a text from Bryce—a friend I had met in the boatyard.

“Howdy neighbor.”

I popped my head up through the companionway, and sure enough his boat, The Struggler, was anchored right off my starboard side. At that point, I was feeling pretty lucky and not so alone anymore.  Bryce had drifted and sailed down from Mulegé over the last three days—no motor—and had two childhood friends aboard who had been deep in engine diagnostics with no success. He wanted to show them a good time for their last few nights in Baja. Since I had been in the area for a while, he asked my thoughts on heading to Danzante—maybe Honeymoon Cove. I told him straight up to pick something easier. Honeymoon Cove is beautiful, but it’s not forgiving. Tight, steep, rocky, and the bees alone are enough to make you question your life choices. So once again, I pointed him toward Balandra. Easy sail, protected anchoring, great hiking, snorkeling, beach access—and not nearly as chaotic as Coronado. 

After a few tacos and cervezas in Loreto, we headed back to the boats, and in true solidarity, I pulled the hook and sailed off with them. There’s always a moment when you’re sailing alongside another boat where you get a real sense of what your boat can do. Avocet has this unassuming look to her—most people think she’s slow, especially when I tell them she weighs 29,000 pounds. But the second the sails go up and she’s gone.

We’ve walked away from KP46s, Valiant 40s, Gulfstar 52s—and now, The Struggler, an Islander 36. And when I say walked away… I mean ran away. I gave Bryce a solid 15-minute head start, caught him within a mile, and then circled back around so his crew could experience what it feels like to have two boats sailing in formation. After tacking back toward him, I slid in behind his stern—probably a little too close—and then settled about eight boat lengths to leeward. Before long, I was taking his bow. Not only was Avocet faster, she was outpointing him by at least 15 degrees.

Once I was ahead, I actually had to overtrim the genoa and pinch her up just to slow down and stay with them. Over the radio, Bryce asked if I had the engine on because he couldn’t believe how well she was pointing. I told him no, and gave a solid shoutout to Precision Sails. The setup we built with them has proven to be a perfect match for Avocet. From there, I was able to give him a few tips: tighten the halyards, smooth out the wrinkles. It’s always easier to see trim issues from another boat. Once he adjusted, The Struggler tightened up and was holding within five degrees of my pointing. He was stoked and from that point on, I became his go-to for boat questions. It’s always nice when someone takes your input as experience rather than criticism. 

We both sailed onto the hook in Balandra, dropped anchor, and took to the water. Swimming, snorkeling, messing around with reef fish—the Canadian crew had never seen water that clear or warm. It felt like watching someone experience the ocean for the first time.  That night we played farkle, ate fresh fish off the grill, shared stories, and drank beers. That was the Balandra I remembered, the version of it that was meant to be shared.

One thing I couldn’t help but notice, though, was how different things feel out here now. There’s a growing divide between sailors—less spontaneous connection, less wandering over to another boat just to say hi. Starlink has changed the game. Although It makes a lot of things easier (weather routing being the biggest) it also quietly takes something away. My first visit to Balandra this season felt strange, almost unsettling. Boats everywhere, but no one outside. No one on the beach. Just dishes mounted on stern rails, glowing screens inside cabins.  We’re more connected than ever…in every sense except for real connection. 

With Bryce’s friends needing to get back to Cabo for their flight, we decided to stick together. If the wind didn’t cooperate, I could always run them into Loreto with my engine. The next morning, after coffee, we headed ashore for a hike up the ridge on the northeast side of the bay. From the top, you get a completely different perspective—inside the bay can be calm, but out in the channel between Carmen and Baja, it’s a different story entirely.  We climbed up, sweating it out, and eventually found shade beneath a massive cardón cactus. From up there, you could see everything—south past Danzante, north all the way to Punta Pulpito, its volcanic cone rising like an island in the distance.

The guys got cell service and started calling home, telling stories about where they were and what they’d been doing. I didn’t bring my phone, so I just listened. It reminded me of being a kid at camp, writing letters home about the adventures I was having. Except now, somehow, I had become the camp counselor showing people this world. After about an hour, the north wind finally started funneling down between Coronado and Carmen. Bryce and I looked at each other— Time to go.

