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.