I had come here to take part on Paul’s grand sailing adventure on board his 38-foot boat Cariad. There would be three of us—Captain Paul, Brian (who came aboard in Cabo San Lucas) and me—to sail the Puerto Vallarta–Zihuatanejo leg of the journey. This was to be my first time sailing on any kind of lengthy, overnight trip. As Paul likes to say, "There are no passengers, only crew," which meant of course this wasn’t just a joy ride; I was to help sail the boat. According to Paul’s original itinerary we would set sail on Monday, December 1^st and arrive in "Z-town" on Friday the 5^th, with maybe a stop or two along the way. This of course was subject to change.

Feeling defeated I perched myself on a bar stool at an open-air restaurant overhanging the water at one corner of the marina. While sipping on a Pacifico I started contemplating my options if I couldn’t find the boat or reach Paul. Finally, on what I think was my fourth attempt, I got through on the phone to a live person. It was Brian on the other end. They were out cruising the bay, but were on their way back in and should be there within a half hour.

"Go find a place called Victor’s," he said. "They have ten peso beers and they give you a shot of tequila. Our berth is right in front. Wait for us there."

I found Victor’s Place easily enough, dropped my bags on a chair and ordered my beer. As promised it arrived with what I thought to be complementary "welcome to my joint" shot. After my second beer came with a shot I figured it out: every drink on the menu came with a shot. It wasn’t just a happy hour special; all day, every day it was the same.

On schedule the Cariad pulled up, right in front of where I was sitting. I climbed aboard what would be my home for the next week or so, said hello, dropped off my swag, then we all walked back up to Victor’s and finished off the evening drinking ourselves silly.

On Saturday we decided to head into downtown PV for lunch…or at least that was the idea. We caught a local ruta, a big pile of rusty scrap metal that somewhat resembled a minibus. Lacking shocks or cushions, I felt every pothole, speed bump, rock and pebble along the way. Once we entered into what looked like the central district we hopped off and started walking—we had had enough of the bone-jarring ride. After walking for some time we started to realize we weren’t as close to the center of town as we thought. Eventually we strolled into an area that looked touristy enough. Lunch was finally found at a place called Paradise Burger. It had a second-floor balcony that overlooked the beach and a nice breeze blowing through. The prices seemed expensive to us, though were quite reasonable compared with back home. Victor’s Place had already spoiled us.

The ride back after lunch was just as tortuous as before but I didn’t notice it as much; I was distracted by a young woman who sat on the other side of the aisle. She was wearing a small black top stretched to within an inch of its life, her enormous breasts bouncing and shaking all over the landscape with each pothole, speed bump and pebble. Now that looked like torture…for her of course. For me it was just plain fun.

That evening back at the marina we found ourselves once again at Victor’s. We grew quite fond of the place, not just because of the cheap beers. The food was tasty and reasonably priced and the service was excellent. The establishment began to feel as though it were somehow an extension of the boat, only with visitors…and table service.

On Sunday afternoon we took the boat out to the bay for a short cruise, primarily to go swimming in the sea and for a change of scenery. This was my first chance to be out on the open water since my arrival. For a while we cruised under sail along the beachfront hotels. Then we dropped the sails, threw a rope in the water and threw ourselves overboard for a brief swim.

Back on deck I started feeling a little out-of-sorts—not quite queasy enough to lose my lunch but just on the border of uncomfortable. The sea was relatively calm for open water but my system just wasn’t taking well to the rocking. It could have been the cheese and crackers weighing heavy in my stomach or the alcohol-induced fog I was in from the night before. Anyway, I had been in rougher seas than this before on snorkel cruises and such without feeling nauseous or tossing a single cookie. I started wondering if I should borrow some of Brian’s seasick patches before we take off on the big journey south. Fortunately we were back in port before things got any worse for me.

Our original plan was to set sail the next day for Zihuatanejo. But it started to become clear we were going to push it out a day or so. Paul and Brian both had laundry to do and Paul had some business to take care of with the marina. Apparently there are a lot of formalities involved with sailing through Mexican ports. Boats had to clear customs, even if they already entered Mexico somewhere else, and crew members had to be registered.

