I Have Arrived! — A Tequila Sunrise in Baja California

A Petaluma sailor who writes under the name Whye Waite was looking back over his archives when he came across a story he wrote after the 2019 Baja Ha-Ha. The memory brought back the bliss and the fun of sailing in Mexico aboard his Nauticat 43.

One by one, we awoke from our tequila-laced slumber and made our way to the aft deck of Tally Ho. It had been a long two-day sail from Turtle Bay, and last night’s uninterrupted sleep was glorious. Becoming one with the serene stillness around us came effortlessly. The view was stunning; before us lay miles of untrodden beach and the surrounding barren hillsides of Bahia Santa Maria, Baja California, Mexico.

Arriving at midnight rewarded us with this early morning gift-wrapped surprise. Sipping piping-hot French press coffee from familiar mugs, we sat in silence, gazing as the tumbling waves ended their journey softly on the warm auburn sand. A lone gray-and-white dolphin swam by, unaware of our presence, its breath punctuating the morning stillness.

George glanced my way and softly said, “I have arrived.”

I smiled, lifting my mug as a toast to this magical moment. Amber, Lorraine, Gena, and Tim raised cups and nodded their silent approval. I absorbed the moment like a well-worn dish sponge. Our plan for the day was simple. Relax.

After a leisurely lunch, we decided to hail a water taxi using the VHF radio and join the other sailors on the beach. This two-day rest stop for the Baja Ha-Ha cruising rally from San Diego, California, has become well known for the rock ‘n’ roll music performed by a band that drives 100 miles across the desert, playing only for tips.

“¡Aqui, Amigo!” I pointed to an area beside Tally Ho where we could quickly jump into the approaching water taxi. The driver nodded and maneuvered alongside.

“Last one in pays,” I joked, trying to hurry our departure to shore, the 20-ft-long blue fiberglass boat bobbing precariously close to our anchored sailboat.

One by one, we made our way down the narrow boarding ladder into the swinging panga, offering our greetings to the friendly driver and his helpful assistant.

“La playa, por favor,” Tim said in his best Spanish accent.

I could feel the faint remains of my everyday reality sink into the feathery sand as I jumped from the panga.

“Oh, my God, this is heaven,” Gena exclaimed, her smile from ear to ear.

George, stepping from the panga with sandals in hand, wiped a salty tear from his cheek and said, “Victor, I now know what you meant when you tried to explain this to me.”

“I’m glad. I had a hard time putting it into words from last year’s trip,” I explained.

Everyone was at peace — five gracious people without a care in the world.

We slowly strolled along the vacant 10-mile strip of golden sand, plucking saucer-sized sand dollars and admiring stones finely polished from years of tumbling. We spoke of nature, the sea, the direction of the wind. We did not talk about our work lives or troubles at home. We were at peace.

We retraced our steps and crossed the warm, hip-deep water, making our way to the bluff holding the makeshift tent housing the band and sandy dance floor.

Each year, the same Mexican family converts one of the outbuildings into a makeshift dining hall, where the visiting fleet enjoys a fresh-from-the-sea meal of grilled mahi mahi, salsa salad, and homemade tortillas. The ice-filled converted freezer holds an endless supply of the best two-dollar beers I’ve ever tasted.

The surreal sight of a rock ‘n’ roll band atop a sand-swept bluff with steep, scrub-brush-covered hills as a backdrop, and the great blue Pacific Ocean in the foreground dazzled us. We danced with abandon, not caring, not judging, just dancing like happy children. Throughout the set, the band would invite would-be singers to join in. Amber nudged me toward the stage, and with three cold Modelos under my belt, I swaggered into the limelight.

The band asked what song I’d like to sing. I suggested they play a blues progression of E, A, and D chords, and I would make up words as the song progressed. They glared at me with mixed emotion, knowing I would fail miserably, as most do. I assured them I knew what I was doing, giving the drummer timed snaps of my fingers to start the song.

Endless sailing words flooded my brain, soon flowing from my lips, through the microphone and out of the speakers to the anxious crowd’s joy. I glanced at Vinny, the lead guitarist, and winked. He smiled — now knowing this wasn’t my first time on stage. The cheering crowd of sailors was also shedding the stress of daily life, as we had earlier. They happily joined in singing, with carefree smiles painted on every face.

I have arrived. Life is for moments like this.