The Eagles won.

No surprise there—though I’m sure some Swifties were less than thrilled. Truth be told, we didn’t watch the big game, but I kept tabs on the score as we drove south. That morning, we’d said goodbye to Runaground Ranch, parting ways with our friend Peter, who had all but moved in with us over the past month while studying to become a pilot. From crossing the Pacific to flying above us—the boy is an enigma. Though Peter was no longer in our midst, we remained under the wing of the Metcalfes, who generously let us park our car at their home in West Hollywood, making our travel logistics a little smoother. It wasn’t the first time we’d been in their debt—remember Catalina?  

An Uber whisked us through the tangle of L.A. traffic, weaving between football fans spilling out of bars and backyards, taking to the freeways in their cars, some decorated for the occasion, marking them as either victors or the defeated. The congestion didn’t faze me. My mind had already drifted far from the city, across borders and latitudes, to a place where the air smells of salt and grilled pescado, where the streets are alive with the strum of guitars and the laughter of old friends. A place that has, over the years, become a second home—one that calls us back time and time again.

La Cruz de Huanacaxtle.

Margaritas, tacos, good music, and even better company were waiting for us there, and I could already feel the familiar rhythm settling back into my bones.

As Chris and I got comfortable in our seats, I exhaled the kind of breath that only comes after navigating an airport on little sleep and too much caffeine. The hum of the engines and the dim glow of the overhead lights signaled that, finally, we were on our way. Buckling in, I pulled out my phone, cued up my favorite podcast, and nestled into the familiar nook of Chris’s neck and shoulder, hoping to steal a few moments of sleep before we touched down. Then, just before takeoff, the clock struck midnight. February 10th. Chris’s 27th birthday. For the next four days, we’d be the same age.

Outside, the tarmac lights flickered against the dark expanse, illuminating the painted markings I now recognized thanks to Peter’s endless study sessions. Hold-short lines, threshold markings, touchdown zones—it was impossible not to notice them now. Clearly, I was becoming a quasi-pilot myself.

A few hours later, Guadalajara greeted us with the familiar scent of burning trash and a crisp breeze. I had forgotten how different the inland temperature felt compared to the coast. Our layover was shorter than expected, thanks to the time change, and before we knew it, we were on our final flight, descending into the warm embrace of Bahía de Banderas. 

Bienvenido a Casa

We landed early—somehow—so Max suggested we grab a drink at the airport bar while we waited for him to pick us up. “Twist my arm,” I said, settling down for a margarita at 9:00 AM. Not long after, we were reunited with The Max, now sporting his new car—the same one we had rented in Mazatlán for the eclipse. We drove to La Cruz just to drop off our belongings and grab Karen, then back tracked to Bucerias, straight for Birria. Finally. The same taco place where we’d shared our first meal together three years ago—the spot we continue to dream of and return to. It’s Chris’s favorite, so it felt fitting that it was his first birthday meal: delicious, messy, and perfect.

Afterwards, we made our way down to the beach, honoring tradition. I sipped a carajillo while everyone else had a drink that tasted oddly like oysters—probably due to the ice. We indulged in beachside massages from one of the vendors, letting the warmth and relaxation wash over us.

Back in La Cruz, we settled into Casa de Lusty and wasted no time jumping into the pool. Our tans had quickly faded in the mountains, and we were eager to get some color back on our otherwise pale skin. Soon, we were joined by the crew of SV Eyoni: Ethan, Cynthia, and our pals Andres, Michelle, April, and Franco. Karen, ever the gracious host, put together a spread of snacks for everyone as we watched the day slip into night. We danced, laughed, and Ethan gifted Chris a cowrie shell necklace—a simple but meaningful token that he cherished. Second only, of course, to the PacBrake I’d bought him for his truck.

After a long day of travel, the birthday boy was tuckered out, calling it a night by 10:00 PM. I, on the other hand, was convinced to stay up just a little longer. It felt like a dream—were we really back? The tropical warmth wrapped itself around me as I took a deep breath and watched the clock strike 1:00 AM. Time to follow my beloved to bed. After all, we had six more days of fun ahead… or so we originally planned.

Day One 

Waking up to the sound of roosters as the morning light poured through our bedroom window was a familiar feeling. It was 7:00 AM, and I was ready to soak up every second of La Cruz time—starting with breakfast.

