Sweet Tea on Sunday [#38]

In case, like me, you’re a Get-There-Faster/Last-Page-First/How-Does-it-End sorta cat, I offer you the elevator pitch version of this post:

It's late-January. Everything is awesome. Then, we blink and it's late-February and everything is even more awesome. So awesome, in fact, that we wonder when we'll have to pay our dues for so much all-at-once-awesomeness. 

Before we can change our minds about tempting fate by even asking that question, it's answered:  

"Pay now, please."

So, here’s the thing. You can definitely keep reading. I’ll walk you through the glorious (and inglorious) details. There will be photos.

But there’s no shame in walking away. Now is not the time to be frivolous with your spare minutes. Certainly no sense in diggin’ a hole just to fill another.

That said, I suppose if you’re committed to your rusty wooden-handled garden tool, who am I to get in your way?

First, in order to prepare you for the ridiculous similes to come (which, pro-tip, will be best enjoyed tolerated with a sunny southern drawl), I should offer up a bit of background information:

As many of you might remember, we spent most of our seven-month-long stretch in Caribbean Panama, buddy boating with our now-dear friends, Desiree and Jordan. At some point during our time together, John and Jordan developed absurdly committed Southern Gentleman personas that they slipped into and out of character with Oscar-worthy ease. 

They'd quip remarks like:

“The thing about a cutter rig is it’s more slippery than a greased pig at a fourth of Joo-ly celebration”

Jordan Wicht

and:

“Just as Whiskey Earl used to say, ‘If you have a shot with breakfast, you’d best plan on havin’ anotha with lunch.'”  

John Pennell

Desiree and I rolled our eyes at them more than a NASCAR tire racin' at Daytona, but it would be a lie to say our cheeks didn't hurt from all the laughing. 

What the holy hell does this have to do with our last two months? Almost nothing.

Except this — while missing all the laughter and good times our buddy boating run provided, and cursing the fact that I haven’t seen my dearest friends in over a year, or my family in nearly two, reminiscing about how fantastic our scattered-about tribe of people is seems to be my favorite coping mechanism.

Even though tacos and margaritas are (blessedly) the pillars of our present world, as I sit down to write this post, I admit that sometimes the chitter-chatter of those two southern bafoons rings so loudly in my ears that I have to fight off the urge to wash down a pile o’ corn fritters — fried up real nice on the skillet — with an icy mint julep.

So that’s the southern-simile-disclaimer. Proceed with due caution.

If you’re hardy folk and are still ready to dig that hole, onward we’ll plow.

On January 25th, after eight months in Panama, we finally waved goodbye to our transcontinental host. We spent the next five weeks slowly sailing (read: mostly motoring) our way up the Costa Rican coastline past surf breaks and surf towns, friendly locals, delicious food, and spectacular landscapes.

Shortly after arriving, a friend from Way Back When met up with us in Golfito and sailed aboard Ruby Vi for nine days up to Quepos.

We walked stretches of sandy beaches that seemed to stretch to eternity and tricked giant coconuts into deserting the palm trees that hoarded them.

Enter the Awesome.

There was hiking and cocktailing and swimming and fishing and general shenaniganing. We had more fun than a gang o' geriatric 'gators loungin' in the bog before supper.

Mikey was the first person from “home” we’d seen in over a year and it was a surreal experience.

After we said goodbye, the Awesome just kept on keeping' on, like the honey dripping' off yer cornbread at a backyard barbecue. 

We marveled as a pod of whales gathered for a boisterous breakfast in the current ahead of us and almost lost our minds when one of them breeched 150 yards off our stern after we passed by. We watched marlin long jump across purple sunsets and giant rays channel their inner Rodney Dangerfield to triple lindy 12 feet out of the water. For 900 miles, dolphins flipped and splashed and played and raced through calm and crazy seas alike.

We laughed as sea turtles and leatherbacks drifted past, sometimes carrying wayward shorebirds on their backs — always looking a little dumbfounded by our arrival in their lane of slow traffic when they finally popped their heads above water to take a peek around.

If all this is sounding a little over the top, like goin’ to church twice on the same day, you may want to bow out now before I get to the finale.

As our time in Costa Rica drew to a close, we managed (miraculously) to anchor just off the beach where friends from Park City were in their final three nights of a two-month house swap. They emptied their pantry for us, bringing books and booze and treats galore. We stole just a few hours together aboard Ruby Vi for a sunset happy hour before boat life took us away,

but spending time with some of the “old crew” felt the way sipping sweet tea on a southern porch swing looks — finer ‘n frogs’ hair.

