As Joshua mentioned in the previous post, we arrived braced for turistic mayhem and prepared to pretty much hate the place. We entered the bay just after sunrise and could see in the morning smog a fringe of high-rise hotels lining the entire coast of the bay. We came up around to the northwest nook of the bay and proceeded to circle the anchorage for at least 45 minutes in a vain attempt to find a spot where 1) we weren’t in danger of being run down by enthusiastic banana-boaters or overzealous yachties; 2) where there wasn’t a 200-foot derelict rubbing up against a haphazard concrete mooring disc with ear-splitting abandon whenever a wake disturbed its rustful slumber; 3) where there wasn’t freakish bottom anomalies (65-65-40-35-65-34-23-35-65…wtf. I shudder to imagine what might litter the Acapulco harbor bottom); or 4) where we were vaguely out of earshot of the party barges (they will give that karaoke mike to anyone). Heady criteria indeed. We managed a spot in a somewhat alarming depth of 65 feet, a satisfying distance off of the derelict, and a neat paddle amongst the shining plastic megayachts to the elaborate Club de Yah-tays, where rumor had it that the dinghy landing fee wasn’t being enforced.

We immediately docked illegally at the Club de Yates dinghy dock and made a beeline for the flush toilets (oh heaven) and then tracked down every boating supply store in town. We were on the lookout for toilet tank chemical, a porta-potty repair kit, or a whole new toilet in general; have I mentioned that we have been having head issues lately? A complicated myriad of problems include a five-day max holding tank capacity (that 750ml issue is a killer), difficulty of finding tank chemical worth half a damn, a broken flush pump, general Cheyennian irritation at the whole situation, and let us not forget the most unfortunate phenomenon of pressure build-up. (“We’re going to have to rebuild the whole head. I said, well, do what you gotta do.”) Adding to the problem is the hair-tearing irritation that the very head we want to buy was in Puerto Vallarta at the fantastic Zaragoza (a good Mexican marine supply) at an excellent price and WE DIDN’T BUY IT WHEN WE HAD THE CHANCE. Woe. Woe and Frustration. Add a dash of Irritation and at least three cups of Foul Language. Long story short, there is no head to be had in Acapulco for less than $450 but there is toilet chemical that is strong (says ‘poison’ all over the bottle in more than one language and gives an alarming description of what must be done in case of ingestion), comes in a gallon jug, and ought to take care of at least one of our problems until we either get a proper marine head or go insane. Maybe in August. Head, not insanity. So we hope.

Business taken care of, we shifted into explorer/obtain-delicious-snack mode and laid a course for the zocalo. The road between the Club de Yates and downtown is a busy street with 12 inches of sidewalk where you are constantly honked and shouted at by taxis and busses (because nobody in their right mind walks from Caleta—suburb where the marinas are—and Acapulco proper). This would have been more annoying if the busses were not so elaborately decorated on the outside (inside too) with airbrushed masterpieces of Ren and Stimpy, or Dracula and his Seven Sexy Nymphos, or Extreme Sports Bettys (imagine Lara Croft, blond, ollying up a handrail), or Death Rocker Metal Screamer, or Stuart Little (Stuart Little??!!). Weirdness, to be sure. Not to mention that most busses have the first (top) half of the front windshield obscured by a ruffly curtain, the bottom quarter obscured by prismatic stickers with slogans like “DIOS ES MI COPILOTO” and the muddy in between taken up with dingle-balls (from the bottom of the curtain), dangling virgin statuary, woven palm frond Semana Santa crosses, firecrackers, etc.

Along the malecon, there are vendors hawking all sorts of weird beach outfits and sticky coconuty treats as well as a gang of old dudes who approach you with fishing/diving/esnorkling/beach excursions and who sport the Dress Whites as if they are the Captain Himself of some fine yacht moored just over yonder and they are inviting you personally, perhaps as a favor to the king to spice up the boring tropical days.

Once you hit the zocalo, a shady treed place with a built-in shoeshine stall ever 30 feet (we’re in flip-flop territory so the majority of the stalls were occupied only by ornery looking old ladies), you have but half a block to go to escape where any and all tourists seem to ever go. Surprising, but honestly, we did not see any western tourists outside the confines of the Club de Yates–only a few walking the malecon near downtown and a couple in near the zocalo–and then none anywhere within downtown. This is not to say we didn’t see any tourists, oh no: there were droves, mostly from Mexico City (Semana Santa is just around the corner), but they kept primarily to the malecon and beaches. Downtown is a snaggle of shoe stores, cheap clothing stores of vast selection and questionable quality, wedding announcement printing shops (yes, they deserve their own category; how such a dingy greasy black hole manages to produce cards of such whiteness and laciness is a miracle rivaling the resurrection), weird shit stores (plastic buckets, screwdriver sets, thong underwear, cake decorations), and paletas/helados/aquas shops (we promptly outfitted ourselves with a plastic bagful of pina colada agua). The streets were filled with shocking potholes, varying qualities and vintages of paving, obscure traffic signage, and berjillions of pedestrians, taxis, and painted busses, who clearly have a deeper understanding of the way Things Are Run. We ran into Cameron and Jenny from Velella en route (we have been bumping into each other as we work down the coast; they use kayaks as dinghies and have been pronounced “cool”) and spent the day wandering with them through town. Like us, they are used to spending a day in a new town traipsing aimlessly about with no particular destination and certainly no map or direction. We spent the remainder of the afternoon walking about in the sweltering heat, ducking into bookshops or anything that might be air conditioned, then headed back to the Club de Yates to scope out the shower situation.

