We felt like James Bond when we arrived in Cabo San Lucas. Having recently watched "Thunderball" on our laptop, the gleaming megayachts, speeding speedboats, swank resort hotels and crystal clear waters of the bay convinced us we must have arrived by hydrofoil rather than slow boat.

On our way out of Magdalena Bay we had fallen in with singlehander Gary on "Dash," a Yamaha 36, and we sailed in his company all the 170 miles to Cabo. We arrived while it was still dark, and hove-to until dawn. On our way in we were startled by dozens of sportfishing boats racing out of the bay hunting marlin and tuna, and by 0730 we were anchored in 24 feet of warm water over fine sand. A few hundred feet away a gentle surf broke on a steep white beach below one of the numerous resort hotels that line the beach. "Dash" arrived as we were having breakfast, and soon he picked us up in his dinghy and took us into the marina to visit town and the Port Captain. The marina is full of shiny white sportfishing boats, glass-bottom pangas, cruise ship shore boats, submarine viewing boats, and party catamarans, all buzzing to and fro. At the back corner, by the "Puerto Paraiso" shopping mall that dominates the northeast corner, is a secure dinghy dock where one can tie up for 30 pesos a day.

Walking around town was a strange experience after weeks of the barren Baja peninsula. In stark contrast to everywhere since Ensenada, we could spend money. We could choose from cultured Japanese pearls at Fashion Avenue, a Harley Davidson at its own store, a generator or a saddle at Ace Hardware, tequila from any territory in the Republica, 5 Tecate Lights in a bucket for $10US at Quesadilla's, oil filters or a light bulb at either of two chandleries, furniture for our condo at any one of a number of places, and so on. It truly felt like a garden of delights that we didn't need.

When we got back to the boat that first afternoon we discovered that Jet Skis had descended. Pale-skinned visitors rent them for the afternoon and, swathed in life jackets, they spend the time churning the beautiful bay into a fierce chop. Every afternoon men on Jet Skis bond with their sons, teenage girls giggle together, and 11-year-olds keep the throttles open wide for hours. Boats at anchor give them a landscape to drive around, so we found them spinning around and around the boat, oblivious to us huddled within. The aggravation ceases around 5:00, thank god, and the bay quickly returns to its placid state. Please, dear reader, don't ever use a jet ski.

We ate a lot in Cabo. For Christmas Eve dinner we went to an Israeli restaurant that had recently opened and was raved about in the "Gringo Gazette," the local English-language booster newspaper. The food was not really very good and the youthful Israeli staff was barely competent, but our Mexican waiter was professional and friendly and we sat outside on thick pillows, drinking tea with Gary for hours. The following night, inspired by a photo of our friend Dave eating pizza in New York, we went to an Italian restaurant for pizza and mojitos. We went to the Sleeping Lobster (brother to the better-known Crazy Lobster) for some terrible tortilla soup and delicious scallop tacos.

Cabo was also a good place to provision. Near the marina was Aramburo's supermarket, abundantly stocked with US breakfast cereals, California produce (hardly any Mexican produce makes it to Baja), vanilla, coffee, canned vegetables and liquor. We made a couple of trips to buy water there, which was a humorous production as we splashily refilled our water jugs in front of the store. The children who bag your groceries were delighted to help out and get away from their stations.

After a week or so we had rested and provisioned and strolled the malls to our hearts' content and it was time to get ready for the 270-mile journey to the Mexican mainland.