The Aftermath
Our "hotel" in Abreojos
Saturday, December 15th 2012 – Abreojos
I slowly came to the realization that there is no Mexican Navy station in Arbreojos. These were fisherman who left the safety and warmth of their homes to venture out on a stormy night to rescue two gringo yatistas (yachities).
The fishermen of Abreojos have formed (with government help) a cooperative to aid and assist all fishermen. They have a “patrol” boat that one fisherman volunteers to take out every night and stand by to aid his fellows should they get in trouble.
Tonight we were in trouble.
Breakers crashed on the shore and ten foot seas built up in the bay. The coop deemed that it wasn’t safe to try to launch the boat or patrol that night. But they risked their lives launching in those conditions to come after us.
I might not be alive to write this narrative if not for our friends in the coop.
“How can I ever thank you?” I asked Ramon in Spanish.
“On the sea, we are all brothers,” he said. “You would rescue us if we were in trouble.”
And that was that. We were part of the brotherhood now. For the next five days, while we struggled to save the Victory, we were all family. Our problems were their problems. Many men lost several days pay working with us to rescue our boat. When I tried to pay them, they were insulted.
“You are family,” they would say.
The beach was dark, save for the pickup truck lights. No lights lit the town beyond the berm. Raul led us to his truck and loaded us in. Other hands grabbed our bags and put them in the back of the truck. We were cold and wet and tired. But mostly, we were in shock.
I couldn’t believe what had happened. How could I have lost our boat? How could we be helpless castaways with everything we own in two sea bags?
Raul took us to a hotel (if you can call it that) and got us a room. He first drove to the owner’s house and got him out of bed. Then we went to the hotel and the owner let us in under flashlight power. There were no lights. I learned later that power was out to the entire town that night. That’s why the pickups had to come down to the beach to give us light. Oh well, ees Mejico.
We dropped our bags on the floor, our only possessions in the world, and collapsed on the beds. A half hour later, a knock at the door revealed Raul again. This time, he brought us food.
I took a shower and collapsed into an exhausted sleep. We had no idea if the Victory would be there in the morning or not.
An instant after I closed my eyes, there was a knock on the door. Blackie (His real name is Ignacio, but so is his father’s and so is his son’s so he goes by Blackie to avoid confusion.) stood there in his sea boots.
“We need to go get your boat,” he said in Spanish.
In the next few days I was to be immersed in Spanish. There was so much to do and so much to communicate, and my vocabulary was sorely lacking. We pantomimed our intentions and little by little I picked up a much better nautical vocabulary.
“The boat’s still there?” I was astonished. I would have bet that we would never see her again.
“Si, it’s there. We need to go get it now. There are two boats standing by. We use boats with big engines. 250 horsepower. We see if we can get it in.”
Dawn and I quickly threw on some clothes and jumped in the truck. As we drove to the beach, Blackie told me that there was a fierce storm last night. My heart ached.
At the beach, knots of men stood around watching, talking and gesturing. I looked in the direction they were pointing and saw nothing. My heart sank.
“There she is. Look,” Dawn shouted.
I slowly came to the realization that there is no Mexican Navy station in Arbreojos. These were fisherman who left the safety and warmth of their homes to venture out on a stormy night to rescue two gringo yatistas (yachities).
The fishermen of Abreojos have formed (with government help) a cooperative to aid and assist all fishermen. They have a “patrol” boat that one fisherman volunteers to take out every night and stand by to aid his fellows should they get in trouble.
Tonight we were in trouble.
Breakers crashed on the shore and ten foot seas built up in the bay. The coop deemed that it wasn’t safe to try to launch the boat or patrol that night. But they risked their lives launching in those conditions to come after us.
I might not be alive to write this narrative if not for our friends in the coop.
“How can I ever thank you?” I asked Ramon in Spanish.
“On the sea, we are all brothers,” he said. “You would rescue us if we were in trouble.”
And that was that. We were part of the brotherhood now. For the next five days, while we struggled to save the Victory, we were all family. Our problems were their problems. Many men lost several days pay working with us to rescue our boat. When I tried to pay them, they were insulted.