I had to actually ask the doorman of Club de Yates where the showers were (they were well hidden) and we were ushered to a tastefully lit stairwell leading off in either direction (dames, and horse-riders). The stair was stone and cool and let up to a sparkling bathroom with toilets to one side, showers to another, and a massage parlor and towel rack splendid with fluffy navy-blue towels in between. I already felt acutely that I didn’t belong here (not having paid for the dinghy dock and all) and so I stuck with my REI space-age chamois towel; however, this did not stop me from taking advantage of the liquid soap dispenser located within the shower stall and working my bathing suit into a frothy ball, not to mention my Tevas and shorts, which I proposed to wear the following day. Water pressure was firm and fast and I was enjoying myself immensely until a crowd of several hundred children entered for their daily washing. Ayyy. Two or three at a time entered the unoccupied stalls and commenced to absorb all the tepid temperatures. I believe they were yacht club pool urchins and they possessed the strange power to control the shower temperature with voice alone; within moments my shower bliss was shattered, I was enduring icy hot sputtering blasts and my once-every-six-months-deep-conditioning moment was getting all fucked up. Their controller was a sole harried women who periodically barked commands like, “Let Jose use the water temperature controls,” “Lupita! Stop squirting soap on your sisters,” or “Only one towel per person!” Like a summer squall, they were gone within minutes and I was left alone with one hand testily on the temperature control, my heart pounding, and St. Ives facial scrub all over the place.

Clean as two whistles, we kayaked back and forth to the boat a few times, then headed into shore to check out the night cliff divers, who chuck their very bodies from a height of 75-100 feet or so nightly in hopes of earning a living. Impressive stuff.

The next day we found out that somebody had been taking advantage of the dinghy dock and not paying and the Club de Yates did not approve; a guard had been positioned on the quay to escort any newcomers to the office where they were expected to cough up ~38 dollars for use of dock and “services.” Good god. So everyone who had been mooching off the supposed generosity of Club de Yates went down the way to Marina Acapulco, a quasi-derelict boat dock with strangely shabby/schmancy yacht clubhouse (pool on roof, palm cabanas and swim-up bar; no running water in the bathrooms, docks broken into many pieces and roped together using various bits of multi-colored and sized ropes). They were very friendly and helped us tie up to one of the floating dock pieces and did not charge anything.

We spent the rest of our time in Acapulco on restocking missions: grocery store, market, Home Depot (whoa), etc. The bus ride to Home Depot was very fascinating; there is a dizzying array of commercial activity afoot in Acapulco. We left the harbor in the late afternoon and anchored for the night at the south edge of the bay, a mini-cove that is rapidly being developed into one big massive multi-level hotelmania. Ayy. The next morning we started out for the overnighter to Galeta, the next possible anchorage to the south.

We saw a lot of turtles, many of them with avian passengers.

Food Report

We didn’t eat out too terribly much while in Acapulco—we ate at a couple Comida Corrida places and had mole chicken, fried fish, that sort of thing. The road between the cliff divers around the outer edge cutting back towards the bay between Caleta and downtown Acapulco had a lot of popular restaurants and guys at tables working cutting open shellfish (like, shellfish out of pretty seashells, as well as oysters, clams, conch-like things). We did eat at a couple of roasted chicken places that were very good; the photo above is of a great place called La Fogata that is right up the side street by the Comercial Mexicana supermarket. A massive plate of barbecued chicken is 22 pesos. They have Negro Modelo.

Downtown, a group of ladies on the street had plastic buckets of a light-brown thick liquid drink (I forgot the name!) that was made of rice flour, chocolate, cinnamon, and sugar. They would dip a dipperful and pour it from a height in order to keep things well-churned (no settling) and charged 5 pesos for a cupful. One lady’s five-gallon bucket had the faded words “industrial soil plasticizer” or some such on it. Hmm.

