Last night in San Diego with the English boat , Tystie owner design-build no standing rigging
Leaving San Diego’s skyline at dawn for Ensenada
65 nautical mile sail ahead from Point Loma
Enter Mexico a day later
It is late in the afternoon as we motor into Bahia de Todos Santos, named by Cabrillo who discovered San Diego. Bahia de Todos Santos is the approach to Ensenada harbor.
The sun gives a last burst of light and the windows of buildings onshore are mirrored with reflection. The all saints are standing by as we make this our port of entry into Mexico, only 65 nautical miles from Point Loma, San Diego.
There is no place to anchor contrary to what the guidebook says. We are greenhorns entering the Mexican dimension without the Spanish language in our back pocket. We’re not quite equipped to prevent getting swallowed up by cultural nuance. I’m in Gringo shoes!
Two Mexicans hurriedly untie a skiff in a slip and beckon us on in. We circle, and enter once clear. They tie us alongside. Gary off of “Sparkle” in the next slip over helps too. He is the welcome party from Port Townsend and shrugs his shoulders as if in apology. The sun is fast setting and Russ goes up to pay the fee of $35. We are in Marina Ensenada with no facilities, across from Marina Baja Naval, who charge the same rate with facilities and Wi-Fi service included. You tell me. Gary shrugs his shoulders again and gives a grim smile. He has been in Mexico for 11 years and goes with the flow.
I look across to where the Carnival cruise ship, Paradise is docked. And blink hard to process the name. Are the people on the ship in paradise, or is the ship in paradise. Either way, I feel paradise might be further along the line for us.
Carnival Line cruise ship Paradise at anchor in Ensenada
The shadows lengthen. Dusk is on us. I’m taken by surprise by a gentleman standing right next Zulu. He’s dressed in slacks and a T-shirt tucked in, hair slicked back, not the usual windblown yachtie look. I am startled.
“I’m just admiring your boat.” He says in a thick accent. He is Polish and has his boat in Marina Ensenada to work on.
“How much are you paying for this slip?” he asks.
" $35 a day." I say. He looks surprised.
“I pay $10 a day,” he says, and then continues with “this place is—to use a word from your language-- ‘bullsheeeet’. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He looks at me apologizing for indiscrete language. I laugh.
“Call me Andy, it’s too difficult to say my Polish name,” and he starts in on the incompetency at large: How getting through immigration is not easy and streamline, rather inconceivably illogical and time consuming. And how the workers he hires to do work on his boat could do nada.
“They can’t even switch a vacuum cleaner on!” he says with disgust.
“You’ve got to speak Spanish! Learn the language!!” he admonishes. Ne’re a truth is spoken.
I go to sleep in a salty state with sea lions barking virtually at the porthole, and with the dock squeaking as the lines tighten and slack with the surge.
Up bright and early, we’re at the Centro Integral de Servicios at 8:00 AM opening time. Dressed to impress, papers in hand. Problema. The immigration officer in module 1 is late by one hour. In he saunters at 9:00 AM, looking less than chipper. We give him time to settle in to his day at 9:10 AM. Not to make our presence too conspicuous, we stand back from his module 1 window, but in sight.
First he switches on his small TV and takes a bit of the news in. Then, slowly, he turns to his computer, switches it on, and looks up in the most lackadaisical way.
“Buenos dios, senor. Por favor, nos yatista despachos por entrada en salida.” I persecute my learned phrase with a very English accent. He looks at me as if I jumped out of green cheese as I hand him the crew list Xeroxed out of the Mexican guide book.
No!!! I guess that means wrong form.
“You have the wrong form.” A quiet gentleman, who emerged from nowhere, enlightens us. He is Silvano from Silverado Consulting. A shipping agent into whose hands we happily fall.
“I can help you through this and you can pay me what you feel is good.” He says and we settle on $30. Andy the Polish sailor’s words are echoing in my mind. We’ll have to be in for this ride.
“I’m from the ‘Hweraru’ Indian Tribe." Silvano says.
“Really?? Are you kidding?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yes. ‘Hweraru’ means ‘where are you’.” Silvano says.
I get the gist and realize that means 'I’m lost' in the hop scotch game of bureaucracy and laugh at the ice-breaker joke.
Place two feet in module 1: Immigration. Place one foot out the door to make copies. Place another foot at module 4, the Banjevato, to pay for something or other. Place two feet at module 2 for the Tourist Card. Place one foot out the door to make copies. Place another foot at module 4 again to pay. Place two feet at module 4 for Temporary Import Permit. Place one foot out the door to make copies. Fill out the custom’s form. I’m out of breath trying to comprehend what the dickens is going on and what I’m paying for every ½ hr, and Silvano keeps telling me to relax. Smile.
“I declared nothing.” Silvano says. On to module 5. Wow, no copies.
“Push the button.” Silvano directs. It’s green. “OK finished."
It is 11:00 AM! “Why is this so complicated?” I ask Silvano politely.
“Because you are in Mexico! You should learn Spanish!!” He kindly admonishes.
“Americans don’t speak anything else, but English!!” he gently gives me a second dose of admonishment.
We agree, shake Silvano’s hand in appreciation of him being there for the hop scotch game, listen tentatively to his story of having to feed 14 mouths, and walk out into the sunshine $140 dollars later to take in a broad brush stroke of the town, before we salida.
In four-by-four blocks there are banks and good grocery stores, brash disco bars, ladies in red, sad-faced people asking for money for food, a tiny 5-year-old girl outside Starbucks with an empty coffee paper cup in her hand, determined look in her eye, pleading for money. My heart plummets. I’m in a city. All cities have these ingredients, I know.
A subtly advertised disco bar
There are the vendors selling tourist paraphernalia. The fish market with mongers who stand idle, bored. The row of cantinas all have brightly colored silk flowers on the tables with bottles of chili, bowls of lime, and big margarita glasses filled with an assortment of salsas. They vie for customers walking by: shouting out their menus, trying to outdo the person right next door shouting out their menus in the most Latin of ways: excitable, frenetic.
Tourist paraphernalia: want a Corona hat
Fish for sale: tacos in waiting
Condiments for fish tacos and more
The mariachi band players ask for money for music. It’s somebody’s birthday and they strike up their guitars and sing in harmony. The fish mongers turn to listen, the cantina 'advertisers' stop their yelling, the vendors stop hawking as the music resonates. A round of smiles.
Mariachi band at play
Russ has a fish and two shrimp tacos, and a beer.
Along the waterfront walkway we pass people stopping to watch the pelicans and boats drinking in the sunshine.
A vendor woman takes a rest to watch the pelicans
Blonde beauty
Leaving Ensenada’s Bahia de Todos Santos for the road less travelled
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