I rocked forward on the trampoline, reaching for and digging into some of the best damn guacamole ever put in a bowl. The beer and sea stories were flowing and the 14 cruisers aboard Balam, a Fountaine Pajot Saba 50 catamaran that was ours for the week, were doubling over in laughter at their own misadventures. The omnipresent pelicans of Caleta San Juanico glided by in fine aviator formation as we settled in for the evening with our new-found friends. We had stepped out of charter mode, slipped the dock lines of our comfort zone, and shared what we had. Life was good.
The call had come earlier in the day. “Bocce ball on the beach at 3:00,” shouted a cruising couple as they zoomed by in their dinghy. We were north of Loretto on the Baja Peninsula in the Sea of Cortez, and we had just dropped the hook in a circular bay that’s popular with full-time cruisers. Balam was a treat provided by West Coast Multihulls Charters. She was posh and ridiculously big for our crew of three. The joke was that Rob, Joe, and I could switch between her six cabins every night.
That afternoon, I learned I suck at bocce, but I made up for it by being the skipper of Balam, the largest boat in the anchorage quietly commanding the center of attention. Most of the nearby cruising boats were smaller monohulls all decked out with the necessities of living aboard, from wind generators to rows of jerry cans on deck. Balam’s decks were clear and her profile imposing. Everyone wanted to learn more about her. I know an opportunity when I see one, so I ventured outside the conventional boundaries of charter and invited the curious crowd for sundowners aboard.
Cruisers are well trained in the art of visiting. They all showed up with snacks and their own alcohol, although I was ready to dip into our over-provisioned stocks to host a party. One had brought his signature guacamole, which had not been oversold.
The boat was the first order of investigation. They checked out every cabin and head, the voluminous refrigeration, the sophisticated systems, and the enviable battery capacity. The questions came at me hard and fast, and I leaned on the boat’s features to redeem myself after the poor bocce showing. Eventually though, we migrated to the foredeck where all 17 of us started to meld into a group of like-minded souls appreciating a shared love of an uncommon lifestyle. The line between visiting charterers and salty cruisers blurred as the desert breeze gently pushed Balam back and forth on her tether. My crew of two aspirational cruisers, who sometimes use charter as a gateway drug to this alluring other world, hung on every word.
I’ve learned the trick to memorable charters is to loosen up and roll with whatever comes that day. More than once, I’ve put a charter schedule on the back burner and instead visited a Tongan village church on Father’s Day, or run through old Tito partisan tunnels in the islands of Croatia. The lesson I keep relearning is that life gets better when you ditch the boundaries that too often draw a hard line between those simply visiting and those living their dream on local waters. Sure, the three of us could have stretched out alone on the flybridge that night, sipping ice-laden margaritas, listening to quiet music, and watching the sunset over the mountains of Baja. Instead, we crowded onto the foredeck, dug out all the chips we could find, drank warm beer, and belly laughed the evening away with our new community.
Hours later, a tipsy crowd poured back into their dinghies, blowing conch shells all around the anchorage in a weird but funny ritual. As we waved them off, Joe voiced what Rob and I were already thinking: “Well, that was the best evening we’ve spent this week!”
Indeed. Comfort zones are for the birds. What had started as an unplanned afternoon and evening would now live in our memories as the absolute highlight of our Mexican cruise. And that guacamole will never be forgotten either.