Howdy everyone. We executed the night landing in Zihuatanejo around 1am, anchored at the edge of the pack, and promptly sacked out. Pretty much everyone is on the move lately and the typically popular anchorage has only twelve boats. Lots of space! We’ll take advantage and move the boat three or four times in our attempt to find the most advantageous internet position. (We’re on move number two and it’s coming in fairly well, thanks.) Currently we are getting buzzed by the parasailers; it’s a small bay.

Our little overnighter from Manzanillo turned into a two and a halfer due to some whacked wind (if there was wind) coming out of the direction we wanted to go coupled with opposing swell.

Yesterday, things got interesting when a juvenile brown booby landed on deck. We were maybe 15 miles offshore and perhaps 40 miles from Zihuatanejo. He (we actually don’t know if it was a male or female—the plumage on the young ones is uniformly brown) was predominantly unconcerned by us and after checking us out a bit, he settled in and started a preening binge that lasted a good five hours. Nearing dusk, some packs of boobies flew by and he regarded the first group with mild interest but did not join them. Following groups were totally ignored. (Suckers!) At dark, he situated himself on the forward ama edge, tail pointed overboard, tucked his head into his wing and went to sleep. It’s really impressive how birds can sleep standing on an unstable surface. The only point where he looked in danger of falling overboard was when he raised one leg to scratch his ear and the boat lurched suddenly; he ruffled his feathers and gave us the eye as we laughed at him. During the night a group of dolphins surrounded the boat and woke the booby. He kind of flipped out a bit and stamped around flapping his wings. When he settled down he relocated to a spot solidly on deck with no parts hanging over. He barely woke up for our arrival in Zihuatanejo and only squawked with irritation when I had to shoo him out of the way to get the anchor bridle situated. The next morning he was gone. Sigh, empty nest syndrome!

Boob on deck.

In fishing news, we caught a sierra, which was promptly made into tacos; then a bit later we caught a very large fish. We were unable to identify it due to a conspicuous lack of any useful fish identifying books. It was heavy though and remained very still and made a croaking sound as we removed the hook (we let it go because we didn’t have any ice and didn’t know what it was). Then we caught another something something that was so large and feisty that it managed to strip out all the screws from the inside of the reel and get away just as we were getting it close enough to the boat that we might actually catch a glimpse. The reel is out of commission until Joshua can find some sort of diagram of the innards.

We actually thought we’d head over for Careyes (between Chamela and Tenacatita) because Raines said that it was one of his favorite anchorages. I believe he waxed on with words like “This is what you dreamed of when you thought of cruising Mexico.” We approached the anchorage and were impressed by the profusion of major estate homes with schizophrenic architectural styles. Disney (castle towers and triangular flags) with a bit of old Persia and Greek columns, painted a deep teal, or perhaps a near-replica of the White House done in an intense coral and with a string of festive conical palapas down the cliff to the beach. As we rounded the corner, the Club Med came into view (we heard that they will kick you out of their cove if you try to anchor there) and the multi-level candy-striped hotel that consumes the main anchorage area. The beach was clear except of bright umbrellas and neat palapas with lounge chairs underneath. We got near enough to anchor and then turned around and pointed the boat in the direction of Tenacatita.

We heard later that the walk to town consisted of passing a dozen armed guard points (one for each of the estates?) and the town itself was a cobblestone and stucco centerpiece.

We pulled into Tenacatita about an hour before sunset and anchored in the north hook. Palapa restaurants lined the shore and loud music blared. The area is supposed to be very famous for its clear water and excellent snorkeling and is called “The Aquarium;” however, there seems to be some sort of red tide going on right now and visibility is maybe three feet. Oh well. We checked out the north (and deserted) beach and then moved the boat to the southern anchorage. There is a pretty nice little campground at the mouth of the estuary, a long beach, and a massive hotel at the other end. The campground was nearly empty when we arrived but the next night filled up completely. Loud traditional music, featuring the tuba, blared until 10pm, when the beach went dead quiet. We chatted with a Hungarian guy from Toronto who said he has been coming to this hotel for 15 years, “the name keeps changing but it’s always the same place.” The hotel is all-inclusive to the point that hotel fare, drinks, food, and airfare is all one price; they make you wear a little hospital-style bracelet thing.

We paddled into the estuary the next morning after talking to some fishermen (they said that there were no jejenes right now because of the wind); they were using a castnet to catch ‘lisas,’ or small mullet. The estuary goes in a few kilometers and we saw a bunch of marshy birds.

The main Chamela anchorage was okay–bumpy when the wind picks up and landing the dinghy in the surf is an exciting event. The fishermen would strip down to their underwear in preparation of landing the pangas; they float around just beyond the breakers until a swell runs by, then gun the motor and run the boat full tilt onto the beach popping the motor up at the last minute. They get wet when they jump out in the surf and wrestle the boat to higher ground as the waves break. Town is a wee strip of tiendas and such along a paved road with a concrete zocalo off to one side. We went ashore to get some produce and a block of ice. Then we headed out to the islands in the middle of the bay to anchor and observe the wildlife.

