Casa McAuliffe

Brady is down the beach attempting to procure a ponga, a small fishing boat, that will shuttle a load of us out to the sailboat for a fishing trip. Glen sits contemplative and concerned before a computer screen, his profile framed by a glass wall. Beyond him large waves heave at the shore and their throaty sighs are the only sound. Here the sea is big vast and cold, and just by looking at it, by hearing it, by beholding it, the sea consumes you, spreads you into its vastness, untangles you and lays you bare before yourself, humbled. WIth a respectful fear of the sea, El Capitan Glenn, researches possible safe harbor further south down the coast. He mulls over the alarmingly scant information there is about these southern reaches. He knows there is desert, a few fishing camps, and not much else. Beyond this point in the journey there are no reliable places for repairs, no radio buoy forecasts, no rescue craft. The sea is big and building. Some forecasts call for swells as big as 32 feet. Will Glenn make a 300 mile dash to Guerro Negro, hoping that he can find long term moring in a harbor that is used primarily for small whale watching skiffs? It seems that without a window of favorable conditions in the forecast, the sailors have all but given up hope of sailing into the tropics. To compound the concerns of the captain, First Mate Brady, threatens to abandon ship. Will Darren who is thinking of joining the crew, and who may know nothing about sailing, claim the title of Numero Uno, and fueled by not but tequilla and enthusiasm, man Kalakas into the tropical, turtle infested waters of the Sea of Cortez. With these concerns heavy on the minds of our two brave sailors, I Liam, will chronical the last few days we have spent together.

Brady and I spoke over a month ago about the possibility of meeting and spending Christmas here in Mexico with my family, both thinking that it was a great idea but that there were so many variables between then and now that a meeting would remain just that, a great idea. But big winter swells and inexperience conspired to slow them down so that as my family's gringo caravan of SUV's was trundling down the dirt road to our Christmas Villa at Punta Banda, Glenn and Brady were pulling up anchor from their sheltered cove a mile down the beach and making ready to sail north in search of us. We gathered on the beach and waved them ashore as they sputtered and bounced through the shorepound in a little red dinghy. The full moon rose slowly out of the parched eastern mountains like a snowy peak, huge and surreal. The sky a 360 degree ring of gold fading up into purple and then into a dome of dusty blue. Since that evening it has been a GRANDE FIESTA!. Rarely is Brady spotted without a Tecate in his hand, a grin on his face, and one or a few of my sisters near enough to poke or push or place on his lap. For his part, Glenn has been more introspective, often solitary, looking out to sea, as if in silent conversation. Though it is not unusual to hear him singing a forlorn sailor song like "I left my girl in Kingston town" while strumming the eucaleli- that is if my Father hasn't told him to shut up yet. Jokingly of course. Both the boys have been soaking away the chill of cold nights on the boat in one or both of our jacuzzis. Occasionally we leave the Villa for tamale and tequilla gathering adventures or to view the mighty Buffadora- a huge blow hole.

The boys seem impressively comfortable in the ocean. Just yesterday, in an attempt to pull anchor and move the boat to more secure anchorage, they mounted sea kayaks and charged through overhead surf. I would have bet $100 that they wouldn't make it. I would have been $100 bucks poorer. And after they re-anchored the boat, they kayaked a few miles back bobbing like bath toys in a swell so big that it hid them from view. Eventually they tumbled ashore and into the hot tub, where they have left only to eat and sleep. The surf is up and I am out of words for now. Vaya con Dios amigos.
Claro que si!