Then, after leaving our friends, we coasted into the super-posh Marina Papagayo where we inherited a fellow boater’s free week-long stay.

Did you catch that? A free week. Like a cool breeze on a hot August night down in the bayou, it was literally free. 

We hiked to find the best views on the peninsula, enjoyed the company of our billionaire yacht-neighbors, and met new friends — one of whom happened to score us an invite to a hosted dinner at Planet Hollywood as guests of the general manager.

Wait. What?! 

Like a heart attack before you finish your bucket o' fried chicken, I'm totally serious. 

And now, perhaps you realize why our how-did-we-get-so-lucky month prompted us to wonder when (and in what form) we’d be called upon to actually pay for all of this frosting.

From Costa Rica, we sailed nearly 500 miles direct to Marina Chiapas, the first available port of entry in southern Mexico, just a quick hop north of the Guatemalan border.

Along the way, the ever-presence of Sailboat Magic blinded us to the warning signs that perhaps our glory buffet was running out of the good stuff.

It's easy to overlook that the salad bar's been reduced to a tray of soggy iceberg lettuce and a vat of baby corn when you've got a seven-foot sailfish on the line or 300 dolphins playing off the bow.

When the animals weren’t hogging the spotlight, the sun and moon and stars were more than willing to take the stage. Then, there were naps and backgammon games and finally enough homemade salsa to last the entire trip. There was big wind and no wind and choppy seas and seas flatter ‘n Florida.

So, to be fair, as our all-you-can-eat smorgasbord slowly dwindled down to nothing but that weird 3-bean concoction no one eats and a flickering heat lamp hovering awkwardly over the lonely cutting board where the prime rib used to live, we were busy looking somewhere else.

But, as subtle as a squeaky fart in Uncle Cletus’ Chevy pickup on the way to Mama’s house for supper, the signs were definitely there.

On Day 2, we heard a weird noise coming from our port side engine locker and decided to kill the engine. Long story short — there’s water in the sail drive and maybe the dog clutch needs replacing. This, in a nutshell, is bad and requires us to haul this beast of boat onto dry land to fix it. However, because Ruby is such a hip-y thing, we can’t just haul her out anywhere — she has to go to a Big & Tall boat yard that can handle her 29-foot beam. (The closest option is near Puerto Vallarta — roughly 900 miles from Chiapas.)

Also, the starboard engine is leaking oil like a tarpaper shack leaks rains after a hailstorm. So there’s that. Oh — and I almost forgot — on our second day in Chiapas, John’s phone just up and died like a June bug come fall. Muerto. Caput. The end.

I know, I know — cry me a river, right?

Lord knows, our current plight is certainly more typical of Boat Life than our recent miracle mile of Everything-is-Awesome. Perhaps, like the bite of a cottonmouth when yer skinny dippin' at dawn, that's why it stings a bit more.

But, if Ruby Vi has taught us anything, it’s that being flexible is a non-negotiable attribute of Boat Folks (at least of happy Boat Folks). And, what good is sailing around the world if we can’t do it with a smile? So — flexible (albeit feigned) we’ll be.

In light of the current tantrums our engine and sail drive are throwing at our feet, our plans for short slow hops up the coastline to La Paz has now morphed into longer jumps at a faster-than-we’d-prefer pace. We’re missing places we’d hoped to see and spring break visitors we’d hoped to host as we intentionally loitered along the way.

But we’re trying to remember we’re playing the long game here. This isn’t a horseshoes match down by the river that’ll wrap before the butter churns.

So, on March 13th, we hobbled with one engine out of Chiapas for a 600-mile passage to Zihuatanejo.

Seven sunrises, 10 chess matches, one 35-game backgammon tournament, and two beautiful tuna later, we were greeted by the miracle of $1 tacos, white sandy beaches, cliff-side resorts, and finally enough guacamole to keep up with my avocado obsession.

Needless to say, we’re having a tough time peeling ourselves away.

Still, we’re gathering the fortitude to say farewell to this patch of paradise and move on to the next one. Granted, we’ll be movin’ slower than a Tennessee Walking Horse meanderin’ through an orchard o’ apple trees, but we will, in fact be moving.

Because at the end of the day, we know the sooner we can get to Puerto Vallarta, the sooner Ruby Vi can get her bits fixed. The sooner Ruby’s bits are fixed, the sooner she can sail us off into the sunset. The sooner we can sail off into the sunset, the sooner our people can sail off with us.

And the sooner we can sail with our people, the sooner we can get back to that slowly-sippin’-sweet-tea-on-a-southern-Sunday sort of feeling.