Jersey Boy at Sea
A bacon, egg & cheese in the middle of the ocean.
If you haven’t heard from me in a couple weeks, it’s because I’ve been sailing the high seas, specifically the Sea of Cortez between mainland Mexico and the Baja peninsula. It’s the sort of trip you take when you’re a writer with no real job and few obligations, and your buddy calls you up and offers to take you on his boat for a couple weeks.
As a disclaimer, this post is mostly a sailor story, but it does include a good recipe towards the end. We’ll get back to our regularly scheduled restaurant reviews next week.
Our aim was to observe the eclipse in totality. We achieved that goal, but not without cost. If you believe in astrology, total eclipses are known for generating chaos. Combined with a Mercury in retrograde, we couldn’t have chosen a more chaotic time for a sailing trip if we tried.
Sailing, unlike any other form of transportation, is completely beholden to the whims of the wind and the weather. Best practice dictates if you’re going to attempt a 200+ mile crossing in the open sea, you should wait for a good weather window when conditions are favorable. We knew this going into our journey, but ignored our own advice because we decided witnessing a total solar eclipse from a sailboat in the middle of the ocean was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that should be prioritized over matters as mundane as “good wind.”
Our chief obstacle was prevailing winds coming from the northwest, precisely the direction we needed to travel to intersect with the path of totality. Luckily, our 30’ yacht Hellebore was equipped with a strong diesel engine, allowing us to eschew traditional sailing and motor straight into the wind as if we were a powerboat.
Looking back from the safety of land, I believe it was precisely this act of hubris that angered Poseidon, who chose to punish us like he did Odysseus, foisting upon us a series of trials that would dominate the rest of voyage.
The eclipse was pretty lit, though.
Our troubles began on the evening of Saturday, April 6th. Motoring towards a tiny island called Isla Isebelita, we ran over a fishing net in the middle of the night and snagged our propeller on the line. Captain Walt was forced to put on his snorkel and mask and dive into the water. Knife in hand, he hacked at the netting while my partner Rex and I shined our headlights into the water, barely illuminating the darkness. After 15 minutes of struggle, he successfully freed us from the net - an impressive feat to be sure - and we motored out to sea, eager to avoid more obstacles. Sadly, this meant an entire night’s catch lost for the local fisherman whose net we ruined. Though I’m sure the fishes we liberated felt less sympathetic to that cause.
Sunday was spent wandering Isla Isabelita, a Mexican Galapagos of sorts filled with birds and iguanas. Then on the morning of the eclipse, Monday, April 8th, we motored 40 miles northwest, straight into the path of totality. At 11am we cut the motor and raised our sails to witness the glorious spectacle of a total eclipse of the sun.
Totality lived up to the hype. When the darkness had begun to recede and the sun remerged, we set course for Baja, with roughly 250 miles of sea to cross before making landfall on the southeast corner of the peninsula. The wind had not shifted - it was still on our nose - so we kept the engine running and powered all day and into the night. I settled in to try and sleep as best I could in a pitching, rolling sailboat, while my partner Rex stood watch.
In the middle of the night, I awakened to a commotion coming from the rear of the boat. The repetitious chug-a-lug of the engine was gone, replaced by the slap of waves pounding against the bow and the sound of voices arguing over something in the cockpit. The engine had cut out unexpectedly, and there was a question over who or what was to blame. Walt, our captain, went down below to troubleshoot the engine, attempting to bleed any air out of the lines, a common problem on diesel motors. He did not succeed in his efforts, and was forced to set the sails and alter our course continuing on an upwind tack. Believing all was well, I drifted off to sleep.
A few hours later around 3am, I awakened again. This time, the wind was whipping up to great speed and the seas were roiling much more heavily than before. I rolled out of bed to find our captain desperately trying to control the boat with two reefs in the mainsail and the jib folded up onto the roller furler. We had previously reduced our sail to the minimum amount necessary to control the boat. It was now my turn to stand watch, so I took the helm while the Captain went below to try again to fix our motor so we could power through this weather.
Checking our navigation system, I realized that despite facing the right direction towards Baja, we were actually moving backwards, a phenomenon known as “being set” by the wind and current. The wind and waves were so strong they were pushing us back from whence we came!
As the boat rocked violently, I attempted to push the starter button as Walt continued to bleed the fuel lines of air. We failed in all attempts. Our Captain grew increasingly anxious, as we were losing the precious headway we had made. This is precisely the sort of situation motors on sailboats are designed for. But the gods of the sea had other plans.
“Screw the motor, this boat wants to sail,” I exclaimed. Captain agreed. Spreading a bit more canvas from the jib to give some additional power, I steered us through the wind and waves for the rest of the night. As the sun rose, the weather finally began to relent, and I relinquished my watch feeling very sailorly as I drifted off to sleep.
We spent the next day trying to troubleshoot our engine problems, as we were still sailing towards the wind and making little headway. The engine would start and run for a bit, then die. We bled the lines over and over, to no avail. Toiling down below deck, our captain inadvertently banged his elbow against the fuel tank.
BONGGGGGG.
He realized with horror that it was completely empty! Somehow we had lost nearly 20 gallons of diesel fuel in the course of a day. Surmising there must be a leak in the tank somewhere, we had no choice but to unfurl our canvas, set sail, and surrender to wherever the wind decided to blow us.
And blow us steadily it did, forcing us to tack or “beat” upwind on a zig-zag trajectory that, while certainly not a direct route to Baja, was ultimately pushing us in the general direction of where we needed to go. I quite enjoyed the next few days, which I spent reading many old timey sailor stories. Those brave souls didn’t need any engines, I thought, and neither did we.