Max and Karen had recently started serving breakfast at their bar, Lusty on Land, and we were eager to try it all. The best breakfast burrito we’d ever had? Check. A California Benedict that was absolutely phenomenal? Double check. The coffee was on point, served in my favorite mugs, and made even better by the familiar faces of the best waitstaff in the world—Alma and Estrella. Just as I took a sip of coffee, a woman approached the bar, her brow furrowed.

“Avocet?” she asked, quizzically.

I smiled and said yes, then realized—it was our longtime internet friend from SV Annie’s Kite! We quickly caught up, explaining that Avocet was still up in the Sea and that we were visiting by land. No sooner had we wrapped up our conversation when another familiar face appeared—Pawal from SV Key Lime Pie sat beside us, recounting his recent brush with a lightning strike and swapping stories about our upcoming plans. That’s Lusty on Land—more than just a bar, it’s a community, a place that always brings people together.

With no boat projects to tackle, Chris and I wandered the town with no plans. Now what? Eventually, we made our way back to the house for work, a workout, and, of course, pool time… I know, rough life. That evening, we returned to the bar for drinks and Taco Tuesday where I had the best gringo tacos—and I’m very picky about my tacos. The music was on point, with The Latin Folks playing an incredible rendition of Volare that stopped us in our tracks.

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After dinner, we joined the Eyoni crew for a walk to Playa Cruz, a long-time passion project of Max and Karen’s that was finally taking shape after years of hurdles. Watching the sunset from the third-floor balcony inspired us to continue on our way to the beach. There on the sand as if scripted by a movie, a lone horse galloped across the beach beneath the full moon.

Back at the bar, we had a few more drinks before heading to Al Philo, the speakeasy, where Franco was spinning for techno night. We danced until 3:00 AM before finally dragging ourselves home to Casa de Lusty—only to be met with a wall of the most ungodly stench.

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Something was not right.

It was so bad that Max and I had to sit outside while Chris tackled the dishes in an attempt to locate the source. Max suspected the cat box and went to clean it. Still, the smell lingered—so, in a last-ditch effort, Max took out the trash. That’s when it happened.

While wrestling with the trash bag, Max somehow lost control, flinging it into oblivion against the outside wall. The bag exploded, unleashing hell itself. He did his best to scoop everything back up—gagging between every breath—while the rest of us, utterly useless, sat on the doorstep, eating boxed mashed potatoes and laughing until our abs ached. At 4:00 AM, we finally surrendered to sleep. We will never forget Cat Shit Tuesday

BINGO!

How Karen managed to be up and running the bar by 8:00 AM after the night we had, I’ll never know—but she made it happen. We finally stumbled in at 10:00, still reeling from the discovery of the true culprit behind Cat Shit Tuesday: a pot of water Karen had used to boil shrimp for the pool party… two days prior. How we missed that, I have no clue, but it was foul.

With the mystery solved, we indulged in another delicious breakfast at Lusty’s. Afterward, I set off to get my nails done—a rare luxury for me. The appointment stretched on for hours, and I found myself nodding off in the chair while the boys were back home napping. When it was all done, I had full-on Karen nails—perfectly pointed, elegant, and entirely impractical for someone who usually spends her days sailing or doing something that inevitably results in broken nails.

Back at the house, I recharged—both my phone and myself—before getting ready for Hitmix Bingo Night at Lusty’s, home of the biggest bingo jackpot in the bay. The energy was electric even before the first song was played. Tables and chairs filled the space in preparation for what was sure to be a packed house. Then, the doors opened—and in came the flood of Canadians.

Chris worked the crowd selling bingo cards while I captured the chaos on video, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride for our friends and everything they’ve built. We didn’t win any pesos that night, but when it comes to friendships, we definitely hit the jackpot. 

After the games, we danced the night away to The Rolling Rockers—I fell in love with their new singer, Gabby Heart. Her voice was unreal, commanding the bar like a true rockstar. Chris was having the time of his life, while I did my best to rally through the exhaustion. Our friends Tim and Jill from SV Windswept were equal parts impressed and amused at my ability to keep going, ensuring I had plenty of water in between the never-ending shots of Centenario Reposado—courtesy of the world’s best bartender, Jorge.

At some point in the night, a woman approached me.

“Are you the Facebook bulldog?” she asked.

I grinned. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Turns out, she’d been following my battles in the La Cruz Facebook groups—always defending Lusty’s and the town itself against the occasional online nonsense. And just like that, a new title was bestowed upon me: The Facebook Bulldog. The Lusty Loyalist. The Defender of Fun.

