Saying good-bye to Cook's Bay, and Sea Wolf.

Captain Lon is our new role model. This man personifies the phrase "positive attitude." A huge thank you to the crew of Askari for their instant warmth and friendship. Lon, Rosie, Emma, and Adrian--we hope you guys know just how great you are.

A seven-minute flight to Papeete passes over Sea Wolf's new home in Marina Vaiare (the best deal in French Polynesia!).

Last Day in Mexico

It was just about perfect.
We've been in La Cruz for over 4 months and I have it dialed. This is good because I checked out of the country four days ago... I'm ticking things off my list--getting them done at N American speed. I catch the bus into Puerto Vallarta and walk to my friend Hilario's shop. I've never seen it before and it's impressive. No wonder he drives a late model BMW SUV. There are two floors of lathes and milling machines. The kind of machines that, given the right raw materials and direction, can make an identical copy of themselves--I love that thought. And there's art on the walls, each piece with its own custom fabricated metal pedestal. But no HIlario, I feel a slight hesitation in my momentum but soon spot one of his workers who knows me and I wave him over. I tell Jesus what I need and he starts to tell me how they're actually not working today so I'll have to come back Monday. I hit him with a pause. "I'll be back in an hour...with lots of money." We part laughing, knowing he's not going to have it done in an hour and I'm not going to have lots of money BUT I'll have it today and he'll get paid. In an hour I spot Hilario. He's determined to drive me wherever I need to go so we're off. I ask him what's his key to finding good workers and he says his best guys are the ones who started out sweeping the floor. I file that nugget away.
We stop at "Bolt World". I buy bolts, Hilario ribs the owner while the owner talks trash about Hilario to me. This is good guy fun we're having at "Bolt World." Next we have lunch, lunch transcends good guy fun--this is something. Bellied up against the sidewalk around the corner from "Bolt World" is a lunch wagon "Tortas Ahogadas" with a couple of tables spilling out into the street and a quiet crowd eating or waiting. We grab a table. Hilario says this type of torta is from Guadalajara and they're very hot though he quickly adds these aren't too hot...I think he's worried I'll disappoint him here but when we order I say I want mine like Hilario's. He looks at me and smiles, he says to the cook "he's practically Mexican." The cook doesn't seem impressed. He's in a routine. I watch him go through his moves, a deeply worn groove, no wasted movement. Rolls are hustled along a toasting rack, hunks of meat are chopped then stuffed inside, add some pickled onions and smother (ahogar them) with the special sauce. Boom.
We finally have ours and I just know this is going to be really good. But the first bite is a revelation. The roll is softened with the sauce but that toasting gives it a firm center that holds up like good al dente pasta. The sauce is hot but not too hot, the bread and the meat are your friends here and keep it from overwhelming, instead it creates an atmosphere in which all the flavors and textures do their thing. The meat is prime, no dubious chewy bits, just melt in your mouth rich, smokey tender chunks. Those thin slices of pickled onion and the sauce work together to balance the richness of the meat. The whole thing works together, each element balanced and enhanced by the others. OK, so I had a great sandwich.
We get back in the car, return to the shop and sure enough there's my newly machined fitting ready to go. I go through the formality of asking Hilario what I can give him for it and as usual he says "nothing." I give Jesus a goodly sum and I'm off to catch the bus back to La Cruz. The next thing I notice is a group of rowdy teenagers get on the bus I'm riding. They're heading to the beach, full of themselves and making too much noise in the back seats. Riding the bus often devolves into an experience that just needs to be endured and this ride is shaping up that way. The next stop, adding insult to injury, a mariachi steps on board. The bus riding mariachis tend to be the worst of their breed and sure enough the teenagers in the back start yipping and howling in mockery. As he makes his way past me I hear the mariachi say in a low growl "direct from Hollywood." He stations himself right in the middle of the teenagers and immediately hits some cords that sound fantastic. Over the next ten minutes he's easily won over the entire bus with the best live music I've heard in years. The crowd in the back sings along to a couple of the traditional songs and lets him loose to do the others on his own. At this point I'm glad to be sitting by the window with sunglasses on because I'm alternately sobbing and laughing at myself.
I love these people.
I'm really going to miss this place.

This week Lulu and I have traveled to Portland, Oregon. We dress in our native costumes. They seem strange to the local people, as their ways do to us.



