On the 22nd of October, we made our decision to leave, the following day, from Ensenada for the next anchorage below Ensenada, which is know as Santa Tomas Anchorage. The port captian of San Diego, who was in a boat adjacent to us, determined that we could get our papers on the 22nd and leave early the following morning.
Dean Smith, therefore, went ashore in the morning to obtain the bill of health and I was going in to obtain the remainder of our papers from the captain of the port, including the immigration officials at 3:00 o’clock, when I was advised that the Captain of the port was open.
Dean and Rey had a very interesting time getting the bill of health. They went to the various doctor’s offices, hospitals and each one told them to go some place else. As a matter of fact, I do not believe that anyone understood what they wanted. They went into on hospital, where the man who was in charge thought that they wanted a taxi cab, so she called a cab. Finally, however, they came back after a morning of hard work in Ensenada with a bill of health, which, if I can read Spanish at all, means that neither, myself, the boat, or any of the crew could possibly have picked up anything contagious in Ensenada. It was signed by the doctor, so that makes us all pure.
In the afternoon, Marilyn and I went ashore to get paper to go along further. We first went to the immigration authority and he looked at the papers that we had made out for ourselves, in a very questioning manner, said that our counselor stamp was perfectly good, but that he had never seen anything like the papers that we had. I believe that, that is true because everyone said that the paper could only be made out, going as far a Ensanada to the next official area of domain. This would amount to a trip between Ensenada and Cape San Lucas. I had heard in San Diego that the touring permit would let you go though Mexico entirely, if you merely made out the papers. Accordingly, Marilyn and I took some old Spanish sailing papers and made out a list of the placed that we wanted to go in Mexico ending at Salina Cruz. The immigration official had never seen anything like this and said that he would not sign our paper. He would put a stamp on it and I thought that, that might pass the port captain.
At 5:00 o’clock, we went back to the port captain’s office and found that he was not in. As a matter of fact, the office was closed and we wee told that his office hours were from 9:00 until 2:00. We had been waiting around Ensenada until 3:00 o’clock, as someone else had told us the office opened at that time. Therefore, it seemed inadvisable to do anything further about the thing and we went to one of the nearby bars for a beer. We met the captain of the port of San Diego and his friend, who was also in the bar and a friend of theirs who was also a shipping man, who was interested in various shipping companies and we waited around until 5:00 o’clock, as someone else told us the captain of the port would be back about that time.
We went down and found no one there and got the information that the office would be open at 9:00 o’clock in the morning. At about the time, one of the captain’s employees did come along, Mr. Sates recognized him, and asked him to stamp our papers. He looked at them very woefully and said that he had never seen anything like them, did not think they were legal and that we had better come back in the morning and see the captain of the port.
We were advised at every step we went to get a broker. On my previous trip through Mexico, I had had so much trouble with brokers that I thought possibly the trouble I would have by myself, would be very much less than if I employed one of the Mexican brokers to completely confused. As it turned out subsequently, this was the fact of the matter.
On Friday morning, October 23, 1953, we went into the town to see the captain of the port. We were then advised that his office opened at 10:00 o’clock so we walked around for a while and came back at about 9:30. Finally, the captain of the port came in and he was a very kindly gentleman. He had been in the maritime service of Mexico for many years. He had been captain of the port of Ensenada four times. He spoke excellent English. We talked about his visits to Alameda, and his affection for California, San Francisco and especially the peninsula below San Francisco. He looked at the papers that we had made out and said they were not exactly according to the Boyle, but they would do perfectly well if we would only take them back to the immigration officer and have him sign them.
We then back to the immigration officer, a distance of about three blocks and he said that the papers were irregular and he would not sign them. He would sign, however, the counselor list of the crew with our names and position on the ship. He did sign this put his name on it, and I took it back to the captain of the port. The captain of the port sighed, and said that the official actually did not know very much about marine affairs, so he told his stenographer, to make us up a set of papers that said exactly the same thing that our papers did, except that they were on official Mexican stationary.
We then took these back to the immigration official and he stamped them and signed them promptly what so ever, saying that we had probably paid $15.00 for these papers, and it was too bad, but it was the only way that he could do it. While, we were here, we also picked up our counselor list that had been stamped, in as much as it actually is our passport for the whole crew into Mexico. We then went back to the captain of the port’s office to have our papers stamped. They were given to us without any charge, what so ever and a kind wish for a pleasant voyage. The stenographer in the office said that he had never seen any such papers before when they were finished and the captain of the port said they were perfectly legal for a yacht. Here to fore, the broker, either, did not know that you could get a passport through all of Mexico, or he was purposely trying to make a yacht owner have a group of papers from one port to the next. (There is a considerable swell in here, so please excuse the typing) Whether or not the remainder of the Mexican officials know that law or not will be seen as the situation transpires down the coast.
When we had obtained the paper and left a few packages of cigarettes for the port captain and his secretary, I felt a little sheepish about not paying a fee and having a broker do it instead of the port officials and yet I am certain that, in my own mind, the brokers are the people that cause you overtime charges, charges for various types of stores that they put aboard and all types of odd things that they put on their bill, that in fact they got themselves. The officials as far as I could see, were perfectly honest, decent, kind and were willing and anxious to do the best that they could for us. Hereafter, I will take my chance with the official, rather than the broker.
______________________________
The above account gave me much pause.
The back and forth, the effort to avoid brokers and get papers that would not require additional interaction with the Mexican Officials down the coast. I found all of this very interesting. There is a very independent streak that runs through my family. A fierce desire to be free of entanglements seems to be a genetic trait.
Sailing provides this freedom, provides an opportunity to be totally in the moment. Away from shore, it is the water, wind and waves. A balance of forces that are not man made.
Sometimes beautiful, sometimes . . . not.
In the journal, I was struck by the image of Marilyn typing away in the cabin below decks in a large swell in Ensenada Harbor.
I can remember her calming me as I lay seasick and terrified in the top bunk of that very same cabin, my first exposure to a heeling sailing vessel as we made our way under the golden gate, with the leeward rail awash and the rush of the water against the hull in my ears below deck.
"the boat can't turn all the way over, it will be alright . . ." she spoke to me as my eyes stared at the pivoting cabin sea table, swinging side to side as we crested each swell rushing under the gate from the Pacific. For some reason, the sight of Navy Blue covered cushions and mahangony tables bring that memory rushing back to me
And then the statement:
“They were given to us without any charge, what so ever and a kind wish for a pleasant voyage”
To find the beauty in a pleasant voyage. The kindness of Mother Nature. That is what propels some to go down to the sea in ships, only to learn all the moods of Nature.
I'm struck by the notion that Grandfather's journal is largely about the social interactions they encounter on shore. Less about the voyage itself. More about the kindness of the people they meet.
Several posts back, Grandfather enjoys a highball with the immigration man, who now finds his papers irregular until they are presented below a Mexican letterhead.
Now the Port Captain turns out to be a pleasant fellow.
It will be very interesting indeed to see how the irregular documentation is greeted by the port captains down the coast, and what ‘skipper’ thinks about it.
No comments:
Post a Comment