By the time we finally made it home, our feet were dirty from barefoot dancing, our eyes heavy from another long day of adventure. It was late, and we were starving—but Karen had one last surprise. Out of her bag, she pulled burritos. We sat together, stuffing our faces between bouts of conversation, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Then, at long last, we crashed.

Chill Day

The morning was slow, eased along by jugo verde from El Ring, the perfect antidote to a late night. As we soaked up the tropical warmth, we checked the Runaground Ranch house cameras to see how much snow was piling up in our absence. Winter had been pretty underwhelming up until the moment we left… so maybe we were the jinx? After a quick breakfast, we headed to Bucerías for some bar-related errands—restocking liquor and food, making the rounds at both Sam’s Club and Chedraui. Then, my phone lit up with a familiar name.

Ocean Cowboy 🤠 Metcalfe – aka Peter.

“I’m here,” the text read, his location showing Puerto Vallarta instead of West Hollywood.

Our best buddy had arrived safe and sound, just in time to jump into the birthday festivities—starting with Chris’s delayed birthday dinner, which, in typical Chris fashion, he had sweetly pushed onto me.

We piled into Max and Karen’s and made our way to La Vaca Argentina in Nuevo Vallarta. It was a night of indulgence. Thick, juicy steaks, rich wines, laughter echoing between bites. Good friends, good food, good wine—really, what more could we ask for? It was a mellow day—exactly what we needed to recharge before the inevitable whirlwind of my birthday celebrations the next day. A calm before the storm, if you will. And judging by what we had planned, we’d be out of commission for a few days after… just as it should be.

My Birthday – Valentines Day

28 is going to be great! The day started off right—with a jugo verde from Café Shule’l, followed by a blissful massage from Estella in town. As her hands worked their magic, I melted deeper and deeper into the table, completely at peace.

Afterwards, I found the boys having breakfast together before we all headed back to the house to prep for the main event—my beach club birthday party. Our friend Andres had volunteered to DJ, bringing some of his friends to mix in with our cruising crew. The Eyoni crew gifted me the sweetest card and a pair of earrings shaped like jellyfish, crafted from metal and stone. They were adorable—a perfect little reminder of the sea.

For 850 pesos, it was all-you-can-drink—which, of course, we took full advantage of. From margaritas to carajillos, the drinks flowed as freely as the laughter. Somewhere along the way, we befriended a couple visiting from the PNW and invited them to join the fun. Natalie shared her Etsy wood-burning business with me, and I was in awe of her talent—seriously, check her out: Golden Height Designs.

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Between the drinks and dancing, everyone gathered to sing me Happy Birthday—followed by Andres and his friends serenading me with Las Mañanitas, the traditional Mexican birthday song. Their voices were far superior to our English-speaking friends’ attempt, which made for a hilarious contrast. My heart was so full, which I suppose is fitting as a valentine’s baby.

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We danced in the sand until it was time to move on to the speakeasy for more music and movement. Chris and Ethan opted to stay back at the house to chill, while the rest of us ventured out into the night. The speakeasy was packed and HOT, and after a few hours of sweaty dancing, we called it quits—which was fine since, by then, it was already 2:00 AM… a seemingly nightly occurrence here. Back at Casa de Lusty, we started winding down for the night—except for Peter, who had somehow lost his hotel keys at some point in the chaos and ended up crashing on our floor. Oopsies. It was a fantastic birthday—one I’ll remember forever.

Recharge, Relax, ReLusty

I am truly in awe of Karen’s ability to party hard and work even harder. After a full night of dancing, laughing, and perhaps one too many shots of Centenario, she was still up and at Lusty on Land by 8:00 AM, holding down the fort like the powerhouse she is. Meanwhile, the rest of us were moving a bit slower, rolling into the bar for what was now an unofficial brunch.

Unfortunately, due to some logistical hurdles, Max and Karen had made the tough call to pause breakfast service for the time being. It was a bittersweet moment—their breakfast was so good—but it also gave us a moment to truly appreciate the weight of their workload. The bar was thriving, but running a business in small towns like La Cruz is never as simple as it may seem.

Still, we made our way to Lusty’s, determined to start the day with good food. Chris had been dreaming of a Lusty 99 sandwich since the moment we sailed away—counting down the days until he could sink his teeth into one again. When it finally arrived, stacked tall on the plate in all its glory, he was thrilled. It was everything he had been waiting for and just as good as we remembered.

