All Aboard the Pac Acrux

June 8

(Of course this date is a lie. It is really June 30, 2012 and I have postponed writing the official final post for this blog. Procrastination, a skill well learned by grade school, is only partly to blame. Home is much larger and more complicated than Gratitude’s 43 feet by 13.)

On the day the Pac Acrux inched into Ensenada harbor, Charlie and I were like little kids whose overworked dad drives into the garage long after dinner. We rushed over to watch and take photos, then rode our bikes to get a better view. Ensenada has a very small port dock but it’s defended by a tall cinderblock wall and many guards. Only from a great distance could we watch the crane and sling slowly unloading boats.  The next morning we drove our boat over to the tall green side of the ship, tied her up turning off everything, grabbed our travel bags, and with a final panga ride, left Gratitude to fend for herself.

The ship carried most of the sailboats on the bow. This shows the many tiedown straps and two cranes.

Getting too close for comfort, Charlie?

 Although Charlie had a final checklist, on the bus he started to worry about possible trouble with the bow thruster going off if its cockpit switch got wet. The thruster roaring away high over the deck somehow struck me as funny, but of course running the motor with the boat out of water would wreck it. Not sure if he had remembered to shut it off, he called the Loading Master who agreed to check the thruster circuit. 

Awaiting the YachtPath vessel we had rattled around in Ensenada, making daily runs to the Santo Tomas winery warehouse to replace the emptied bottles in our locker. Their Misión red really hit the mark. It’s a mix of carignan and tempranillo grapes, both new to us.  Making the most of our exit from Mexico we each carried two bottles, a change of clothes and our computers as we boarded a bus for Tijuana, the border crossing and an afternoon flight from San Diego to Seattle.  

As we approached the U. S. we saw the freeway traffic jam for miles and the famous fences that separates our countries. The Mexican fence is made of various materials, some graffitied and broken down. The U. S. fence is much taller with barbed wire at the top. The border crossing line was not what I had expected. It’s not like in an airport where you’re contained. Instead you get off the bus and go to the sidewalk. The sidewalk is crowded and everyone is headed the same direction. People don’t pass each other to get to the plentiful food stands and little tiendas. Most of the people are Mexicans who don’t carry bags like we did. They’re just going to work in San Diego and take it for granted that walking the few blocks to the check post interview will take an hour or so. Beggars and entertainers and even fundraising nurses worked the crowd as we shuffled along. The US officials barely looked at us, scanned our passports and waved us along. On the other side we found bright red trolleys waiting to whisk us right to the train station in San Diego.

Shortly after midnight we entered our house, greeted warmly by the cats and the familiar sights of home. Partly due to the unusually uncluttered surfaces, it seemed rather strange to us. I found myself watching my step very carefully as if in a new place. The house is quite short of handholds compared with the boat.