Meanwhile Adam is preparing to up-anchor, sail west. We left each other in the Vallarta airport, planning to meet again in Manihi, which might be a town or maybe an island in the Tuamotus. I need to look that up. I'm trying to sort through everything that's been, prepare for what's to come, all the while drawn into the immediacy of a baby's now. So, to flesh out the picture of life in the Blazing Sarong, I've asked my dad, Dick Adams, to do a little guest blogging. Here's his first foray.

Lulu has fixated on the "gallos" across the alley in Portland. For a while all the animals there were gallos, but now "bunnies" have been added to her vocabulary. Lindsay McBride is her urban farm host, and Lulu insists on visiting the farm several times a day. Up in the morning - "gallos!" Mid-morning - "gallos!" Two or more additional times a day -"Gallos!!!"

We're thinking of sailing soon, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. The ladies who make tortas say, Ay, Luna! Stay with us. Someone behind me in line at the grocery store tries to teach her a new word: Coco. Coco. Coco. Coco. The next day, baby says Coco. Adios! She waves and wanders off. Bye-bye! Wait, we say, as Adam's mom and stepdad fly on to Colorado. Wait. What are we doing here? Where are we going?

By now it's a familiar drill--selling stuff, packing up. So the country's on the verge of a recession. Time to head for the border. Batten down the hatches. Look out, Sea Wolf.

Bound for Tucson, Arizona

five-minute poem

Securing the blue tarp over the foredeck
Garbage jettisoned
The scream of jet engines
Up the stairs
I would wave to imaginary journalists
In LA—the flight’s been cancelled
Waiting for the bus to Motel 6
A family, frizzy-haired mom, florid-faced dad in a Hawaiian shirt
The daughter’s wearing black, oversized sunglasses with ironed hair, her brother all in white, his sunglasses are white, a skinny black tie over his white shirt, derailed on their way from Des Moines or Kansas City, shuttled to a cheap motel—finally, puffs dad, and they follow him, carried off into the night—how did this happen?
I walk toward the ice machine on the ninth floor
Muffled shouting on the phone
The next day we share a cab, the guy fits the eight bags and the cat and some other guy’s stuff
Stoic soldiers in camouflage
I’m sure I saw a TV star—a coy glance and a little wave in the international terminal
Where I went looking for food
And I feel larger, in relief


We look at real estate with our new friend Alex, fellow aficionado of vintage appliances.
"Weird kitchen."

Gypsies in the palace

Careening Sea Wolf in the Barra lagoon

The voyage of the Sea Wolf with crew Baby Tallulah and Ruby the Cat is coming to an end. We trip over blocks and miniature maracas and accidentally lock knees while the cat makes a bed on our only towel and start to think, maybe it is time to try something new. Sailing offshore, Baby Tallulah squirms and cries while her exhausted mother throws up. We imagine life in, say, a boat large enough for another, adult-sized crew member. Maybe a boat that only makes short passages between Caribbean islands, something like that (I think, memories of massive discomfort still disturbingly fresh). We are preparing Sea Wolf for sale to another lucky person or persons as we ready ourselves to leave Mexico for parts as-yet undetermined. But, though the voyage of Sea Wolf, at least with us aboard, may be ending, The Path of the Blazing Sarong lives on.

There she sits, blurry and alone. But not for long. Today, after more than five months of showers, refrigeration, and beer-drinking neighbors, we will be back in the belly of the Wolf. We bring with us new-found knowledge of entomology and a renewed appreciation for life at sea. And a three-month-old baby. Stay tuned.

Seals of approval

Leaving Santa Barbara with a decent 10-knot breeze, we passed "Mr. Clean," the optimistically named vessel that services the oil rigs off the coast, tethered to a large mooring ball upon which several seals were lounging. I took this picture even though I knew it wouldn't really turn out. We are all the time passing seals and sea lions on buoys and various sea balls, and they look up languidly, vaguely interested, more or less welcoming us, or so it seems, and their whiskered faces make me think of blubbery kittens. I love to see how sea life appropriates human technology. Once, sailing in the bay, we passed a bell buoy ringed with cormorants, facing the source of the rhythmic pinging as if in mute adoration of some ancient god.

Outbound

"They missed a spot."