Cruiser's Stories - Volume 19

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Rose of sharon: 

Cruising in the Comfort Zone, part 2

Florida & Mexico

by Sharon Kratz, Sailing Vessel Rose of Sharon

Go to Part 1 

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NOAA Nautical Charts 411, 11438, 2802

Joe plotted two courses, one was the rhumb line from the Dry Tortugas to Isla Mujeres; the other was to travel south and hang a right at Cuba, staying within the 25-mile nautical boundaries of the island. Joe and I visited Cuba as tourists in the early '90s, when political tension was more relaxed. We flew in a Russian prop plane from Montego Bay, Jamaica and landed in Santiago, Cuba for a day trip.

I found their history fascinating. We visited the gravesite of Jose Martí, a national hero and the rum factory that was owned by the government but founded by the Bacardi family. During the nineties, I read several stories about and essays by cruisers who celebrated a wonderful trip by boat to Cuba, and I'd love to visit Cuba again. Joe assured me it wouldn't be on this trip. I'll be glad when we are openly friends with Cuba; there's probably some good anchoring over there to break up the trip to Mexico.

We left Fort Myers, Florida about noon on Day 1 and arrived at Isla Mujeres about 8:00 p.m. on Day 3.  The passage was without problems and we spent every minute eternally grateful that we had no boat / engine / prop / cutlass bearing / radio / bilge / generator / water tank issues.  The first day was, for me, perfect: seas 2-4, winds 7 knots.  I perched on the back of the boat, reading my novel.

The second day, the winds picked up to 15 knots and the seas . . . well, they were high rollers.  With the wind out of the east, we spent much of the time surfing sideways.  We were consistently heeled to starboard except for the occasional rogue wave that slammed into us, practically laying the boat down.  We never for a minute unharnessed ourselves in the cockpit from Day 2 until we entered the harbor at Isla Mujeres.

By Day 3, Joe and I were punchy and tired.  Neither of us sleeps on an overnight passage.  We recline and close our eyes, but we are never far removed from the sounds and the feel of our boat.  Toward early morning, I finally did it.  I slept, really slept.  I left reality behind and slept a REM kind of sleep, surfacing only occasionally to check on Joe.  At daybreak, he was ready for his rest and I climbed into the cockpit, still groggy.  I think Joe passed out as soon as he was horizontal and I promised myself that under no circumstances would I wake him.

No fun, I said to myself.  This is just plain boring.  Just like everyone always says it is: intense boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.  There was no terror on this passage, for which I was eternally grateful.  But boredom?  Yep, there was some boredom.  Huddle in the cockpit, scan the horizon, contemplate your bruises, scan the horizon, paint your fingernails, scan the horizon.

Then a school of dolphin swam toward the boat.  I gasped in surprise and delight.  There were 12-15 dolphin swimming alongside of Rose of Sharon, and it was the greatest show on earth.  Minutes later, a lone flying fish hurried past me, northbound with the determination of a commuter on his way to work.  I began to smile and look around.  The sun was just coming into its own and the wind was lessening.  I listened to every creak on the boat.  I heard, with intense clarity, the snap of the mainsail as the wind filled and left it.  The winches clicked in their holder as we rocked back and forth.  I am so blessed, I thought.  Thank God I was able to be a part of this!  By the time Joe returned to the cockpit, I was almost sorry to give up my watch.  A school of flying fish swooped past us and we laughed.  Rush hour!

We arrived at Isla Mujeres as darkness settled.  I know, I know, never come into a strange anchorage at night, but the prospect of circling around in the Gulf all night, another night, just didn't work.  We were so tired, and we could see it!  Land, ho!  Joe had programmed the entry into the GPS and we carefully followed his coordinates to the anchorage site.

