We left the familiar anchorage at La Gringa with our bow pointed south and hopes of an easy sail across Bahía de Los Angeles. The sea was calm and glassy, but the wind never quite showed up. Instead of a spirited sail, it turned into one of those days where the engine quietly does most of the work, carrying us along while we watched the desert shoreline slide by.
By late morning we dropped anchor in Pescador, and almost immediately the trip paid off in the best way possible. About ten minutes after settling in, our friend Baron came buzzing over in his dinghy to say hello. SV Remedy—friends from our time at Owl Harbor Marina in California—had already arrived, and it felt like a small reunion tucked into a remote Mexican anchorage.
Pescador turned out to be a place that invites you to slow down. Baron and Rich wasted no time suiting up and diving the reef, surfacing with a couple of beautiful grouper that made for some very satisfying meals. With little wind in the forecast, we settled into a five-day pause, waiting for enough breeze to justify heading farther south.
Those days filled themselves easily. We dove the clear water, did a little rod-and-reel fishing, and swam almost daily—it’s still very warm here in Mexico. We broke in our new bread machine, which quickly became a favorite addition onboard, and I spent plenty of time on my new paddleboard exploring the anchorage. There were frisbee games on the beach, quiet evenings aboard, and the inevitable boat chores, including rebuilding the toilet pump—because cruising life always finds a way to keep things balanced.
Finally, on October 29th, the wind arrived. With sails ready and spirits lifted, we raised anchor alongside Remedy and pointed our bows south once more, bound for Santa Rosalía. After days of waiting, it felt good to be moving again—two boats, good friends, and plenty of wind to carry us onward.
We left Pescador mid-morning, committing to a 24-plus-hour sail south to Santa Rosalía. This would be our first time skipping the usual stop at San Francisquito, and the decision felt a little weightier than normal. The night before, the wind had screamed through the anchorage, topping out at 32 knots, and the sea state outside was already building.
Once clear of Pescador we tacked well east before finally being able to come back southwest and line up with the San Lorenzo Channel. As the wind slowly clocked west, our course straightened and we were finally able to make real progress south. Gusts peaked around 23 knots with a solid 20 knots sustained, and the sea was anything but gentle—four-foot waves stacked close together, breaking every three seconds.
Just before sunset, as we approached Punta Santa Teresa south of San Francisquito, the wind began to fade. The seas, however, didn’t get the memo and remained steep and uncomfortable. We briefly considered ducking in behind the point for the night, but the sight of the Tony Reyes—a large fishing boat—rolling heavily in the anchorage made the decision easy. If they weren’t comfortable, neither would we be.
So we pressed on into the night. As darkness fell, we approached Punta Trinidad, a known gap-wind area where Pacific air can funnel violently through low terrain in the Baja peninsula. Gap winds have a way of arriving unannounced—one minute you’re sailing in less than ten knots, the next you’re taking 25 on the beam. With that in mind, we prepared conservatively: the main was double-reefed, the jib rolled in, and we left the staysail flying.
In the end, the gap winds never came. Instead, we found ourselves nearly becalmed with a one-knot current pushing against us. At low speeds our autopilot struggles, constantly overcorrecting, so when steering became more frustrating than helpful, we fired up the engine and motor-sailed slowly through the night.
Around 2 a.m., while I was on watch, a cluster of lights appeared off our port side. They were likely shrimpers or fishing boats, but their navigation lights didn’t make much sense, and without radar—currently out of commission thanks to a mast-stepping modification gone wrong—it made the scene more unsettling than it needed to be. Add that project to the ever-growing to-do list.
We tried hailing Remedy on the radio several times with no response. They had been ahead of us all day, but when the wind died near Punta Teresa we turned on our engine and they didn’t, leaving us unsure whether they were now ahead or behind.
