Pacific Jade is tied up between two cement pillars at Marina Nuevo Vallarta her bilge sporting a void where her transmission normally rests. Her prop shaft and bent propeller blade have been repaired at the haulout yard where she spent two days propped unceremoniously over a sea of cement. We decided that the transmission work could be done from the marina rather than on the hard saving us $77.00 USD per day. It costs a lot of money to keep her high and dry in Puerto Vallarta and she doesn't like it up there anyway.

While we wait for the transmission to be repaired we might as well check out the little town of Yelapa. It is possible to anchor there but it's iffy and 70 feet deep in the best spot. We'll have more fun if we're not worrying about the boat and the challenging surf landings.

An early morning bus ride takes us to the small bay of Boca that shelters a pod of pangas. Many of these ferry tourists and residents to some of the tiny villages accessible only by water perched along the southern edge of Banderas Bay.Our panga is peopled by 20 or so passengers and hurries up the coast stopping once to unload a couple of locals at Las Animas.

Deftly, the panga driver lands in the surf at Yelapa and we are helped off the skiff onto a coarse sand beach. Like many bays on this coast the surf has sculpted a crescent of blonde sand amid the jungle clad bluff that rises on both sides.

The village of Yelapa rises into the hillside to our right and a lovely complex of thatch roofed rooms with mosquito netted beds and mosaic tiled bathrooms lies nestled along the left shoreline. Between them is a small palapa dotted beach with a tiny cleft in the sand through which the pangas can usually traverse to the lagoon that lies on the other side.

The sea rhythmically pushes a stream of water through the breach in the sand carving a brackish river that is constantly resculpted by the surf.
At times it heals over completely leaving an unmarred strip of beach until the panga drivers take to the shovels to free their boats from the landlocked lagoon.

Today we remove our shoes, lift our hems and wade through the knee deep rapids, the coarse sand shifting beneath our feet.

Once we're on the other side of the beach a labyrinthine set of eneven stairs leads to a cobbled walkway. This walkway or road is the main access to Yelapa and it has been built wide enough for two horses or donkeys pulling carts to pass comfortably. The cobbles periodically give way to dirt or cement as we walk uphill then down then up again. Set into the hillside the tiny village overlooks the beach and the Bay of Banderas beyond it. We feel as though we've stepped through a stargate into an enchanted past.

The restaurant we're looking for is closed due to family issues so we are directed to another.

Directions from a local hombre take us up the roadway a short distance then up 3 stairs to the left past a doorway and under a clothesline where an assortment of underwear hangs listlessly. A few steps along the adjacent walkway brings us to a narrow passageway between two buildings just wide enough for our passage. At times our shoulders can touch both walls at the same time. The passageway leads to yet another cobbled road and the busy restaurant called Pollo Rollo. We secured a table for six and were joined by two couples we had met along the way within the last hour.

Thank goodness we have our new friends with us because they were smart enough to bring a flashlight with them and the night is as black as the inside of Jonah's whale. The bobbing beam of the flashlight leads the way home.

Home for the next two nights is a loft above a palapa with no electricity and no water. Earlier in the day, Callum, who we'd met on the panga ride had introduced us to his landlady who he thought might have a place for us to stay. We said we didn't need much except a place to lay our heads. At the bottom of a sturdy wooden ladder she had handed us a candle, lighter and a flashlight and with a smile and a nod, motioned us up the ladder. Our room is bordered on three sides with thatch and a sheet hung on the ladder side lends privacy from below. The floor is constructed of rough cut 2 X 12's covered with grass mats. A small table sits in the corner and 2 surprisingly comfortable beds with clean sheets and fuzzy blankets fill most of the room.

Giddy with a sense of adventure and the 2 margaritas that accompanied our supper we ascend our ladder.The thatch, although tightly woven and in good repair, is unable to keep the sound of the surf, just steps away, from penetrating our haven. We wake to the sound of the powerful surf rushing against the shore then pulling the sand out to sea and the early morning call of one rooster to another. Grinning at the primitive situation we find ourselves in we scramble out of bed and ready ourselves for the days exploration.