We dropped anchor, it set, we kissed, hugged and had tequila shots then went to bed.  About 1:00 a.m., a pounding on the side of the boat wakened us.  Joe went topside while I scrambled into my clothes.  By the time I made it to the cockpit, I saw two men on board.  One went to the bow with Joe while the other stayed in the cockpit with me.  NOW I was terrified.  Both young men were bald.  While Joe trusted them because they were white and spoke English, I distrusted them because they were bald.  Skinheads, I thought.  Nazi skinheads who are going to murder us and steal our boat.  As it turned out, we were drifting and the guys' boats were on our collision path.  They had knocked before they boarded the boat, but we were too exhausted to hear them.  They were merely two nice young men helping a tired older couple get secure in the anchorage.

The next morning, Joe and I were still numb with disbelief.  We did it!  We finally got out of country with our boat and it only took eight years!  Coffee in the cockpit revealed more than 20 other sailboats, most appeared to be from the U.S., all flying their tiny Mexican flags, all with a dinghy tied behind them.  It was a very crowded anchorage!

21°15.30N, 086°45.60W

We spent our first day in Isla Mujeres on the boat, reorganizing and re-stowing.   And resting.  After a semi-good night's sleep, we were still tired.

The next morning, we tuned into the Isla Mujeres Cruisers Net on VHF 13 at 7:30 a.m. local time.  And there was a potluck dinner planned for Wednesday.  Where there are cruisers, there is always at least one social director.

Outside the office at Marina Paraíso we met a U.S. couple who had sailed the same route at the same time as we and the woman and I were immediately bonded by our aches and pains.  We both had sore shoulders from "hanging on" and I had an interesting bruise on the heel of my palm from using it to brace myself as I slammed into various areas of the boat.

As Joe and the man discussed what a rough passage it was, I was surprised to find myself thinking, Gee, I didn't think it was that bad.  We'd certainly been in worse.  The  bad thing about this particular passage was that we were surfing sideways and on some kind of regular, sea-timed basis, a rogue wave would slam into us, hard, knocking the toe rail into the water.  When that happened on my watch, I debated what to grab if the boat lay down.  GPS, autopilot or both? But it still wasn't our worst passage ever.  I figured if it wasn't cold and raining, even a rough passage was a step up from some of our previous ones.

The U.S. couple had also been caught in the hellacious norther-would-have-been-a-named-storm that we had endured under anchor at Sanibel Island.  Only they were underway during it!  The man had us doubled over with laughter as he recounted the saga.  It's always easy to laugh about it, after you've gotten through it.

I was unhappy to learn that we needed an agent to clear into Mexico, but later changed my mind.  At one point, I had created a Lista de Tripulantes (crew list) and a Zarpe (clearance documents from the last port of call), but one book I was reading seemed to indicate the Lista de Tripulantes was not needed, so I only gave Joe the Zarpe.  Wrong.  Our agent was Miguel at Marina Paraíso and he created all the papers we needed, called the Sanitation representatives who then went with Joe in the dinghy to inspect our boat while I checked our land email, then told us where to go next:  the Immigration Office.

A German couple joined us as we made our trip into town.  It was in the Immigration Office that I got my first look at how we as Americans now appear to some countries.  A U.S. man was clearing in and was angry that we are not allowed to anchor at Cuba.  He held forth, loudly, in the Immigration office and stated that U.S. citizens/cruisers were losing our constitutional rights because of Homeland Security.  Our German acquaintances nodded.  "You should see how popular American boats are, in Cuba," he told me.  "But your government will take your boat away if you go there."

The man boasted that he was offered $70,000 by the U.S. government to report any U.S. citizens arriving in Cuba by boat, but he would personally shoot anyone he discovered was ratting out his fellow cruisers.  I began to smell a rat.  This guy was weather-beaten at best, and when I asked him what he was doing for a living, he said he was "in transit."  But the German couple listened to what he said, carefully. 

Later, when I told our German acquaintances I did not foresee returning to the U.S. in our boat; that we would leave her here somewhere in the Caribbean, they said, "Why would any U.S. citizen take a boat into the U.S.?  Your government makes it so hard on you!  We can bring a boat into the U.S. easier than you can"  I was familiar with the "ugly American," but this new persona:  the persecuted American, was strange to me.  It's no fun to be from the country everyone loves to hate, but it's also no fun for people to feel sorry for us.  I feel proud and privileged to be an American.

