Chapter 3: The Bitter End

Hello,

So, this is it; the last blog entry. Evidently, things did not go to plan. If things had run as was intended then I would be somewhere close to the Panama Canal by now. Unfortunately, as you will learn, due to circumstances outside of my control I am in fact in Manchester. The purpose of this entry is to inform you of how and why it all went Pete Tong.

We left the story in Peurto Vallarta (PV). As you know, we were working on the boat, trying to get things done as quickly as possible so that we could carry on with the adventure. However, the more work we did, the more we became aware of the sheer volume of labour that was needed. James’ initial idea had been to take the boat out of the water in PV and spend a couple of weeks painting the hull. However, the weeks at sea had taken their toll on the old tub. By the time we reached PV there were some crucial repairs that needed doing. For example, the immense strain generated by the Genoa* had begun to pull the starboard winch, and the side of the cockpit upon which it was fastened, away from the side of the cockpit. For weeks, every time we needed to set the Genoa on the starboard side, we had been forced to lash the starboard winch to the port winch, using a length of thick rope, so as to prevent the side of the cockpit being ripped from the superstructure. Also, high winds had put a lot of tension on one of the blocks, situated on the cabin top, holding the Staysail in place. This pressure had caused the roof of the cabin to cave in where the block sat. There were many other structural problems that needed addressing, many too technical to describe. Thus, with the boat in such a state, we could not consider venturing further south, where the availability of resources would lessen, without first doing a considerable level of repair. On a daily basis we were approached by local Mexican tradesmen offering to work on the boat. Interested in the prospective cost, we had Douglas, who had been sniffing around all week, evaluate the boat. His eyes blazed green as he walked around the damage, muttering to himself in hurried Spanish whilst writing scratchy notes on a scrap of paper. He then proceeded to explain to me, in Spanish, that the work would take him and his four employees two months to complete and would set us back roughly $12,000. At first, I thought I had misunderstood him and was horrified to learn that I had not. The crushing realisation that we were going to have to spend two months in PV fixing up the boat took a while to sink in, bringing with it a bucket full of despair and a sprinkling of nausea. The trip had irreversibly changed. Two of my friends had already left and now  it seemed that if I was to continue I would have to get my head around the concept of still being in Mexico in March, the month that we had originally intended to reach the Caribbean by. Doubt flooded my mind as I did not want to spend the next two months slaving away on the boat. That was not what I had gone on the trip to do. I spoke to James and expressed my concern and discussed the possibility of going home. The main issue was monetary. Chris and I had very little money and were determined to make our own way home without having to make the soul destroying ‘I need help’ call to our parents. Thus, begrudgingly, we came to the conclusion that we would work on the boat for an agreed wage until we had earned enough money to get home. It was not ideal, but I was attracted to the idea of earning my own way home. I was determined not to ask for help; I saw it as a mark of my independence. With hindsight, I can now see that I was blinded by needless pride, but that is by the by.

What I did not mention in the last entry was the arrival of Frank. Frank, a retired Attorney from Dallas, had flown to Puerto Vallarta to meet us with the intention of spending a year on the boat. Thus, from the outset, his commitment to the cause was obvious. Now, it was his contribution that really confused things and cemented my early retirement. In the week that we spent in PV, Frank and James got to talking and somehow came to an investment agreement. Frank agreed to invest a substantial sum so as to become a partner in the chartering business that was going to be set up once the boat reached the Caribbean. I was flabbergasted; in the space of a few days, Frank had gone from being an impartial guest to a part owner of the boat. It happened with absurd speed. It must have been all that sun affecting his better judgement as The Black Wind is probably the last boat that I would ever invest in. But, crazy Frank seemed game.  James sat us all down and told us of the deal, the relief evident on his face as he had now secured the money needed to tart up his boat. I couldn’t blame him; the boat needed work and it was going to be expensive. Frank was James’ beacon of hope. It was what we were told next that was, quite ‘Frank’ly unbelievable. It transpired that the two of them had decided that it was going to be too expensive to carry out the work in PV and that it would probably be cheaper to do so in Ensenada. Thus, in all their wisdom, and without consulting any of us, they had made the decision to sail 1,300 miles back in the direction we had just come. When James broke the news, I thought he was joking. The concept of retracing our footsteps and going back through everything we had just come through was insane. I looked at Chris’ and Blair’s stunned faces, desperate for one of them to call James’ bluff. But, no one broke the deafening silence. We all just sat there, stunned mutes. We were effectively powerless because, at the end of the day, it was James’ boat and so ultimately his decision. So that was it, the next day we set sail for Cabo.