“You are family,” they would say.
The beach was dark, save for the pickup truck lights. No lights lit the town beyond the berm. Raul led us to his truck and loaded us in. Other hands grabbed our bags and put them in the back of the truck. We were cold and wet and tired. But mostly, we were in shock.
I couldn’t believe what had happened. How could I have lost our boat? How could we be helpless castaways with everything we own in two sea bags?
Raul took us to a hotel (if you can call it that) and got us a room. He first drove to the owner’s house and got him out of bed. Then we went to the hotel and the owner let us in under flashlight power. There were no lights. I learned later that power was out to the entire town that night. That’s why the pickups had to come down to the beach to give us light. Oh well, ees Mejico.
We dropped our bags on the floor, our only possessions in the world, and collapsed on the beds. A half hour later, a knock at the door revealed Raul again. This time, he brought us food.
I took a shower and collapsed into an exhausted sleep. We had no idea if the Victory would be there in the morning or not.
An instant after I closed my eyes, there was a knock on the door. Blackie (His real name is Ignacio, but so is his father’s and so is his son’s so he goes by Blackie to avoid confusion.) stood there in his sea boots.
“We need to go get your boat,” he said in Spanish.
In the next few days I was to be immersed in Spanish. There was so much to do and so much to communicate, and my vocabulary was sorely lacking. We pantomimed our intentions and little by little I picked up a much better nautical vocabulary.
“The boat’s still there?” I was astonished. I would have bet that we would never see her again.
“Si, it’s there. We need to go get it now. There are two boats standing by. We use boats with big engines. 250 horsepower. We see if we can get it in.”
Dawn and I quickly threw on some clothes and jumped in the truck. As we drove to the beach, Blackie told me that there was a fierce storm last night. My heart ached.
At the beach, knots of men stood around watching, talking and gesturing. I looked in the direction they were pointing and saw nothing. My heart sank.
“There she is. Look,” Dawn shouted.
Our room
I followed her finger. I saw nothing. Then, at the crest of the wave I saw a tiny black spot. Was that the Victory, far out to sea? Somehow she made it through the night.
The tractor came to launch the pangas. When the pangas come ashore, they are still waist deep in water. The big Ford tractor backs out into the water and the pangueros (fisherman) attach a hook from the tractor’s boom to the eye in the bow of their boat.
The tractor then pulls the panga out of the water, lifts the bow high in the air and the pangueros roll an old truck axle under it. The tractor then pulls the panga on wheels far up the beach and out of the reach of the hungry ocean.
To launch the boats, the process is reversed. The tractor tows the panga to the water and lifts its bow. The fishermen pull the wheels free and the panga rests half in the water. The passengers (Dawn and I, but there usually aren’t passengers) are loaded over the stern. Then the fisherman pushes the panga out further with each wave until it’s floating.
Of course, the panguero has checked to see that the engine will start before this process begins. If the engine fails at a crucial juncture, it will be disastrous. The waves will roll the panga on its side and the motor will be flooded.
Once the panga is in deep enough water, the panguero jumps in the boat and starts the engine. He gives it a little goose to get it moving, then lowers the prop deeper into the water, gives it the gas and moves away from the beach.
They do this every day, dozens of times a day, but each and every launch is fraught with danger.
As we approached the Victory I wanted to cry. Her deck was a mess, her sails awry. The panga got close and we jumped onto our ship. The pangueros followed, tying up their boat.
We worked hard to clean up the foredeck so that we could get a tow line on her.
The weather was much milder than yesterday. Gentle swells, about three to four feet high, caressed the beach with only a hint of white water.
We had to raise the anchor. Three hundred feet of chain weighs over five hundred pounds. On the end of the five hundred pounds of chain is a sixty-five pound anchor. With the heavy weather last night, the anchor was dug in so hard we couldn’t budge it.
More pangamen came aboard to help. With our windlass and three men pulling we couldn’t break it free. Then I hooked the jib halyard to the anchor chain and added the halyard winch power. We still couldn’t budge it.
