Day 8

November 4, 1977

We rise at 4:30 and set out by six. I seem to be struck with a certain Baja kayaking glee, and decide to strike out ahead of the others for a bit of solo paddling.

Today was bird day and I saw them everywhere: kingfishers, egrets snowy and grey, blue herons, cranes, cerlews, blue footed boobies, arctic terns, osprey, pelicans, seagulls, grebes, ducks, and cormorants.

My trolling line catches two sizable cabrilla, ample tucker for all three of us.

At one point I am cruising along, enjoying the scenery gliding by, everything is tranquil, when suddenly the water immediately head of the boat goes dark. The next moment an enormous whale surfaces, blows a column of steam-like spray high into the air, then silently slides back into the depths. Startled, I exit stage right and head for shore.

By and by, John and Al come along, land on the beach, and from the safety of land we watch four or five baleens feeding only 200 feet away. The whales don't seem aggressive, but I have the feeling that our frail kayaks are just so much flotsam to them; and that if one of us chances to be in their way, he might get accidentally bumped. And what would be a hardly noticeable bump to a whale could prove disastrous for likes of one of us.

John then produces a startling anomaly from his boat: a giant cabrilla - larger than my two fish put together by a factor of three. To keep the monster from biting his legs, he had jammed his water bottle into the fish's mouth. Sometimes you loose and sometimes you win; but John's win was over the top.

After resting we do another three-hour stint at the blades. The seas are kindly but we experience an occasional blast of offshore wind funneling out of an arroyo. We do seven hours total for a whopping 34 miles, so we must have had quite a favorable current at some point along the way. Unquestionably though, we are paddling hard and beginning to get into shape.

Day 9

November 5, 1977

Up at 4:30 and off by six again, we are traveling together once more. The seas are frisky and the day is full of strong offshore winds. These winds are eddying around the various peaks and cliffs, and coming at us from every point of the compass at one time or another. Because of the rough conditions, we really don't do much except paddle all day.

With the town of Santa Rosalia in sight - in the far distance - we are finally stymied by fierce, unrelenting headwinds that ultimately force us to call it quits. We land ashore in the late afternoon and realize just how hard the wind is actually blowing. John and Al empty their boats and are carrying their gear up to a small clump of bushes, when a fearful gust of wind sends their boats tumbling along the beach - end over end. Meanwhile I am attempting to hold my boat down, and am being pelted by blowing sand. So I crawl inside my kayak to keep myself from being sandblasted. And here I wait in safety while the other two scramble for their boats in a mad dash.

After the squall we manage to get everything safely into the lee of those bushes. The kayaks had thankfully survived, but Al's boat had sustained a broken rudder. In the days to come, he would learn first hand the importance of this little member wagging at the stern.

The kayaks we are using are Dick Held boats, the Clearwater model. They are good general purpose touring boats with very little rocker (bow and stern uplift) and a goodly beam for lateral stability (resists tipping over sideways). They have lots of internal volume for gear stowage and a large cockpit to stow and remove big packs and other bulky items.

The large beam is important to me, especially, because I seem to possess little natural balance, so must rely on the lateral stability of my boat, coupled with some reflexes at the paddles, to keep me upright in rough seas. A few years ago I went to the Sea of Cortez in a speedy, tipsy kayak, and nearly capsized while paddling at night. After that frightful experience I spent an inordinate amount of time sitting on the shore watching the frisky seas and wishing for a more stable kayak in which I could go out and have some fun. That was the first trip that I used a narrow kayak for touring; it was also the last.

Although the Clearwater is nowhere near the ultimate Baja boat, it is a very good Baja boat, but like any sea kayak it does need a small rudder. The rudder equalizes the strain taken by port and starboard paddle blades, so that regardless of lee or weather helm developed by the wind, both arms are worked equally. Without the rudder, one arm would do more work than the other, being required to correct the heading with each stroke; and this is much more tiring. Moreover, with a heavy swell taking the boat on the hind quarter, there is a very strong broaching tendency. With each quartering wave, the bow - which is more buoyant and has less moment of inertia - wants to float up and over the wave, while the heavier stern is more taken by the wave and gets shoved ahead. An ample sized rudder counteracts all this with ease.

Back to our little rudderless campsite nestled behind the scant wind shadow of a clump of dry buses: we are only eight miles short of Santa Rosalia, the lights of which are clearly visible tonight. We have come 25 miles in 5-1/2 hours. Dinner, stretching exercises for me, and early to bed for us all.

