Day 15
November 11, 1977
With an early departure we paddle out into a murky night, void of any light save for the brilliant phosphorescence which spins from our bows and paddles and trails far behind in our wakes. We navigate by sound. If the night becomes too silent we veer more toward shore until we can hear the surf again.
Four miles along, we can faintly perceive the outline of the distant Punta Conception, silhouetted against unknown stars and galaxies in the heavens behind it. We point our bows to seaward and begin the crossing. We paddle with gusto for 55 minutes and complete the 6-mile crossing without incident.
Out here, far from any roads, we experience a profound sense of having left it all behind. A sense of isolation. The next 75 miles are truly remote, accessible only by boat, and we are not to see another living soul all the way to the town of Loreto.
Another hour of traveling along the coast and we pull into a quiet sheltered bay. The water is spectacularly clear and we are eager for a bit of snorkeling. The underwater life is out in full colors, and the variety and numbers of fish incredible. John and I each spear a cabrilla. Mine is 24 inches long and weighty. The scallops are also quite abundant and we collect a dozen of them. This particular species camouflages itself and adheres to the rocks. The foraging technique is to catch them by surprise, slipping a knife blade quickly into the shell and severing the muscle. With this, the fish would come in to feed on the scraps, and if we weren't careful they would snatch everything. We have fun!
We set off paddling again. Forty-five minutes later we are making our way along the coast, all was tranquil, in fact a bit too tranquil and we begin to daydream - that is, not watching where we are going. The day is warm, the sea fairly calm, so we are not wearing our spray skirts. Without warning we stray into an area of breaking surf. Out of the corner of my eye I see a wall of whitewater approaching - fast. I pivot the boat toward it, just as it breaks, and somehow manage to climb up over it and reach deeper and calmer water. John, who is just behind me, does the same. But Al is not so lucky. Perhaps a bit deeper into his thoughts, he does not not respond, and the wave caches him broadside, overcoming him completely and sinking his kayak.
The sea is just about chin deep for someone of Al's height who is standing on his toes. So it is a simple matter for him to collect the various bits of flotsam and jetsam.
"What are you diving for?" we ask. His Nikonomat, which in the frenzy of the moment, had popped out of its "waterproof" plastic container and gone to the bottom. He manages to retrieve it, but sadly it has become flooded with seawater. The camera is a total loss.
John and I beach it, and help Al swim the kayak and gear to shore. This effectively concludes the day's seafaring, as Al's things will need several hours to dry. But first we have to put to sea again and move a few hundred yards along the coast in search of a suitable camping spot. We have a rough landing, and I flood my kayak - thankful for the waterproof bags. Then Al broke his rudder for the third time.
Ours is a colorful camp this afternoon with things spread everywhere to dry under the sun, one of the blessings of paddling in these warmer climes. I feel particularly glad to have easy-going companions; Al was cheerful in spite of his day's calamity.
Today's figures: 14 miles in 3-1/2 hours.
Day 16
November 12, 1977
After an early coffee, we have a tricky launching due to the steep, pebbly incline of the beach, the frisky seas, and the intense darkness.
Two hours into the day, Al's make-shift rudder self destructs, and we have to make a hasty forced landing. Fortunately he has brought a spare sheet of hard plastic and some extra hardware. He is getting better at repairing, but his repair jobs are also getting better at discombobulating themselves.
Meanwhile, John and I avail ourselves of the diving opportunities.
Back on the water we spend the rest of the day with more paddling and more spear fishing.
From my evening's log: This stretch of coastline is particularly superb. It has many beautiful coves and beaches and fabulous diving. It's really great to be here!
Today's run is 25 miles in 6 hours of paddling.
Day 17
November 13, 1977
Up at 3:30, we paddle in the inky darkness of night, mesmerized by cosmic phosphorescence. The sea is absolutely, totally flat. We watch as a sunrise of crimson and platinum turns into flat silver-blue light, which seems to blend the sky and the sea together.
Throughout the long morning we take advantage of the calm conditions and stop at hourly intervals for a leg stretch, a few bites of gorp and a swig of water. The at the five-hour mark we stop for a stint of diving. Beneath the surface we find huge cave-studded boulders infused with tremendous numbers of large fish in the sparkling clear water. It was pure delight to dive deeply and swim with the multitudes of fish.
I take a point blank shot at an enormous parrotfish, and even with the gun cocked to full power, the spear merely bounces off the creature in a small burst of scales. I try again, and this time the spear penetrates its mark and the monster flees into a cave taking my spear and snapping its line. I make half a dozen dives to reconnoiter the situation, then summon the courage to enter the cave - 25 feet below the surface. In one final effort I swim a short distance in, and find the broken cord. Pulling on this, my spear comes free, having apparently worked itself out of the fish. I am glad to retrieve my only spear which is so adept at providing sustenance, yet sorrowed to have wounded yet not taken the fish. The nature of the game, I rationalize. If the injured fish dies, it will be food for some other sea creature. But I resolve to prey upon smaller, more manageable game only, and with that I succeeded in bagging two bass which will go nicely for dinner.
