It's My Birthday and I'll Get Drunk If I Want To!

Oh I have just woken up with an enormous hangover which reminds me that we had a party last night on the boat and I got as drunk as possible to celebrate the passing of another year! I am 27 now. Wow. You know what that means? I'm nearly 28, which is nearly 29 which is most definitely nearly 30! Argh! Be still my beating heart!

Anyway, I am off to ... er ... drink birthday tea and call my parents!

The Most Scary Thing....Ever.

There have been reports of brave young soldiers crying for their mothers at a critical moment of battle when they realise that immortality is not theirs and every moment may be their last. While I can't profess to understand the terror of war, I have experienced a moment last night which was one of the most frightening experiences of my life, and one in which I was definitely wishing for my mother. Unfortunately, I must admit that I was curled up in a blanket like a baby, sobbing involuntarily every time a monster wave smashed over the boat in the midst of a text book Tehuantepec storm wind measuring 10 on the beaufort scale. I would love to say that I was a courageous sailor steering the boat in the face of howling winds and thunderous ocean onslaughts, but I wasn't. I was pathetic. I was useless. I was totally, utterly, shitting myself.

It appears that we strayed too far from the protection of the coast, and by the time the legendary Tehuantepec hit us, it was too late to find a safe haven. The first I knew of it was when I awoke at midnight with sudden and unexpected sea sickness. Dazed and confused I moved out of my small cabin inside the hull to discover that the boat had taken on a life of its own with violent churning momentum throwing me bodily against the sides of the short corridor, I moved upstairs to the central communal area where the the impact of hull on sea was less intense, and began my long vigil on on a seat which (unfortunately) had panoramic views of the raging ocean around us. The same duplicitous Jekyll and Hyde ocean that had changed personality in a scarily short time and was currently attempting to swallow us whole like a human apperitif.



I became locked in a state of fear, and clutching my blanket to my chin, I whimpered each time another wave exploded into the side of us. The power of the ocean has never held more awe or respect for me.

Finally, blissfully, the dawn came, and I fell into a restless sleep filled with nightmares of yawning ocean mouths and creatures from the deep. The Tehuantepec was still upon us, but its fervour had lessened slightly, and the light banished away the fear of the unknown. Sure, we were still taking huge waves, but at least you can see them coming in the daylight and can find a suitable crash position.

I slept most of the day sleeping (ignorance is bliss) while we rid ourselves of the tail end of the storm, and now I am only too overjoyed to tell you that we are safely moored inside Huatulco Marina, Mexico.

My wine tastes sweet. Hell, my life tastes sweet. Here's to you Tehuantepec, and the hope that we won't be meeting again anytime soon. Cheers.

Tehuantepec Terror!

We're headed straight for the belly of the beast: the name that strikes fear into the heart of even the most experienced mariners, and the most dangerous part of our journey so far - The Tehuantepec Gulf.

This area off the coast of southern Mexico is capable of devastating wind speeds and unpredictable ocean currents. Most sailors prefer to avoid the area entirely by re-routing 500 miles off-course via Hawaii, however we have neither the time nor the resources to make such a massive diversion. Instead we have waited till this morning for a favourable weather forecast before setting sail with full engine power and all of our fingers crossed for the best.

If you're reading this now it means that we have made it through to the other side!

Sea Sickness of the Heart

After over 30 days at sea, and more than another 10 to go, I have come to a profound understanding of the term, "sea sick." I always believed that this was a concept reserved exclusively for those poor individuals who find themselves involuntarily vomiting overboard at the first hint of motion in the ocean (or that sensation I have come to fondly describe as 'the washing machine' effect).

However it has come to mean something a little different for me. I never thought I could be bored by the vision of celestial dawn light exploding over the horizon, or the delightful frolicking of curious dolphins playing around the hull. I never believed that the sight of the endless rolling ocean could fail to inspire me, or that the long days filled with nothing to do but sleep and read books could be anything other than sheer pleasure. I imagined tanning myself on the deck and re-creating that old advert for Piz Buin sun cream, where they have a perfectly tanned skinny model lying on the deck of a white catamaran in rapturous relaxation surrounded by gorgeous blue water. Unfortunately I am neither deeply tanned nor skinny. It's too hot to lie outside under the equator sun, and there's literally no where to go and nothing to do for exercise so I have become soft and flabby, not to mention weak as a kitten. I have never been around so much beautiful water for so long that I have been unable to swim or dive in, it's like dangling a carrot under my nose, really, it is.

Yes, I am sick of the sea.

I am so bored of staring into space, and, or, reading a book that I could chew my own fist for the want of something else to do. I miss my other hobbies, such as swimming and diving, fiddling around with computer editing programs, and playing fantasy video games. I miss the perks of civilisation such as being able to pop to the shops, catch a movie or go out for a meal with friends. I miss cosy nights at the pub and leaving late into cold fresh air that turns my breath to steam as I wrap my woolly scarf tighter around my neck. I miss my parents and our tradition of watching rubbish Saturday night TV programs with a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea (proper British teabags with real milk, not some foreign affair that tastes of stewed tree bark). I have forgotten what it feels like to sleep longer than four hours in a bed that doesn't move, and in a room with windows that you can leave wide open all night. Ah blessed fresh air that won't give me heat rash and induce me to pour with perspiration every moment of every day. Did I mention baths? I can't tell you how long it has been since I had a bath. Oh, a lovely bath with bubbles and candles and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon would go down a treat right now, believe me.

