No Mardi Gras - How Not To Sail 5,000 Miles on a 25' Boat

For me, it always happens during a meeting. Some overpaid blowhard will be waxing poetic about shifting a paradigm or enhancing the corporate culture when my mind wanders to the palm tree swaying in the breeze painted into the generic island scene that adorns the wall of every conference room in America. In a split second I've cast off the shackles of my hopeless indenture and I'm living a life of white, sandy beaches and trade winds that take me from one glorious tropical paradise to the next.

One night last February, the wheels fell off. I was at home working on the computer when I looked up at the chart of the Caribbean over my desk and I just couldn't do it anymore. My work circuit was fried.

I called my best friend Randy who had a 25-foot Coronado slipped in San Diego. We'd both moved to New Orleans from San Diego a few months earlier, inspired by equal parts of running to and running from. I knew he was getting tired, as I was, of not having a boat to sail in our new home town.

“Hey, man,” I began. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I don't know,” he answered. “Working, I guess.”

“Wrong answer. You're quitting your job tomorrow. So am I. We're flying out to San Diego to get your boat, and we're sailing it back here.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. What I didn't expect was his response.

“Around the Horn?” he asked. I knew I had him.

“Nope. Through the Ditch.”

The decision to quit work and go sailing may not have been the most responsible one, but I kept asking myself, “If not now, when?” I justified it by telling myself it was only for a couple of months, and I'd come back completely refreshed and ready to work for the next 10 years.

An often-overlooked fact about cruising is that it really isn't that expensive. Let's face it, you won't be spending any money while you're underway. Most anchorages are free, at least when you leave the States. Fuel costs on a small sailboat are negligible, even with an inboard. Provisioning can be accomplished for months on a shoestring budget, and trade is plentiful with local fisherman throughout the tropics.

Several other considerations entered the equation, not the least of which was the fact that we had to travel nearly 5,000 miles on a boat that could be expected to produce 100 miles a day under the best of circumstances. Any unexpected delays would put us smack dab in the middle of hurricane season on the Caribbean side of the Canal.

Randy and I packed everything we thought we'd need: shorts, flip flops, T-shirts, tons of reading material, 50 pairs of boxers each (we didn't plan on doing laundry out there), sun screen, nautical charts, and Chapman's.

An old buddy met us at the airport in San Diego and took us to the marina, where we set foot on the 30-year old boat for the first time in six months. The task before us required a level of organization beyond my capabilities. Luckily, Randy's anal-retentive streak was just the ticket, and his daily to-do lists really saved our bacon.

The first order of business was provisioning. A trip to the local CostCo was all it took. Two grown men had enough food for two months for $450. Granted, we weren't eating fillet mignon, but we weren't going to starve either. We stocked up on canned fruits and vegetables, SPAM, Dinty Moore beef stew, dried fruit, rice, beer, pudding, and powdered Gatorade. An added advantage to buying supplies in bulk is that all the packaging is similar. On a small boat, space is always at a premium, and if your provisions are stacked efficiently, it makes all the difference in the world.

Next on the list was fresh water. Rigid five-gallon bottles take up too much space so we opted for collapsible five-gallon plastic “blister bags.” When filled, they form cubes stacked for additional space economy, and when empty they're the size of a manila envelope. Our shower was a one-gallon bug sprayer on the deck and it worked like a champ.

Mechanically, she was in pretty good shape. The hull was sound and the sail inventory sufficient. But she was very, very small. Also, I knew the outboard motor was bound to get swamped and quit when they flooded the first lock in the Panama Canal, assuming it made it that far. When everything was stowed, the boat sat a full six inches lower in the water.

Marinas are probably the friendliest place on the planet. We weren't there two days before the word got out about what we were doing. Fellow sailors stopped by all day long to wish us well and chuckle at the boat with good-natured skepticism. One thing led to another and we ended up talking to a sailor who had a 27-foot Catalina for sale.

The difference between a 1968 Coronado 25 and a 1982 Catalina 27 is night and day. Though only two feet longer, the Catalina was easily twice the size of the Coronado, or at least it felt like it. The Coronado's vulnerable outboard motor couldn't hold a candle to the Catalina's burly Atomic 4 inboard. While the Coronado would have struggled to make 100 miles a day, the Catalina would easily make 120, and probably closer to 130.

In fairness, the Catalina was not without its own challenges. The bow pulpit was missing, the boom was attached with cord, the VHF antenna was snapped off, the bilge pump couldn't drain a Dixie cup, and what remained of the roller-furling system was non-functional.