After brunch, the boys and I set off on a slow, sun-drenched walk along the malecón and through the marina, retracing the steps of our past season. Every dock, every restaurant, every salty breeze carried a memory. It was surreal to stand in the same place where we had hugged Peter and waved goodbye to Kessel last April, back when our journeys were leading in opposite directions. And now, here we were again—yet without either of our boats.

Life is a trip.

There was something oddly disorienting about being in “this” world without actively being part of it. The cruising life had shaped us so deeply, yet in this moment, we were outsiders looking in. We listened as cruisers swapped stories of tricky passages and engine troubles, compared notes on weather windows and anchorage conditions—but for the first time in years, we weren’t in that same rhythm. We weren’t bracing for a rough forecast or debating our next jump. We weren’t scouring PredictWind or fixing something broken. We were simply… visiting. Landlubbers. And for now, we were okay with that.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, we returned to Lusty on Land for another night of music and celebration. The Beast was on stage, commanding the room with raw energy, and the bar was absolutely packed. From the sidelines, we watched as the dream Max and Karen had poured their hearts into unfolded before us—drinks flowing, music pulsing, voices rising in laughter and song. It was the kind of night that reminds you how special a place truly is—not just for the atmosphere or the food, but for the people who make it feel like home, and I will never stop echoing that sentiment for as long as I live.

Sunday Market

The La Cruz Sunday Market is one of my favorite things in the world. The art, music, food, and the undeniable energy pulsing through town are as intoxicating as the lingering Centenario that still haunted my taste buds. I was up early, eager to wander through the stalls, searching for something special to bring home and decorate our house with.

Since last season, the market had expanded, spilling even further along the malecón, buzzing with life. Every booth was a feast for the senses—handwoven textiles, intricate beadwork, paintings bursting with color, the scent of sizzling tacos blending with the ocean breeze. I saw plenty of art that caught my eye, but in the end, nothing made its way home with me… except in the form of a pair of beaded dangly earrings. A small victory.

I lingered at my favorite linen booth, admiring breezy dresses and flowy sets, but managed to resist—at least for the moment. (Spoiler alert: resistance was futile, as I’d later cave in another town. But more on that soon.)

With our market fix satisfied, we hopped over to Bucerías for brunch at Karen’s on the Beach, where the conversation quickly turned into scheming. The plan? Sayulita. A full day of sun, beachside drinks and spontaneous adventure up north. What wasn’t made clear—at least not to Peter, Chris, and me—was that the trip was actually an overnight one. Naturally, we didn’t pack appropriately. But, as always, where there’s a problem, there’s a solution.

Sayulita

We wandered the town, stopping at a beachside bar for more carajillos before setting off again in search of essentials—contact solution, toothbrushes, and, naturally, a new outfit for me. Surprise, surprise—I ended up buying the very linen pants I had been eyeing that morning at the market. Some things are just meant to be.

Chris, convinced he had left his sunglasses at the beach bar, went on a frantic mission to retrieve them—only to later realize they had been at home the entire time. Meanwhile, the rest of us grabbed a round of cantaritos, reveling in our increasingly spontaneous evening.

My husband eventually returned—tacos in hand—just in time for us to stumble into the next bar, where a few more rounds led to an unexpected yet highly entertaining purchase: obscene Mexican bracelets. The standout? One featuring Karen’s infamous saying: “I’m drunk in the butt”—which, in Karen-speak, translates to “drunk off my ass.” We laughed until we cried, wearing our ridiculous new accessories like badges of honor, before heading to the beach to watch the sun sink into the horizon.

Sayulita has a way of drawing you in. A vibrant, bohemian surf town, it’s a mix of barefoot wanderers, backpackers, and weekenders looking for a good time. Colorful papel picado flutters above the cobbled streets, while lively bars, taco stands, and boutique shops line every corner. The energy is contagious—equal parts laid-back and let’s keep the party going.

In true Lusty fashion, we treated ourselves to an indulgent Italian dinner at Lvnae. The tasting menu was chef’s kiss—a fresh salad, handmade pasta, a perfectly cooked steak, and flowing wine. Another night of good food, good friends, and absolutely no restraint. The Lusty lifestyle, you know?

Finally, we checked into our Airbnb—an interesting place, to say the least. When I later asked Max and Karen how they would describe it, Karen said, “It was a hidden gem—”
“—in the toilet,” Max cut in. The towels were clearly used, the hot water was nonexistent, and the vibes were off. But in the grand scheme of things, it was just a place to crash after a full day of drinks, dinner, and an almost-midnight taco run. And really, that’s all we needed. It also inspired me to write a blog post about the worst hotels we have stayed in with Max and Karen, with “mosquito toilet” being top of the list — so keep an eye out for that one!