We make the mistake of camping in an area of beautiful greenery, so inviting to the eye. The verdure is due to a stagnant pool and come dark the place becomes infested with mosquitoes - and we don't have tents.
Today's run: 29 miles in 7 hours.
Day 18
November 14, 1977
We rise at 4:00 and depart an hour later. The sea is mighty lumpy with gusty winds that slow our progress. But we are passing through some incredibly beautiful country.
We paddle four hours to our first rest of the day.
By then a sinister-looking black storm has begun to move in from the east, prompting us to redouble our efforts in hopes of making the town of Loreto before the storm hits. Still five miles short of our goal, a Mexican fisherman - or so we assumed him to be - approaches in his motorboat at a frightening rate of speed. He pulls up and offers us a tow, which we politely decline. Then he keeps pace with us for some distance, as if unable to make sense of our strange mode of travel. With our lack of horsepower, we feel vulnerable.
We travel for another 1-1/2 hours, and at 10 o'clock land on the beach just north of Loreto. After our experiences in Santa Rosalia we have adopted a "spectacles are to be avoided" policy. We weren't about to land at the harbor. We feel much more lower profile here. While Al watches the boats, John and I walk into town - in a downpour - to determine the departure time of the northbound bus. The plan is for John to travel back to Bahia de Los Angeles and ferry his VW back to here.
The shoes John is wearing are tattered beyond recognition, so while he visits a zapateria I inquire about the bus schedule. Back at camp we seal each boat with its spray skirt and stash the boats into the brush. We then treat ourselves to a visit of a little hole in the wall called Don Luis, which for the moment cranks out the best comida south of the border, and perhaps north of it too.
John departs on the bus, and Al and I swing by the trailer park and find, of all things, an O.B. base camp. Here I meet an old friend, Chuck Bernsmeyer. He helps us load our kayaks and gear onto his pickup truck and bring it back to the trailer court. About to depart for a course, Chuck generously gives us free reign of the place. After showers, Al and I wander over to a resort for a margarita. The drinks are good but we find the atmosphere of drunken American sportsmen unbearable; so we wander through town and enjoy the rest of the evening on our own.
Day 19
November 15, 1977
The automatic clock in la cabeza goes off at 4:00 am, but we force the issue and stay in bed until seven. We get up, fix a brew and eventually make it over to Don Luis for breakfast. Una mas combinacion. Then we wander over and do laundry, and on to better things: the panaderia. Such a life!
Waiting for John's return, we spend most of the day working on gear. Sharpening and straightening the spears, a patch on a boat, wash the salt out of everything, buy more food, and so on. Another stint at Don Luis, a margarita at a Hotel, and to bed.
Day 20
November 16, 1977
We wake up at daybreak and find John's van parked outside the trailer park. The three of us have breakfast and then pack our gear into the van. One last stop at the panaderia, then we portage to the beach a la VW.
We are off by 1:00 pm and paddling south. We paddle for two and a half hours, then Al wants to do some diving, so we stop. But John decides to continue on, saying he will do some trolling and meet us at camp. I say we should try to get into Escondito. I point out the point of Escondito and say we will camp in the trailer park there.
Al and I dive for about an hour, but got no fish; so we set out a-paddlin' looking for John. We have to go a long ways into each bay and check out if John happens to be there. Because of this, we pull into Escondito after dark. No John. We do meet a friendly camper who invites the two of us over for coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Day 21
November 17, 1977
We get up at 3:00, quickly pack the boats and shove off into a glassy calm but absolutely dark sea. Following a ghostly coastline vaguely defined by the noise of a gentle surf and the black form of towering cliffs, we cautiously work our way south. Eventually the day begins to get light.
A week ago, the three of us had decided that today was to be our high mileage day, shooting for 50 miles. Al and I paddle five hours and take a 45 minutes shore break, paddle another four and take another 45 minute break, and set out once again. We now have 18 miles to go. The sea is up, with occasional mild gusts, and we are catching a lot of water off the bow as the waves are coming directly at us. Fifty miles minus ten it begins to get dark. We paddle hard for 1-1/2 hours just before dark. The prospect of paddling in the ever increasing sea in the dark doesn't seem particularly safe, but just at dark the heavy swells begin to subside. The water is still a bit bumpy, but certainly well within the realms of navigability.
I take a shot off Isla Santa Cruz, the deserted one, and determine our position to be fifty minus five or six. We continue, finally cutting through Punta San Telmo.
We have arrived. 7:30 pm, 13 hours, 50 miles. We decide to remain on the beach tomorrow and wait for John. The diving here looks pretty good anyway.