In the end, we decided we could make the necessary repairs to the Catalina in under a week, and we'd make up the lost time at sea. We were approaching the end of March, and our weather window was closing rapidly. After trading pink slips and a couple grand in cash, we became the proud owners of a Catalina. That's when the fun really began.

Never let it be said that it is convenient to sail through Mexican waters. In order to avoid the onerous sales tax in California, we decided to register the boat in Florida when we got to the other side. Vicente Fox himself would have difficulty explaining this concept to his people over at Mexican Fish & Wildlife, where you must register for a Mexican fishing license before entering Mexican waters – whether or not you plan to drop a hook. Then it was over to the Mexican consulate for our tourist visas. The folks at the consulate were awesome, though validating our visas involved driving to Tijuana which took all afternoon.

When we got back, we were pleasantly surprised to find that the guy who sold us the boat had driven all the way up to Catalina Yachts and picked up our bow pulpit and the goose neck we needed to mount the boom to the mast. We accomplished both tasks by dark and went to work writing the next day's list. We needed to isolate and repair the hole (or holes) in our dinghy, install a new VHF antenna, and remove the roller-furling system from the fore stay. We found a spare 130 head sail and a storm jib, both with hanks, and decided they would be better than the furler – especially through Tehuantepec where it blows a constant 45-60 knots.

The next day we bought a VHF antenna, a Simrad TillerPilot TP-10 autopilot, a Magellan hand held GPS with mapping, and a 406mHZ EPIRB. We took a pass on the $1,800 life raft, our rationale being that, with the EPIRB, at least they'd know where we drowned. We also bought an additional 50 feet of 3/8 inch line for the line handlers at the Canal. Each boat must have four 120-foot lengths of an appropriate sized line to get through the Ditch. Forget this simple detail at your own financial peril; you'll be gouged for this item in Panama. We picked up the necessary courtesy flags and it was back to the boat. Another important note: the orange quarantine flag is not a big deal on the Pacific side of the Canal, but it is a very big deal on the Caribbean side. Your best bet is to fly the Q flag each time you're clearing in and out of another country.

Neither the VHF antenna nor the autopilot wanted anything to do with our new boat. I discovered the VHF problem after Randy and another victim hauled my 220 pounds aloft. What was left of the previous antenna was attached with a mount for antennas that no longer exist. To make matters worse, the co-ax cable was stretched to capacity through the mast. I described the situation to Randy and he grabbed a paper towel and a pencil and sketched out a mount we both thought would work. We dropped our crude blueprint off at the machine shop and went to work on the autopilot.

The problem with the autopilot was that the base unit needed to remain flat (at a 90-degree angle to the tiller), and the tiller aboard an '82 Catalina has a rather ornate curve to it. Simrad offered several remedies to this dilemma, all at least ten days away and all very spendy. I drew up what I thought might work and the machine shop came through for us again.

Each of these setbacks could have been the end of the voyage. It seemed as though we would just solve one problem and five more would pop up. We knew the boat wasn't ready, at least as ready as a boat can be, but we refused to give up. We never talked about the ultimate risk we were taking, but it was understood. Before I left New Orleans, my girl and I enjoyed an $800 bottle of champagne I'd been saving for years because I wasn't sure I'd get the chance again.

At last, our day came. We were satisfied that all our essential systems were working well enough to get underway. Everything else we would fix out there, on the way to Cabo.

The course we plotted had us clearing Mexican customs in Cabo San Lucas, and stopping in Manzanillo, Huatulco, and Balboa at the Canal. We budgeted four days at the Canal, and then we'd make our last stop at Cozumel. We planned to be back in New Orleans for a Cinco de Mayo party, well ahead of hurricane season.

We got underway the morning of March 21. The engine fired right up and we untied the dock lines right after sunrise. Backing out of the slip and pointing the bow toward the channel was a surreal feeling after the previous two weeks. We couldn't believe we were actually going. It felt like it had taken us forever.

I took a mental inventory of the safety equipment aboard. A quick radio check had us loud and clear on the VHF. Neon yellow tether line ran fore and aft on both the port and starboard sides of the deck, giving us the ability to move quickly and safely about the boat. Our ditch kit consisted of two Type-III PFDs, the EPIRB, a spare GPS, a blister bag of water, sun screen, and our barely inflated dinghy lashed to the transom.

We nosed into the channel with nothing but blue water ahead. The engine sputtered a bit until I found the throttle position it was most comfortable with. The air was crisp and a slight breeze was picking up, uncharacteristic for San Diego that early in the morning.

An hour into our voyage the engine quit, and I took it as a sign to put a little canvas in the breeze. We rode the light winds offshore for a couple hours, and then executed the last left turn we would make for almost 3,000 miles.

