It Takes a Scrooge to Sail to the South Pacific Our cruising buddies are cheap -- not out of some serious character flaw or an uncouth upbringing -- but because they simply have many more nautical miles to go before they rest. by Janna Cawrse

n late October 2003, cruisers up and down the West Coast, from Alaska to British Columbia to San Francisco, migrated south for the Baja Ha-Ha. This popular cruisers' rally takes off from San Diego and visits two small Mexican ports before reaching its ultimate destination, Cabo San Lucas, eleven days later. This year's flock of a hundred-plus boats sailed or drifted or motored away from the ash of San Diego in search of camaraderie, safety in numbers, rumors of revelry, and expedited Mexican customs clearance. All this for the paltry sum of $250 US. "Two hundred and fifty bucks?!" I can hear my cruising friends cry. "Just think of all the Top Ramen you could buy for that much money."       You see, my husband Graeme and I traveled south this fall with a fleet of less extravagant, more frugal, dare I say stingy ocean-goers. When questioned, some offered highfalutin, noble, even moral reasons for rejecting the Baja Ha-Ha. As for us, we thought giggling our way south with a gaggle of cruisers sounded not only safe and helpful, but like a lot of fun. In the end, we skipped the Mexican flotilla of laughter because we were just too cheap.       Graeme and I are prime examples of low-budget cruisers. We bought Dragonfly, our 1973 Hallberg-Rassy Rasmus, without all the bluewater bells and whistles, determined to outfit her ourselves, little by little. In the year leading up to our September departure from Seattle, we patronized used marine supply stores like most people frequent the supermarket. Mainsails, compasses, drifters, cockpit cushions, mizzens, spinnaker poles, and teak anything were our standard fare. When the sailor's swap meet came to town last spring, Graeme and his dad arrived ready to shop at 2:17 a.m., only to sleep in the bucket seats of the Toyota until the vendors started selling about an hour before dawn. Under the glow of headlamps they bought an emergency water-maker and a stack of charts, both of which we never plan to use. The former because we hope never to need our abandon ship bag; the latter because Caribbean charts don't help much in the Pacific. Shopping in the dark does have its hazards.       These harried attempts at outfitting for an oversized dream on an undersized budget continued as our departure date loomed. Despite stealthy attacks on the used nautical market, our list of boat necessities never seemed to retreat. In fact, the more sailors, books, and articles we consulted, the longer the list grew.       In late summer, after a shakedown cruise around Vancouver Island, when desperation was setting in, we finally scored an Aries wind vane and a W.H. autopilot, both used, both of which we installed ourselves. "Many cruising texts sagely advise self-installation of on-board systems," Graeme assured, "because when they break, which they inevitably do, we'll be familiar enough with them to fix them ourselves." (My husband and I often use the royal "we" in our conversations about boatwork: "Did we transform that teak board into a cockpit table yet?" might be countered by "Did we get those hatch-covers sewn?") Installing the wind vane was simple enough.       Clearly I was not involved in this project that "we" performed, but the autopilot, and its integration into our hydraulic steering system, was a bit more complex. When our hydraulic hoses blew, two months later, on an overnight run around Point Sur with 35 knot gusts, you can imagine that we were delighted with the knowledge we would be spending the next couple days in port making the repairs ourselves.       And maybe that's the real reason we, cheap cruisers that we are, bah humbugged the Baja Ha-Ha. With all our secondhand equipment, self-styled systems, and subsequent repairs, we simply don't move very fast. The Ha-Ha is a race of sorts, which requires making it to the starting line at the very least. But our pace landed us in San Diego Bay long after the hooting and Ha-Ha-ing flock had flown.       It's true that the people we've been cruising with seem to move at a slower pace. Our German sailing friends on Azimut avoid motoring their Najad 330 at all costs. "Not out of some die-hard minimalist sailing philosophy," Eckhardt says, "but because every hour under power equals an hour of engine work." After the first leg of the Baja Ha-Ha, one of our few non-cheap friends, Dave, on his Pearson 424 Neried, reported that he only sailed "five hours and ten minutes" of the three-day run to Turtle Bay. Upon hearing this, Eckhardt shook his head in relief, estimating that he saved hundreds of hours of engine work, and many diesel dollars, by not participating in the rollicking rally. Eckhardt admitted that you'd have to pay him to travel on someone else's schedule. "But it's true," he smiled as he raised a Pabst from his $10.99 case of beer, "I'm cheap."       