At this point in time, I was still of the mindset that I was going to stick it out and earn my way home from Ensenada. However, sailing north had been harder than I had anticipated. Firstly, the whole time that we had been sailing south, we had been going with the wind and swell. Of course, when we turned around, we were up against both elements. This meant that even in strong winds we were still hardly moving because we had to sail so close to the wind that the cumbersome boat would often stall. Not only this, but the ten foot swell presented what was essentially a wall of water that the boat had to constantly smash through. Thus, the 300 mile crossing that had taken us three days heading south, took us a week in the other direction. And what an arduous week it was. The mental challenges that we now faced were far graver. Before, I could handle spending a week in watery prison because I knew that we were making progress, slow as it was, towards unknown pastures. It was a whole different ball game in reverse. Believe me; it is depressing to be 150 miles from land in any direction, knowing that it is going to take you at least another four days to get to somewhere that you have already been. Because of this, Chris and I were very quiet for that week. I would just sit there, looking out at the bleak horizon whilst the same eight or nine thoughts filled my mind. It got to the point that I began to hate my own mind. The fundamental problem was that because I had decided that I never wanted to get into a situation like that again, I began to plan out what I was going to do once I got home. This was all well and good on the first day when I thought of everything I was going to do; it gave me hope and purpose. However, by day six, I could not bear to think about it anymore but I could not help myself. It was a disparaging state of affairs. To make matters worse, once we finally stepped foot on dry land in Cabo, we could not enjoy it because we were skint. Chris and I walked through the manicured streets, unable to relax or take in our scenic environment because we were too busy moaning. It was awful.

And so, the decision was made to return home. Chris and I went and spoke to Frank and explained our situation. He was incredible. He completely understood our desire to leave and he was committed to helping us get back to the UK. No sooner than we had discussed it, he had booked our flights to Los Angeles. It all happened so quickly and smoothly; a welcome surprise after two months of hardship.  All that was left to do was tell James, who took it very well, and pack our stuff. And that was it; we rowed ashore for the last time. We spent the night in a cheap motel and basked in our new found freedom. Relief cascaded over me as I danced around the room, overcome by the notion that I wasn’t going to have to spend another two months in Mexico scraping paint. Luckily, the day that we decided to leave just so happened to be the day that I received an e-mail from a friend of ours, Janet. We had met her in LA in December and she had been keeping track of our progress. Hearing that we had turned north, she had sent me a message offering me a place to stay if I ever made my way back to LA. Everything was just falling into place.

Before I knew it, we were sat in Janet’s swanky apartment in Long Beach, eating pizza and planning a day out.  We had booked our flights home for Sunday and so decided that we wanted to see LA properly on the Saturday. We had a great time with Janet. She took us to see all the sights and really looked after us. We went everywhere; from Hollywood Blvd, where I got suckered into buying the worst rap CD I have ever heard from some guy on the street, through Beverley Hills to Venice Beach. It was the perfect end to the trip. In fact, it was a little too good because Chris and I went from not being able to wait to get home to dreading it. I remember cycling from Venice Beach to Santa Monica, taking in the weird and wonderful sights that LA’s most vibrant district had to offer, and thinking,  ‘shit, back to London tomorrow.’ Venice is probably the coolest place I have ever been. The beachfront was heaving; packed with an eclectic mix of the most interesting people. Everyone was very quirky and alternative down there, so I fitted in.....  I have genuinely never seen so many people on skateboards in my life; even beautiful girls were getting involved. We spent the afternoon strolling amongst the dudes, taking in the peculiar sights and the smell of weed. Every second shop was a medical marijuana facility offering an evaluation for $40. The pavement outside these ‘hospitals’ was populated by musicians, artists, street performers, and people who looked a bit out of it. They had all clearly paid their $40. There was one guy, however, who had obviously been denied his medicine as he was stood in the middle of the boardwalk, swaying from side to side, holding a sign that read ‘I need weed.’ As I walked past him, he roused from his stoned stupor to promptly demand that I give him my parent’s money. It was a little unsettling. Apart from him, everyone else seemed to be in their own world. Whether they were pumping iron on muscle beach, performing interpretive dance on roller skates or swinging from rings akin to the ones in Gladiators, everyone was doing their own thing free from the shackles of self conscience. It was a refreshing experience. No matter how much of a weirdo you are, there is a place for you in Venice. There was one woman who just spent the whole afternoon doing handstands, one after the other. She wasn’t even particularly good at them; she obviously just loved the head rush!

 When I look back it is absurd to think that in the space of 48 hours I went from sitting on a boat on the verge of a breakdown, to sipping cocktails in the Beverley Hills Hotel.  Unbelievable.