“We have to leave now. The wind, it is rising,” Raul shouted.
I attached a buoy to the anchor in the hope that we would be able to return and reclaim it later.
We got a tow line on her and the panga headed for the beach. Without a rudder, we couldn’t steer. When a mass as large as the Victory gets moving, it builds momentum. It heads off to the right or left of the panga and keeps going. The pangamen had to constantly stop and correct our course.
The tractor came to launch the pangas. When the pangas come ashore, they are still waist deep in water. The big Ford tractor backs out into the water and the pangueros (fisherman) attach a hook from the tractor’s boom to the eye in the bow of their boat.
The tractor then pulls the panga out of the water, lifts the bow high in the air and the pangueros roll an old truck axle under it. The tractor then pulls the panga on wheels far up the beach and out of the reach of the hungry ocean.
To launch the boats, the process is reversed. The tractor tows the panga to the water and lifts its bow. The fishermen pull the wheels free and the panga rests half in the water. The passengers (Dawn and I, but there usually aren’t passengers) are loaded over the stern. Then the fisherman pushes the panga out further with each wave until it’s floating.
Of course, the panguero has checked to see that the engine will start before this process begins. If the engine fails at a crucial juncture, it will be disastrous. The waves will roll the panga on its side and the motor will be flooded.
Once the panga is in deep enough water, the panguero jumps in the boat and starts the engine. He gives it a little goose to get it moving, then lowers the prop deeper into the water, gives it the gas and moves away from the beach.
They do this every day, dozens of times a day, but each and every launch is fraught with danger.
As we approached the Victory I wanted to cry. Her deck was a mess, her sails awry. The panga got close and we jumped onto our ship. The pangueros followed, tying up their boat.
We worked hard to clean up the foredeck so that we could get a tow line on her.
The weather was much milder than yesterday. Gentle swells, about three to four feet high, caressed the beach with only a hint of white water.
We had to raise the anchor. Three hundred feet of chain weighs over five hundred pounds. On the end of the five hundred pounds of chain is a sixty-five pound anchor. With the heavy weather last night, the anchor was dug in so hard we couldn’t budge it.
More pangamen came aboard to help. With our windlass and three men pulling we couldn’t break it free. Then I hooked the jib halyard to the anchor chain and added the halyard winch power. We still couldn’t budge it.
“We have to leave now. The wind, it is rising,” Raul shouted.
I attached a buoy to the anchor in the hope that we would be able to return and reclaim it later.
We got a tow line on her and the panga headed for the beach. Without a rudder, we couldn’t steer. When a mass as large as the Victory gets moving, it builds momentum. It heads off to the right or left of the panga and keeps going. The pangamen had to constantly stop and correct our course.
Julia's Cafe
While they towed the boat in, I got busy readying our spare anchor. We sailed down the coast from Seattle with a broken spare anchor, but in San Diego I replaced it with a used Danforth I found in a second hand store. I was very grateful for that second hand anchor now.
They brought us in close to the beach and told me to drop the anchor.
I anchored in about twenty-five feet of water and let out lots of rode (anchor line). Then we had to decide what to do next.
There is an abalone diver in town. He has helped damaged boats before, but he wasn’t here today. Maybe tomorrow he could come.
I was pooped. Mañana was OK with me. I made sure the engine was running to keep the batteries charged and the pumps running and climbed down into the panga for the trip ashore.
It was an easier ride than last night, but still would pass for a thrill ride at Disney Land. We beached the boat and climbed ashore.
There we were met by a knot of men planning on how to save the boat. We made arrangements for the diver tomorrow and ordered some epoxy putty to temporarily patch the hole.
The epoxy putty had to come from Ensenada, six hundred miles to the north. The nearest bus station is at Viscaino, about an hour and a half away from Abreojos by car. Moreno, the beach supervisor, took charge and arranged for a relative to pick up the putty and drive it down for us.
Our immediate need was to haul the boat out of the water to keep her from sinking and to access the damage. The nearest boatyards were in Cabo San Lucas, five hundred miles to the south and Ensenada, six hundred miles to the north.