We were met in the morning by Cecelia, a woman who works as a sort of concierge for the marina. For a fee she does all the legwork of processing boat and crew paperwork through a variety of agencies, including immigration, port captains and who knows what else. She of course charges a fee for this but Paul said it was well worth it, otherwise he would have to spend the whole day running around doing all this himself.

Waiting for Cecilia to return, Paul and Brian did their laundry and I went to an internet café for awhile. When I came back Brian was cleaning the boat and Paul was fixing odd things here and there. At about one o’clock we took a break over at—surprise—Victor’s Place. Cecilia returned around two with our paperwork and joined us for a drink.

At that point the only thing left to do was to provision the boat (i.e. go grocery shopping). We put it off for the time being as it was just too hot. After a few more hours passed it became evident that Victor’s was once again sucking the ambition out of us. The afternoon turned into evening. Shopping, it seemed, was going to wait until morning.

Tuesday morning all three of us caught a ruta and rode it a few miles down the road to buy groceries at the Gigante supermarket, a place we spotted along the main highway a few days before. Paul and Brian brought backpacks along, which came in handy, loaded down as we were with bags upon bags of groceries, gallon-sized water jugs and a case each of beer and soda. Somehow we made it back on the ruta with all our provisions, though it must have been quite a sight for the other passengers. More amazing is that all our food and beverages made it back in one piece. Now the only thing left to do was turn in the marina gate key and fill up the boat with water and diesel.

We cleared the marina at about 11:15 in the morning. Brian and I hoisted the sails and Paul cut the engine. At last we were at sea.

Puerto Vallarta is set in a bay called Bahía Banderas, though it’s really more of a gulf than a bay. To leave it we first had to sail west out of the bay, then around Cabo Corrientes before turning south. The wind was out of the southwest—same direction we were headed. About an hour later Paul determined we were going too slow so he started up the motor again.

Two hours into the trip I was looking back at the PV waterfront; it didn’t seem like we had gotten very far. Three hours in and, yep, the waterfront was still there behind us. At that point it would still be at least three hours before we would reach the cape, even though it looked to be about a twenty-minute car ride away. Here it started to sink in to me how long and slow boat travel can be.

Later, while still on a westerly course the wind pick up so we tried sailing again. We managed to sail for a few hours, close to our first waypoint (the point where we would turn south). But the wind died just short of our point so on came the motor again.

After our day cruise two days prior, I was concerned about seasickness but in our scramble to get ready for the journey I neglected to ask Brian for one of his patches. As it turned out I didn’t seem to need it; I was doing fine out here in the open ocean so far, even with the swells. I read a chapter in my book with no problem, something I couldn’t do comfortably in a moving car.

As we turned south the weather got hazy and we lost the sun. It was late in the day and getting a bit cool, to the point where I had to put on a sweatshirt. The air was very damp. We didn’t see much of a sunset, just a gradual darkening of the sky.

After dark, around eight o’clock Captain Paul wanted to start doing watches. For the uninitiated this means taking turns watching the boat so the others can sleep. Each watch, he declared, would be two hours. I took the first one. Paul spent a few minutes explaining the navigation systems and controls to me since I was a newbie, then disappeared below deck for a nap. The boat was equipped with a sort of autopilot, so on watch there really wasn’t much one had to do but watch the instruments—radar to watch for nearby boats or objects, GPS system for staying on course—and occasionally scan the horizon for a reality check. The boat traveled slow enough that it wasn’t necessary to constantly watch things; a check every ten to fifteen minutes was sufficient.

My first watch went without a hitch. There was one freighter that buzzed by us fairly close but otherwise not much activity. At 10 o’clock I woke up Brian to take over so I could get some sleep.