Adios, Crispy

We woke up naked—a direct consequence of not packing anything to sleep in and the fact that our AC unit had betrayed us in the night. Classic. Once clothed in my new outfit, I went to check on Peter, who had somehow fashioned a makeshift blanket out of every pillow in the Airbnb. If anything, he is equal parts adaptable and resourceful. With an easy pack-up—considering we only had the clothes on our backs—we ventured out for coffee and breakfast at Yah Yah Café. Fueled up and semi-restored, we took one last stroll through Sayulita, soaking in the town’s charm before making our way back to La Cruz.

Chris needed to pack for his flight home, so after a quick turnaround at Casa de Lusty, we loaded up the car and headed south to rendezvous with our friends in Puerto Vallarta. This time, however, I actually packed a change of clothes just in case—lesson learned.

The afternoon was a mix of good food, laughter, and a final walk along the malecón, but all too soon, the time came for Chris to leave. Watching him climb into the taxi, bound for the airport and reality, my heart sank. I already missed him—evident by the look on my face.

“You want a drink?” Jill asked, eyeing me from across the table at the beach bar. I shook my head. Nope. in an attempt to swear off the alcohol for a bit (which was truly only “a bit”). Instead, I did my best to stay engaged in conversation, though part of me was still following that taxi all the way to the airport. Then, in a flash—“Ay! It’s 5, we have to go!” Karen announced, jolting us back into motion. We paid our tab and hurried to Act2PV to watch Gabby (from The Rolling Rockers) perform in The Best of Broadway show.

Before the performance, we sipped cocktails in the piano lounge—Peter, now fully embracing my influence, ordered a carajillo to match mine. Then, we took our seats and were absolutely blown away. The cast performed all the Broadway classics, but Gabby? She stole the show. Her voice, her stage presence—it was incredible. If you ever find yourself in Puerto Vallarta, this show is a must-see.

After much effort (and a few stragglers), we finally wrangled our crew and made our way to Korean BBQ, where we shamelessly ate our weight in grilled meats before calling it a night. Full, happy, and exhausted, we piled into the cars and taxi’s and headed home to La Cruz—another adventure in the books.

An Unexpected Guest

“This is wild,” I said, grinning as I welcomed my friend Britt into the madness. She had originally been Puerto Rico-bound, but in a last-minute pivot, she decided to come to La Cruz instead. Clearly, she had been watching our antics from afar and couldn’t resist jumping into the mix. And honestly? Who could blame her?

Funny enough, Britt and I went way back—she was one of my coworkers when I was the business manager of the marina in Ventura. The last time we saw each other was during our boss Garrett’s wedding in 2022 where we did some damage on the open bar drinking plenty of old fashions. 

She arrived just as Peter and I were wrapping up our workday, slipping seamlessly into our evening routine—sunset first, chaos later. Max and Karen, however, had finally hit a wall after our marathon week of fun and opted to stay home to recover. Still, someone had to uphold the Lusty legacy, and since I quite literally have the Lusty on Land logo tattooed on my finger I took my rightful place at the helm. But first—dinner.

We made our way to Falconi’s, where I ordered my usual chicken Parmesan, while Peter went for Chris’s favorite calzone, with a side of Alfredo sauce—a life hack worth remembering. Trust me, you won’t regret it.

Towards the end of dinner, we were joined by our friends Mike and Kat. Seeing them felt like reconnecting with different chapters of the same story. When I wasn’t supporting Peter’s mental state during his Pacific crossing, Mike was there, helping him with weather routing and more. Peter was thrilled to finally thank him in person. Meanwhile, I was eager to catch up with Kat, fresh off the release of our recent interview with her on YouTube—an episode that should have been celebrated but instead got overshadowed by two men in a Facebook group claiming La Cruz was “dangerous” for cruisers.

News flash: it isn’t.

You just need to be diligent about stowing your things and keep your wits about you—just as you would anywhere. It breaks my heart to hear such slander about a pueblo I love so deeply and to know that some cruisers are skipping La Cruz entirely based on these incidents. 

There is a wealth of free information and so many resources available for the fleet—it would be a shame for sailors to miss out on everything this town has to offer. So, I will continue to defend the place I love, push the port captain to take action, and encourage cruisers to band together for positive change. Because La Cruz isn’t just a stop on a chart—it’s a community, and it’s worth fighting for. 