Getting the boat to the boat yard would be a problem. With the hole in the bottom, I wouldn’t dare take her to sea again. And the rudder didn’t work. We couldn’t steer her.
There are a few Americans who either live in Abreojos or have vacation homes here. One of the resident gringos called a friend in San Diego with a tow boat. He said he wouldn’t make the trip down for less than a hundred thousand dollars.
“You’re going to have to face reality,” Danny, the gringo, said. “I know you’re emotionally involved with the boat, but you may have to strip her, then tow her out to deep water and scuttle her.”
At this point, I might as well tell you that I didn’t have hull insurance on the boat. My friend Mike, whose wife is a Mexican immigration attorney, said that we should wait until we got to La Paz to get the insurance. He could help us there and save us a lot of money.
“If you had insurance,” Danny went on, “They would just call the boat a total loss and write you a check. They wouldn’t spend the money to tow her back to San Diego.”
I was stunned. Could this really be the end of our adventure? Last night when we abandoned ship, I would have bet good money that we wouldn’t see her again. Yet, here she was now, floating out in the bay, her lights clearly visible. I have over two years and hundreds of thousands of dollars invested in this dream. It can’t be the end. But, I can’t continue to throw good money after bad. At some point I’m going to have to cut my losses and get out.
They brought us in close to the beach and told me to drop the anchor.
I anchored in about twenty-five feet of water and let out lots of rode (anchor line). Then we had to decide what to do next.
There is an abalone diver in town. He has helped damaged boats before, but he wasn’t here today. Maybe tomorrow he could come.
I was pooped. Mañana was OK with me. I made sure the engine was running to keep the batteries charged and the pumps running and climbed down into the panga for the trip ashore.
It was an easier ride than last night, but still would pass for a thrill ride at Disney Land. We beached the boat and climbed ashore.
There we were met by a knot of men planning on how to save the boat. We made arrangements for the diver tomorrow and ordered some epoxy putty to temporarily patch the hole.
The epoxy putty had to come from Ensenada, six hundred miles to the north. The nearest bus station is at Viscaino, about an hour and a half away from Abreojos by car. Moreno, the beach supervisor, took charge and arranged for a relative to pick up the putty and drive it down for us.
Our immediate need was to haul the boat out of the water to keep her from sinking and to access the damage. The nearest boatyards were in Cabo San Lucas, five hundred miles to the south and Ensenada, six hundred miles to the north.
Getting the boat to the boat yard would be a problem. With the hole in the bottom, I wouldn’t dare take her to sea again. And the rudder didn’t work. We couldn’t steer her.
There are a few Americans who either live in Abreojos or have vacation homes here. One of the resident gringos called a friend in San Diego with a tow boat. He said he wouldn’t make the trip down for less than a hundred thousand dollars.
“You’re going to have to face reality,” Danny, the gringo, said. “I know you’re emotionally involved with the boat, but you may have to strip her, then tow her out to deep water and scuttle her.”
At this point, I might as well tell you that I didn’t have hull insurance on the boat. My friend Mike, whose wife is a Mexican immigration attorney, said that we should wait until we got to La Paz to get the insurance. He could help us there and save us a lot of money.
“If you had insurance,” Danny went on, “They would just call the boat a total loss and write you a check. They wouldn’t spend the money to tow her back to San Diego.”
I was stunned. Could this really be the end of our adventure? Last night when we abandoned ship, I would have bet good money that we wouldn’t see her again. Yet, here she was now, floating out in the bay, her lights clearly visible. I have over two years and hundreds of thousands of dollars invested in this dream. It can’t be the end. But, I can’t continue to throw good money after bad. At some point I’m going to have to cut my losses and get out.
Beautiful downtown Abreojos
But if I do get out, what next? I won’t have enough money to buy another boat. I don’t have any interest in shore side activities. What am I going to do? Get another job writing code? That’s what I’m running away from. My mind was numb, but my body was famished.