The stretching exercises which I have been practicing each evening are aimed at keeping the arms flexible, to counteract any tendency for them to tighten under the repetitive strain of paddling. But the stretching is not working out too well, and the shoulder joints are beginning to complain of being too loose. So I decide to lighten-up on the yoga.

Day 10

November 6, 1977

We get a moderately early start in moderately windy conditions. We move slowly because of Al's broken rudder. He is doing an admirable job, albeit with great expenditure of energy. So we trade boats frequently to relieve the extra-tired person in Al's boat. Fortunately we are running before the wind and seas, a condition which requires minimal rudder.

Around noon we round a man-made stone breakwater, enter the tiny port of Santa Rosalia, and land ashore. Within moments we are thronged with curious onlookers who apparently hang around the port all day, every day, waiting for something interesting to happen. The onlookers don't bother us too much, until the three uniformed federalies show up, armed with assault rifles. [These gestapo-like characters are the epitome of fear and hatred in the otherwise placid lives of the Baja Californios. They are detested by seemly everyone, even the local police. (Written in 1977 before the drug wars. With all the violence of today, there is not as much fear of the federalies and police, though some of them can still be corrupt.)]

As the federalies are poking around in our kayaks, I am vividly reminded of what happened to a friend of mine three years ago in La Paz. He was boarding the ferry there, and the federalies had somehow planted (according to him) then "discovered" a kilo of grass in his kayak. At least that was his story, and as a good friend I tend to believe him because I never saw him smoking the stuff. Nevertheless, he was hauled off to jail where he sat for a week while the officials demanded $2,000 cash. Finally his dad flew down from Colorado, and with a $1,000 bribe succeeded in gaining his release. A few months later these same corrupt officials showed up at the dad's home in Denver, demanding the other $1,000; but without success.

I once met a fellow in Cabo who had just spent a week in jail. His offense: Driving too fast and rolling his car off the road, out in the desert far from anyone. He was released for $600 which he reluctantly handed over, out back of the jail.

For want of a little less attention, we relocate down the coast a short distance to the south end of town, beaching it again this time adjacent to a small seafood restaurant. We wander about the city, taking in a couple of restaurants and chatting with the locals who seem quite friendly.

I visit the post office and the clerk asks me if I am with the group of kayakers. "Very hard work!" he says in Spanish.

"Sí, pero es muy bueno para tu salud", (Yes, but it is very good for your health) I reply, to which he nodded in agreement.

Nearing day's end, we hike into the interior looking for materials to make a rudder for Al's boat.

Day 11

November 7, 1977

We set off at 5:45 into a quiet sea. Three hours of paddling later we come to a grove of date palms gowning near the shore. Hoping to collect a few dates, we land ashore. No luck however; we can't climb the trees and can't find a long pole. No doubt the trees are privately owned and not to be tampered with; but it was interesting diversion nonetheless.

We paddle another three hours, then land in a nice cove with a beach covered in beautiful scallop shells. The shells are not naturally placed, but are the by-product of years of people harvesting scallops in the bay. We attempt a bit of snorkeling but find the water too murky; for the afternoon wind has picked up.

We set off a third time and paddle through choppy seas for 1-1/2 hours, then pull in for the day just short of Punta Chivato. In retrospect this might have been a mistake, but today the conditions seemed unfavorable for rounding this infamous point.

Today 7-1/2 hours and 28 miles.

Day 12

November 8, 1977

Daylight comes with a howling northerly blowing directly into our bay. The sea is covered with angry whitecaps and it is obvious that we aren't going anywhere today.

We spend the day reading, writing letters home, and exploring the surrounding countryside. I enjoy a long run along the beach, finishing the exercise with a refreshing swim. It feels good to work the legs for a change.

We enjoy a very pleasant evening around the campfire.

Day 13

November 9, 1977

More wind. After hanging about camp for awhile that morning, we go for a hike up the hill above Punta Chivato. I have been studying the map and have a plan. A portage across the desert might enable us to reach the calmer waters in the lee of the point. We climb higher for a better view, and gaining the summit we can see that the sea to the south is much calmer. But at the same time, the distance across the land to get there looks enormous. We weigh the idea cautiously. We had obviously landed in an area of rough water, and getting away from this beach would require very calm conditions - the imminent prospects of which seemed rather unlikely. On the other hand, we could walk away from it. The portage looks like a formidable task, but we hardly relish the prospects of spending more time in captivity here. We will try the portage.