Once again, we used up all the camera batteries photographing the boobies. Damn those boobies are photogenic. So cute! This time there were only brown boobies, no blue-footers, and they were at a different stage in the nesting cycle. Babies were generally fully fledged but not mature so they would sit around begging for food from whatever bird (or Cheyenne) came near. I guess I wouldn’t be too picky either if my dinner consisted of regurgitated fish. Also, the mature boobies were pairing up and building nests and that was fun to watch. The male picks up some weeds or whatever stick happens to be about and tries to give it to the female, who looks all around but not at the male (so coy!); sometimes she takes the stick/weed/leaf and that seems to be a pretty big deal.

Back at the boat, we discovered that we had become a trimaran-shaped refuge for huge schools of little bluish fish. Berjillions of the guys milling around and not biting any of our lures for anything. Joshua spied a dorado cruising about amongst the blue hoards and then spent the next couple of hours trying to catch her (the males and females look different). We tried every one of our lures on the dorado with no obvious interest; then Joshua decided that we needed live bait. Since the little schooling blue fish do not go for lures and just dipping a netful of them was not possible (they were thick but quick and not that stupid), Joshua got out the fishing spear. The first fish did not make it to the deck alive, a prong had him right through the middle (we put him on a hook in the water just in case because you never know). The second and third fish got away. Then Joshua speared the boat. Monohulls must not have this problem. We’re not talking a glancing blow, oh oops haha I hit the boat honey; he stuck it so well that neither of us could actually pull it out. Three prongs all embedded deep. Of course it was all below the waterline and in a forward section of the boat where you can’t just observe the hull from the inside.

The little blue fish swarmed on Joshua as he got in the water and prepped the area for an emergency ‘Splash Zone’ repair (underwater epoxy miracle). Using a rope, he yanked the spear free and promptly jammed epoxy into the holes. We don’t seem to be taking on water so hopefully it’s all okay. We’ll have to tend to it next time we haul out. We never did catch that dorado. And that dead fish we chucked over the side to see what might happen? We pulled up an incredibly pissed off moray eel a couple of hours later; he bit through the line and took off with the hook (sorry!), which was just as well because I don’t know what we would do with a writhing biting eel on board.

We stopped at Isla Isabella en route from Mazatlan to San Blas. Isabella is a bird sanctuary chock full of blue-footed boobies, brown boobies, and frigate birds. And some other cackling gull whose name I can’t remember (sorry!). We lucked out in that all three birds happened to be breeding when we visited; only the brown boobies breed year round.

The island is very small and there are paths all over it where you can walk through brown/blue booby breeding areas (they just nest on the ground), then through the trees where the frigate birds nest. You end up walking very close to the birds (it’s unavoidable) and it’s pretty amazing. They are not afraid of mammals and just regard you with irritation when you wander around; they don’t fly away when you approach them. We took a lot of photos.

Blue-footed booby. The feet really are blue.

Blue-footed booby family unit. Awwwww cute babies!!! These guys are pretty tiny; they grow nearly full-sized before the fluff starts to be replaced by mature feathers. The female booby makes a bleating sound that sounds like a cross between a toy trumpet and a kazoo and the male makes a hoarse cry that sounds like he’s been ‘debarked.’ They bleat/gasp at you when you get within 5-10 feet of the nest. Which is sometimes in the middle of the trail. Sheesh!

I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going on here. That’s the male sticking his arse in the air (he makes a hoarse exhale/cry when he does this). We spoke with one of the ornithologists on the island and he called it “sky-pointing;” it is a mating display, among other things. The female is regarding him with some indifference.

Awwww! Booby love. This happened right after the mating display above. We sat around for a bit thinking we might get to observe some booby action but this is about as far as things went.

Male brown booby. They have chartreuse-colored feet and are really cute. All the boobies have great expressions but my favorites were the brown boobies.

Female brown booby. Cute! Cute!

Close up of a male brown booby. Interestingly, the brown boobies lay two eggs and when they hatch, the dominant baby kills the weaker baby. So the brown boobies end up raising only one baby. The blue-footed booby babies also do this but only if resources are scarce. I think we saw most blue-footed nests with both babies. However, even with two babies, one remains the dominant baby and probably gets the majority of the snacks.

Marine iguanas. When you walk through the trees, they tend to stay very still until you get to within a certain distance, whereupon they can’t stand it anymore and explode off into the brush.

Many circling frigate birds. They make very primeval clicking and shrieking sounds. It was kind of creepy winding through the trees, which form a sort of short canopy and the path is more like a tunnel. There are zillions of frigate birds above you at all times.

Frigate baby! Frigate birds have only one egg at a time.

The male frigate has a red sack that he blows up. They just hang around with all their necks ballooned out like this too. Looks pretty goofy.