It's a Where the Wild Things Are kind of evening here in Agua Verde, on the inside of the Baja Peninsula, about 90 miles north of La Paz. The full moon is rising behind small, soft gray clouds tinged with pink from the last of the sunset, and 4 tiny boats with multiple masts and numerous sails are curiously meandering through the bay, dream-like, surreal. The wind is so light, they're rowing with their sails up, passing by like colorful ghosts. The sky color intensifies -- the salmon and gray contrasting in large patches as the sailboats finally give up in the dying breeze, drop little anchors while they reef their sails, pull anchor, and row slowly back to the beach.

The little beach on the north side of this anchorage is something from a movie -- it's so picturesque, it simply can't be real. A tiny thatch-roofed building, which looks partially completed or temporarily abandoned, sits off to the right with a short fence all around and a small pickup truck parked under the carport. Colorful panga boats line the shore, parked at angles to each other, as if each panguero coordinated with the others to create a visual balance of perfect and imperfect, just for those Sea of Cortez picture-taking opportunities. I find it impossible to decide which photograph to use for this blog: the imaginary sailboats at sunset, sailing off to the land of the Wild Things against the rising moon; the beach with the palapa home and the panga boats; the beautiful Sierra de la Giganga range, rugged and green from the recent hurricane and rivaling Moorea in stark, craggy beauty.

The Sea of Cortez is starting to take it's magical effect on us. We're shedding our former selves, layer by layer, paying attention to the clock a little less, planning fewer things in each day, feeling a little more in the moment and not so concerned with the next. Last night, anchored in San Evaristo, I awoke at 3am, clambered into the cockpit and took in the beauty of the moonlight reflected on the still ocean, joined by the mast lights of the other sailboats sitting peacefully in their watery spaces, confined only by the radius of their anchor chains. Wow. Fantastic back porch, I thought. Fantastic view. People pay jillions of dollars to have an ocean view like this, and here we are. We can stay and enjoy it, or move on to the next place, and be surprised by a dream-like sailboat regatta in slow motion at sunset. Soon, according to the guide book, the local goats will make their way into the hills, the bells around their necks clanging as they climb.

Really, now. Is this us? Are we here? Is this real? How can I possibly write about this without sounding cliche, or seriously deluded? Allan says he still can't believe this is his life. Not just a 2-week vacation that will end soon.

Sometimes, I'll admit, I worry I'll get bored. How many incredible little harbors can we sail into, dropping our anchors into perfect sand, swimming in warm water with fish all around, eating home-made tortillas from the teeny towns, so teeny, the tortilleria is someone's home, the tienda is in a garage? How many books can I read, crosswords puzzles can I do, blogs can I write? But so far, boredom is not an issue, and seriously, it never will be, for us. The people we meet, let alone the staggering scenery, make each day interesting. Impromptu potluck beach parties or hikes to town, the invitation usually delivered in person by kayak or dingy. Boat cards exchanged over rails as we swap stories and plans. Everyone has a boat card out here, with the boat name, far more important than your actual given name, your HAM radio call sign or boat radio call sign, your pertinent emails and phone numbers, and often a photo of either the owners or the boat itself, usually the latter, although the former is extremely helpful when you're going through the stack you've collected in the last weeks, trying to remember which cool couple was which.

And everyone wants to know your "plan." Puddle Jump or Sea? 6-on-6-Off? Z-Town? Canal? As creative as you might think your plan is, someone else has done it. So many someone's that each "unique" plan has a name, or a general reference to it's nature. Crossing the Pacific to the Marquesas and beyond? The Puddle Jump. Staying north of Mazatlan in the Sea of Cortez? Doing The Sea. Going to Mazatlan and points south? Crossing Over or Gold Coast. Staying in Mexico for the sailing season, then going home for six months, then back again? 6-on-6-Off. Headed for Zijuatenejo? Z-Town. Now, if you're going through the canal, I don't know what they actually call it because so far I haven't heard a term for that one, unless it's ultimately to Cross the Pond (Atlantic crossing) which few people we meet are planning to do. Oddly, we've discovered that if we use the words "going through the canal" in a sentence, most people get blank looks on their faces, rather like if you told them you were in the Waste Management business; they really don't know where to go from there. It's just enough out of their frame of reference that they politely excuse themselves and move on. It will be interesting to see how that changes as we sail south, nearer said canal ...

But for now, we're in The Sea, which is rather like sailing through the Grand Canyon, or past the Sangre de Christos in New Mexico, or through parts of Utah. All around, it's gorgeous. Red, brown, pink, and green stacked and layered strata, craggy mountain-tops, incredible vistas, and here we sit -- not on a dusty plain or down in a hot, stagnant valley, but on a beautiful ocean, with a perfect breeze, moving past the vistas like passengers on a Disneyland ride.

I used to wonder what was wrong with me, that I compared real life to Disneyland. "Wow, it's a Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-Sky!" I'd remark. Or, "This is better than the Submarine ride at Disneyland." How, I thought, could the flawed real world compare to the perfection of Walt Disney's inventive and meticulous mind? But now, I know better. Walt was a keen observer of the real thing, and knew just what he was doing.