So, the adventure is over. As I take myself back, I can’t help but smile when I think of everything I endured. I sailed 1,500 miles and I had to earn every mile. I have lived with next to no electricity; pooed off the back of a boat; slept on a bench; gone for weeks without a shower; eaten powdered mash and spam regularly; fished for my dinner; and just generally been removed from my comfort zone. It was an eye opening experience and one that will stay with me forever. It is now time for me to get my head down and earn some money so that I can go on my next adventure.

Thank you so much for reading. I hope that it has been as much of a pleasure to read as it has been to write. It means a lot to me that you have stuck it out with me. So, until my next stupid outing, find something else to read I suppose.

Much love,

Kris.

*The Genoa is the name given to the headsail; that is the sail at the front of the boat. It is this sail that effectively pulls the boat along.

Chapter 2, Part 3: The Last of the Good Times

Hi all,

I realise that it has been a while since I have written and there is good reason for that; the fact that I am currently sat in a London apartment says it all. But, before I get into all that, let me tell you of the good times.

Last time you heard from me was prior to New Year's Eve and the crew of the Black Wind were giddy with excitement in anticipation of the celebrations. Our New Year's Eve began as any other; by being boarded by Mexican Federales. In retrospect, I am surprised that we had lasted that long without being boarded; our vessel looked like we had just broken it out of a impound yard and it didn't even have a name on the back; just a skull and cross bones. So, I had to sit there whilst two men with M16's clambered aboard and started rooting around. I experienced that strange sensation when you know that you have nothing to hide but you suddenly have the irrational fear that you have something that you shouldn't. I found myself wondering whether they would suspect my Vitamin C tablets for some form of Ecstasy or something. Luckily, one of them spoke broken English as unfortunately AS level Spanish does not prepare you for such a situation. Once they had ascertained that everything was in order and there was no way that they were going to be able to get us to bribe them, they left. I kind of  missed them after that because no sooner had they left the boat than it was back to work for us. We sat there working our socks off to try and make the boat look less of a shambles. I was given the thrilling job of stripping the plastic coating off the guard rails. I sat there in a foul mood, goaded by the beautiful people as they encircled us on Jet Skis. I hated everyone. The only thing that managed to turn my frown upside down was the promise of the evening that lay ahead. Rumour had it that there was going to be a fireworks display on the beach to rival the Fourth of July. Not only this, but I could see that all of the bars lining the shore were setting up for a big night. As the sun went down, meaning that it was too dark to work, we made ourselves look presentable and got merry on the boat. Unfortunately, true to form, we got a little too merry. So drunk in fact, that once we had managed to row our favourite dingy ashore, we swiftly lost each other. All I remember is stumbling around the beach waiting  for the incredible display to commence. I looked at my watch and it read 11.55. 'Awesome' I thought to myself as I turned to the girl next to me and told her to get ready for an incredible show. She gave me a confused look before telling me that the fireworks had gone off an hour before as it was now 12.55. It turns out that the time had gone forward an hour between Ensenada and Cabo and none of us had realised. Thus, in short, I actually missed New Years. Despite this, we all had incredible nights.  I ended up at the most incredible hotel I have ever seen with an American girl and all her douchebag friends. Chris fell asleep next to the dingy at about 11.00 and would have missed the whole night had James not tripped over him. He then met these two Mexican girls who drove him round town for a while before dropping him off miles away from the boat. Heaven knows what happened to Blair; he just had a crazy night. So, all in all, a good evening.

Unfortunately, James had had the brilliant idea of leaving port on New Year's Day as early as possible. I had woken at about seven o'clock, gone for breakfast in the scenic restaurant of the hotel and then taken a taxi back to the boat. I found a dishevelled crew nursing their hangovers wearing expressions that said 'please don't make us sail today.' But, of course, sail we did. Due to various reasons that I won't go into, Jack and Sam had decided to leave the boat in Cabo. This meant that we were two crew down for the three hundred mile voyage that lay ahead of us. Sailing the Black Wind is a challenge at the best of times; it is a heavy boat and everything from raising the sails to steering is labour intensive. Nothing more so, however, than raising the anchor by hand. There I was at eleven o'clock on New Years Day hauling a flipping great anchor off the seabed whilst my tired brain pulsed against my skull and my stomach churned. Happy New Year Kris. Things only got worse from there. In order to reach our next destination of Puerto Vallarta, we had to cross the mouth of the Sea of Cortez, where it meets the Pacific Ocean. When two seas meet like that, they kick up a nice swell and current. So there we were, five men feeling sorry for ourselves as we returned to the relentless motion, but this time with the added pleasure of a torturous hangover. To make matters worse, because we were two men short, the shift rota was amended. We now had to do two hours on, three hours off. It was horrific. No sooner had you fallen asleep than some bastard was waking you up telling you it was your turn to go on watch. It was a nice little taster of sleep deprivation. How we did not kill each other I will never know.