Once we were on a broad reach Mexico bound, I set up the autopilot. The Simrad TP-10 is by far the most impressive piece of equipment we had aboard. It is programmed to recognize the sea state and make the necessary adjustments to counter even the most choppy seas. Its ease of use is remarkable, literally push button, and it will even tack for you if needed. Don't leave home without one.

Now that the “ape” was set, it was time to settle back and do what we'd dreamed of doing for so long – absolutely nothing. We found the groove, and the hand held told us we were making almost seven knots! We had our first beer at sea, the beverage equivalent of a victory lap, and a pod of dolphins surfaced to toast our success as we crossed the Mexican border. A couple hours later, we made our southern adjustment at the beacon on South Coronado Island and broke out dinner. We each enjoyed a can of beef stew and a can of mandarin oranges for dessert. Life was good.

It started getting dark and I decided to run the engine for an hour or so to top off the batteries. We'd run the CD player and other devices all day, so I knew they probably needed it.

That's when the nightmare began.

We were probably 25 miles offshore at the time. We were still screaming downwind at around seven knots. Night had fallen. And the engine wouldn't start. Even worse, our repeated attempts to start the engine put a huge strain on our already taxed batteries.

I went below to see if I could figure out the problem and that's when I heard the sloshing. I pulled up the carpet and the floor board and found the bilge filled to the brim. We were taking on water.

My mind went through a quick assessment. Night time. Miles from shore. Dying batteries. No engine. And a hole in my boat.

I informed Randy about the water, and we used the hand held bilge pump to remedy the situation for the time being. I went back up on deck to have the talk. Individually, our problems weren't the end of the world, so to speak. But all of them at once presented a dangerous situation. After some deliberation we decided our situation was hopeless. If we pressed on to Cabo and the engine problem was serious, we could get stuck and miss our weather window. Without electricity, our running lights and VHF wouldn't work. If we kept taking on water, well, it was anyone's guess how bad that could get.

We rounded her up to weather, what weather was left, and headed back to San Diego. As the batteries weakened further, the autopilot began to struggle with our close-hauled point of sail. We disengaged it and took over steering manually. I took the first three-hour watch. We lost our wind just before Randy took over for me. We found ourselves in the lee of South Coronado Island, adrift, and headed into the swells. Knowing we had a long night ahead of us, I fell asleep almost immediately.

When I awoke a couple hours later, I didn't like what I saw. Our running lights were considerably dimmer, the sky clouded over to the point of no visible stars, and the GPS told me that the moon would set within the hour. Total darkness.

I tethered myself into the cockpit and sent Randy below for rest. We were drifting toward South Coronado Island and, as the moon cast off the last of its light, I tried to memorize where the island was relative to the boat so I'd know which direction to listen for waves crashing.

In order to save the VHF, our last hope, I shut down all the lights on board. Now we were adrift in a shipping lane with no lights and zero visibility. As if waiting for the perfect moment, it began to rain, and a tiny light that appeared on the horizon was getting much, much bigger.

Randy awoke with a start when he heard me desperately barking into the VHF, “South-bound cruise ship entering Mexican waters, this is the sailing vessel Mardi Gras, do you copy?” No answer. “South-bound cruise ship entering Mexican waters, this is the sailing vessel Mardi Gras. We are adrift and unlit in the shipping lane. You may be on a collision course with our position. Please acknowledge!” Nothing. Ten minutes later, she passed within a half mile of us, with me on the deck frantically flashing our rechargeable spotlight. The incident repeated itself later that night with a north-bound cruise ship.

When first light finally came, we were both exhausted. We'd drifted much too close to the island for my comfort, and I was eagerly anticipating the first breath of wind that would carry us home. The sunrise was celebrated by a herd of gray whales passing the boat and breaching, the sounds that we were convinced were waves breaking on the shore while it was dark we now understood were the whales spouting.

Later that evening, as we limped into San Diego under sail, the exuberance at having survived a situation that clearly could have been much worse was replaced by the dejected sense of reality that we'd failed on our quest. We even tossed around the idea of a quick fix on the engine and then back out to sea, but we knew we'd missed our window. To leave again would be to court disaster in three places: Tehuantepec, the Canal, and the Caribbean. Common sense prevailed and we threw in the towel.

Now, as I sit in my new cubicle and loathe the unavoidable corporate drudgery, I reflect on what that trip taught me. If there is one thing I took away from our failed attempt it is this: it can be done. All you have to do is do it. Granted, there will be far more preparation the next time. But in a world full of people too scared to cast off the dock lines, I can take comfort in the fact that one day my cubicle will consist of those white, sandy beaches and trade winds. And then every meeting will have been worth it.