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the main boat was wide open, so I went down for a look. Everything seemed orderly so I made my way to the navigation station, hoping the boater, like most of us, kept a packet of all his paperwork handy in case of an emergency abandon ship drill, or even for checking into a marina. 
    Sure enough, a clear plastic bag was nestled next to the radio, along with a few other folders. The pouch contained a Passport issued to Frederick P. Clark, a Mexican tourist visa, a ten-year Mexican boat import permit, US coast guard documentation certificate, insurance info, fishing license, Mexican Parque Nacional permits, and anything needed by a legit boater in Mexico. Many try to cut corners, but not this guy; he had it all.
    I grabbed a piece of paper from his printer and jotted down all the information someone might need in order to contact family, friends, or the US Coast Guard, because Mexican officialdom works in slow-mo and I wanted to give his family and US officials a head's up. I pocketed his California drivers license, two credit cards, and a thousand pesos because I didn't want them going walkabout during this initial investigation. I left two hundred pesos so no one would think this guy went AWOL on purpose. Even if he did.
    Po Thang's "someone is coming" barks caught my attention, and when I stuck my head out, I spotted a boat in the distance that seemed to be making a beeline for us. I hurried back to where I could heft myself onto Raymond Johnson , but my foot slipped and I almost dislocated a shoulder when I caught myself on my boat's rail.
    Looking down, I saw a glob of something icky where my foot slid. Fish parts? Left over bait? God, I hoped so.
    Climbing painfully onto my own deck, I slipped off my boat shoes, rushed inside, grabbed the camera and got a zoom shot of the stuff on Carpe Diem's deck.
    I soon identified the oncoming craft as a small Mexican Navy boat and let out a groan. I had hoped one of the marinas had responded, because the way things work in Mexico, I had little hope the handover was going to go quickly.
    And I was right. The naval officer in charge, as friendly as he was, was nonetheless mired by the swamp of Mexican officialdom, which comes with reams of paper, rubber stamping and the promise of my first born, in order to finally get rid of Carpe Diem and head for port.
    No good deed goes unpunished.
     
    The sun was hovering on the horizon when I pulled alongside the marina and basically jammed my boat in between two megayachts. 
    The tide had turned and was ripping out: a bad thing. The wind, however, was on my beam and would push me sideways into the dock. With no one on board to throw a line from my bow to the marina personnel standing by on the dock, my game plan was simple: loop a bow line several times over a rail on the side away from the now side-tied Se Vende , hope like hell my end didn't fall into the water before someone was able to grab it, and then ram the dock as far forward as the space between those two monster yachts allowed.
    A gathering awaited my return, to help with lines, watch what was sure to be a less than elegant docking exercise, and to get the lowdown from me on Carpe Diem . In addition to marina personnel and some cruisers I know, several nervous-looking crew from the multimillion dollar beauties awaited. Who needs television when you have docking boats to watch? A man I recognized as the captain of the hundred-footer I was aiming for looked prepared to jump, throwing his body in between his yacht's swim platform and my bow.
    I made a pass, went to neutral to judge the wind and tide, pulled a hard U-turn, aimed for the dock and powered into the oncoming tide with way more speed than normal. 
    Not for the first time I thought, Why, oh, why don't boats have brakes?
    No boats were harmed during this crash landing into the dock, but I scattered the crowd when, after a brave soul latched onto my bow line and rapidly secured it to a cleat, I put the boat into reverse, threw