Indeed, our breed of sailor seems to take a perverse pride in its economy. Instead of paying marina store prices, we walked three hours with our Canadian friends Russ and Shirley to buy toolboxes from a discount store. Russ and Shirley, whose Wandering Star I is also a 35' Hallberg-Rassy, were so thrilled by our thriftiness that they crowned us honorary Canadians. When Shirley announced this over a couple glasses of Two-Buck-Chuck (our favorite $1.99 wine, made by Charles Shaw), she worried that this might offend us. We assured her that it was high praise in our book to be considered cheap enough to be Canadian.       Fellow American cruiser, Ron, on Sweet Witch, an aluminum-hulled schooner, claimed with glee that he likes to "squeeze the nickel Ôtil the buffalo poops." Our Canadian comrades translated this to "plucking the Loony Ôtil she's stark naked." We had lots of fun over Two-Buck-Chuck making up variations on this money clutching theme, until Ron told us he made his own LED lights to save money. All joking stopped immediately. Ron preached about the efficiency and long life of LEDs. We lamented their exorbitant cost at big box marine stores. Ron drew diagrams and handed out fabrication specifications. We sang Hallelujah.       Bob Wyche, another handy sailor, built his 35' sloop Twixt twenty-some years ago. Now he's finally living his dream, albeit on a shoestring budget, cruising with his 19-year-old son Chris. We smiled at Bob's explanation of the boat's name: "Twixt heaven and hell; twixt here and there; twixt the devil and the deep blue sea." The red pile of rubber on their foredeck, acquired from a friend for free, is also a "twixt" of sorts: twixt a dinghy and a lifeboat; twixt an inflatable transportation device and a flaccid objet d'art; and, Bob says, "Twixt a gift and a curse." As cruisers who've opted for the dual-purpose dinghy/liferaft ourselves, we applaud Twixt's economical choice. (In a fit of extravagance, we also forked out the dough for a patch kit.) When friends Poki and Christian were in deep turmoil about acquiring a lifeboat for Irie, their 33' steel double-ender, we assured them that many cruisers were opting for the raft-dinghy duo. Irie's owners shuddered at the thought of spending precious money on a piece of equipment they'd pray they'd never use. This conversation took place in Newport Harbor where Minnie's, the largest used marine supplier on the west coast, is located. A taxi ride with us to the used marine mecca (the fare split to make it affordable) was long enough to convince them that gurus Lin and Larry Pardey had it right on the dinghy-doubling-as-a-lifeboat dilemma.       Now, I don't want to imply that all cheap cruisers think alike. If there's one thing we've learned on our voyage, it's that there are always multiple, adequate, and more or less expensive solutions to the million-dollar questions of cruising life. One thing the Baja Humbuggers do seem to have in common is that most intend to sail beyond Mexico to the South Pacific. In contrast, many of those we met early in our journey, who flew past us on their way to the Ha-Ha, were bound for Mexico--period. So maybe that's the key. Our cruising buddies are cheap, not out of some serious character flaw or an uncouth upbringing, but because they simply have many more nautical miles to go before they rest. Eckhardt and Ursula on Azimut set sail from the Adriatic Sea with the intent of circumnavigating. That was five years ago. They're only half way around. The cruising kitty needs to stretch her paws that much further when ocean crossings are in the plan and strict timetables are not.       Scrooge was reprimanded for his miserly ways by the Christmas Ghosts. And, maybe, when the Ghost of Christmas Past visits our frugal fleet in Mexico this holiday season, he will criticize us for bah humbugging the Baja Ha-Ha and other money-spending opportunities. More likely, the Ghost of Christmas Present will notice that we're not tightlipped when it comes to telling a good yarn, and we're never tightfisted when someone needs a helping hand. And, most importantly, the Ghost of Christmas Future will see us beyond Mexico, sailing the South Pacific in 2004. But he'll warn us, as Christmas Ghosts are apt to do, that we'll only make it if we sail cheap. As we go to press, Janna and Graeme are sailing from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas where they'll spend Thanksgiving; then to Sayulita, Mexico for Christmas. ...back to 48° North title page