My second watch came at three in the morning. I expected it to be at two but Paul said he was enjoying the tranquility and thus wasn’t in a hurry to wake me up. I noticed that the air was warmer. The moon had set so it was very dark out on the sea and the sky was full of stars. We were still motoring since the air was completely still. Paul pointed out to me the phosphorescent show going on behind the boat—little explosions of green light dancing in the wake.

In the five hours since my last watch I nodded off a few times but otherwise didn’t sleep very well. Still I was kind of looking forward to this watch; this was my first overnight out on the sea, and the giddiness I felt when the voyage started hadn’t completely vanished yet. On this watch we were about to cross our next waypoint.

From San Francisco, a person could drive to Seattle or fly to Hong Kong in less time than it took us to sail our first hundred miles. This was definitely not the conveyance of choice for someone in a hurry. But we were in no hurry.

Toward the end of my watch the wind picked up. Brian had been sleeping out on the deck but was awake now. I suggested we try sailing and he agreed, so we let out the jib and cut the motor. He was officially on watch now but I stayed up for awhile, enjoying the peacefulness of sailing without engine noise and without the diesel exhaust blowing back in our faces. It was completely dark and almost silent, except for the splashing of the sea against the hull.

After awhile I decided it would be best to try to sleep while it was quiet. I was concerned about rolling off my bunk, which at this time was on the high side of the boat’s tilt. But once I laid down I was out cold. Though it would be brief, I finally got some deep sleep.

The sky was getting light when I woke up. I crawled up on deck to watch the sunrise. There were a number of porpoises swimming along side the boat. Brian had rigged up the fishing pole and dropped a line trailing off the stern. At this point we could see this morning’s destination and our first stop: Careyes Bay. As we approached the bay the reel started spinning. Brian managed to catch what looked liked a small tuna. He gutted it and fillet it on the spot, then bagged the pieces and threw it in the freezer.

It was about eight or nine in the morning when we pulled into Careyes. We tooled around for a bit looking for a good spot to anchor. The bay was divided into two parts by rocks and outcroppings: the larger eastern lobe of the bay contained a few boats on moorings, the smaller northern section was completely empty.

For me this was déjà vu all over again. On the northern end of the bay was the old Club Med Playa Blanca resort. Five years before I had vacationed here for a week. Now it was closed, a victim of the post-9/11 decline in tourism. In my mind was a flashback of the beach full of lounge chairs, beached kayaks and small sailboats, pink-skinned Canadians guzzling their Coronas. But now the place was completely empty except for a few groundskeepers we spotted. It seemed somebody, though, had an interest in maintaining this place. It was immaculate: the grass was mowed, the bushes were neatly trimmed and the beach was smooth and spotless.

We decided to anchor in this part of the bay, off the Club Med beach. This beach, the crystal-clear water, the surrounding hills and rocks, all of it was stunning and we had it all to ourselves! After a brief swim to cool off, we launched the dinghy and motored over to the other part of the bay. There was a large resort there that was actually open. We beached the dinghy next door at a beachside palapa restaurant called the Playa Rosa. The place was open but empty except for a young blonde woman standing in front of the place. She looked to be in her twenties and talked as though she were from Germany or maybe Holland. Her name was Jana and she said she lived nearby. Later we found out from one of the waiters that she was the girlfriend of the man who owned the restaurant. This man apparently owned a lot of property in the area, including most of the large houses that overlooked the bay. He was in his seventies, we were told, and apparently had other girlfriends beside Janna. Wealthy bastard!

We explored the resort next door. It was very large and contained a mix of short-stay hotel rooms and longer-term condos. We sat at a poolside table and order coconut rum drinks. There were hardly any guests—I think I saw twelve or fifteen the whole time we were there—but the place looked very expensive and exclusive. This theory was confirmed when we got the bill: 27 dollars for three drinks. We surmised this was a place where the rich and famous might come to get away. It was well away from the popular tourist towns (the nearest airport was three hours away by car) and there was a helipad at the far end of the beach. Here, there was little chance your mug would wind up in a tabloid photo.

