Sailing has been quite rightly compared to "standing fully clothed in a cold shower, tearing up pound-notes," and BOAT could of course be an acronym for "Break Out Another Thousand." But implicit in those (and other) oft-recalled epithets is the idea that there must be some nebulous something that makes people do it over and over again. Our crossing from Cabo San Lucas to the Mexican mainland was exactly why people keep pouring money into their holes in the water.

We left Cabo around noon on Monday, December 29, with full knowledge that we had over 270 nautical miles to cross before we arrived at our destination; our longest passage yet. Our route was east-southeast across the broad southern end of the Sea of Cortez, from Cabo San Lucas at the southern tip of the Baja peninsula, past the trio of penal-colony islands Las Tres Marias, to strike the coast at the town of San Blas. Our friend Gary, singlehanding aboard the Yamaha 36 "Dash," was sailing with us, which gave us someone to talk to on the radio and another set of eyes to watch out for us.

Passing among cruise ships, tenders, Jet Skis, parasailers, water taxis, outdated America's Cup boats, and sportfishers, we departed Cabo San Lucas under full sail. In the evening the wind dropped off and we motored for a while, watching "Dash"'s running lights over the wavetops a mile away, and the buzzing glow of a cruise ship as it headed east to Mazatlan. But early in the morning the wind picked up, a gentle 10-knot breeze from the northwest, perfect to carry us along on an easy broad reach. This wind continued into the morning, though the waves were a bit steep making it the bouncy ride the Sea of Cortez is known for.

Around 0900 on Tuesday we passed a fishing trawler and spoke to Gary on the radio. The wind was a bit light and variable, but by midday it had picked up to 10-15 knots from the northwest, and the seas settled down, and we could sail on and on. And so we did, on into the night.

Tuesday night we learned how to sleep while on watch: With a timer set to go off every ten minutes, and a bed set up in the cockpit, the on-watch person can doze off and get some rest without giving up watch-keeping. Sarka saw a yacht pass the opposite direction.

In the morning we found a squid on deck (see the photo gallery for San Blas), and booby birds circled the boat from time to time. And still we plowed on, making 4.5 to 5.5 knots the whole time, under a clear blue dome of sky, riding gently over the quartering waves.

In the afternoon we passed three greenish sea turtles floating on the surface, their necks stretching as they watched us go by. One of them had a gull standing on its back: A charming effect. Later, a freighter passed behind us, headed north.

We altered course twenty miles north of the northernmost Maria, giving these mysterious islands their mandatory clearance. Still the wind held, and we were carried almost all the way to San Blas, for a total of 44 hours of sailing. Our average speed over the entire trip was 4.8 knots; a very fast passage for our boat.

As we cooked dinner we danced on the pitching saloon floor to Cuban music on the shortwave, courtesy of Radio Habana. The wind diminished as we neared the land, so we were motoring when midnight approached. We could see fireworks above the mountains: New Year's Eve, but it seemed to be happening to someone else, because we felt so timeless, floating in space after two and a half days of easy sailing.

As is usual on passages, the last few miles were the longest. In the darkness the landmarks are confusing, especially in Mexico, where navigation lights come and go much more often than chart updates. Many of the available charts have not seen much correction since their original surveys in the 19th century. For us, navigating with the precise ease of GPS, the inaccuracy of the charts can be quite confounding. The electronic charts show objects--such as the shore itself--quite a distance from their actual positions, and it is unnerving to find the computer telling you that you are high and dry when looking outside you clearly remain afloat.

Also confounding was the behavior of three frigate birds that kept trying to alight on the top of our mast. Our masthead is cluttered with navigation lights, a VHF antenna and a wind indicator (itself equipped with a spike to deter birds), so there isn't much room for a bird to stand. But the birds wanted to stand there, so over and over again they flew up in the darkness and bang! They crashed into the antenna or the wind indicator. It was very annoying, and in the morning the wind indicator was obviously cockeyed from its pounding by these heavy beasts.

We could not pass the shoal-ridden entrance to the estuary of San Blas at night, so we elected to anchor in simpler Matenchen Bay, a short distance to the south. Entering Matenchen Bay in the darkness went just fine, thanks to our radar and some updated mini-charts in the guidebooks. Gary, being faster, had arrived six or seven hours before us and was at anchor along with four other boats. After 276 miles we were able to set our own anchor in 18 feet of sand on glassy calm water and get some sleep and thank the weather gods for a perfect passage.