As the night wore on, the wind filled in slightly and the seas finally began to smooth out. By 9:30 the next morning, the breeze disappeared altogether and we motored the remaining miles down the coast. Just outside the harbor, Rich hooked a beautiful dorado on one of our handlines. He gaffed it cleanly and was mid–victory pose for the camera when the fish thrashed hard, shook free, and vanished back into the sea. A painful loss.
After 27 hours underway, we dropped anchor in the Santa Rosalía harbor alongside just one other boat, SV Eyonia. Around 2 p.m. I sent Remedy a WhatsApp message to check in. They had heard us calling on the radio but we hadn’t been able to hear their replies. Still 17 miles out, they had finally—and reluctantly—turned on their engine, arriving a few hours later to close out a long passage and an even longer night.
Santa Rosalía feels unlike anywhere else we’ve visited in Baja. Tucked between stark desert hills and the Sea of Cortez, the town owes its existence to copper mining rather than fishing or tourism. In the late 1800s, Santa Rosalía became a company town for the French-owned El Boleo Mining Company, and traces of that era are still woven throughout the streets today.
The French influence is immediately noticeable in the architecture—most famously in the small metal church, Iglesia de Santa Bárbara, often attributed to Gustave Eiffel. Pastel-colored buildings, wide streets, and old industrial remnants give the town a distinctly European feel, especially compared to the surrounding desert landscape.
Despite its industrial roots, Santa Rosalía has a warm, lived-in charm. It’s a working town first and foremost, with a strong local community, excellent bakeries, and a slower rhythm that makes it a natural pause point for cruisers heading south. After long passages and rolly seas, arriving here always feels grounding—a place to rest, reprovision, and reconnect with life on land before continuing down the Sea of Cortez.
We spent four days anchored in Santa Rosalia harbor. We filled those days with friends eating our favorite burritos from Los Compadres, having good beer at Padre Santos, and provisioning for the next few weeks.
While at Padre Santos one evening we met Michael and Matthew on Boragora. They are both from Colorado and have a Catalina 30 in the marina here. They sailed it south from California a couple of years ago and driven back to Colorado a few times. We told them we were from Sacramento and they asked if we’d ever stayed at Owl Harbor Marina. We told them we lived there for a decade. They loved that marina and really wanted to take their boat up there. Such a small world.
We also met a man named Karl from Latvia. He lives on his Tayana 37 in the marina. We had berthed next to him the last time we were in Santa Rosalia, but never met him. His boat is in a lot rougher condition than ours, but he’s hoping to sail it across the sea to San Carlos.
We left Santa Rosalía Harbor on November 4th, bound for Punta Chivato. The day began with light winds and an uncomfortably rolly sea, and for the first couple of hours we resigned ourselves to motoring while taking advantage of the downtime to make water. Rather than thread our way through the shallow Craig Channel, we opted to sail around Isla San Marcos—a longer but less stressful route.
As the miles passed, the wind steadily built. By mid-passage it was blowing a solid 25 knots, and while the breeze helped our speed, it did nothing to tame the sea state. The chop stayed short and lumpy, making for an uncomfortable ride, but at least we were moving. Averaging about five knots, we covered the 35 miles in just under seven hours.
We dropped anchor at Punta Chivato around 1:30 in the afternoon and promptly shifted into “hide from the wind” mode. The breeze howled through the anchorage for the rest of the day and into the next, keeping us happily pinned in place.
On the 5th, Baron hailed us on the radio as Remedy passed by on their way south into Bahía Concepción and the Santispac anchorage. Conditions were still rough, and Heather wasn’t feeling great. Hearing that only reinforced how content I was to stay put for another night.
As usual, time at anchor meant time for boat projects. Rich tackled our freshwater foot pumps—one in the galley and one in the head—both of which had been slowly losing pressure. One of them is an older model and a real headache to rebuild. After a first attempt that didn’t quite solve the problem, Rich took another crack at it the next morning. This time it stuck, and now both pumps work perfectly—a small but deeply satisfying victory before our next move south.