On the heels of our bleeding-heart “I Love La Cruz” conversation, Britt, Peter, and I threw ourselves into the night, enjoying everything Lusty on Land had to offer while Max and Karen—too tired to join but still fully invested—watched us from the bar’s security cameras, offering their spiritual presence. Jorge kept our glasses full, the band kept us dancing, and before we knew it, closing time had arrived. Which, of course, meant one thing: Tacos Junior. The only place still slinging tacos at 2:00 AM.

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It was another great night, and Britt handled the Lusty Life like a champ. Which was good—because she had no idea what she’d just signed up for.

We Are All Winners

The morning started slow and sweet, the kind that lingers like the taste of cinnamon and spice from my iced chai latte from Cafe Shule’l. Britt, Peter, and I sat together at a shaded table, the warm air humming with the sound of chirping birds and the distant stir of the town waking up. Between sips, we played a round of dice on the table, laughter mixing with the roll of my purse-dice as we plotted out the day ahead. The world felt unrushed, the way mornings should be, before everything tilts into motion. 

The lazy hum of La Cruz was tempting, but responsibility called—well, at least for a few hours. With that, we drifted from our sun-dappled café table and made our way back to Casa de Lusty, where the reality of work awaited us. If we had to be productive, at least we could do it poolside. Luckily, Peter and Britt were on board, so we set up an outdoor office at Casa de Lusty, taking strategic pool breaks to keep morale high. Work hard, tan harder.

Somewhere between emails and cannonballs, we relocated to the couch inside beneath the AC. While typing away on my computer, I let out a sigh. “I can’t believe I have to fly home tomorrow.” and as if on cue, Max appeared. 

“YOU WHAT?!” he shouted from his room, appalled. Without missing a beat, he followed up with a firm “ABSOLUTELY NOT!”—then threw a wad of cash at me.

“Here’s the money, now change it,” he commanded.

I mean… to be fair… who wants to leave at 7:00 AM the morning after Hitmix Bingo at Lusty’s? Not me.

Peter, ever the problem-solver, was already on it. Within minutes, he found me a new flight, and just like that, my trip was extended until Sunday. It’s nice to be wanted. Celebrating my newly extended quasi-vacation, we changed into our finest Lusty attire—me in my Lusty shirt and Max proudly sporting his favorite Playboy tank (that I had found on ebay to replace his original) before heading to the bar to rendezvous with Karen.

Bingo time, baby.

Max took his place as MC, commanding the mic with effortless charm, delivering smart remarks and dad jokes at every opportunity. He had a way of making spinning music titles into punchlines and keeping the energy high. Around him, the Lusty crew buzzed like a well-oiled machine, darting from table to table, making sure every guest had drinks in hand and bingo cards at the ready. You could feel the anticipation in the air—people were eager to win big, their eyes glued to their grids as if sheer willpower could make the right number appear.

Meanwhile, our crew of degenerates occupied the bar, already laughing, already drinking, already fully committed to our inevitable losing streak. Jill and Tim arrived just in time to grab cards and join in our frustration. We had officially become The Losers Club, and if that was the case, then Max—cackling from behind the mic—was Pennywise himself.

Three rounds in, zero pesos richer. Well, technically, Peter won, but he wasn’t paying attention, so… his loss… and also my loss since he has a running tab with me. At some point between rounds, my eyes wandered to the wall behind the bar to the sailing stickers placed by our friends who had sailed far and wide, each one carrying a story. It reminded me of our first season here, when we had all stuck our stickers up together, christening the space as part of us. This was home, no matter how far we sailed. Their spirits were here, woven into the very fabric of the bar, and I felt so damn lucky to be part of that history—to be here, adding my own stories to the ones that came before.

Once the games wrapped up, it was time to dance. The Rolling Rockers took the stage, and we hit the floor hard. I kicked off my shoes, barely noticing how black the bottom of my feet were getting—the unmistakable mark of a proper night at Lusty’s.

We closed down the bar again, then kept the party going with karaoke—a nostalgic throwback to the year before. Britt stunned us all with her incredible voice, while Karen poured her entire soul into Bidi Bidi Bom Bom, making sure Selena herself could feel it from beyond the grave. Hours later, we capped off the only way we know how—another bag of burritos, devoured at home between fits of laughter and exhaustion.

Man, I love my friends.

Adios, Pedro

It was a routine—coffee, friends, easy conversation. The kind of simple ritual that grounds you, no matter where in the world you are. Coffee from Octavas never disappoints. Their cajeta latte is a masterpiece, blending two of my favorite things into one perfect, caramel-kissed sip.

