As I stowed our laundry this afternoon, I was struck by the peculiar sense of humor evidenced by the weather gods. Three weeks ago, we spent a brisk week with a fleet of boats enjoying the stunning anchorages of Islas Partida, Espiratu Santos, San Francisco and San Jose. Sea of Cortez Sailing Week 2009 was treated to a feast of fantastic sailing days with winds from just the right direction at 15 to 20 knots. We blew up during the first half of the week, and we blew even more briskly back to La Paz during the second half. The fleet enjoyed the days hiking on rocks, lolling on decks, and exploring salt flats and agate covered beaches, soaking up the twin pleasures of warm sunshine and cool breezes.
The evenings, however, were quite brisk. Sailors unearthed fleece, foul weather gear and sweat pants to rub elbows on the beaches with Richard, Donya, and the crew of s/v Profligate. Hot dishes didn't stay hot, cold dishes stayed cold. We jumped around a lot. The young un's playing volleyball half in and half out of the water came out blue, and we had to send them back to their boats for clean, dry clothes. None of us made it much past sunset. Teeth chattering is a party killer.
DrC broke out the milk frother for the first time in months for our morning coffees. I haven't seen it in months since we long since tacitly agreed that luke warm coffee on hot mornings is tastier. We hadn't quite moved to iced coffee, but I suspect that was not far in the future. However, with the temperature dropping to a bone chilling 60 degrees at night, sunrises munching pan dulce on the deck were improved with good old steamed milk topping our espresso.
At night, DrC and I battled over the down comforter. We used to have two: his and hers, if you will. But in Zihautanejo, DrC insisted he no longer needed one. His way of communicating this was to throw his off in a fit of overheated, masculine aggression. I would wake from a nightmare involving sweat, small biting insects, and a football team to find myself buried in a foot and a half of bird feathers and flannel. I finally got fed up and stowed his comforter, folded mine neatly at the foot of the bed, and set the bed up with a small fleece throw and a queen size sheet.
The deeply penetrating cold of April in the Sea of Cortez, however, had DrC ripping my cover off of me each night. It was the classic marital, grab-and-roll maneuver in which the larger partner in a long term relationship manages somehow to strip the smaller of all covers leaving them frozen and bare-assed while simultaneously and self-righteously denying the same since it all happens while the bigger one is profoundly asleep. After two nights of this nonsense, I dug into the cavernous locker under the master bed and found a second comforter, the telescope, and two reams of white paper.
Emails galore should wing off to the organizers of Sea of Cortez Sailing Week requesting that this event take place in late April instead of early April. Moving from the warmth of Puerto Vallarta and Manzanillo into the chill of La Paz is hard on marriages. But apparently, if you just wait three weeks, all is well since Easter signals the end of winter in La Paz and sends the temperature soaring.
Which brings us back to my laundry. It takes us weeks to get our laundry done. I'm standing in my cabin stowing fleece pullovers, heavy socks, two pairs of sweats, long sleeve shirts, and DrC's Cal sweatshirt. I'm hiding down here, because it's 98 on the deck, 95 in the cockpit and there isn't a breath of wind. As I push the fleece to the back of the locker, I muse on the fickleness of weather. And of husbands. No way do I want another down-induced, sweaty football team dream – as provocative as that might otherwise sound. With a vigorous shove and a grunt of preemptive satisfaction, I consign winter to fate and the second comforter to the wilderness of our main locker.
The evenings, however, were quite brisk. Sailors unearthed fleece, foul weather gear and sweat pants to rub elbows on the beaches with Richard, Donya, and the crew of s/v Profligate. Hot dishes didn't stay hot, cold dishes stayed cold. We jumped around a lot. The young un's playing volleyball half in and half out of the water came out blue, and we had to send them back to their boats for clean, dry clothes. None of us made it much past sunset. Teeth chattering is a party killer.
DrC broke out the milk frother for the first time in months for our morning coffees. I haven't seen it in months since we long since tacitly agreed that luke warm coffee on hot mornings is tastier. We hadn't quite moved to iced coffee, but I suspect that was not far in the future. However, with the temperature dropping to a bone chilling 60 degrees at night, sunrises munching pan dulce on the deck were improved with good old steamed milk topping our espresso.
At night, DrC and I battled over the down comforter. We used to have two: his and hers, if you will. But in Zihautanejo, DrC insisted he no longer needed one. His way of communicating this was to throw his off in a fit of overheated, masculine aggression. I would wake from a nightmare involving sweat, small biting insects, and a football team to find myself buried in a foot and a half of bird feathers and flannel. I finally got fed up and stowed his comforter, folded mine neatly at the foot of the bed, and set the bed up with a small fleece throw and a queen size sheet.
The deeply penetrating cold of April in the Sea of Cortez, however, had DrC ripping my cover off of me each night. It was the classic marital, grab-and-roll maneuver in which the larger partner in a long term relationship manages somehow to strip the smaller of all covers leaving them frozen and bare-assed while simultaneously and self-righteously denying the same since it all happens while the bigger one is profoundly asleep. After two nights of this nonsense, I dug into the cavernous locker under the master bed and found a second comforter, the telescope, and two reams of white paper.
Emails galore should wing off to the organizers of Sea of Cortez Sailing Week requesting that this event take place in late April instead of early April. Moving from the warmth of Puerto Vallarta and Manzanillo into the chill of La Paz is hard on marriages. But apparently, if you just wait three weeks, all is well since Easter signals the end of winter in La Paz and sends the temperature soaring.
Which brings us back to my laundry. It takes us weeks to get our laundry done. I'm standing in my cabin stowing fleece pullovers, heavy socks, two pairs of sweats, long sleeve shirts, and DrC's Cal sweatshirt. I'm hiding down here, because it's 98 on the deck, 95 in the cockpit and there isn't a breath of wind. As I push the fleece to the back of the locker, I muse on the fickleness of weather. And of husbands. No way do I want another down-induced, sweaty football team dream – as provocative as that might otherwise sound. With a vigorous shove and a grunt of preemptive satisfaction, I consign winter to fate and the second comforter to the wilderness of our main locker.
