Peter’s perilous adventure – and home for the holidays
Peter started looking for crew when I started looking at plane tickets back to Denver. He needed at least one other person to help him sail from Bonaire to Santa Marta, Colombia, where we planned to leave the boat while we were in Denver for the holidays. He easily found two: Mark was a 30-something consultant traveling in Japan at the time who wanted to get some sailing miles. He’d grown up in Bermuda around power boats and didn’t have much sailing experience at all. But Peter also found Steve, who was a 40-something finance guy in Chicago who had his own boat, sailed on Lake Michigan all his life, including overnights across the lake, and needed a break from the grind. Peter reckoned Lake Michigan got weather and seas as rough as any we’d seen in the Med at least, and probably anywhere else, too, but for the Southern Ocean. They arrived the day after Quinn and Troy left to go back to Denver.
The trips to Curacao and Aruba were uneventful – they took a day or two to enjoy each, then pointed toward Colombia. Imagine the swells and waves in the far west end of the Caribbean Sea. Largely unbroken from the coast of Africa, they build up and crash against the Atlantic coast of Central America, as well as the coast of Colombia. The guys had heavy seas, high winds, and plenty of drama. In Santa Marta we talked to others who’d made the trip from the ABCs and learned that Peter’s experience was typical of the journey.
It’s especially perilous rounding the cape just north of Santa Marta, where the winds swirl wildly and waves often cross swells in a sickening dance. Peter did that stretch in the dark of night. Almost no visibility, couldn’t see the coming seas, and just felt them as they slammed into the boat. He described briefly putting the engines in neutral and then realizing the wind and swell were continuing to push them along at almost the pace they’d been making under power. Peter said Mark, who didn’t take night watches, slept through it, but Steve confessed wryly to me after they arrived in Santa Marta that he didn’t enjoy that part of the trip at all. I couldn’t blame him.
After buttoning up the boat in the marina in Baranquilla, Peter flew home and joined me in Denver. In addition to doctor and physical therapy appointments I’d been thoroughly enjoying being spoiled by Laura, Peggy, Francesca, and my girls from Craft Group (AKA Wine Group, or Coffee Group, or Walk Group or…), Ingrid, Kate, and Nicole. I also did the annual trip to Zoo Lights with Pegs and her family, I’d helped Laura prep for her annual Las Posadas party (almost always on the solstice), sewed some gifts, and wrapped a lot of Christmas presents. It was great to have Peter finally there too.
My father’s second memorial, this time in Santa Fe so his lifelong friends there could celebrate him as well, was a few days after Christmas. We headed south soon after Peter arrived and spent a typically delicious week at his old house there. (We’ve made it an Airbnb but reserve the week around Christmas for our own use since it was the preferred site for all of us to spend the holidays.) We took turns cooking – in addition to Laura and her kids, Peter, Mia and me, Dan and his daughter Clare, Molly came in from Mallorca and arrived with her son and grandson from Denver, and eventually her daughter in law from Denver and her other son and his family from San Antonio. And we’re all very good cooks.
In a break from tradition however, we decided not to cook on Christmas Day (you know, other than breakfast casserole)
and chose instead to have La Choza*, the best New Mexican restaurant in town, cater our meal. We usually have them do Christmas Eve, with trays of red chile enchiladas, beans and posole, and queso to keep us warm while we walked along Acequia Madre appreciating the farolitos. But switching to Christmas Day was brilliant. Now there was plenty of time for people to drive out to watch dances at the pueblos or simply relax and not worry about cooking.
Mia and I drove up to the Santa Fe Ski Basin with a bag of Dad’s ashes and begged to be allowed to drive further up to the little restaurant, Totemoff’s, at the mid-point of the ski area. Dad loved nothing more than taking his kids – whoever happened to be skiing with him – to Totemoff’s for a grilled green chile cheeseburger and an ice-cold beer and sit in the warmth of the brilliant sun on the deck and talk about how sweet life is. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate place for some of his ashes. Unfortunately, the parking attendants disagreed with me. Well, when they heard the stories, they agreed there was no better place, but they firmly disagreed that we could drive up there. Not being able to get my foot into a ski boot made it impossible to get there otherwise. So, we drove less than half a mile back down the ski basin road and stopped at the viewing platform there. With a breathtaking view of the city of Santa Fe, the Pajarito Mountains off to the north and the Ortiz mountains to the south, and the vast stretches of arroyos, pinon, juniper and chamisa in between, we tipped his ashes over the edge and watched them as they disappeared below. It was almost as satisfying as Totemoff’s. Perhaps I’ll ski at Santa Fe again one of these years and spread some more then.
The memorial was a very informal gathering with good food and good friends. It was poignant to see that of all his contemporaries only two were able to join us, but talking to them and hearing their stories was a balm for us all. Many of our high school friends attended (in addition to being well known as the McCarthy kids’ dad, he was also interim assistant principal for my senior year), so the reminiscing was varied and heartwarming. We’d all been well trained by our mother in putting on a big party, so it all went very smoothly and, typically, we had enough leftovers that each of us took enough home to feed us for at least another few days.
Oddly, with the Dad’s memorials done and closure achieved, I don’t have a lot of desire to return to Santa Fe. Oh, for a dinner or two at La Choza, and to see a few friends, but the town no longer holds the warmth and allure of my parents to draw me. And it’s not the same small town it was when I was in high school. I expect we’ll go back for Christmases every so often, but I can’t imagine the need to return otherwise. It’s a very strange feeling. I’m not drawn to my birthplace, Minnesota, other than to get a couple of weeks at the cottage when we can fit it in, and it’s been so long since we lived full time in Denver, that doesn’t feel like home, either. And with the current political catastrophe unfolding it holds even less appeal other than a base for voting every chance I get. That leaves the boat. Hmph.
* A marketing photo of my parents and their dear friends the Dixon’s dining at La Choza is still in the header on their website! (https://www.lachozasf.com/)
Up Next: Colombia to Guna Yala, Panama