In fact, when we arrived at Isla Mujeres, we were the only boat flying a large U.S. flag off the stern.  Two days later, I saw other boats putting their larger country flags on their boats' sterns:  Italy, Canada, Germany, Switzerland . . . it was as if they wanted to ensure they too were recognized as patriots.

We left Immigration and went to the bank to pay our $40 entry fee, then hurried back to Miguel at Marina Paraíso just in time for the office to shut down.  Between 1-3 p.m., most businesses in Mexico close.  Every day.  Already acclimated to "Don't worry, be happy," we marched back to the dinghy and boated back into town for lunch.  Two beers, 8 grilled shrimp and 2 fried conch fillets later, we could care less who was open for business when.

In another life, I flew Southwest Airlines from Houston Hobby to Dallas Love and back again every week.  After doing this almost a year, I began to get nervous about my odds.  Joe laughs at the things that make me nervous versus the things I don't worry about.  "How could anyone who did a free fall from an airplane be nervous about flying?" he would ask me.  Well, it's all about the odds.  I only did one free fall from an airplane; odds were good that I would survive it.  But after more than 100 commercial flights in Boeing 737s in less than a year, I figured my flying odds weren't that good anymore.

As I nervously scurried toward a terminal in Dallas Love airport, a nun handed me a medal.  "What is it?"  I shouted over my shoulder without missing a step.  "Saint Catherine!" she shouted back.  "CATHERINE!"  Later, on the plane, I studied the medal carefully and decided it was a Saint Catherine medal.  I taped it inside my passport as additional insurance and it is still there.  But it isn't a Saint Catherine medal.  It's a Virgin Mary medal and it says, "O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee."

Maybe the nun was from Saint Catherine's Church or a nunnery called Saint Catherine's, but I wasn't going to mess with my karma by second guessing.  I ordered 100 Saint Catherine of Sienna medals to be given to officials and other people we met along the way, figuring the odds were good that while Mother Mary might have been praying for me, Saint Catherine was keeping an eye out.

I had also burned CDs with a combination of Hispanic/U.S. music and designed covers for them.  The covers featured a sailboat at anchorage and a Winston Churchill quote:  "Friendship will hold the world together."  ("Amistad mantendrá el mundo unido.") I gave the medals to the various officials who helped clear us into Mexico and gave the CD to our agent Miguel, who seemed delighted with it.  When I downloaded the music and burned the CDs, I had used some of the "top ten" Hispanic hits of that time and added some of my favorite Hispanic music; I hoped the mix would appeal to Miguel.

As we dinghied slowly toward the boat at day's end, Joe kept repeating, "I can't believe we finally made it.  Isla Mujeres."  While he was still overwhelmed by the enormity of our accomplishment, I was already pondering:  This is so wonderful; I am so happy to be here . . . how in the world can we leave such a terrific place?

Joe wanted to effect some engine maintenance, fix the waning autopilot, bolt on the sacrificial anode . . . he had an agenda for repairs so we moved the boat to Marina Paraíso and paid a month's rent in advance.  Marina Paraíso is considered one of the best marinas on Isla and they accept cash only from transient boaters.  We had a combination of U.S./Mexican currency, enough to cover one month at a dock with water and 30 amps of electricity ($4/day; 50 amps was $8/day).

We were SO GLAD we made that decision the day we made it, because that night, a major norther blew in.  The air temperature stayed the same, but the wind gusted between 20-30 knots for several days.  There were whitecaps in our previous anchorage, and boats still there complained of the jostling and missed sleep monitoring anchor lines.  Everyone had at least two and most had three anchors set.

Golf carts and motorcycles provide the primary means of transportation to visitors on Isla Mujeres.  Buses run from one end of the island to the other and the cost is pennies (pesos), but taxis are extremely affordable.  Our most expensive taxi ride was fifty pesos, about $5.00 U.S. at that time.  All day long, auto and pedestrian ferries shuttle back-and-forth to Puerto Juarez and Cancu´n.