Our intent is to visit the closest and smallest waterfall reportedly only a 5 minute walk. 40 minutes later we realize we must have turned in the wrong direction. The cobbled road has given way to dirt, little puffs of dust swirl around our ankles at each step as the road leads down along the river bank. Horses led by youngsters and donkeys pulling laden carts pass at irregular intervals. The river's edge is dotted with mexican families spending the day together, smoke from their wood fires drifts and loops toward us.

After a refreshing drink at a small restaurant beside the river we retrace our steps toward town. The day is getting hotter and we trudge back the way we came as the heat presses against us.

Through town to the church then turn left as we've been instructed by a helpful local.
Uphill and alongside a chattering stream we walk. The stream clatters and chuckles over and around boulders worn smooth by years of runoff. During the rainy summer season the creek swells to fill the streambed but today it's little more than a happy stream skipping downward to join the sea.

In a surprisingly short time - since we're going the right way now - we can hear the shower of water against rock and round the corner to a verdant oasis. The waterfall cascades over the rock face, splashing and tumbling over mossy abuttments as it makes it's way downward filling a green pool with crystal water. Ferns and foliage cling to the rocky wall shiny and wet with the fine cool mist that hangs in the air.

A few tables and chairs sit upon a manmade concrete floor in what passes for a restaurant. Our hot bodies almost sizzle as we dip into the chilly pool that instantly refreshes us. We clamber out of the pool shivering with the delicious cool and somehow choke down every drop of what is possibly the worst and definitely the most expensive margarita we've ever had before we head home.

After supper at a lovely restaurant on the beach, Joe and I stroll home in the darkness barefoot and without our flashlight....again.

Out of the darkness a young French man is suddenly beside us. It takes a moment to pull ourselves from our thoughts and grasp his whispered message. Not 5 feet in front of us a smooth hump is just visible. A mama turtle scooping flippers full of sand to form a birthing place for her young. We'd almost tripped over her as our thoughts replayed the events of the day.

Wow! The cherry on top of a fabulous day. And we thought it couldn't get any better.

Tomorrow we make the trip back to the cacophony of traffic and people in a hurry to be somewhere else.

Lucky for us, Chacala is one of our favourite anchorages since it looks like we'll be staying for awhile.

The transmission is indeed leaking and we've made plans to haul out Pacific Jade in Puerto Vallarta and have the problem taken care of properly before we carry on.

Of course none of this can be done 'til after Christmas. We arrange to haul the boat at Opequimar on the 27th of December, 11 days away.

Bill and JoAnne have decided to spend Christmas here with us. This year brunch will be aboard "Pacific Jade" and Christmas dinner will be aboard "Tica".

The wind plans to pick up this afternoon for a few days so we hop on an early taxi to Las Varas. There we can pick up victuals for our Christmas meals and explore the little town. Our new friends Ken and Paula join us and the 6 of us meet on the beach. The taxi is a ford van and is there when we arrive. Gratefully we each find a seat and two more customers get on so that the taxi is comfortably full. Looks like it's time to go but this is Mexico.

The driver creeps around town blowing his horn to let everyone know that the morning taxi is leaving. women and children appear on the corner hefting large bowls and crocks of prepared food ready to go to market at Las Varas. Far from being the beginning of their workday it's taken hours to prepare the contents of their containers (ceviche, flan etc.) which they'll sell in the streets and restaurants of Las Varas.

The hot air in the van is stifling as more passengers board. Our companions struggle to open a window and the feeble breeze almost reaches us in the back . When there are 14 people in the van we head toward town. Our progress halted only once due to cows on the road . Wide eyed at our zooming passage Ken keeps his eyes on the road saying "I haven't traveled faster than 7 knots for months". The Mexicans chat and laugh as we hurtle down the road with the beat of the Mexican music thrumming through the van.

I can't help but think of scenes of people heading to work in Canada, driving on the icy or slushy roads adding more to the tired they acquired yesterday. How singing and laughing rarely have a speaking role in the daily workday beginning. This is the life toward which most of the Mexican population rushes. They, like many of us, won't miss the simple life 'til it's long gone and irretrievable.

