Life hangs from a fine thread. So fine, it’s a wonder we don’t die more often. Cats have it right. I joke, but I am very serious. As much of a driver as is my own mortality, the mortality of those around me drives me too. This sense of mortality causes some of us to reach for the stars and others of us to play it safe. There is one sure thing, no matter which you choose, there are no guarantees. Life is not fair. The universe doesn’t care about us. It says “Whatever. Next.” When I told people who ask what my hopes and plans were (not the cruisers I meet, but the landlubbers I left behind) it was often easy to hear the contempt or envy in their voice. The contempt group will say something like “It must be nice.” I reminded them, “It must be nice to have your spouse, your kids, your house, I hope you like your career, and your nice car.” You can hear it in their tone and see it in their eyes, their thinking, “Trust Funder?, Inheritance?, Rich parents?” They are blinded by their bias to think it could be sacrifice on a level completely unimaginable to them. Who would live like a homeless person when they don’t have to? Someone who despises the grind of everyday American life and who isn’t very good at it either. Someone who tries to save as many pennies as possible so they can have an adventure that makes them feel alive, because they know there has to be more to life than the unrewarding grind, because that’s not turning out to be worth it. The envy group, I like better. You can see the spark in their eyes. The “He’s doing it, maybe I still have a chance.” gleam. The “Good for you.” crowd who whether through circumstances, conditioning, railroading, or simply a conscious choice, have a life unconducive to my preferred lifestyle. They recognize what they have and where they are and maybe they’ll get around to an adventure too, but life passes by so fast, and there is always something getting in the way. Some people eventually achieve escape velocity, some have the rocket built but it fails to launch, others just sit in the armchair reading how to build rockets. (And then there is the Emperor. Keep a careful and cautious eye on him.) When I hear news from the home front about someone’s tragedy, I can’t say “Wow, if there is anything you need, just ask.” I’m not in a position to help. My best response is to say, “I’m sorry. I’ll keep doing what I’m doing for all of us.” The contempt crowd hates you and the envy crowd loves you.

Bahia to Bahia
I sit aboard Sampaguita in Bahia Santa Maria awaiting the wind to pass. Tomorrow looks pretty good and I hope to inflate the kayak and do some exploring. The wind in the bay comes on a bit stronger than the forecast. I think this is due to Mount San Lazaro squeezing it as it comes in from the Northwest. A neighbor said the afternoon wind yesterday was 20-25 knots, but was only forecast to be about 15. Today, I would expect the same, maybe a touch more. I can’t go out in the kayak in that wind. I will get blown to the south with the hope a neighbor would be watching and come rescue me in their power dinghy. Just this late morning Noel was on her paddle board with the two dogs trying to get from shore, up and across the wind to Mundial. I was helplessly watching. She wasn’t going to make it and it was hardly 10 knots yet. I couldn’t help because I don’t have a power dinghy. Luckily the neighbors saw it too and went out to aid. That happened to the Committed Sardine folks in Bahia Asuncion too. Beautiful days to explore, but a fresh wind kicks up and changes the game. (This happens to novice paddle board renters the world over.)

Cruisers and the people I meet ask where I am going. I sheepishly say Chile, because I know what they mean. But I quickly follow up with, in today’s case, “I’m just trying to get to Man of War Cove in Bahia Magdelena.” So much can happen between now and then and Chile seems so far away and even more difficult to comprehend. So, it’s Bahia to Bahia, Bay to Bay, Day to Day. I’m just passing time in Mexico until it’s the season to sail to Marquesas. Then, likewise, to Chile. There seems like so much opportunity for plans to be foiled and changed and every day is so foreign and new. (Pun intended.) Who really knows? On the other hand, it might go off like clockwork, and that’s even more difficult to imagine. In a small boat fashion, I am moving slower than most. Both in transit and in moving on. The fast movers are all ages too. I can only speculate why because it would be impolite to ask. I guess most will have some life to return to. When I left Port Townsend I sold, gave away, or threw away everything that didn’t potentially belong on the boat. And I’m still trying to lighten an overloaded Sampaguita. My sister, moral supporter, and land-based contact received four flat-rate boxes of “important documents” of questionable importance. There is no house, career, kids, and no espousa to get back to. With my still good enough, but obviously deteriorating with age, health, and a health care system designed to leverage me into behaviors of questionable suitability, it might be said, this is the end game. How, where, when, why does it end? Who knows? That story is yet to be written. It changes your world perspective, as my two readers have likely noticed. And don’t get my rumination wrong. It’s how I’m wired and I thrive on it. I am having the most wild and interesting experiences with the time and mind space to articulate what I have thought for a long time. Instead of being trapped on a Flicka 20 in Port Townsend because I couldn’t compete in a cut-throat, ludicrously priced, and demoralizing housing market, seemingly geared toward affluent, retired emigrants, I’ve turned that Flicka 20 into a conduit of extreme adventure. I’ve met some of these emigrants. They are nice people even if they don’t acknowledge their impacts. They feel they have earned it. As an aside, mining this aged population is the future of Port Townsend, if that’s your thing, and if you are really paying attention, you’ll recognize the future is now. (Sorry, Whitney Houston. In case you thought I lost my sense of humor.) If I could have comfortably bought a house, I would not be here. I’ve been around the block enough to know that what seems like misfortune, might turn into the best fortune. It’s difficult to say for now. That story is yet to be written.

