Last Days in La Cruz

In 1779 Captain Cook made his second landing on the Sandwich Islands (hmmm...sandwich islands). He commanded the Resolution, and was accompanied by another ship, the Discovery. As his arrival coincided with, and in some form contributed to the harvest festival and the worship of the Polynesian god Lono, he and his expedition were embraced into the festivities and shown great hospitality by the Hawaiians. After a month of celebrations the expedition set sail again, but shortly after departure the Resolution split a foremast and returned to Hawaii. At this point the festivities were decidedly over, and Cook's return unwelcome. The Hawaiians had no need for a reminder of the harvest festival, they abandoned their courtesy and made trouble for the English. A skirmish on a beach ensued, and the great captain was hit on the head and drowned in the shallows a short way from his ship.

La Cruz felt to us a little like Hawaii must have felt to Captain Cook upon his second (and final) visit. The town was empty. All the cruisers had either headed north for the Sea of Cortes, or leapt into the scary ocean crossing toward French Polynesia. We could see in the eyes of the locals their surprise at seeing us: 'You again? But the season is over. There is no music in the bars any more.' They weren't exactly hostile and they certainly did not throw rocks at us, but overall we did not find it quite as welcoming as we had.

We did not stay long, only long enough to say good-bye to our friends on Sea Wolf, Jessica, Adam and their daughter Tallulah. Adam was setting off alone on their tiny, engineless, wooden, and very beautiful boat for the South Pacific. Jessica and Tallulah would fly to join him in the Tuamotus. I managed to sew a couple of hatch covers for them, and we ate a few nice meals together. Over some "choice" tacos and generous scoops of gelato we also spent a few more precious moments with our friend Lynn in PV.

The swine flu kicked in. People were talking about it in restaurants, at Sam's Club they were giving away blue face masks, and the TV was full of the story. Schools closed down, as did airports, theaters, and stadiums.

Unfortunately, the wonderful fair that set up in La Cruz a few days after our arrival was dismantled prematurely as well. This was Fiestas Patronales, normally a week-long celebration of the town's patron saint. It featured merry-go-rounds in varying degrees of eccentricity and scariness, shooting at bottles, wheel of fortune, taco stands galore, and a stage for evening traditional dance performances.

On the opening night of the festival, a 40-foot tower of fireworks was erected in the central plaza. To get things going, a man wearing a bull outfit covered in fireworks danced, burning through the plaza full of people. When they finally lit the tower up after midnight, big flaming wheels spun around and rockets spewed multi-colored sparks. Some of those landed in the crowd, where little kids raced to put them out with the dregs from discarded beer cans. It was wonderful and totally un-American. As a grande finale, a small circle at the top of the tower, crowned with flaming swans, launched itself, spinning high up into the air and landing eventually in someone's yard a block away.

After a week we launched ourselves again, wishing to get north into the Sea of Cortez well before the hurricanes made us feel unwelcome.