Three days of harrowing sailing later and we had reached Puerto Vallarta, a town lying in a sheltered bay just south of the Tropic of Cancer. Surrounded by jungle-laden mountains as far as the eye could see and home to hundreds of palm trees, it was a real tropical paradise. It was the biggest of the towns we had seen, with the marina sitting a fifteen minute bus journey from the town centre. As soon as we had tied the boat up, we ran away, desperate to get away from the boat before we got roped into cleaning the deck or some other pointless task. The marina was much the same as the others that we had seen, polished and swanky. It was surrounded by plush hotels and expensive restaurants. Hungry and poor, we enquired as to how to get to the main part of town where food would be cheaper. We were told to stand at a random point on the pavement, there was no bus stop, and wait for the bus there. Sceptical, we stood and waited next to a parked Jeep as instructed. But, sure enough, twenty minutes later something resembling a bus stopped right in front of us. The buses in Mexico are hilarious. It had no glass in the windows or doors; it was just a  mistreated metal shell, with no suspension, full of plastic bucket seats. It's destinations were written on the windscreen in marker pen. I did not stop laughing for the whole fifteen minutes. I was sat next to the 'window' which had once been fitted with glass but had obviously been smashed through. The remaining glass wobbled worryingly as the driver careered down the cobbled streets with no regard for other road users. Every time he decided to stop to pick people up, a decision which seemed to be based on whether he liked the look of them or not, the breaks reverberated through your very core and made a sound akin to the decibel of a fog horn. Absolutely brilliant. Not bad for 35p. Once in town we realised that it was once again quite Americanised but more tastefully so than Cabo. Starbucks and McDonald's were now interspersed amongst the beautiful architecture and the ornate Mexican boutiques. The beach front was lined with extravagant open-fronted clubs that appeared to have all bought the same 'Now 77' CD. We had some good nights out, although you would find yourself dancing to the same four 'tunes' no matter which club you went to. Our favourite club was called 'The Little Cow.' It was evidently the local choice seeing as we were the only westerners in there. I saw this as my chance to try my hand at chatting to the fair chicas in Spanish. I failed miserably; trying to be funny in Spanish whilst the Black Eyed Peas persistently told me to 'party 'n' party, 'n' p 'n' p  'n' party' was quite a challenge. It must have been funny for the guys to watch me struggle though.

Of course our time in Puerto Vallarta was not all spent having fun; there was work to be done. We obviously looked bored or something so James was kind enough to fill our days by asking us to remove all of the paint from the deck. 'That's easy' you might think, 'just throw some paint stripper on there and Bob's your uncle,' you might say. Well, unfortunately, the paint was so old that it had bonded to the concrete super structure. Thus, I spent three days with a heat gun in one hand and a tiny scraper in the other, making painfully slow progress across the back of the boat. Fun. To put things into perspective, one Saturday whilst we were slaving away, all of the Mexican lads that worked on the beautiful boats around us looked upon us with pitying eyes as they had a little party on the dockside. That is when you know things are bad; when you are working harder than Mexicans, one of the most notoriously industrious peoples, and you are being paid less than them. It was a humbling experience. After a while, they began to feel so sorry for us that they invited us over to join them. It was one of their birthday's and so they had put on a bit of a spread. I had watched as one man skilfully prepared a gourmet shrimp and muscle salsa whilst sat astride a cool box. Quite a sight I can assure you. The food was incredible; so fresh and flavoursome. Supping my Corona, I felt like one of the guys. That was until they told me to put a suspicious home-made red sauce on my next tostado. I should have known better but I did not want to seem rude. All conversations stopped as the group of ten men watched me  with baited breath as I applied the devil juice. At first I didn't think it was too bad but what a fool I was. Within twenty seconds my eyes were streaming, I was sweating and I couldn't touch my lips. It was as if someone had taken a blow-torch to the lower portion of my face. As I coughed and spluttered, trying my best to restrain my natural reaction to the fire that I had just ingested, the ten-strong group of men were bent over double in laughter. They could not get enough of it. Tears were streaming down their faces as they conversed quickly in Spanish before erupting into fresh bouts of laughter. Bastards. All in all, I think that I did us Brits proud....

Even though we worked quite hard during the week that we spent in Puerto Vallarta, we did have a good time and it was good fun getting to know the guys that worked in the marina. We even started to get worker's prices in the local taverna. It must have been such a strange concept to those guys as every other westerner in that place was rich and there we were, scraping paint of a fucking deck for $50. Good times.