However, our legs provided most of our transportation.  For me, just climbing off the bow of the boat every day was a challenge, depending whether or not the wind was out of the north.  The walk from Marina Paraíso to town took about 30 minutes, with the downtown area just a few blocks off the main road.  I was glad we were walking so much, but some days were easier than others.  I could handle the walk to town and through town, but the walk home would put me over the top some days, and send me immediately to bed with aching legs.  I was impatient with my lack of mobility but Joe kept telling me he could see improvement, so I kept on walking.

An election was approaching and Volkswagens with huge speakers mounted atop zoomed up and down the island's main road, blasting politicians' promises and age-old ad copy:  "Nuevo Caudillaje Por Nuevo Mexico!"  Huge posters for gobernar and presidente were plastered on every available exterior wall space.  It was a state (Quintana Roo) and city election, I think, slated for the first week of February 2005.  Political rallies, complete with music and free ice cream, were often held on street corners, and much as I enjoy free ice cream, we avoided them.  The Mexican constitution forbids visitors to its country from participating in politics; the penalty could be jail or deportation.  I didn't want anyone to misconstrue our participation in a political rally - we are ice cream eaters, not activists!

The sports bar most frequented by U.S. travelers to Isla Mujeres is Jax, where Joe and I went to watch the New England Patriots soundly squash the Indianapolis Colts.  As we exited the bar post-game, wearing our Colts and Hoosier t-shirts, we had to back out, bowing humbly to a roomful of tourists in Patriots t-shirts.  We wished them well against the Steelers for the next week's playoff game, but we were lying.  We wanted the Pittsburgh Steelers to mow them down.

Cooking on the boat was an adventure too.  At a corner market, I tried to buy hamburger and I kept saying "carne . . . BEEF . . . mooo," to the smiling teenager who brought out some kind of ground white meat in a baggy and insisted it was hamburger.  We think it may have been veal, but we made a spaghetti sauce with it and didn't suffer any ill effects, so . . . Our nightly bedtime treat was caramel lollypops made from goat's milk.

Marina Paraíso offers internet connectivity; it was slow but at $3.00/hour U.S., was a fair price.  The week we left, they acquired high-speed internet.  I accessed our land email service provider and Joe paid bills.  I asked him if he had checked the credit card we used most often and he said he was "afraid to look."

I addressed my issues with internet connectivity and telephoning the U.S. to our 7:30 a.m. Isla Mujeres net on VHF 13 and received a wealth of information about how and where to make phone calls to the Estados Unidos.  Many people were using an internet-based telephone system in the downtown internet cafes and had praises for the connectivity, cost and clarity.

We took a taxi to the south side of the island to see the Mundaca ruins and the Mayan ruins.  Tourists who hear there is a "zoo" and attempt to visit it are bitterly disappointed, for Mundaca offers a few lonely, caged animals as a sideshow.  It is actually the site of a once-lavish plantation of which only crumbling remains can be seen, but its legend is still strong:  A pirate and slave trader, Fermin Mundaca de Marechaja, came to Isla Mujeres in the early 1860s and fell in love with a beautiful young woman, Prisca Gomez.  To persuade her to marry him, Mundaca built a palatial hacienda fit for a queen.  Romantic interpretations of this story indicate that because Miss Gomez scorned him, Mundaca became an embittered, broken-hearted man, but when reading of his cruelty to slaves and servants, you have to wonder if perhaps the young Prisca Gomez had insight beyond her years into his surly character and made a wiser choice:  She married another suitor and became Prisca Martinez.

It is said he burned his pirate/slave trading ship in the bay behind the plantation and was buried in a graveyard on the north end of the island; his tomb is engraved with a skull and crossbones and reads, "What I am, you will be.  What I was, you are."  Bitter to the very end, it seems.