Peter and I met for coffee at 8:00, easing into the morning with quiet conversation and the familiar hum of the café. A little later, Britt joined us once she finally emerged from the depths of day-after-Lusty sleep. I know better than to drag someone into an early morning after a night like that—Peter and I had already accepted our fate, but she deserved the luxury of sleeping in.

Peter was all packed up and ready to head home, off to continue his flight training. His flight left at noon, and once he was gone, Britt and I slipped into our bikini’s and made our way to the beach for a few sun-drenched hours. The waves rolled in with their steady rhythm, lapping at the shore as we floated between conversation and quiet contentment. In between dips in the ocean, we watched whales breach in the distance, their silhouettes cutting through the horizon—a familiar sight that tugged at a memory. Just to our left was the anchorage where I had once watched them from the deck of Avocet, their massive forms rising from the water, close enough to feel the ripple of their presence. Standing there on the sand, I felt it again—that deep, quiet awe that never fades, no matter how many times I see them.

By the time we returned home, salty and sun-kissed, it was time to shower and get ready for dinner. Italian food was calling, so we drove to Tarantella in Nuevo Vallarta, where the meal was nothing short of exquisite… even if Britt and I were a complete mess just trying to cut a salad we were sharing, just like our last braincell that we were seemingly passing back and forth. Sometimes, even the simplest tasks are a challenge.

Truly stuffed and fully content, we called it an early night, crashing into bed by 10:00. Some nights are for chaos—others are for slow, indulgent meals and the kind of sleep that comes easy.

Adios, Britt

“Good morning,” I said as I welcomed Britt into the house. I was still in my oversized PredictWind T-shirt, a freebie I had snagged off a table at the Annapolis Boat Show years ago, while she was already dressed and ready for the day. Karen, still in her pajamas, was curled up on the couch with Meatball, who lazily flicked her tail, not yet ready to start the day. It was a well-deserved slow morning, the kind where time stretches and nobody rushes.

But Britt had one thing on her mind—chilaquiles. And we knew just the place to take her: El Ring.

We sat around the large huanacaxtle table, sipping our drinks before absolutely devouring our food. Chris and I had shared many meals at El Ring, our go-to order always being their zurry torta paired with the orange salsa. It’s the best of the best, and my mouth is watering just writing about it. After breakfast, we wandered over to Shule’l for coffee.

“Hey Max, do you want a pigeon?”

Ty’s voice called down from Lusty’s above us. In her hands was, indeed, a pigeon—likely the same one that kept trying to nest in the far-left pillar of the bar. The scene was ridiculous, and I suggested they turn it into a pájaro adivino, a fortune-telling bird of sorts. If La Cruz had a magic eight ball, this would be it.

Caffeinated and entertained, we took a slow walk back home, where I forced Karen to sit through our latest YouTube videos—because somehow, she hadn’t seen any of them since Chacala, which was hilarious considering she was in all of them after that.

The day melted into evening, and before long, it was time for Britt to catch her Uber to Puerto Vallarta, where she’d connect with her next adventure. I was so happy she had come to join in on the fun, and apparently, so were Max and Karen, because they made it clear she’d always have a home in La Cruz.

That night, none of us felt like cooking, so we ordered ramen from Mikoh, settling into the comfort of a quiet night. Another day, another friend gone.

I was the last one standing.

Once a leftover, always a leftover.

Uno Mas Dia

It was my last day in La Cruz—a day thick with feelings, the kind that settle in your chest like the heavy warmth of the afternoon sun. I woke up early, unwilling to waste a second, curling up on the couch with Baby Carlos, who, despite her name, was no longer much of a baby. She stretched against me lazily, flicking her tail as if she knew I wouldn’t be there tomorrow. To think this was the same stray cat who wandered aboard Lusty, the boat, 3 years ago choosing Max and Karen as her keepers.

The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the distant morning sounds of the town waking up. I opened my laptop, determined to make a dent in my ever-growing to-do list—emails, projects, and, of course, writing this very blog. Documenting it all, preserving every last moment in words before they slipped too far into memory.

Karen stirred and headed off to work, while Max and I, in true form, spent the morning scheming. This time, our grand plan? Getting rich off *redacted information*. A foolproof venture, obviously. It may seem ridiculous, but so were most things we did together, and that’s half the fun. (stay tuned)!