We took the crew that towed us in to lunch at the only real restaurant in town. The Café Juanita has four tables inside and three more outside. Their menu is typed and simple. The food was simple, but filling.
Here we were, washed up on the beach with four bags of clothes and possessions and a badly damaged boat at anchor. Where do we go from here?
The answer was help from the village. Danny’s wife was in San Diego. She got on the phone and called around until she found a tow boat in Ensenada that was willing to come get us. I gave the OK and they shoved off. They would be here Wednesday morning. All it takes is money. Lots and lots of money.
With that settled, we went back to our hotel room and collapsed again.
I don’t want to cast any aspersions on our friends in Abreojos, but I am being generous in calling it a hotel room. I guess it is because it is a room in a hotel. The water is iffy, sometimes we have it and sometimes we don’t. The electricity was off on the first night, but we had juice for the rest of our visit. Hot water is another matter. Showers are risky because the hot water may shut off at any time.
When I went out to the boat today, I took our empty sea bags. I filled them with whatever I could find that might be of use to us later if we lost the boat. Dawn asked me to bring the DVD player.
What for? The TV in the room was built during the Truman Administration. The thought that we could hook a modern DVD/Blue Ray player to it was laughable.
But, I humored her. It would be so satisfying to say “I told you so.”
You know the ending to this one. She scrounged around and found a cable from my camera that hooked the DVD player to the TV and we watched a movie that night.
We took the crew that towed us in to lunch at the only real restaurant in town. The Café Juanita has four tables inside and three more outside. Their menu is typed and simple. The food was simple, but filling.
Here we were, washed up on the beach with four bags of clothes and possessions and a badly damaged boat at anchor. Where do we go from here?
The answer was help from the village. Danny’s wife was in San Diego. She got on the phone and called around until she found a tow boat in Ensenada that was willing to come get us. I gave the OK and they shoved off. They would be here Wednesday morning. All it takes is money. Lots and lots of money.
With that settled, we went back to our hotel room and collapsed again.
I don’t want to cast any aspersions on our friends in Abreojos, but I am being generous in calling it a hotel room. I guess it is because it is a room in a hotel. The water is iffy, sometimes we have it and sometimes we don’t. The electricity was off on the first night, but we had juice for the rest of our visit. Hot water is another matter. Showers are risky because the hot water may shut off at any time.
When I went out to the boat today, I took our empty sea bags. I filled them with whatever I could find that might be of use to us later if we lost the boat. Dawn asked me to bring the DVD player.
What for? The TV in the room was built during the Truman Administration. The thought that we could hook a modern DVD/Blue Ray player to it was laughable.
But, I humored her. It would be so satisfying to say “I told you so.”
You know the ending to this one. She scrounged around and found a cable from my camera that hooked the DVD player to the TV and we watched a movie that night.
Somewhere out there is the Victory
Sunday, December 16th 2012 – Abreojos
A loud knock on the door awakened me.
“Victor, come right away.”
My name is Mexico appears to be “Victor.” Everybody has a hard time pronouncing Penn and understanding that it is my name. The name of the boat is “Victory” and I have Victory printed on the front of my hat. And so it came to pass that in the year of our Lord, 2012, I was rechristened “Victor.” (No, not Victor, Veek-tor.)
I staggered to the door.
“The lights on your boat, they are gone. We are getting ready to launch a panga now. Come quickly.”
I pulled on my clothes.
“I’m scared,” Dawn said. She grabbed me like she was drowning.
With my usual warm hearted sympathy, I said, “I don’t have time for scared now. We have to save the boat.”
“I can’t go.”
Fine, I didn’t take a moment to think about her feelings, I just flew out the door with my life jacket in my hand.
At the beach, I couldn’t see the Victory. It wasn’t light yet, but there were no running lights showing.
My heart broke again. She was gone. Everything I had worked for was gone.
The tractor pulled the panga into place and I leapt aboard. We launched through the surf and I sat with my heart in my throat.
Somewhere to the east of us, the sky began lightening. There was a faint trace of her shape ahead of me. But it was all wrong. She was riding low in the water and wallowing like a pig in mud.