So it appears I have reached a conclusion for now. It's almost time to go home... I think. Hmmm... at least for an extended visit...later this month ;)

Guatemala mountain trip

During a brief stop over in Guatemala we befriended a lovely local man who was only too happy to show us around his home town and nearby mountain city of Antigua. During the 2 hour journey the road wound up higher and higher, gaining altitude that caused a sharp drop in temperature which came as a surprise after the heady humid air at sea level. He pointed out a red flower that grew along the roadside which has sedative properties as a juvenile and is a deadly poison in full growth with no known antidote. We saw several family groups walking up the road carrying impossibly huge bundles of firewood on their backs which were apparently so heavy that each person was bent over double with the effort. Even the youngest child, who could have been no older than six years old was carrying a bundle of wood that was almost the same size as her. They were dressed in bright traditional local clothing which is essentially Mayan, and hand-woven with blinding speed and skill by women using an ancient method that involves a wooden frame, a body harness and a conveniently located tree trunk or post. As I am lacking any photos of this process I'll leave the visual images to your imagination.

Antigua appeared, finally, after a bend in the road and lay sprawling in the valley between the mountain ranges at approximately 1700 metres above sea level. It really is a gorgeous city, with a rich history and superb architecture. The central plaza has a beautiful garden at its heart, and is surrounded on four sides by cobbled streets, elegant balconies and a church.

Antigua appears to be a hotspot for back-packers and independent travelers. The streets are filled with young skinny 20-somethings wearing beads and bandanas, intermingled with smarter, older visitors who relax on park benches and wander around the stunning church interiors in revered silence. This city has "The Lonely Planet Guide To Central America" stamped all over it; the hotels are intimate and stylish, the bars are surprisingly cosmopolitan and cool, internet cafes are abundant, and the street vendors are as tenacious as they get. All of these developments have not had a detrimental effect on Antigua...yet. It is full of romantic charm and old-world beauty, and definitely on my list of places to return to one day if the backpackers don't get it first!

What Do You Do With The Drunken Sailors?

After a lengthy visit from customs and immigrations officials, all of seven of them, (I was surprised they didn't also bring their children and pet dog), we were finally clear to set foot on Costa Rican soil. We waved goodbye to all the staring Costa Rican pen-pushers and I pretended not to notice that one guy was surreptitiously taking photos of me on his phone, which was angled suspiciously low to be a mug shot. I raised a dubious eyebrow as if to say, "What? Never seen a girl in a bikini top before?" However I maintained a sunny facade. This was neither the time nor the place to upset foreign government officials over matters of female exploitation. Particularly the kind that are keeping your passport overnight.

We ventured out into the marina, and were impressed by the selection of disgustingly lavish fishing power boats, almost entirely American-owned. At sunset the owners could be found for the most part drinking cold beers in the nearby bars. They were an easy species to spot. Ruddy mahogany tans offset by greying or bleach blonde hair, some carefully groomed beer bellies, and a propensity to wink and postulate at passing females while congratulating each other loudly on the size of their engines, catch, stock investments, or all of the above.

We stumbled across a launch party for a fishing tournament, and crashed it as we heard that the alcohol was complimentary. We wasted no time at all getting stuck into the free bar, occasionally nodding sagely at other party goers who were discussing the odds for tomorrow's competition. I made particularly tiltillating conversation with one American man with a tan to rival David Hasselhoff's.

Him: "Are you following the tournament?"
Me: "Oh, yes, I love fish. I had a big one yesterday actually."
Him: "What was the size?"
(I gesture approximately 20 cm)
Me: "Delicious with chips and tartar sauce."



We continued to mercilously guzzle the free booze and found ourselves filled with the spirit of adventure, exploration, and well...er....vodka. This inevitably was destined to lead us down a dark and slippery path, in this case a bar called Beatle Bar which an American captain reliably informed me was the the local hotspot to find your friendly neighbourhood prostitute. It did not disappoint. Ladies of the night stood around the sides of the room in a very non-wall flower kind of way, against a backdrop of American road-house decor and framed rock trivia.
This place was hot and busy, and we decided to move on fairly rapidly to another bar more suited to our tastes and entertainment requirements. Monkey Bar, while it failed to deliver any genuine monkeys, it did offer some excellent music and a stylish cool interior. Feeling re-energised we set about our drinking mission with gusto, and were delighted to discover a table football game in the back. I ordered some tequila slammers to celebrate and we had a dramatic and highly skilled tournament with a local costa rican guy. My tactics came from years of training and mostly involved spinning all the handles round as fast as possible while jumping up and down on the spot and squealing like a pig. Naturally, with my talent we couldn't fail to lose and we celebrated our success with some vodka tonics.

The rest of the night is a little blurry, however I definitely remember enjoying some delicious BBQ chicken on a stick before our taxi back to the marina. In fact I may have eaten several. Later, singing, giggling, and the sweet oblivion of a drunken sleep.