December 12, 2023
The time had finally come to make our move to the mainland. After enjoying the wild, rocky coastlines of Baja California, we were eager to trade them for the lush greens of the jungle. But first, we had 275 miles of open water between us and those palm-tree-lined beaches—we needed to cross the Sea of Cortez.
We estimated the journey would take about two and a half days. So, early in the morning, fueled by coffee and oatmeal, we lifted anchor in Los Frailes and set our course southeast. As we motored past the headlands, a light breeze filled our sails, carrying us toward our planned destination, Chacala.
Crossing the Sea of Cortez is straightforward, relatively speaking. During the winter, strong northerly winds sweep down from Arizona and California, creating 900 miles of wind waves that build into short, choppy seas. These wind events, known as "Northers," can make for challenging conditions. However, based on our somewhat accurate forecast, it looked like we'd have light winds for the trip, as we were at the tail end of one of these Northers and in the lull before the next.
We also had to navigate through what some Facebook armchair sailors called a mythical "triangle of death" outside Los Frailes. This area, extending down to Cabo, is said to have much stronger winds than forecasted and wild currents. Naturally, I was extra cautious, half-expecting a total knockdown or pitchpole in the area (kidding, Mom....kind of). As it turned out, we were exceptionally lucky—the winds were as forecasted, and we easily sailed through the so-called death zone. The debate is still ongoing in the boat about whether this area exists.
As the day passed, we lost sight of land. For the next two days, it would be just us, the sea, and the sky—perhaps with the occasional ship crossing our path. This wasn't the first time we'd lost sight of land, but it was the first time we wouldn't see it again for over two days. We settled into our watch schedule of six hours on and six hours off while Sprocket found his routine—staying in the cockpit until sunset before curling up in bed until sunrise.
Day one passed with a steady 15-knot breeze on the beam. By evening, a flock of brown boobies had taken up residence on the foredeck. We ate dinner, entertained by the birds' antics as they squabbled for space on the bow.
The following days mirrored the first. Mornings brought forward winds, prompting us to adjust our course southward. By afternoon, as the winds shifted, we altered course more easterly. We briefly spotted two ships along the way, but neither came close enough to require any course changes. The only other sighting was the Islas Marías—a group of islands that once housed a prison. Though still closed to the public, we caught glimpses of their outlines against the moonlit skies as we sailed past.
By noon on the final day, we finally caught sight of land—the mainland. It felt like a milestone. Since arriving in Ensenada two months ago, we'd been dreaming of reaching the Mexico we had imagined—palm-tree-lined beaches. Now, we were almost there.
The last 30 miles dragged on at a snail's pace. I couldn't wait to get off the boat. The passage wasn't bad; in fact, it was really lovely, but I was ready for it to be over. There were only so many books to read and naps to take. I still haven't gotten used to cooking decent meals underway, so we survived on pre-made food and snacks. I was looking forward to the beach, some real food and being stationary for a while.
By dinnertime, we spotted the harbour entrance. We'd made it to the mainland—bring on the margaritas!
NM Sailed: 275
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