This post falls into the "what we do when we're not lounging on deck drinking Margaritas" or "Why I REALLY went to college" category.
Our brand-new 35-gallon Plastimo model flexible water tank blew out after less than 6 months in use--and it blew out from the INside, which seems to indicate that it was defective. It soaked everything in its compartment, including the soft carpet lining, which then grew some nasty, moldy, creepy crawlies.
Before we left Mexico to fly home in June, we pulled the defective tank out and removed all the sodden carpet. We left the access hatches open so the space could dry out completely while we were gone.
We lugged a new, much more rugged (and heavy, and expensive) Nauta tank back from the U.S. in one of our three fairly massive checked bags. Along with it, we brought a roll of "Maine siding" (Typar) with which to line the tank area, and a roll of cedar-breather mesh to cushion and protect it (no wonder the TSA loves Michael so much!!).
As with every boat project, to install the new tank, first we had to make room to be able to work. So while Michael did some other projects, I tackled what I call the "nautical mis en place." That involved emptying the area around the port settee where the tank lives, which, in turn, meant going through all the stuff piled there.
First, I attacked the "Bag of Bags." The bag itself was a Valentine's Day gift for Michael, made from one of our old genoas by Seabags of Portland. It's emblazoned with a hammerhead shark (Michael's radio handle), and it's where we keep...bags. Three canvas totes for groceries, one mega-tote for ice, and an assortment of shopping bags, small drybags, and miscellaneous bags. Because we might need one for stowing ... something ... some day.
I refolded and organized the contents and promoted one bag to the sail locker as storage for our new awning.
Then the "Bag of Bags" went up onto the forward bunk (a.k.a. the Master Bedroom). I put it as far forward as possible, because the bulk of our tools are stored underneath the head of the bed; to get to them we have to be able to lift up the aft third of the cushion, which is hinged for that purpose.
Then I went through the "Hat Basket," which sits atop the "Bag of Bags" most of the time. The basket is large, and round, and takes up far too much room, but it's beautiful, and African, and woven of natural, green, and burgundy fibers with a lovely wrapped leather handle, and I'm not getting rid of it.
After I had gone through it (I stacked our baseball caps together, then mated the brimmed sunhats in a neater pile - this! this is why I went to college) I put the basket in the head on the closed toilet seat. Amazing what a wonderful flat surface the toilet lid is, and it almost never gets cluttered....ahem.
Now, time to clear off the table. First I removed and cleaned the organizers at the bulkhead, where we keep the handheld VHF and its cords and charger, and my phone, and a stack of boat cards, and other miscellany. I realized that the VHF needed to be charged after our time away. To do that, I had to re-route the extension cord which has had our 110-volt fan permanently plugged into it and running full-tilt since we got back (have I mentioned that it's consistently 85-plus degrees and humid?).
Then I was able to move the "Catch-all Basket" off the table and go through it. I cleaned it, then restowed all the goodies in it--everything from notepads to post-its and pens to a packet of cookies. That basket went on the floor in the head.
Now the table was empty! This is a very rare sight, which is too bad because it's a lovely piece of mahogany. I cleaned and Pledged it, then covered it with a towel so it wouldn't get damaged during the work.
All the while, I was adding things to the ongoing "Bag of Things to Get Rid Of." I put in some sorta dead pens, some pens we just don't like, a DVD of a quite bad movie (The Butterfly Effect), a heavy English dictionary, a hat nobody wears, a couple of t-shirts, and a pair of trashed long work pants.
Then I took the bunk cushions off the settee (remember? this was the original goal--access to where the water tank lives) and moved them out on deck to air. Now I was able to remove the access covers to the tank area and pull out the beer and water and other beverages we had stowed under there.
I swabbed around inside the area with Clorox wipes as well as I could (because who knows WHEN I'll be able to get back into this space). Then it was time for lunch.
By this point, a Margarita sure would have been nice, but we had a tank to install.

Upon arrival anywhere in Mexico, one of the first things we try to do is find the nearest tortilla factory (tortilleria). On Isla Mujeres, where we currently are waiting out "H" season, the factory in town -- El Grano de Oro -- is located on one of the busiest tourist streets.

This jam-packed peds-only ramble is lined with restaurants and their hawkers: "Free margaritas!" Impossibly wee shops are so jam-packed with knickknacks it's impossible to turn around inside with a backpack on, but it "no cost nothing to looky looky"... One has to wonder who would really wear a shirt that says, "This Butt's for You!" or buy a stuffed monkey to hang in a tree at home. But apparently folks do.

Among all this chaos, even should they look, I doubt many tourists would find the tortilleria, located as it is between a restaurant and a souvenir stall. We had to ask directions twice. To the delights within, you must step into a dark alley that's so narrow you have to turn sideways to let any tortilla-laden patrons pass you on their way out (there's that backpack problem again).

At the end of the polished cement passage, bags of maiz/corn flour are stacked, floor to ceiling. Built into the wall is a counter, shiny with elbow wear, which serves as weighing and wrapping station and cashier's window. Behind the cashier, a worker loads big wads of prepared dough into the top hopper of the combination tortilla machine. The dough is pressed flat, cut into six-inch rounds, cooked, and sent down the conveyor belt in a steady flow, two by two, to be stacked in piles where they await the next customer. They don't sit for long.

Place your order: half kilo, full kilo, three kilos, ten. With a deft flick of the wrist the attendant grabs a stack that corresponds to what you requested. So practiced are they that only a tortilla or two need be added to make the order's weight exact.