We decided to set our course for the north-facing anchorage near Puerto Escondido. It made sense since it was a close stop for me considering I had a flight back to California the next day for work, and I’d offered to bring Bryce’s crew into Loreto so they could catch their bus down to Cabo. Even though there was a light breath of wind inside the anchorage, Bryce wanted to try a technique—towing The Struggler with his Walker Bay 8, The Snuggler, side-tied with a 4hp outboard. I told him it works… in very light conditions. You’ll make headway—slowly—but it’s progress. Maybe one to two knots on a good day. By the time I had finished putting away my breakfast dishes, The Struggler was already moving out of the anchorage, being pulled along by the mighty Snuggler.

I found this entirely unfair.

I had made a pact with myself—not to use the engine unless absolutely necessary—and this felt like a very obvious workaround to try and beat Avocet to the next anchorage. Itching to get moving but unwilling to compromise on using the engine I slowly sailed out of the bay, and as soon as I could bear off toward Eight O’clock Cove, I hoisted the spinnaker. Genoa down, halyard up—and just like the movie Wind, the chute WHOMPED to life, filling clean with about 16 knots on my stern.

Game on. Even with a solid two-mile head start, The Struggler didn’t stand a chance. Avocet came alive, charging forward at a steady 7.5 knots, reeling them in with ease. Before long, I was alongside their port side, close enough to grab some incredible shots of the two boats sailing together, happy and in sync, cutting through that deep blue Sea of Cortez. Those are the days you remember. Good sailing, good competition and just enough ego on both sides to make it interesting. Eventually, after I’d stretched out about a mile ahead, the wind started to soften. The guys hoisted their colorful symmetrical spinnaker and kept making steady progress, but the energy had shifted. The sea began to flatten, the air went quiet and about a mile from the cove, it shut off completely.

You could see the windline—just out of reach—teasing us. I sat there for about 15 minutes, bobbing in place, willing it to fill in… but of course It didn’t. That’s when I remembered that unlike The Struggler I had a functional engine. One I had poured months of my life into getting to this exact point. So, with a little reluctance—and a lot of justification—I pushed the button. The mighty Perkins roared to life for the first time in weeks and just like that, I was making way again—6.5 knots straight into the anchorage. Sometime later, I got a call on the radio.

The Struggler had made it to the same dead patch… and once again deployed The Snuggler for a slow but steady tow. When Bryce finally dropped the hook next to me—about two and a half hours later—he admitted he didn’t think that setup would work as well as it did. I told him I’ve towed Avocet before, engineless, with our little 8-foot Fatty and a 2hp Yamaha, that now was a fancy stern decoration since I hadn’t had time to fix it. It’s not fast…but in flat water, it works.

That night was our last together. The next day, I’d be California-bound, and The Struggler would be heading back to Loreto to track down a new starter motor for their Volvo Penta. Bryce wanted to make sure his crew got a proper look at Avocet before we split and it never gets old watching people step aboard a boat like her for the first time—the teak interiors, the heavy fiberglass construction, the layout from that golden era of cruising boats in the ’70s and ’80s.

Then come the questions in the vein of “How long did it take to get her like this?”

And every time, I give the same answer. Five years. That usually says everything it needs to, because behind that number is all of it—

The time. The money. The frustration. The losses. The wins. The blood, sweat, and everything in between that went into building our little slice of cruising heaven. Avocet is as beautiful as she is because Marissa and I gave her our all. 

The next morning I was California bound, a quick pause in my cruising season due to a work call. I didn’t know what awaited me in California, but I knew I was bringing home new perspective and stories. This season wasn’t about going farther, or ticking off destinations or chasing miles. If anything, it was about coming back to places I knew that had memories I hadn’t fully processed, and finding a version of myself that had gotten a little lost somewhere along the way.

Some anchorages didn’t feel the same, and some never will. But others surprised me and reminded me that while places hold memories, they don’t own them—and that it’s up to me to decide what they become next.

Out here, alone but not really alone, I found a way to move forward. One anchorage at a time. One sail at a time. And always, with Avocet beneath my feet, carrying me somewhere between who I was and who I’m still becoming.

Thanks for reading my first blog post. I appreciate your support!

Chris (and Cleo)

A few more photos…