The panga wasn’t even close to her yet when I leapt across the gap. I tore open the main hatch and my heart stopped. The cabin was awash.
I climbed down the stairs to find some line to tie the panga to the Victory. I was waist deep. Everything was afloat. I fought my way past floating drawers and cushions to the chain locker.
What could we do to save her? I had to work a sail or a tarp over the hole to slow down the water. I pulled the mizzen stays’l from the chain locker.
By the time fought it on deck, another panga had arrived with a gasoline powered pump. They fired it up and the big two inch hose blew the water out like a fire hose.
For two hours we pumped, never knowing if a rogue wave would crash aboard flooding her. The Victory fought like a son of a bitch to stay afloat. There are huge amounts of reserve bouncy in her hull to float the weight of the water that was coming aboard. There must have been tons of water in her cabin.
I waded back into the mess looking for tools. All the cabins were awash in water up to my waist. Cushions, wooden drawers,floorboards, bowls and pots all floated in the diesel oil coated soup. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I fought on.
I found enough line in the chain locker to run under the hull to hold my patch in place. I tried to explain what I was doing to my helpers, but it was hopeless. How do you say “I’m going to fother a sail over the hole” in Spanish?
They had never heard of fothering and I couldn’t find the words to explain it to them.
Then a hole opened in the clouds and a bright beam of sunlight shone into the bay. And in the beam of light, I saw what I thought was a miracle.
The most battered, beat up panga that I have ever seen was fighting its way towards us with a coughing, wheezing, asthmatic outboard and a man in a wet suit at the wheel. It was Rogio, the abalone diver.
Rogio came aboard and we discussed what needed to be done. He would go over and look at the bottom.
He climbed back unto his boat and started getting his gear ready. His helper, an old man with a Pancho Villa mustache, took the tarp cover off a gasoline powered compressor and started pulling on the cord. He worked at it for about fifteen minutes, then Rogio took over. After half an hour, Rogio declared that he needed a mechanic to start the engine.
The wonderful grapevine process went to work again and moments later, another panga lept through the surf to bring us a mechanic.
The mechanic had the engine running in about ten minutes.
Rogio, who looked like an overstuffed tamale in his wet sit, God love him, was over the side and trails of bubbles crept up the side of the boat.
Time passed by. Seconds lasted forever.
The gasoline powered pump was making head way, the water was going down. Then the pump ran out of gas.
“Is the pump two-cycle or four-cycle?” I asked.
“Ess dos,” someone said.
I grabbed a tank of gasoline with two-cycle gas in it.
“No, ees bad,” they said.
I grabbed my other tank with no oil in it.
They declined and fumbled around in the fleet of pangas that surrounded us until someone came up with a jerry can of gas. They trusted their own gas. They weren’t going to put any Yankee gas in their precious engine.
The pump started up again and the water again began to recede.
Rogio popped his head above water.
“Ess beeg hole,” he shouted and pantomimed a hole about the size of a dinner plate.”And the killa (keel – that backbone of the ship), she have tres beeg chunks meesing.”
Good God. How was she still floating?
“Como esta la . . . rudder?” I shouted down to him.
He didn’t understand.
Raul thought about it a minute and yelled, “El timon. Come esta el timon?”
“Oh, el timon,” Rigo said. "She is veery bad."
The men from the coop had scrounged a pint of so of an epoxy putty called Splash Zone. It is wonderful stuff. It comes in two parts. You mix them together, form them into a ball and stuff them in the hole. The epoxy cures under water and you have a temporary patch.
Rogio’s assistant massaged the epoxy together and handed Rogio a batch about the size of a softball. Rogio went under again.
I watched the trail of bubbles for a lifetime. Then he came up.
“She is patched. Ess water stopped?”
I had forgotten about the pumping operation.
I dropped down into the cabin. The water was below the floor boards. The bilge still had water, but the big gasoline pump had the cabin dry.
I opened the cleaning supply locker where the cascade had come from yesterday. Nothing.
In the bilge I detected a trickle still coming in, enough to be a worry, but not life-threatening.