Later, while lounging at the Playa Rosa, we watched two other sail boats come into the bay. After motoring around for a while they went over by where we were anchored and dropped anchor next to each other. On our way back to the boat we swung by and introduced ourselves. They were two families traveling together, each with their own boat—the Atlanta and the Quétzal—and a total of three young children between them. The family on the Atlanta had been sailing for a year and a half and had spent the summer up in San Carlos, in the upper part of the Sea of Cortez. They had sold their home in the Seattle area and were on a three-year or five-year tour, depending on who was talking (the husband said five years, then the wife interrupted with "three years…then we’ll see").

That night on the boat I again thought back to my first visit here, when the beach was alive with the noise of the resort: pop music through loudspeakers, the clink and clank of dinnerware from the open-air restaurant, vacationers hooting and hollering. Now it was eerily silent and dark, just the splash of waves on the beach.

We pulled up anchor and set sail out of Careyes at about nine in the morning. Our destination was Tenacatita Bay, only about four or five hours away by boat. We wanted to go to the state park there, called Bocas de Rio Las Iguanas, where we could take the dinghy up a jungle river.

On the way we had light wind but not enough to sail without motor. Brian dropped a line in the water again. As we came upon the entrance to Tenacatita the reel started buzzing. This only happened, it seemed, when heading into a bay. Paul started reeling in the line. Just then a small fishing boat, or panga, sped past across our path behind us. When Paul finished reeling in there was nothing on the end of the line, no hook or lure. It seemed the panga had cut off our line when it went past.

We anchored in the west end of the bay where there were about five other sailboats already anchored. We cracked open some arrival beers then immediately launched the dinghy. Paul motored the craft over toward the mouth of the river in an attempt to plug straight through but the rocks and surf made it too precarious. Instead he headed for the easy, wide beach to the right then we jumped out and carried the boat over to the river.

We started heading up the river, with Paul at the rudder and Brian and myself peering over the sides, watching for sandbars. After a short while the water became a milky pea-green and the jungle on the river bank became thicker, its dense canopy hanging above us filtering out most of the sun’s light. Paul’s guidebook warned that snakes had been known to fall out of trees into passing boats. As such I found myself occasionally looking up at the overgrowth as we floated along. For a stretch we were chasing a beautiful white heron around the bends in the river.

At the far end of the river, a few miles from where we started, was a small settlement with what looked like a restaurant. After beaching the dinghy amongst the pangas, we walked up and found a long, beautiful beach lined with outdoor restaurants and palapa bars. (The area is called Las Escolleras, I would later learn back on the boat.) We tucked into a cozy place to refresh ourselves with beers and appetizers. The other visitors seemed to be a mix of Mexican families and gringo tourists. Several people, mostly children, were playing in the water. Feral dogs were humping in the sand while curious kids looked on. I wondered where all these people came from, as there didn’t appear to be any place to stay overnight around here.

Back down the river we carried the dinghy back over to the beach to head back to the Cariad. As we attempted to launch into the surf a wave of water splashed over the bow and into the boat, soaking the backpack that contained our cameras. I immediately reached in and pulled my camera out; Brian did the same with his and Paul’s digital cameras. My camera indeed had gotten wet, and when I advanced the film to see if the camera would still work it fired immediately, suggesting that something was shorting out inside. I wound and removed the film to save what I had already shot. The camera failed to work after that; the film I just removed would be the only roll I would shoot the entire trip. At least the digital cameras were still working.

Paul plotted our course to Zihuatanejo on the GPS and concluded it would take about forty hours. If we left right then we could get into Z-town late Saturday afternoon. Being a little anxious to get there, I was in favor of leaving right away. But Paul didn’t want to chance it: if the sailing went slower than projected we would be arriving at night and Paul wasn’t about to sail into a strange bay in the dark. He decided we would stay put and sail in the morning. This meant arriving in Z-town on Sunday, leaving me only two days to enjoy the town before I had to fly home.

