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Cessna 208 Grand Caravan for the thirty-five minute flight to Guaymas. From there I grabbed a cab to San Carlos and bailed my little red Ford Ranger out of the storage facility. The return ferry didn't start boarding until late afternoon, so I killed time at Barracuda Bob's, my favorite hangout in San Carlos, for breakfast, then lunch. I saw a lot of friends early on, but they faded off to do what they had to do, so I fired up my computer and caught up on Facebook friends, then surfed the Net for tempting boat stuff, and finally headed for the ferry when Barracuda closed at two.
    A car ferry is far from my favorite mode of transport, especially one that takes overnight. Unfortunately my other option was to drive to Tijuana and then down Baja's two-lane Mex 1, a twelve hundred mile run I didn't have the time nor the inclination to tackle.
    Driving onto the top-heavy-looking, overcrowded ferry was a little unsettling, but the fact that it was a night crossing made it worse. I'd seen those disaster film clips from all over the world where ferries rolled over, hit rocks, or just plain sunk. Since I was doing a one-day turnaround, my suitcase contained the following:
    Four one-liter bottles of water.
    A hand-operated watermaker capable of making a gallon of water an hour.
    Two inflatable life preservers, both for me. Every woman for herself!
    A plastic bag with chocolate bars, health bars and dried fruit.
    Sunblock.
    Floating flashlight with strobe and extra batteries.
    Wet suit, fins and a mask.
    Water-activated strobe-light armband.
    Solar/hand-crank-powered light, with radio and cell phone charge r
    Handheld marine VHF radio with GPS locator.
    Cell phone.
    Handheld GPS
    Waterproof case for all of the above that needed one
     
    I would have carried a survival raft and flare gun, but figured the flare would probably get me arrested at the airport, and the raft would cost a fortune in overweight charges. Hetta Coffey: Survivalista.
     
     
    When we finally docked early Sunday morning in Santa Rosalia I was frazzled. I was a mere fifty or so yards away from my nice comfy boat as I waited in a line of cars and trucks exiting the ferry, but getting off that damnable ship took what seemed forever.
    I'd tried grabbing a few winks on the noisy, smelly ferry, but it was impossible. All the private cabins were booked, so I was relegated to steerage. There were airline type seats for passengers, but with kids running around and crying, drunks singing and then throwing up, and the general chaos of traveling in the cheap seats, I ended up reading my Kindle all night. I considered sneaking back for a snooze in my pickup bed, but the gangway doors were bolted and locked tight.
    The only saving factors were calm wind and seas. I'd been in Santa Rosalia before when the wind howled all night and witnessed the ferry bouncing around outside the breakwater, waiting for daylight and a drop in the wind so they could enter the harbor and dock. At least I was spared that nightmare, and now my little red Ford Ranger and I were home, safe and sound.
    By the time I crept by a long line of heavily armed marines and a drug-sniffing dog or two, cleared customs—which I thought was ridiculous since I was traveling from Mexico to Mexico—parked at the marina and boarded the boat, I was dragging butt. At ten in the morning, I was ready for a cold beer, a ham sandwich and a nice warm bed.
    I'd noticed, as I trudged down the dock trailing my survival suitcase, that the mine's fishing boat, Lucifer , was out of her slip. Since it was a nice calm day, I figured Bert Melton and his cronies were out fishing. If they were lucky, I hoped they'd share.
    I popped a cool one and sat out on deck for a few minutes, enjoying the morning sunshine and sea bird ballet. Spotting fresh raccoon tracks on the deck, I checked for el mapache damage and found none. I'd read the word for raccoon in Spanish came from an Aztec word meaning the one who takes everything in their hands.