Back at camp, Al and John decide to team up for a two-man boat-carrying arrangement with one person at each end. To facilitate the carry, they lash their kayaks to long poles which are then carried upon the shoulders. For some reason they do not simply carry their gear in the kayaks, but rather fashion make-shift rucksacks from their ground ponchos, and carry these on their backs. It was a fantastic sight. Off they go with slow, encumbered steps and looks of pain on their faces.

I had brought a large rucksack, and this I fill with my gear. Leaving the boat and paddle behind, I set off with a bulging pack. I quickly overtake the lumbering "mule train" and continue trudging across the desert. To save weight ,I had also left behind my drinking water, and this quickly proves a mistake. The interior is unbelievably hot, and it doesn't take long for the torment of thirst to pervade my mind. Eventually I reach the sea again, and find it remarkably calm. I stash my pack in the shade, and dive into the water. Following my tracks back, I return for the kayak.

Half way back I meet the caravan. They have dropped the packs and were now carrying only their boats with some gear inside.

With the kayak empty, I think it might be possible to paddle around. I'm averse to the idea of another portage in this heat. So back at the kayak I drink deeply from a water bottle then empty most of the rest, with thoughts of replenishing our supply on the other side at Hotel Chivato.

The surf is mammoth. I get into my boat and fasten the spray skirt to the cockpit cowling, effectively creating a waterproof seal around my waist. With my feet in the rudder straps I push off. The first big wave goes over my head. I manage to penetrate it, and to remain upright, but my hat is now gone. I paddle furiously, taking several more waves without mishap.

Suddenly an enormous wave, twice the size of the others, smashes into me. Somehow I remain upright but the wave engulfs the boat completely and carries me all the way back to the beach.

Encouraged by the fact that I am somehow still upright, I yell "Oh no you don't!" and attack the problem again, paddling back into the inferno. I negotiate a few waves, then the hydraulics engulf me again, flipping me upside down this time. Before I could Eskimo roll, another wave wrenches the boat away from me and hurtles toward shore where it then waits quietly while I swim in.

I empty the kayak of sea water, but it is still half-full of sand as I manage to drag it up onto dry beach. Incredibly, the boat and paddle are intact. A lone sea gull hovers only a few feet above me, earnestly looking at me. This in itself is quite unusual. "Yes, I'm ok," I tell it.

I spend 20 minutes getting the sand out of the boat, then shoulder it in the usual fashion and set out on my desert trek. Immediately the high winds swing the boat around. First I was having hydraulic problems, now it is aerodynamic ones.

I fashion a wooden skid and lash it to the boat's stern, intending to sledge out into the desert.

John and Al appear on the scene. Guessing what I might have been up to, they had returned to investigate. They help me carry the kayak to their initial gear dump. Now later in the afternoon, the heat of the day is subsiding. We form what we jokingly termed "a 3-mule pack train" and lug the substantial remainder of our gear across to the new camp, where we arrived well spent.

Al was the first to discover that between the three of us, we have no drinking water. John was the first to discover that the Hotel Chivato had closed for 4 years ago! He departs again with empty bottles, and returns much later with good water from a Mexican family who happen to be living in the area, fishing lobster.

With the day's ordeals over, the mood at the evening camp is relaxed and jovial. We kid each other about the portage. "We should have been dragging fishing lures behind our desert mule train."

Day 14

November 10, 1977

We rise at 4:00 am, eager to get moving again. Without benefit of the moon, the night is totally dark. We paddle three hours, take a half-hour rest, then paddle only a short distance and find that we have reached El Sombrerito, a distinctive, hat-shaped landform marking the entrance to Rio Santa Rosaila and the town of Mulege.

We stash the boats in the bushes and walk along the river on a dirt road nearly two miles into town. The river is a life source and in contrast to the surrounding desert; Mulege is lush and green.

Later that evening, after a superb meal, we hire a taxi and for one dollar each are driven back to Punta Sombrerito to the kayaks where we pick up our empty water bottles; then back to town to fill them, and then back to the boats again. Each of us takes his share of the new provisions, repackages them in waterproof bags, and generally makes his gear ready for an early departure.

The visit to Mulege was very enjoyable; in fact a little too enjoyable as I am feeling somewhat the effects of overindulgence. I was also feeling a bit apprehensive as tomorrow we would face the longest open water passage of the trip, the crossing of Bahia Conception.