“It’s good,” I yelled up. “Most of the leak is stopped.”
I looked around the cabin and for an instant, I was alone. The panga men disappeared from my consciousness. I looked at all the beautiful cabinet work, the lovely cushions, the new stove, everything that I’ve been working on for two years. It was gone. She was a wreck.
I managed to shake myself back to reality. We still had a boat to save. We couldn’t leave the gasoline powered pump there forever. I had to get our pumps working.
The electrical system was shot. The batteries and all the wiring had been under water.
We do have an electrical emergency pump in the bilge. If this wasn’t an emergency I don’t know what was.
I took the cover off of the generator, which lives on deck and didn’t get drowned, and fired it up. I plugged an extension cord into the generator and ran it down into the cabin. The pangueros brought a large electric pump with them. I hooked them both up to the generator and they worked.
As long as the generator supplied electricity, we could keep the Victory afloat.
It was well into the afternoon and we were all beat. We headed back to the beach.
Little crowds of people lined the beach, like spectators at a fire, watching to see if we could save the boat.
From the deck of the panga, I could see one head of blonde hair in the crowd. The only blonde in Abreojos was Dawn. I jumped from the panga and helped bring her ashore, then drug myself over to Dawn to tell her about the fight.
Somehow I found myself in the little restaurant and after that in my bed in the hotel room. Every muscle in my body ached. I fell into a deep sleep.
A loud knock on the door awakened me.
“Victor, come right away.”
My name is Mexico appears to be “Victor.” Everybody has a hard time pronouncing Penn and understanding that it is my name. The name of the boat is “Victory” and I have Victory printed on the front of my hat. And so it came to pass that in the year of our Lord, 2012, I was rechristened “Victor.” (No, not Victor, Veek-tor.)
I staggered to the door.
“The lights on your boat, they are gone. We are getting ready to launch a panga now. Come quickly.”
I pulled on my clothes.
“I’m scared,” Dawn said. She grabbed me like she was drowning.
With my usual warm hearted sympathy, I said, “I don’t have time for scared now. We have to save the boat.”
“I can’t go.”
Fine, I didn’t take a moment to think about her feelings, I just flew out the door with my life jacket in my hand.
At the beach, I couldn’t see the Victory. It wasn’t light yet, but there were no running lights showing.
My heart broke again. She was gone. Everything I had worked for was gone.
The tractor pulled the panga into place and I leapt aboard. We launched through the surf and I sat with my heart in my throat.
Somewhere to the east of us, the sky began lightening. There was a faint trace of her shape ahead of me. But it was all wrong. She was riding low in the water and wallowing like a pig in mud.
The panga wasn’t even close to her yet when I leapt across the gap. I tore open the main hatch and my heart stopped. The cabin was awash.
I climbed down the stairs to find some line to tie the panga to the Victory. I was waist deep. Everything was afloat. I fought my way past floating drawers and cushions to the chain locker.
What could we do to save her? I had to work a sail or a tarp over the hole to slow down the water. I pulled the mizzen stays’l from the chain locker.
By the time fought it on deck, another panga had arrived with a gasoline powered pump. They fired it up and the big two inch hose blew the water out like a fire hose.
For two hours we pumped, never knowing if a rogue wave would crash aboard flooding her. The Victory fought like a son of a bitch to stay afloat. There are huge amounts of reserve bouncy in her hull to float the weight of the water that was coming aboard. There must have been tons of water in her cabin.
I waded back into the mess looking for tools. All the cabins were awash in water up to my waist. Cushions, wooden drawers,floorboards, bowls and pots all floated in the diesel oil coated soup. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I fought on.
I found enough line in the chain locker to run under the hull to hold my patch in place. I tried to explain what I was doing to my helpers, but it was hopeless. How do you say “I’m going to fother a sail over the hole” in Spanish?
They had never heard of fothering and I couldn’t find the words to explain it to them.
Then a hole opened in the clouds and a bright beam of sunlight shone into the bay. And in the beam of light, I saw what I thought was a miracle.