That evening Paul cooked hamburgers and we ate outside, marveling at the beautiful, tranquil bay surrounding us. I started feeling better about staying here.

We set sail shortly after dawn. It was Friday and Zihuatanejo was a mere 220 miles away. There were no more stops scheduled; we were looking at two days and two nights of constant sailing.

The day’s activities started with reading, eating and gazing at the horizon. In the area around Manzanillo there were several container ships about. Throughout the day we were traveling by motor; there just wasn’t much wind to be had.

For a while that afternoon we were more than ten miles from shore, far enough that we couldn’t see land. At one point Paul stopped the boat so we could jump in and cool off. It was a new sensation for me: swimming in the open ocean, with no sight of land. The water was very warm, about 87 degrees. I was amazed at how calm the sea was and how still the air was so far off the coast. I only stayed in the water for about thirty seconds. I didn’t know what predators were lurking in the deep, eyeballing me like a piece of steak.

Off to the right of the boat the sun began setting while simultaneously the moon was rising off to the left. The moon was a few days away from being full. Other than these two heavenly bodies there was absolutely nothing else on the horizon. The only feature of this seascape what that there were no features. To complement this sunset, Brian brought up some hors d’oeuvres: cheese, crackers, fruit and red wine. Then Brian got on his cell phone and called Andrea back home. He actually got through, ten miles off the coast!

As night fell I was on a de-facto watch while Brian snoozed and Paul cooked spaghetti. Porpoises were following the boat again. After we ate dinner Paul started watches officially, with himself going first, followed by Brian.

My watch started at two in the morning. We were still under motor; had been all day and all night. The sky was partly cloudy but still there was not much wind. We had just passed our first waypoint since leaving Tenacatita over eighty miles ago.

I managed to get some decent sleep after my watch was over but was wide awake at sunrise. It was now Saturday morning. By this time I had learned to adjust to the slow rhythm of life on board. I had a whole day in front of me filled with…practically nothing. At some point I moseyed over to the galley to pour a bowl of cereal for breakfast. After that I hung out on deck and watched the world go by for a while. I picked up my book and read a few chapters. Scanned the horizon. Laid up on the front part of the boat to get some sun. Watched the instruments for a while while Paul took a break. Ate lunch. Read. Gazed. Snacked. And so it went.

Around eleven in the morning the wind picked up from offshore. Finally it seemed we had steady wind to sail by, blowing at a healthy ten to thirteen knots. We sailed all afternoon at a pretty good clip. Now I just had to adjust to boat life at a 30-degree slant.

That afternoon I asked Paul, "How’s our water situation? Can I take a shower?"

"Please do," Paul said. It had been three days since my last shower and I was feeling rather slimy. I took my shower; it felt so nice to finally be clean again.

We had appetizers with gin and tonics at about five o’clock. The slowness of the journey always seemed easier to bear after a few drinks. Brian looked on the GPS map and announced, "We’re about four inches from our destination!" We saw a classic cloudless sunset, the orange ball sinking in the sea.

That evening I cooked dinner, if you can call it that. Anybody that knows me knows I’m not much of a cook. Compounding matters, all we had left for dinner food was a hodge-podge of mostly side dishes that wouldn’t normally go together. So I made bean burritos using flaky, thin tortillas that had been sitting out in the humid air too long. The burritos weren’t much to look at but they tasted all right. I warmed up a can of spicy chili as a side dish. So our meal was basically beans with a side of…beans. And margaritas!

Off in the distance we could already see the lights of Punta Ixtapa; Zihuatanejo Bay was just around the corner from there. We were actually coming in a little too fast, at the rate we were going we would reach the bay entrance before daylight. Seven miles per hour was considered too fast, or in Brian-speak: "ludicrous speed." We collectively decided to do two-and-a-half hour watches that night, this being the home stretch to our final destination. Brian would go first at ten, then me at 12:30, and Paul at three. We would all get up at 5:30 for the final push. That was the plan.

