After hauling the boat at Cabrales for the summer, we pointed the car north and made the long drive back to Fallon. The original plan was simple enough: Rich would pick up a little work with his old company while we waited out the heat of the Sea of Cortez. But when the contract he was counting on fell through, our summer suddenly opened up.
So instead of working, we spent those weeks visiting family and friends across Nevada and California. We even stayed a few nights at our old marina on a friend’s houseboat. Twitchell grew up roaming that dock, and the moment her paws hit the familiar planks you could see she was home. Tail up, nose in the air, checking every corner like the self-appointed mayor of the marina.
While Rich caught up with friends, I dove into sewing projects for the boat. First up was a new windshield cover for the dodger. Our old one is canvas, which meant taking it off every time we wanted airflow or visibility. I stitched a new version out of Phifertex screen mesh—now we can leave it in place, see straight through it, and still enjoy a breeze when the center panel is open.
Back in Fallon, I started planning the bigger canvas projects: new cockpit cushions, pillows, the bimini, storage bags, and even dinghy chaps. Sailrite handled the heavy lifting of shipping—everything we needed went straight to our door in Fallon. We’d just have to get it through the Mexican border.
Meanwhile, Rich was deep in the weeds figuring out how to mount an arch for solar panels and dinghy davits. He thought about having a custom setup fabricated in Mexico, but after a lot of research he landed on Atlantic Towers’ “Tower in a Box.” Simple, strong, and modifiable—just our style.
Once everything was sourced and delivered, we loaded the minivan to the ceiling and headed south again. We were more than a little nervous crossing the border with so much gear. Technically, boat parts should be duty-free because the boat is already imported—but at the border, “technically” doesn’t always matter. Inspectors can, and often do, charge duty anyway. This time we got lucky. They waved us through with no search and no extra fees.
We rented a small two-bedroom house in Peñasco for a month. Summer is the off-season here—understandably, because August feels like walking into a hair dryer—so the price was right. I set up a sewing workshop in the blessedly air-conditioned house while Rich braved the boatyard each day. Twitchell wisely chose to supervise from the cool tile floors indoors.
The first project back on the boat was measuring for a proper boarding ladder. We’ve never had one made for our boat—just a pricey-but-mediocre West Marine version that’s always felt like a compromise. We decided to order a folding ladder from Scanmar that mounts to brackets on the jib track. A real upgrade.
Next came removing the old radar tower and the outboard lifting arm. The tower came with the boat, but it wouldn’t work once the new arch went up. Taking it off meant pulling wires, removing hardware, and planning how to reroute everything. The radar will move to the mast, and the GPS antennas will get a new home on the arch. At least we can reuse the old deck penetration for the solar wiring.
For solar, we’re adding two 200-watt bifacial panels to the two 175-watt panels we already have. The older panels will mount in a fixed position on top of the arch, while the new ones will sit on heavy-duty drawer slides that extend fully. We can lock them either in or out—handy for reducing windage or tucking them away under sail.
Installing the arch itself was… an adventure. The yard was so tightly packed that the catamaran behind us was nearly kissing our stern. With almost no room to maneuver, we rigged a halyard to help lift the arch into place and test-fit it again and again. After more than a week of careful adjustments, sweat, and strategic swearing, the arch was in place and ready to be secured to the boat.
Once the arch was finally secured to the boat, Rich moved on to installing the dinghy davit arms and assembling the solar panels with their full-extension slides. The real challenge, though, was getting that entire solar assembly from the ground up to the cockpit. Using the boom and halyards, we managed to hoist it skyward—slowly, carefully, and with plenty of crossed fingers.
One of the best things about this boatyard is the community. Fellow sailors are always willing to lend a hand, and this job quickly proved we’d need one. There was no way the two of us could lift the solar panels from the cockpit up onto the arch alone. We tried to find a clever workaround with the boom and halyards, but the backstay had other ideas. Thankfully, two sailors happened to be nearby and happily jumped in. With three sets of muscles, the panels were up in no time and Rich secured the assembly into place.
With the solar arch finally finished, we would’ve loved nothing more than to sit back and admire our hard-earned progress. But boatyard life rarely slows down. The next project waiting in line was the cutlass bearing. We’d pulled the prop shaft back in 2023 at the Napa boatyard but never replaced the bearing, and since we had no idea how old it was, it seemed wise to tackle it now.
To get the job done, he first removed the prop, then pulled the cutlass bearing housing. The rubber bearing had to be cut out, and the metal sleeve driven out afterward. Of course, nothing on a boat is ever straightforward—the bearing turned out to be an odd size (1 7/8″). We ended up taking it back to California, where Bay Propeller in Alameda bored it out to a standard two-inch OD and pressed in a new bearing sized for our 1 1/4″ prop shaft.
After four solid weeks of working our butts off, we headed back to the U.S. for a quick supply run and another round of family visits. Once we returned to Peñasco, Rich installed the new cutlass bearing and repaired the copper grounding strap on the rudder.
Our last five weeks in Peñasco flew by in a blur of projects. After sewing new cockpit cushions and pillows, we hauled the dinghy from the boat to the apartment so I could make chaps for it. The dinghy took up the entire living room—no exaggeration. Dinghy chaps turned out to be the hardest thing I’ve ever sewn. It took me a couple of days just to create the pattern and a solid week to stitch everything together. They’re not perfect, but they look good and, more importantly, they’ll protect the hypalon from the brutal sun. I even added a few pockets for our cell phones, the handheld VHF, and a water bottle. Small wins.
Since we had taken the radar tower down earlier, we needed a new plan for mounting the radar on the mast. Rich briefly considered climbing the mast to install it, but in the end we decided to have the entire mast pulled instead. It was the safer option—and it gave us the chance to run a new VHF cable, install a spinnaker crane, replace the steaming/deck light fixture, and swap out the intermediate shrouds all at once.
The crane showed up a full day ahead of schedule. Fortunately, Rich happened to be at the boat when it rolled in. Within minutes, the mast was off the boat and resting on the ground. As soon as it came free, we spotted several wasp nests tucked into the deck step. Back in Owl Harbor we were constantly swatting at wasps in the summer but never figured out where they were living. Mystery solved.