By lunch, I relocated to the bar to meet Karen, craving something good, something memorable. I ordered the pulled pork sandwich for the first time, and with the first bite, I knew I’d made the right choice. Savory, smoky, perfectly messy—it was exactly what I had been craving, the kind of meal that lingers in your mind long after you leave. I already knew I’d be dreaming about it until the next time I could come back for another.

“Did you know it’s National Margarita Day?” I asked, scrolling through my phone.

Karen and Jorge both shook their heads. Well, that simply wouldn’t do. I flipped through my archive of Lusty photos, found the perfect margarita shot, and posted it, summoning the usual suspects. If there was ever a day to celebrate at Lusty’s, it was today.

 

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One margarita de jamaica turned into three. Then came the piña coladas, courtesy of Jorge and his ever-busy blender, followed by two shots of tequila and a mini beer shot from a guest bartender. The drinks flowed as easily as the laughter, our voices mingling with the music as Mario from The Beast serenaded the afternoon. The whole scene felt like something out of a movie—the kind of day you know you’ll think about years from now, wishing you could step right back into it.

Max, battling a head cold and watching from the security cameras, provided commentary from afar, chiming in with his signature wit. Meanwhile, at some point between drinks and deep conversations, we decided to add more names to the height wall—Karen, Ethan, Jorge, Alma, Estrella, Mark, and Michelle, forever immortalized alongside the marks Peter, Britt, and I had left a few nights prior. A simple act, but one that felt like carving our presence into the bones of the bar, leaving behind a little piece of ourselves to exist there, even after we were gone.

As the night crept in, Karen and I—thoroughly Lustied—made it home to check on Max before heading out for one last girls’ night at Ala Braza. For three years in a row, this had been my final dinner, the quiet, unspoken ritual of closing another chapter. The food was exquisite, as always, but there was something heavier in the air, a weight pressing down with every bite, every sip. It was delicious, but it was also a reminder.

My time was coming to an end. 

And I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

Sunday Market for the Road

I was up early, packed, and then repacked three times, somehow still struggling to make everything fit. It made no sense—Chris had taken half my clothes home with him a few days prior, so how could shorts and crop tops be taking up so much space? It was a mystery of modern packing.

Karen joined me for one last walk through the Sunday market, a final ritual before my departure. I picked out a new larimar ring to replace the one I had lost last season—a small token to carry with me, a piece of this place to keep close.

As we wandered, I ran into Ben Shaw, a longtime friend and host of the Out the Gate podcast. We caught up briefly, exchanging stories of past adventures and those yet to come. He shared his plans to cross the Pacific and sell his beloved Dovka. I was thrilled for him, his next chapter unfolding before him, but our conversation also reignited my own anticipation—I was eager to get back to my boat, back to my story.

The smell of birria drifted through the air, cutting through my sentimental haze. That settled it. The market walk would end early—we had a more important stop to make: the birria spot in Bucerías. One last taste of everything I loved before heading home.

Before leaving La Cruz, I took one last lap through Lusty’s, which was still closed for the morning. I ran my fingers over my sticker on the wall, placed there three years ago, as if making a silent promise to return. Stepping outside, I looked over La Cruz, the streets alive with people, the air filled with voices and music. It wasn’t just a place I had visited—it was a place I belonged.

Just like our first meal in Mexico, it was fitting that birria was my last. “If my plane goes down at least I’ll have a full heart and stomach” I said between bites. Max gave me a high five, always understanding my dark humor. Their day would surely be busy as usual preparing for the nightly activities, while I would be traveling back in time to California where my man and cats awaited. One last bite of my crispy taco, and it was time to carry on.

I changed out of my flowy skirt and sandals, trading them for pants and sneakers as Max expertly wove through traffic on the way to the airport. The ride was too short, the goodbyes even shorter. A couple of tight hugs, a few “see you laters,” and then, just like that, I was on my own, fighting my way through security.

Soon, I was settled onto my first flight—phase one of my return home officially underway. As we climbed into the sky, I made a collage of photos from the trip, my heart full of gratitude for it all. Every moment, every laugh, every late-night taco run—it was all fuel, pushing me forward, reminding me why we work so hard to keep this dream alive.

A message from Chris lit up my screen.

“I’m excited to see you.”

I smiled, then wrote the last two sentences of this post.

Our latest Mexico adventure was over, but it gave us the boost we needed to work even harder to get back to cruising.

Oh, our dear Avocet—we’re coming for you.

Fair winds,

Marissa

P.S. I took a TON of film photos – 2 disposables, and 2 rolls of Kodak… I can’t wait to share them once I get the scans back!