Just ask Ernest Shackleton.

True, our Baja Bash didn’t involve icebergs or Southern Ocean storms, but the name of his ship could have been the theme for our more recent journey: Endurance.

Even if you’re not a sailor, you’ve probably heard that a tidy boat is a safe boat.

That whole place for everything and everything in its place kind of thing. Perhaps it sounds like a worthy ideal that’s never really needed, like the earthquake kit in your garage circa 1986 or the hand-cranked radio that came with your PBS donation. 

To my knowledge, there’s no official name for the advanced yoga maneuver that involves wedging yourself between the galley and nav station, balancing on one foot and one knee while trying to achieve the leverage required to scrub the impossible area under the sink.

Personally, I call it the Losing-My-Sh*t pose.

It’s a unique experience to wake up, step in the shower, and encounter a razor-toothed predator.

After sailing 2500 miles to find warmth and waves, it was time to break out the toys.

Is it a Señor Frog’s tourist trap or a cultural paradise?

Yes and yes.

If you have one week to build sandcastles with the kids, squeeze limes into beer, and sunburn your butt, Mazatlán has you covered. 

Last Christmas, the length of our to-do list would have overwhelmed Santa.

Start with a three-day coastal passage from Ensenada to Turtle Bay, delayed until your departure falls smack on Thanksgiving.

Next, consider carefully what festive holiday dish can be made using only the ingredients you have on board, the preparation or consuming of which is not likely to cause spilling, scalding or a severed artery on passage with a forecast of 20-knots.

“We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths, for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought upon our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice.” —Richard Henry Dana

The trolling line, which had been quiet since we left Santa Cruz Island, suddenly screamed into life like a swarm of angry bees.

”Colin!” I yelled. “Fish ON!” 

For those used to driving cars, the idea that boat fuel gauges are often inaccurate may come as a bit of a surprise. But imagine a float gauge on a bouncing boat, in sloshing liquid, measuring a tank that is shaped like a Frank Gehry structure.

I was beyond confused.

It was dark. Colin was lying next to me, softly snoring. If we were both asleep, no one was at the tiller.

How had we let that happen?

We were screaming downwind in 25 knots of breeze with following seas.

The jib was giving us six knots of boat speed and we were surfing eight foot swells with two fingers on the tiller. The sun was out, we were flying and the boat was bouncing along with all the joy of a Labrador chasing a tennis ball.

That is our affectionate name for a new game we’re learning to play on the boat. 

The journey—a lifetime in the making—has finally begun.

It wasn’t always clear it was going to happen. 48 hours before departure, we were still on our hands and knees, scrubbing when I thought our dream was dead.