The last time I went, the gal in front of me looked to be about 12. She was dressed in a thin, spotless white polyester dress with puffy sleeves and a many-pleated skirt with a red-checked apron over top. On her feet were treadless rubber flip-flops. My guess? Restaurant worker. She picked up a large order; several kilos at least. While Mexico has come a long, long way in the 30 years we've been traveling here, not all have benefited from the country's new prosperity. Many start their working lives very young, at least by U.S. standards.

Here within spitting distance of Cancun, the standard of living is probably higher than in many rural areas of Mexico (it's a huge and varied country). Still, tortillas are one of the main foods consumed by Mexico's poorest people, and are much-beloved nationwide. So important are they that in 2007 the Tortilla Price Stabilization Pact, an agreement between the Mexican Federal Government under then-president Calderón, and several tortilla producing companies was put in place. The international price of corn had risen dramatically throughout 2006, leading to inflated tortilla prices.

I don't know if the price is still controlled, but today, one kilo hot off the press costs 16 pesos (unless you want them wrapped up, then you'll pay 17). That's roughly $1.30 U.S. for more than two pounds. We buy just a quarter kilo at a time so we can eat them all more or less at one go.

After emerging from the tortilleria into the blazing sun, we walk along holding the hot, brown-paper-wrapped packet in one hand, while peeling an almost see-through circle of maize goodness from the pile. Roll it tight, wolf it down, repeat. Filling, delicious, earthy. They rarely make it back to the boat.

And there's an added benefit: when you have a packet of tortillas in your hand, nobody tries to sell you a tree monkey.

Well, that sure flew by. We got home in late June and went to work almost immediately. Michael began a deck for a friend and I headed in to the Maine Boats, Homes & Harbors offices to help with preparation for the August show. It was fun to be back in the office and interesting to have a regular routine to follow after the varied days of life aboard a small boat.
What did I notice about being back in Maine?
First: Smells. Spruce and pine, new-mown grass, rosa rugosa, whatever was blooming in the garden. Tropical plants don't tend to be heavily scented. Of course, there are lots of other smells, but other than food aromas (tortillas! garlic! fish on the grill!) most are best left unmentioned.
Second: Space. Our 24x24' open loft apartment felt HUGE. "Look!" I told Michael, "You can be cooking and I can set the table. At the SAME TIME." That's just not possible in our tiny galley on the boat because the dishes and utensils are stowed behind the stove. Then there's the joy of fridge. Open the door with a gentle tug. See all the sparkly food lined up on the brightly lit shelves. After months of ice-box diving--prise out the heavy lid, remove the layers of insulation, hope what you need is somewhere near the top--the refrigerator was a treat that kept on giving.
Third: Stuff. After months of pared-down living, we flew home with just a few clothes. On my part I brought things that I intended to leave behind. So it was fun to find old friends in my drawers and closet. Hello, T-shirts, and shorts, and jeans! How ya been, earrings? Where did all you shoes come from? Mmmmm....dresses....
Don't get me wrong, we weren't suffering during our winter adventure. But life aboard a sailboat with very simple systems is a trip back to the 19th century. No pressure water--all pumped by hand. No refrigeration--just the ice we lug to the boat. Dishes are washed and dried by hand (and put away immediately, "just in case." Food is cooked on the stove top or BBQ (no microwave). Groceries are hand-carried down the dock, rowed out to the boat, and loaded aboard....you get the idea.
So while our time in "vacation" land was mostly spent working, it WAS still a vacation in many ways.

We've been here since February 11 and are both anxious to get moving toward Mexico. Right now, it's looking like a good window may open up on Tuesday.
The trick is to provision and get everything ready, then keep it that way!
That means resisting the temptation to dive into any large projects. It also means keeping track of what we eat so we can replenish before we leave. We would NOT want to cruise without enough pretzels, after all!
Actually, we have enough food on board to survive for months, and food will be less expensive where we are headed. But will they have pretzels for Michael's afternoon treat?
Last time we sailed from Florida to Isla Mujeres, in the spring of 1987, the answer would have been, "probably not." Now there's a Walmart in Cancun....wait--Google says there are THREE.
Me? I can't wait to buy "un medio kilo" of corn tortillas, straight off the press, soft and warm. I plan to rip open the brown paper wrapper right on the street, roll myself one, and snarf it down. Maybe I'll remember to bring a lime with me.

In 1986 when I was in my mid-20s and Michael in his mid-30s, we sold our house and most of our stuff and moved with what was left aboard our 38-foot steel cutter, Syrinx. We left from Rockport, Maine, agreeing that we would stick it out for at least one year.
Five years later, we had sailed from Maine to Venezuela and loads of amazing places in between. We'd walked miles of beach, eaten buckets of fish and lobster, traveled, improved our Spanish, and made loads of wonderful friends. But we were fairly broke and in need of some shore time, so we moved back on land.
First we bought a car. Next came a dish drainer. Then down the slippery slope we fell until we got real jobs and bought a house in Maine.
We kept the boat, though, and used it as our "summer camp" for daysailing, taking friends out, two-week vacations cruising the Maine coast.
We worked hard at our careers as editor (me) and carpentry contractor (Michael). We traveled. We renovated and paid off the house. Life was good. Then a couple of health issues crept in and we realized that if we wanted another big adventure we'd best not sit around and wait for it to come to us.
In the space of about year and a half, we emptied and rented the house, moved into our apartment, did a bazillion things to the boat, and moved back aboard. We left Rockport, Maine, in mid-October 2013 and are now in Florida, getting ready to continue on south to Mexico and beyond.
Have things changed in the 28 years since we last set out? You bet. That's what this blog will mostly be about. What's different, for better or worse, and how we are adjusting to going cruising again, this time on the older end of the spectrum.
Come along for the ride--it's been interesting thus far!