The GBCA Cannon - April Issue

Leaving Ma�ana

We had been "stuck" at the Acapulco Yacht Club for two weeks now. We had planned to get a slip for a couple of days and provision up for the next leg South. The beautiful old bar and giant pool, Sam's Club, Hooter's and others, had conspired against us. The Festival de Acapulco was in full swing and we had found a way into an abandoned hotel where we could watch the acts from the top floor. The old Mercado was awesome. I almost bought a baby African Gray parrot for $25US. Instead, I bought a machete and a couple of those hand ice scrapers the raspa boys use to make snow cones out of block ice on the street. I made adult snow cones that were adult both in proportion and potency. It was all good.

For days I had been telling the Harbor Master that we would probably leave ma�ana. He was getting a little tired of my vagaries. I was out ma�ana-ing a Mexican National, and that ain't easy. I kept thinking of important boat chores that really should be done before leaving, like hull wax. Anything was fun while being Med-moored to the last dock, pointing straight out into this gorgeous natural harbor. We finally managed to snap out of it somehow and get moving again.

Sailing south to Huatulco turned out to be a little boring except for all the violent vomiting. It could've been withdrawal symptoms, because that Acapulco is like a drug. It's the type of story better held in reserve for those special times when some amateur is attempting to out-puke-story you. Only then may the story of all stories be unleashed in full detail. The audience settles into a queasy silence as the floor begins its pitch and yawl tango of Mal de Mer. But, I digress.

The next day, it became apparent that we would not make Huatulco before sundown. Making landfall is often confusing during daylight. To attempt a night landing in the third world without local knowledge is to court way more disaster than usual. Rather than stay offshore for 12 unnecessary hours, we chose to pull into Puerto Angel, about fifteen miles North of Huatulco. It offered the promise of safe anchorage and lovely views, and I was glad we were somewhat forced into it.

Our chart book said this about Puerto Angel: "What a treat! This picturesque anchorage gives protection from all but southerly winds. Landing ashore is usually through gentle surf, though occasionally a heavy swell disturbs the bay." Occasional like, maybe the day after any white-hulled 40 foot sailboat arrives.

We anchored in this jewel just at sunset, and it is a beautiful little harbor, like a 1/20th scale Acapulco. It even has its own Bufadero (snorter) that sprays every time the swell hits it just right. I can watch one of those things all day. The bay is so small you can just dive in and swim to one of the little palapa restaurants on the beach.

In the hills above the village at Playa Panteon lies a cemetery. The memorials, in their pastel shades, collectively give the appearance of a big Easter basket. It seems that the Mexican version of Heaven is much more colorful than our own. The food is spicier and accommodations are cheaper. This is certainly true if the Puerto Angel cemetery is any indication. One of the locals told me that all the fishermen are buried here so that they can look out over the sea. Ironic, since the sea is probably what killed them in the first place. Who wants to be reminded of that for eternity?

Cemetery above Playa Panteon Rumbo is open for business at the AYC pool bar