The memories of Keb' Mos' bluesy rhythms that I'd gone to bed with gave way to the banging of my anchor chain in the bow roller somewhere around midnight. Mabrouka was pitching wildly, slacking the chain as the bow dove and slamming it back into the bow roller as it rose on the next wave. The gentle night had turned into a blow that was driving a couple of feet of chop into the bay.

Now that cliff a few dark feet behind us looked truly terrifying. With each bang of the anchor chain I pictured something breaking and went up to the foredeck to reassure myself that Mabrouka could save herself and us from being dashed on the rocks. There was nothing budging up there, but the swivel connecting the chain to the anchor was beyond my sight, so I was compelled to continue my worry.

Alternatives involved upping anchor at oh-dark-thirty and either resetting it blindly among other pitching boats or going out onto an unfamiliar sea to wait or to search for calmer waters. Assessing how quickly I could and how long I'd have to start the engine, I sat watch for a while instead. Somehow I convinced myself it would be okay and returned to my bunk to lie down and rest, if not actually sleep.

I suppose I did doze a little, because I finally woke to a morning that was not much more reassuring in the light. Tightly spaced three foot crests were still rolling in and the chain was still snapping taught with every other wave. I was dubious, but Zach, who preferred his bed outside in the cockpit, seemed still to be holding onto sleep. I roused him to take up anchor duty and started the engine.

Exploring Balandra bay, we kept hoping the next hundred yards would be calm enough, but it always seemed to have been a tease when we closed the distance. Andante had weighed anchor, too, and finally settled into the crook of a cliff near a crescent of sand in the north side, but I wasn't satisfied and took Mabrouka out to explore Caleta Los Lobos a short half mile south.

What we found there was placid. Open to the east instead of Balandra's northwest, Lobos only rippled with the breeze that flowed over the hills. It was every bit as pretty as Balandra, the inner reaches of its bays rimmed with white sand beaches and the added scenic punctuation of mangrove, ...well, groves. We reported back by VHF that we were staying here, poked around for a good spot, and dropped the anchor. The simple task of making pancakes and Zach's refreshing morning snorkel stood in stark contrast to the pounding evening before. It wasn't long before we were joined by other Balandran refugees: Flying Squirrel, Andante, and Northern Winds. Apropos came too, but for some reason decided to head on to La Paz for more civilized R and R.

The day evolved into chore time. Enlisting Zach's assistance, we configured a new experimental anchor bridle, fitted attachments for a dinghy step on the transom, cleaned out three months worth of seagoing yuck from behind the galley stove, made a hold-back for a cabinet door, cleaned some rust off some hull fittings, and greased the anchor winch brake.

The remainder of the day was taken up visiting on Andante, snorkeling, editing pictures, generally lazing, and making plans for La Paz the next day.