The Mundaca ruins are worth a walk-through, just be sure to bring your insect repellant.  We were told by other tourists that the caged animals appeared "sad and neglected," but they were in fact quite healthy and seemed well tended.  The San Diego Zoo it's not, but I liked the spider monkeys.

For me, the best thing about the very touristy Mayan ruins at the very southernmost tip of Isla Mujeres is the Sculpture Garden.  As Mayan ruins go, I don't think Isla's make the cut, but if you like metal art - and I do - the sculptures you pass as you are walking to and from the remains of the Mayan temple are worth your time and examination.  The Disney-like "Caribbean Village" at the park's entrance is worth your scorn.

For Joe, this Mayan structure was intriguing because it is believed to have been some kind of observatory or lighthouse for pre-Columbian mariners.  Joe rushed past the sculptures and climbed to the site of the architectural ruins.  He showed me the stunning view and extreme visibility available at that point of the island and I knew he was visualizing mighty ocean-going Mayan vessels and aeronautical spaceships of Atlantis, circling Isla Mujeres for a landing.  I pointed to the distant area where the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean merge and said, "That's the road we came in on."

We clambered up and down the rock pathways, peeking into inlets and peering over cliffs to the rocky shore below.  As I looked at the walls of the cliff, I told Joe they appeared to be fossilized coral.  "They look like what we see below us when we are snorkeling," I offered.  In fact, the Yucatán Peninsula is the remnant of an ancient coral reef which lay exposed from the receding waters of the Ice Age.

As we walked to and from town almost every day, I became familiar with every crack in the stone walls and the pavement.  I knew when the sidewalk would change from old concrete to old brick.  One morning my hand brushed a crumbling wall and startled an iguana, which jumped and in turn, startled me.  He was about 20 inches long, from nose to tail, and his spiky skin blended into the wall stones.  Being professionals, neither of us made a sound; we eyeballed each other for a few minutes then I turned away and continued walking.

Dogs and cats rule in Isla Mujeres, and I began recognizing the local dogs, including one very old, anesthetized dog that lay in the sunshine, hardly moving except for an occasional twitch from whatever doggy dream he was dreaming.  Once he opened his eyes to look at me, and they were red and bloodshot, as if he'd had too much tequila the night before.  The day I saw him standing on all four legs, I nudged Joe, "Look!  He can move!"

We explored the small streets of Isla Mujeres, crammed with mass produced souvenirs.  We entered a few of the artesian shops with genuine hand-crafted items and couldn't afford most of the wares anyway, but couldn't bring ourselves to buy any of the traditional tourist merchandise on the street, priced to sell.  I finally bought tiny painted turtles with bobbing green heads for the grandchildren, knowing I wouldn't leave this place without a Isla Mujeres tote bag.

I buy tacky bags with the names of places visited boldly splashed on one or both sides of the bag.  Traditional touristy U.S. women buy fun tropical print bags.  Maybe, I thought, I'll get another bolsa, which is what the natives carry.  The durable plastic mesh bolsas are available in a variety of plaid patterns, and when you walk along a U.S. street (or dock) carrying one, it's as if you belong to a private club:  bolsa owners recognize other bolsa owners as Mexican travelers, not tourists.  My old bolsa had appeared frail when I got it, and had survived weekly use for over ten years.  I don't know why they last, but they last.  I decided to get a larger one, purple or green plaid.

On Isla Mujeres, we found the store with the best prices for canned and paper goods, liquor and soft drinks (the government-subsidized commissary on the Naval base), the best location for pork filets (Miritita Supermarket), and the best all-around grocery store with the most produce available (Super San Francisco de Asis, downtown on the square).  We found DVDs available in English or with English subtitles in a small room above a mini mart in the building adjacent to the Palacio Municipal building on the square.  The video shop was well hidden and often carried only one or two copies of the latest releases.

We bought wonderful food from street vendors, knowing full well we were dancing with the devil.

We found a small restaurant off the tourist track called La Lomita, which carried simple Mexican fare at local prices.  Joe's fish came complete with eyeballs and a fanged frown; my meat was the pale color I was learning to identify as "beef," and both our meals were prepared fresh and strongly seasoned with lime.

