We dropped anchor in Santispac just in time for my birthday, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Our friends Lyn and Ty on Beluga had met another traveling couple, Jeff and Julie, who actually have a house on the beach here. Before we knew it, the six of us were piling into our dinghies and spending the day soaking in hot springs, wandering through the little village of Posada, and scouting out the other anchorages tucked around Bahía Concepción.
Lunch at Bar Aracely hit the spot, and afterward we headed back to Jeff and Julie’s house for birthday cake—one that Lyn, Julie, and I had picked up in Mulegé—and an absolutely ridiculous game of Farkle. No one was more surprised than me when I rallied from way behind and somehow won the whole thing. Birthday magic, I guess.
The next morning we were back on the move, loading into Jeff’s Tracker speedboat and cruising around the north end of Punta Concepción to explore the old German Mine, an abandoned manganese operation slowly being reclaimed by the desert. The rest of the week settled into that perfect cruising rhythm: reconnecting with old friends, making new ones, hiking the hills around the bay, eating at the nearby restaurants, and running errands in Mulegé.
By the following Saturday, we were itching to stretch the sails again, so we pointed the bow north and made the long run back up to San Francisquito. Our friends Pat and Lisa on Solmate were already there, recovering from head colds they’d picked up in Santa Rosalía. Luckily they were feeling better by the time we arrived, and we spent five lovely days tucked into the small, well-protected caleta. Evenings were filled with games aboard one boat or the other, and during the days Lisa and I hiked the hills and explored the abandoned houses scattered around the bay.
After five relaxing days, we continued north to Bahía Las Ánimas. We dropped the hook at the southern end in the anchorage called Islotes, and had the entire anchorage to ourselves for two peaceful nights. The little cove is sheltered by two rock formations, with an old fish camp slowly weathering away at one end of the beach. At dusk and dawn, a lone coyote would pad silently along the sand, sniffing for scraps while we sipped our coffee and watched from the cockpit—one of those simple, quiet moments that makes cruising feel so special.
A red tide started creeping into the anchorage at Islotes, turning the water murky, so after two nights we decided it was time to move on. We motored an hour north to Alacran, where an eco camp with beautiful beachfront yurts sat quietly on shore—either empty or closed for the season. With no one around, the place felt peaceful and remote. We spent our days wandering the long stretch of beach, taking photos of quirky shells and the dramatic cactus scattered along the dunes.
After another two nights, we continued just three miles around the corner to one of our favorite spots, Pescador. We had barely finished setting the hook when Solmate rounded the point and dropped anchor right beside us. Soon after, we spotted another boat, Ayala, and went over to introduce ourselves. That’s how we met Charles and Nora and their crew member from New York, Mahol. Since Rich had managed to spear several grouper back in Alacran, we invited them all to the beach for a barbecue—plenty of fish to share.
That evening turned out to be a blast. With Pat, Lisa, Charles, Nora, and Mahol gathered around the fire, we were introduced to a new game called Beersby. The setup was wonderfully simple: two PVC poles planted in the sand about 30 feet apart, each topped with a weighted beer can. Two teams stood at opposite ends, trying to knock the cans off with a frisbee. It sounds ridiculous, but we laughed ourselves silly and got surprisingly competitive.
We ended up staying four nights in Pescador, settling into an easy rhythm. Lisa and I hiked every day while Pat and Rich tried their luck fishing. Each evening the four of us reunited for dinner, games, and beach cookouts around the fire. And the bioluminescence—wow. The water would come alive with glowing trails around the dinghy and along the shoreline. It felt absolutely magical. We couldn’t have asked for anything better.
Sunday morning we pulled up anchor and made our way toward Caleta Pulpito on the east side of Isla de la Guarda. Solmate peeled off to Tiny Cove—a snug little spot that only fits one boat—while we continued north. The wind never really filled in, but the current was moving our way, giving us a welcome boost. What was supposed to be a ten-hour trip turned into a surprisingly fast eight-hour run.
Caleta Pulpito always feels remote, and it seems few sailboats ever stop here. We’ve never shared the anchorage with anyone else. Last month the conditions were dreamy—calm water, no bugs, perfect weather. This time, a gentle swell kept us rocking and the no-see-ums came out in force, determined to make their presence known.
Rich went spearfishing and came back with a beautiful pargo, and later we headed ashore to burn some trash and simply relax. By evening the wind cranked up, gusting to 29 knots overnight, keeping us on alert.