Finally, on the morning of Thursday, April 11th, after close to 60 hours of sailing, we sighted land. The sun was shining, the seas were smooth as glass, and there wasn’t a hint of a breeze to fill our sails. The wind had died completely, and though we could lay eyes on the anchorage at Cabo Pulmo where we planned to set our hook, we had no way of getting there. Bobbing like a rubber duck in a bathtub with no way of moving any which way, we spent the day luxuriating in the sun and dousing ourselves with seawater to stay cool. At one point our Captain jumped in the water for a swim, but had to quickly climb back on board because of some sharks that were beginning to prowl. Then, as the sun began to set, a warm zephyr emerged to carry us to shore. We set our anchor at Cabo Pulmo, celebrating our safe passage with shots of tequila.
The next morning, after taking a pleasant walk on the beach and bartering with a local overlander for some diesel, the wind backed to the south, precisely the direction we needed to continue our course north to La Paz. So we headed back to the boat and rigged up our spare fuel tank to the motor, feeling grateful that we had at least enough fuel to power out of difficult situations when necessary.
I was at the helm with the motor running, and as the captain pulled up our anchor, I began to power us out of the anchorage back to sea. But our trials were not over yet. Before we could make it out of Cabo Pulmo, our motor died once again. We lost all momentum, had no power, and the wind was in our face, pushing us back towards the beach. This situation is called a “lee shore,” and may be the single most terrifying situation there is for a sailor, apart from being gobbled up by sea monsters. Because if the wind blows your boat onto the beach, you’re shipwrecked. The odds of recovering your boat are close to zero.
We rapidly raised the mainsail and began a course parallel to the shore, aiming straight for a rocky point to the south. To avoid imminent destruction, we had to tack in the other direction. But tacking without momentum is impossible - you cannot sail a boat upwind from a standstill. So our only hope was to gain enough speed to overcome the wind and tack before reaching the point.
To this end, Captain Walt attempted to unfurl the jib, but it snagged on the roller furler - another stroke of bad luck. With just the mainsail, I held our course while the Captain tried to get the jib out. Feeling like our window to get this boat offshore was rapidly closing, I shouted, “Captain, I think we can tack!”
“If you think you can do it, do it now!” he replied.
I swung the wheel hard to port and prayed to the gods as the nose of the boat slowly turned upwind. At this stage, precisely one of two things can happen. Either we have enough speed that the bow crosses the wind and we’re saved, or the bow pushes up against the wind, and is then turned back to starboard, and we’re headed for the rocks. We might survive, but the boat would not.
By the grace of Poseidon, the bow crossed the wind. We tacked, and were able to make it safely off shore, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
For the engine nerds out there, here’s what happened: we had rerouted the diesel fuel return line to the breather valve on the jerry can, but had forgot the drill out a new breather valve, so we were vapor locked. Luckily, this problem was easily resolved. With the wind at our backs and a functional motor, things were looking up.
All this drama had worked up our appetites, and it was my turn to cook, so I went below to the galley to whip us up some Jersey-style bacon, egg & cheese sandwiches with home fries on the side.
First, I cubed a couple of potatoes and threw them in the pan with oil, then put on the lid and cooked them at high heat for 10 minutes. High heat with lid on is the best way to cook breakfast potatoes. The steam is necessary to cook them through. Once they are tender, I add seasonings (garlic powder, salt, pepper, cumin, paprika, etc), then pull off the lid, and cook for several more minutes at high heat to add a layer of crisp to the bottom. Once the potatoes are ready, it’s time for bacon and eggs.
Cooking on a boat comes with a unique set of challenges. The most prominent being perpetual motion in all directions. But our stovetop was on a gimbal, so as the boat rocked to and fro, the oven swung in the opposite direction (or appeared to, really it was staying in place). Thusly, I avoided scalding myself with hot bacon grease.
Our sandwiches were prepared one at a time using hamburger buns for bread, which you may recall from my post “A Grand Tetons Breakfast Sandwich” is my preferred choice of bread when lacking proper bagels or rolls. The reason is, the soft burger buns soaks up the egg yolk in a pleasing way. Plus, if you plan to layer up your sando with bonus ingredients like fresh Mexican avocado, you need something soft to avoid your beautiful sando ingredients from squirting out the side, like they do at Daily Driver.
Now I’ll share my best egg sandwich cheffing techniques.
In a nonstick pan, I fry two eggs at a time, breaking the yolks in the traditional fashion, then add salt and pepper. When the outsides of the whites start to bubble, I flip the eggs quickly (no spatula needed if your non-stick does its job), then turn off the heat, allowing the residual heat of the pan to gently cook the other side of the eggs. At the same time, I add sliced cheddar cheese on top, then layer on the bacon, and put on the lid, giving it one minute to melt but not a moment more (keep in mind the burner has already been turned off by this stage).
Then I squirt a bit of ketchup onto the bottom half of the bun, and place the eggs on the bun. If done correctly, the cheese will have already melted to a desirable level from the heat of the eggs and bacon. Then I add some avocado, season with hot sauce to taste, and oila!
In this fashion, you can make a perfect bacon, egg & cheese sandwich every time, even at sea. If done right, your cross-section will look like this.
Here’s a photo of Captain Walt, thrilled to be sailing downwind with a glorious egg sandwich and fried potatoes to enjoy.
FINAL THOUGHTS
If you’re going to sail, listen to the wind and the weather. Don’t be like us and go upwind, completely relying on the motor to get you where you need to go. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this trip, it’s that motors can fail at any time. But the wind will always return, even if you have to wait a day or two for that to happen.
DECISION-MAKING SKILLS: 4
POST-TRAUMATIC BACON, EGG & CHEESE: 10
That’s it for this edition of Jersey Boy Eats! I’m back in LA for the next few weeks and excited to bring you some new reviews. There’s a couple Jewish delis here in tinsel town I keep hearing about, so let’s see how they rank.