Almost all restaurants offered some version of fried bananas, sometimes accompanied by fresh-whipped cream.  We reveled in the varieties of flan preparation, but still had not become epicurean enough to determine commercially prepared flan from individually crafted flan.  Some just tasted better than others.  Trained from birth to believe that when it comes to roué and mole, the darker the better, we found light brown mole sauces often revealed a blend of subtle spicery that enhanced the flavor and fragrance, despite the color.

As Joe and I sat at outside tables, lazily drinking our mineral waters and beers, for long periods of time we were wordless, simply watching the pedestrians and vendors on the busy streets of Isla Mujeres.  The majority of the European and North American women strolled in groups or with a male companion, never alone.  The young women wore cowboy hats and tight knit pants or baggy crepe pants that exposed pierced navels or tiny tattoos on slender hips.  The matronly Midwestern U.S. women wore flowery polyester knit shirts with their solid-color shorts and comfortable SAS shoes while 40+ European women's breasts spilled out of tight knit tops as they teetered on stacked-heel sandals.  My favorite passers-by were the women "of a certain age" who wore flowing skirts and neutral-colored blouses accessorized by bold scarves, dangling earrings, silver bracelets, and khaki no-nonsense hats.  These women could be seen walking alone and purposefully, carrying leather bookbags or Louis Vuitton purses and not making eye contact with anyone, especially the eager souvenir hawkers on each side of the street.

You can see the Indian heritage in the faces of the darker-skinned Mexican people, but you will seldom see a dark-skinned Mexican on television.  The Mexican soap operas and commercials are dominated by fair-complexioned and often blonde-haired actors and actresses.  The network news featured attractive Mexican men and women with brown/black hair but never brown/black skin.

Life in the harbor of Isla Mujeres became comfortable, familiar . . .

Every day, a U.S. boater who had a very excited Black Lab would motor past us and the Lab perched on the front of the dinghy, paws gripping tightly and ears a-flyin.'  Sometimes, overcome with the thrill of it all, he barked nonstop.  This hyperactive dog will never become a Mexican dog.

The boaters came together on VHF 13 every morning at 0730 and then returned to their individual routines:  some took a daily brisk morning swim, and almost all perched in their respective cockpits, reading for hours.  Exhausted from all that activity, there was the requisite siesta, then Happy Hour at 4:00 p.m.: You get your one-dollar Sol beer from the small refrigerator in the marina office, check to see if any of the beers in the freezer have gotten cold and if they have, move them to a bottom shelf and put a couple more bottles of warm beer in the freezer.

For the boaters, sunrise and sundown are the clocks by which they live their days.

Cruisers arrived at the island, relieved to have made the passage and starry-eyed with success, and the liveaboards who never seem to leave Isla Mujeres shared the same information with the newcomers over and over again, happy to be the source of local knowledge.

A beach on the north end of the island beckoned, so we spent several days reclining in beach chairs, reading and dozing.  The beach waters of Punta Norte are calmer than the turbulent Punta Sur on the opposite end of Isla Mujeres.  Joe said the January water was still too cold for him, but I swam several times in the lagoon, rejoicing in the clear water and white sand.

We ferried over to Port Juarez and took a tour bus to Chichen Itza, stopping en route to visit a beautiful cenote.  This particular underground water reservoir, Cenote Dzitnup, came from an underground river, according to our guide.  The water was indigo blue and the tourists who'd had the forethought to wear bathing suits simply jumped in!  They splashed happily in the chilly waters and posed for photos.  Most of us on the sidelines were jealous, and some of us were tempted to jump in with our clothes on.

