With land in sight, I started one of the chores I had been putting off the longest, which was scraping the bottom of the boat. The plan was that this would not be a big deal, on the reasonable theory that I had only just had her hauled and cleaned in La Paz. The reality was a small and thriving alien colony along the waterline, looking up at me through the surface like it had paid rent.

There is a particular brand of mild discomfort that comes from being the only person on the boat and choosing to get into the water beside it. Not the cold kind, not even the practical kind, just a quiet awareness that there is no second hand at the rail to throw you a line if you need one. So you go anyway, because the alternative is to explain to a customs inspector why your hull has more biology on it than the local reef.

I got most of it done. I will need another round before the inspection, and the underside of the rudder is going to want a polite word, but the worst of the colony has been encouraged to find a different planet. Land is on the chart, the bottom is mostly clean, and tomorrow we anchor.