The next morning we continued north toward Refugio. We had about 15 knots of breeze, but our roller furler was acting up, so we ended up motoring again. As we approached the anchorage, a pod of whales crossed directly in front of us, close enough that we slowed down and altered course. Their breathy spouts were shockingly loud—and, as it turns out, not the most pleasant-smelling!
During our last visit to Refugio, the bobo flies were relentless. This time was a huge improvement. They were still buzzing around, but nothing like the cloud we dealt with before.
As we rounded the southeast corner, I spotted a single sailboat tucked into the middle anchorage, and then noticed Ayala over by Mejía. We dropped the hook in the center anchorage and immediately jumped into the water. It was hot, and that 72-degree water felt incredible.
The rest of the afternoon I settled in and worked on editing photos. Around 4:30, I suddenly had the feeling that Solmate might be arriving. I got up to check—and there they were, just rounding the point. It’s the strangest thing; I had no idea they were even heading north that day, yet somehow I sensed they were on their way.
We ended up spending five nights in Refugio, and it turned into one of those stays that feels both social and relaxing. We met crews from three new boats, and one evening five of the six boats gathered on shore for games and a little pyrotechnic fun. Beersby kept us laughing, and afterward we set off our stash of old expired flares. They’re nearly impossible to dispose of properly, so lighting them off is oddly satisfying—and practical.
During the days, Lisa and I hiked the rugged trails while Rich and I swam whenever the heat got to us. One afternoon we spotted a large shark cruising nearby, and later learned it was a tiger shark. With a sea lion colony close by, it makes sense that big predators patrol the area, but it definitely made us more alert in the water.
On Sunday afternoon we pointed the bow north and began the 20-hour passage to Puerto Peñasco. The wind was light at first, but after sunset it picked up, and a building southern swell had us rolling uncomfortably from side to side. It was a long, restless night.
I had arranged a slip at Safe Marina, but when we arrived we discovered three massive shrimp boats blocking the fairway leading to our assigned spot. After some maneuvering, we ended up shoehorned into a shorter slip, but it worked well enough for our two-night stay.
Those two days were all about haul-out prep. Rich flushed the outboard with fresh water and washed as many lines and sheets as he could, while I scrubbed the exterior, cockpit cushions, and canvas. We started emptying gear from the boat, treated our Electroscan system with acid, and changed the oil in the Beta Marine. By the end of it we were exhausted.
Haul-out day came quickly. We moved to the end tie directly in front of the lift basin, expecting to wait for our scheduled time, but the Astilleros Cabrales crew began whistling us over 90 minutes early. Pat and Lisa, tied up beside us, hopped aboard to help with lines, and within about 15 minutes Ramble On was out of the water. The rest of the afternoon was spent waiting while the crew set us on jack stands and pressure-washed the bottom.
That evening we rewarded ourselves with dinner alongside Pat and Lisa, plus new friends Remi and Anne-Laure from Journey and Germaine and Khalil from Bigorno. Puerto Peñasco surprised us with an excellent pizza restaurant—and a beautiful view of the bay to go with it.
The day after the haul-out, Rich and I rented a car and drove north to Phoenix to buy a vehicle. Let me just say—car shopping is miserable. We spent the entire day bouncing from one sketchy used car lot to another, slowly losing faith in humanity. Eventually we landed on a 2011 Honda Odyssey. It has zero bells or whistles, but it felt solid, and we needed something with plenty of storage for hauling boat parts and supplies back and forth across the border.
The stress didn’t end there. We had to make it back into Mexico before the border closed at 8 p.m., and Twitchell was waiting alone in the apartment we’d rented for the week. We pulled up to the border at 7:15 p.m., just in time, and rolled into Peñasco as darkness settled in. Driving in Mexico after dark is definitely something we try to avoid, so we were relieved to park the van and call it a day.
The following week was a whirlwind of dismantling and prepping the boat for her summer on the hard. Anything with a battery came off and went to the apartment—summer heat here can make batteries swell or even explode inside a closed-up boat, and we weren’t taking any chances. We flushed the Beta Marine with freshwater, stripped off all the canvas and sails, disconnected the batteries, emptied the fridge and freezer, vacuum-bagged every sheet, towel, blanket, and piece of clothing, pickled the watermaker, wrapped exterior plastics in aluminum foil, and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned. Somewhere in the middle of all that, we also helped Solmate and Thosyma haul out their boats.
Inside, the boat slowly disappeared under piles of sails, canvas, and cockpit cushions. The final task was getting her covered for the summer. We bought a huge roll of shade tarp material and sewed together a custom cover to stretch over the entire boat—a hot, tedious job, but one that will hopefully make a big difference in the brutal heat ahead.