Chichen Itza is the site of one of the most well-known Mayan ruins and is located about 120 miles west of Cancu´n in the Mexican state of Yucatán.  Its construction is estimated to be between 650-800 A.D., and its population at one point may have reached as high as 100,000 residents who lived in palapas, or thatch-roofed huts.  The Maya believed the path to "heaven," or whatever symbolized the blessed afterlife was a long and arduous journey with seven levels of attainment.  For a successful warrior or athlete to be beheaded was an honor; a shortcut to heaven without having to endure the arduous journey here on earth.  Chichen Itza is thought to be a major sacrificial site for the Maya.

The Mayan people had preserved their long and rich history in books, most of which were burned by Franciscan monks in an effort to convert the people to Christianity.  Fortunately, the Maya also told their stories in their pottery and building designs.   Our guide explained the meaning of the hieroglyphics on some of the structures.  He was very graphic about the human sacrifices that were Chichen Itza's legacy.

The story of the Ball Court is fascinating!  At 545 feet, the playing area is longer than a football field, and two huge limestone hoops were centered 20 feet above ground on each side of rectangular walls.  The game played by the Mayan teams was called "Pok-a-tok," and the games lasted days.  The winning team's captain was ceremonially beheaded and apparently he was thrilled to have that honor (I guess there were no "I'm going to Disneyworld!"  Superbowl commercials), then a new game with two new teams was immediately begun.

Our guide said the players could use their feet.  Some references say they could not use their hands or feet.  Like baseball, they could bat or sling the ball with some kind of stick they carried during play for that purpose, and like soccer, they could use their heads.  Like basketball, they had to get the ball into an overhead hoop. The ball was made of rubber, resilient and bouncy, but the ball weighed 41/2 pounds.  Team players wore protective gear, helmets, face guards and one shoe.  This is when I thought of quidditch, the game of Harry Potter.  I mean, those hoops were mounted about 20 feet off the ground.

There's truly something very cosmic about the Ball Court.  Again, the walls are intricately designed with symbols of war and the court has almost perfect acoustics.  One sharp clap of your hands inside the Ball Court results in exactly seven echoes.

Standing in the yard outside the famous Castle of Kukulcan, clap your hands loudly, one time, and a lone echo - the sound of an eagle's cry - is the response. Archaeologists and anthropologists can only guess at why the acoustics were an important consideration of the Mayan architects.

The magnificent Castle of Kukulcan dominates the area, and an ambulance stood ready and waiting, should any of this pyramid's climbers take a tumble.  Each step is twice as high as a standard step and there are 91 very steep steps on each of the four sides.  Including the top platform, this represents 365 days in a year. There are five adornments on each of the four sides, representing 20 days in the Maya month.

The sun was merciless but a brisk wind from the north made walking almost a pleasure.  Joe and I strolled most of the grounds, climbing into what remains of the Temple of 1,000 Columns, studying the Temple of the Warriors and the Platform of Venus.  We stopped for sodas and, playing with the camera, took close-up mug shots of each other.  It was so wonderful to feel healthy and happy and alive in this setting of the long-dead ancients.  Sometimes you want to feel history, to somehow be a part of it, but not this place on this day.  We were the quintessential tourists, outsiders looking in.

Visiting Cancu´n was like leaving Mexico and stepping into a Disney version of Mexico.  It was one of Mexico's first large tourism projects and they literally created the site from nowhere.  Just 30 years ago, it was a dusty little island inhabited by a few fishermen.  The production and promotion of Cancu´n was an unprecedented success and it is a fun site for worldwide visitors to Mexico.  Familiar restaurant chains and hotels lined the well-paved four-lane highway, and clean crumble-free sidewalks lined the well-lit streets.  When I saw an Outback Steakhouse, I insisted we stop there.  No pale, bland beef tonight!  We were stunned to discover our meal was thirty percent higher than what we normally spend at Outback.  We also noticed there were no Mexicans in the restaurant.  This place was wall-to-wall U.S. of A. tourists.

I was having white wine withdrawal, but at $9.00 per glass for a very off-off brand of Chardonnay, I decided to skip it.  I felt a little guilty about a restaurant meal that was so clearly not part of our cruising budget, but I got a red meat fix that I hoped would last for awhile.