Christmas Day dawns sunny and bright. Last evening we enjoyed a Mexican Christmas Eve at our favourite local restaurant on the beach. Many of you will be happy to know that we were uncomfortably chilly during the celebration.

Bony M sings Feliz Navidad out of the cockpit speakers as Bill and JoAnne row their dinghy over for brunch. We exchange small gifts and enjoy each others company then we go to town to phone our loved ones.

On this day we miss our families, especially our grandsons, Ryder and Kohen, and wish we could spirit ourselves to their living room. Being mere muggles a phone call is as close as we're going to get.

After a delicious roasted chicken dinner with all the trimmings that JoAnne had brought from home and hoarded especially for this day we say our farewells and paddle home.

We'll all head for Punta de Mita tomorrow then part ways for a time while "Pacific Jade" has her prop shaft and transmission issues dealt with and "Tica" heads south to Barra de Navidad.

With "Tica" on our flank we motor down the coast toward Chacala. A long Pacific roll from the west lifts the boats rhythmicaly to the peak of each swell down which they slide as the sea rolls on.

When both boats are at the bottom of a trough only the tip of "Tica's" mast is visible from our cockpit her body seemingly swallowed up by the sea, and at other times she seems perched high on a hilltop.

At the first breath of wind we shake the sails out and give them a stretch and "Tica" does the same. In a rolly sea, sails make for a much more comfortable ride, keeping the boat from tossing wildly back and forth and we keep them up til they wilt in the still, hot afternoon.
We snack and doze and maintain radio contact with Bill and Jo-Anne the only other people in this piece of the world.

After several hours it seems that my latest seasickness remedy is working.I've been taking 2000 milligrams of Vitamin C for the last 4 days having read somewhere that it helped. Also I have avoided doing the 2 things that tend to bring on the mal de mer , which are reading and spending more than a few minutes below.However, I have spent short periods of time cooking or rustling up a snack in the cabin always alert for the first signs that the sickness is coming and so far, nothing.

With the mizzen sail up as a stabilizer the noisy tractor motor propels us into the thick dark of our first overnighter of the season. No moon lights the way tonight and the stars stand out strikingly against the black universe.

PJ's masts sway back and forth and draw lazy circles connecting the crystal clear dots to form an ethereal drawing on the inky backdrop. We hot bunk through the night switching places every few hours. One in the cockpit checking gauges, direction and making course changes to avoid other boats while trying to stay warm and awake. The other snuggled in the toasty bunk below.Joe never sleeps for more than an hour or two.

When I wake for the middle of the night watch there are lights everywhere. Boats going in every direction in the moonless night. Far from the feeling of being the only two boats in existence earlier now it seems that we're going the wrong way in a poorly organized parade.

Eventually we leave the tangle of boats behind and continue, "Tica" in the lead. With her masthead light and stern lights swaying she resembles a waddling mother goose as she rolls back and forth in the now gentle Pacific swell. Thus we travel through the night.

The sky turns pinky orange just in time to reveal the telltale bottles strung in a line and if you squint your eyes and look hard, the black flag appears on the horizon. We're right over top of a long line. The fishing lines that are strung by fishermen sometimes extend for 4 or 5 miles and are difficult to avoid. Sailing over them takes us in the wrong direction and will add hours to our arrival time.

Fortunately "PJ" and "Tica" both have full keels so the lines are less likely to get hung up beneath us but care must be taken to not get them twisted into the propeller. We try several different techniques to avoid the lines but there turns out to be so many that we motor up to them coast across in neutral then motor to the next one.

A dorado caught on one of the lines makes a leap for his life right beside us and close enough to touch.

Once past the longlines and only an hour out of Chacala Joe checks the mechanics of the boat again to fnd that the transmission seal that we've just had replaced is leaking..... a lot. No transmission oil wets the dipstick. This is not good.

There's no wind this morning so Joe adds what oil we have and we limp into Chacala.