The most battered, beat up panga that I have ever seen was fighting its way towards us with a coughing, wheezing, asthmatic outboard and a man in a wet suit at the wheel. It was Rogio, the abalone diver.
Rogio came aboard and we discussed what needed to be done. He would go over and look at the bottom.
He climbed back unto his boat and started getting his gear ready. His helper, an old man with a Pancho Villa mustache, took the tarp cover off a gasoline powered compressor and started pulling on the cord. He worked at it for about fifteen minutes, then Rogio took over. After half an hour, Rogio declared that he needed a mechanic to start the engine.
The wonderful grapevine process went to work again and moments later, another panga lept through the surf to bring us a mechanic.
The mechanic had the engine running in about ten minutes.
Rogio, who looked like an overstuffed tamale in his wet sit, God love him, was over the side and trails of bubbles crept up the side of the boat.
Time passed by. Seconds lasted forever.
The gasoline powered pump was making head way, the water was going down. Then the pump ran out of gas.
“Is the pump two-cycle or four-cycle?” I asked.
“Ess dos,” someone said.
I grabbed a tank of gasoline with two-cycle gas in it.
“No, ees bad,” they said.
I grabbed my other tank with no oil in it.
They declined and fumbled around in the fleet of pangas that surrounded us until someone came up with a jerry can of gas. They trusted their own gas. They weren’t going to put any Yankee gas in their precious engine.
The pump started up again and the water again began to recede.
Rogio popped his head above water.
“Ess beeg hole,” he shouted and pantomimed a hole about the size of a dinner plate.”And the killa (keel – that backbone of the ship), she have tres beeg chunks meesing.”
Good God. How was she still floating?
“Como esta la . . . rudder?” I shouted down to him.
He didn’t understand.
Raul thought about it a minute and yelled, “El timon. Come esta el timon?”
“Oh, el timon,” Rigo said. "She is veery bad."
The men from the coop had scrounged a pint of so of an epoxy putty called Splash Zone. It is wonderful stuff. It comes in two parts. You mix them together, form them into a ball and stuff them in the hole. The epoxy cures under water and you have a temporary patch.
Rogio’s assistant massaged the epoxy together and handed Rogio a batch about the size of a softball. Rogio went under again.
I watched the trail of bubbles for a lifetime. Then he came up.
“She is patched. Ess water stopped?”
I had forgotten about the pumping operation.
I dropped down into the cabin. The water was below the floor boards. The bilge still had water, but the big gasoline pump had the cabin dry.
I opened the cleaning supply locker where the cascade had come from yesterday. Nothing.
In the bilge I detected a trickle still coming in, enough to be a worry, but not life-threatening.
“It’s good,” I yelled up. “Most of the leak is stopped.”
I looked around the cabin and for an instant, I was alone. The panga men disappeared from my consciousness. I looked at all the beautiful cabinet work, the lovely cushions, the new stove, everything that I’ve been working on for two years. It was gone. She was a wreck.
I managed to shake myself back to reality. We still had a boat to save. We couldn’t leave the gasoline powered pump there forever. I had to get our pumps working.
The electrical system was shot. The batteries and all the wiring had been under water.
We do have an electrical emergency pump in the bilge. If this wasn’t an emergency I don’t know what was.
I took the cover off of the generator, which lives on deck and didn’t get drowned, and fired it up. I plugged an extension cord into the generator and ran it down into the cabin. The pangueros brought a large electric pump with them. I hooked them both up to the generator and they worked.
As long as the generator supplied electricity, we could keep the Victory afloat.
It was well into the afternoon and we were all beat. We headed back to the beach.
Little crowds of people lined the beach, like spectators at a fire, watching to see if we could save the boat.
From the deck of the panga, I could see one head of blonde hair in the crowd. The only blonde in Abreojos was Dawn. I jumped from the panga and helped bring her ashore, then drug myself over to Dawn to tell her about the fight.
Somehow I found myself in the little restaurant and after that in my bed in the hotel room. Every muscle in my body ached. I fell into a deep sleep.