Joe wanted to keep the card with the ferries' arrival and departure schedule as a reference, but I thought it was pointless.  When the ferry is at the dock, you board and leave.  With the ferry is gone, you wait on it to arrive.  They ran on a schedule, kind of.  When we arrived at the ferry dock at 10:45 p.m. and asked when the next ferry was due, we were told "10:20 p.m."  And that was when the next ferry was due.  We were surprised at how easily we made the adjustment to living on Mexican time.

NOAA Charts 28190, 28202

Cruising Guide to Belize and Mexico's Caribbean Coast Caribbean

Coast of Mexico Chart

-and-

Exploring the Great Maya Reef Part 1:  The Mexican Caribbean Nautical Charts

A Mexican political election can be volatile at best, violent at worst, and the city/state elections at Cancu´n went smoothly, despite the losing party's resistance to its loss by seizing a stoplight at a main intersection and refusing to let traffic pass normally to and from the hotel district.  After a few days of protesting, they acknowledged defeat and gave the streets back to the tourists and the taxi drivers.

A U.S. cruiser arrived at Isla Mujeres from Cuba and had had a very bad experience.  His vessel was boarded by very nervous, very aggressive soldiers who were abusive and tried to take the captain's GPS and CDs.  They pulled out his anchor chain and secured his vessel to their patrol boat.  They insisted he leave immediately (it was 10:00 p.m.), but he protested it was too late.  At midnight, they moved him to another site and at 4:00 a.m., they drug his boat through a reef and told him to leave.  The latest information was if your vessel goes to Cuba, it is subject to seizure by the U.S. government and you are subject to fines.  Maybe it was always that way, but now it is being strictly enforced.  One person had received a letter from the government that his vessel was seen in Cuba and he would be assessed $2,000.  He decided not to go back to the U.S.  For most of us, that will never be an option.

The two major differences to note in the current situation are 1) cruisers to Cuba are normally treated politely (albeit firmly) by Cuban Navy personnel and that appears to have changed, and 2) the U.S. government is actively enforcing sanctions against travel to Cuba by U.S. cruisers.  The possibilities of fines and impounding of vessels by the U.S. government should not to be overlooked by U.S. cruisers.  Our European friends are enjoying wonderful stopovers at Cuba, but for now, at this time, it is not available to the rest of us.

An informative session on VHF 17 led to some Bush-bashing and an angry Republican fussed about it.  Another man came on and said, "Well, we still have freedom of speech in this country, don't we?" and another cruiser replied, "Exactly which country are we in?"  You could almost hear the laughter from the other boats.  God bless Americans and our wonderful, funny ownership-attitude of the world.  The best representative U.S. cruisers out of country who have that attitude lose it quickly!

We spent our last week in Isla Mujeres filling jerry cans, provisioning, and engaging a refrigeration man to bring our refrigerator up to speed.  He was scheduled to be at the boat at 10:30 Monday morning and arrived at 2:30 but didn't have the right type of refrigeration coolant, so he said he would return the next day.  "See you mañana," he waved as he left the boat.  On Tuesday, he came early and still wasn't satisfied with his coolant, so he said he would be back mañana with the right stuff.  Wednesday, he added the coolant, left, then returned an hour later to see if it was working and it wasn't.

Joe was at the fuel dock and the repairman seemed distressed to have to deal with me and my Spanish dictionary instead of mi espousa (I don't think Joe tries to communicate; he just smiles and nods agreement, which seems to be more effective than my requests for information, like "How much will it cost?" and "How long will it take?").  Nervously, he left the boat to find an English-speaking comrade, and they returned when they saw Joe board the boat with the jerry cans.  I overheard the conversation in the cockpit and picked up words like, "You need a new one."  I sighed.  Then I heard "mañana."

Two days later, the refrigeration man returned to tell Joe he was sure the compressor was okay but that we needed a new evaporator.  It turns out the coils in our refrigeration unit are subject to clogging, and also need a strainer.  None of this stuff costs a great deal, but none of it was to be found in Isla continued ....