I’m gleaning a little more info here and there as to what the local mafia means. Bahia Tortuga was still the grittiest town we were in. Cedros was poorer, but by nature of being on an island in a poor country, this was to be expected. Cruisers were generally quick to move on from Tortuga, so it can be felt if not easily put a finger on. If the mafia is a crime syndicate, whether drug related or not, and they are putting the squeeze on people and businesses, it increases the grit. (My present neighbor, who recently arrived from Tortuga, said Enrique, the fuel baron I mentioned in a past post, was nowhere to be found. The accuracy of this rumor can’t be confirmed.) A lack of law enforcement raises the syndicates boldness and capabilities. If it’s a fishing town and they’re squeezing the Co-ops, then that cascades to everyone. I’ve heard rumors of vigilante groups hired for protection, military presences, people operating businesses incognito, and raids on lobster pots from neighboring lobstermen. There is less incentive to work, or at least legitimately, if 30% of not very much is being skimmed off. (Sound familiar?) I’m curious if the towns with more ex-pats and seemingly more prosperous, might have less mafia influence. The syndicates might realize it’s bad for business to cross that line. America doesn’t care about Mexican-on-Mexican violence. But if you involve Americans, they risk increased outside pressure for justice and it could disrupt the status quo. Do you remember the incident last March with the murders/kidnapping of the Americans who went to Matamoros from Brownsville for a medical procedure? That ended with the bosses turning the lackies in. Pressure relieved. Back to business as usual. I correlate that to Joe Pesci’s character in Goodfellas. Joe plays a hothead and he kills a made man from another family without permission for insulting him. To keep the peace, Joe had to be extinguished too. Just business. Am I afraid? Not so much. I don’t have much to lose and I went to sea alone in a 20-foot boat. Signing up for that was a signing off on fear. America is a very fear driven society and it was destroying me anyway. The future looked uninteresting enough to me, the thought of longevity also became uninteresting. You say “At least America has law and order.” Even though everyone has a camera in their pocket, the marina has a camera pointed at your house, your employer has cameras, anyone can fly a drone over your house (my house was a boat, so no real estate to keep people at a distance) we’re still led to believe crime and violence is on the rise. The compounding pressures of regulation in our society, constant (and what I would say, exclusive, though often with a smile) use of fear in marketing to keep people consuming, and from the government to keep people in line, are making Americans both mentally and physically unhealthy. People are breaking and using anti-social means of expressing their breakage on what seems like an increasing rate with no reasonable expectation of getting away with it. (Sometimes violently and sometimes just oddly interesting.) While I am essentially working harder as a single-handed sailor, especially physically, all of my chronic aches and pains have disappeared since I left in August. My daily constitution is more consistently regular than it has been in a long time. I’m basically eating the same foods. My cleanliness is sub-par. The two best explanations I can think of are less exposure to other germ-laden people and an elimination of the frantic and stressful life of living on land in America. The American lifestyle may not be as good and healthy as the propagandists would influence you to believe. Maybe I have cancer growing inside of me, but signing off on the fear of death has been very liberating too. So, I’m not afraid of the mafia. (And lose the opportunity to meet all the cool people?) I’ll use caution, because that’s the game. But live in fear? No thanks. America versus Mexico might be the classic “six of one, half dozen of the other.” Yes, I know the difference between being unafraid and feeling invincible. I am not afraid of vincibility.