When I woke up for my watch, I felt a little hung over from the margaritas and the gin and tonics. That made the watch feel even longer than it was. At least we still had wind, so it was mercifully quiet. I watched the lights of Ixtapa gradually draw closer. I couldn’t wait to go back to bed.

When I woke up again there was light in the sky. I poked my head out, looked around and saw that we were easing into Zihuatanejo Bay. Apparently we had arrived just outside the bay while it was still dark so we hovered around waiting for daylight. We made it!

We dropped anchor in the bay at about 8:30, then after a brief rest went ashore in the dinghy. While we were enjoying an arrival beer at a bayside restaurant I announced to Paul and Brian that I wanted to find a room in town. After nine nights of sleeping on the boat and five nights at sea I felt ready for some shore leave. And with only two days left before my flight I wanted to absorb as much of the town as I could.

I picked a place that was mentioned in my guidebook called Hotel Susy. It was right in town, close to everything, and most importantly it was cheap. I chose a third-floor room where I could see the bay and the Cariad at anchor. The room was rather basic but good enough for me. And I had it all to myself.

We had all heard and read about a place called Rick’s Café; it was an institution in Z-town, popular with the cruiser crowd, run by an American. I assumed it would have American football on TV. I hoped we would have lunch there, but to our disappointment it was closed on Sundays. We did find another bar, called JJ’s, that had NFL games on the TV.

That evening we lost Brian for a while. When Paul went back to the boat to freshen up, Brian decided to stay on shore and walk around. Paul and I met up later for dinner (we kept in touch through his pair of two-way radios) and he still didn’t know where Brian was. After dinner we walked back to JJ’s to catch the night game.

At one point Paul got up and went for a brief walk around. He came back shortly after and said "I found Brian. He’s around the corner at another bar."

This was how we came upon the Jungle Bar. It was funky little place at a Y-intersection, patronized by a colorful mix of locals, American and Canadian expats, and the occasional tourist, all of them card-carrying members of Drunks Without Borders. Brian had already settled in and made some new friends.

Rick’s was open on Monday, where I had breakfast while waiting for Brian and Paul to come in from the boat. Paul needed to take care of his port processing, which meant he would have to spend his morning mired in Mexican officialdom. Brian and I decided to walk over and explore Playa Las Ropas, on the east side of the bay. It was a well-kept beach lined with rental suites and bungalows.

Brian and I got into a discussion about speaking to the locals in their language. Many travel books say you can endear yourself to the locals more if you attempt to say at least a few words in their language. That seems reasonable enough. The problem was, when we tried to use what little Spanish we knew, they would answer back in Spanish and we wouldn’t know what they said. I wondered if they thought to themselves, stop butchering my language and just speak English!

We met Paul back at Rick’s later that afternoon. Then we went to JJ’s for Monday Night Football.

I felt I was just starting to settle into Zihautanejo when already it was time to leave. After checking out of my room I asked the guy at the desk how much a cab typically charges to the airport. Somehow I managed to do this completely in Spanish. He replied, in Spanish, that it would be about 80 pesos. When a taxi pulled up the driver quoted me 130 pesos. While taking a moment to translate this in my head the hotel guy came out and started a brief dialog with the driver. He managed to get the price down to 90 pesos for me. I thanked him for his help with the transaction. Maybe attempting the local language, no matter how poorly, pays off after all.

Bottom Line: After hearing the stories from those that sailed before and after me on Paul’s big voyage, I felt I was lucky with the segment I had chosen: the seas were relatively calm throughout the trip, we had great weather—not a drop of rain fell the entire time I was in Mexico—and there were no major malfunctions with the boat. Thankfully none of us got injured or became sick. And we all got along, which is important when sharing a confined space of about 200 square feet for days at a time.

It is about 360 miles from Puerto Vallarta to Zihuatanejo. We took five days to get there, including the two overnight stops we made, traveling along the coast of four Mexican states, averaging about six miles per hour. One could ride a bicycle and get there faster, but that wasn’t the point. On the Cariad the journey is the destination. Thanks Paul for the experience!