Day 8

Nov 11, 1989

We rose just before first light and rekindled the fire using the previous evening's coals. While eating breakfast we spent considerable time searching for the pocket knife, to no avail. Future kayakers, beware the pack rats.

We set off at 5:45 am into a one foot high surf. The breeze was southeasterly and we pinched the genoa to its limits for half an hour before giving up and dousing it. Paddling into the headwinds, on two occasions we ambled past turtles on the surface. High clouds spattered the sky away to the south and east, and provided a measure of relief from the intense sun.

The headwinds strengthened, gradually giving rise to the urge to pull ashore, but we were somewhat low on drinking water and needed to keep moving. The big island of Angel de la Guarda was becoming more prominent on the east-southeastern horizon with the passing of each hour, and afforded a method of navigating by taking compass bearings from its apparent north end.

While crossing one bay, the headwinds whipped up quite a chop, requiring that we unstep and stow the mast in order to fit the spray skirt. White caps began germinating across the sea, while on we bashed.

An hour later the conditions began mitigating, and as we paddled along the coast we found that landing ashore was possible. So I offered that Jenny could walk along the beach and stretch her legs while I padded next to her. This change in routine provided a welcome relief for the first mate, then 20 minutes later we switched places. At the end of my walk we came to a beach with very little surf, so we see-sawed the boat out of the water for a brief respite.

Back on the water we endured the powerful heat of the sun's burning rays. What body parts we cannot protect are becoming blistered, and no amount of sunscreen oils and creams affords adequate protection. Back in Salt Lake City we had scoured the second-hand stores for sun-protective clothing. I had looked at perhaps 100 long sleeve shirts without finding anything suitable. Now my requirements are far less stringent and practically any one of those shirts would have served adequately.

Now positioned in the strait between the big island and the Baja peninsula, and timed within a few days of the full moon, we are experiencing tides that are beginning to show rather pronounced effects. Some of the coastal promontories were festering gnarly patches of overfalls. Sometimes we could pass by an offshore rock with astounding speed; other times we paddled full tilt making little headway.

Time for fishing, and today was Jenny's turn to try her luck. After a few strikes she pulled in a nice barracuda, but lost it in her struggle to lift it aboard. But a few minutes later she landed another one, and this time the new hook I had added to the lure served its purpose. Dinner provided. The surf was practically zilch - the headwinds having died - and this afforded the rare opportunity to land practically anywhere we chose. So at 2:45 pm we off-loaded the gear through a patch of slippery pumpkin rocks and established camp above the high tide line, this at the southern edge of a quite prominent arroyo.

The fish grilled for dinner was superb; deemed, in fact, as one of the finest we had tasted.

Day's mileage: 21 in 8-1/2 hours' paddling.

Day 9

Nov 12, 1989

The sea became almost millpond flat and the moon shone brightly as we slept beneath the stars. Once a small pod of whales passed by just offshore, waking us with their steam-boiler breaths.

We rose at 2 am, rekindled the campfire and made coffee and pancakes by the light of the glowing lunar orb. Shoving off, we paddled abeam an extended line of palisades, keeping close in to avoid any overfalls, yet hopefully maintaining enough offing to avoid any shoals. The sea's surface gleamed with a silvery luster, and those offlying rocks awash were visible as darker objects squatting menacingly on the water ahead - and easily avoided.

The planet Saturn twinkled iris hues to the east, pasted into the firmament above the big island Angel. The planet Jupiter shined brightly almost directly overhead, as if ensnared for the moment in the constellation Orion. Nearby Jupiter, the star Sirius exulted its prowess as the brightest star in the heavens.

Just at daybreak we rounded Punta Remedios (ray-may-DEE-ohs) and made a quick pit stop. Then we struck out directly across the expansive bay. By now the breeze was bearing against us. We tried sailing into it for a few minutes but to no avail. So onward we bashed across the sloshy expanse.

The seabirds tend to bestir themselves early before the first hint of dawn, as though eager to begin the day's fishing. And by now the pelicans and gulls were roving about the sky in search of action; or having indulged, sitting on the surface of the sea, collecting perhaps scraps left over from fish eating smaller fish. Twice in succession a manta ray vaulted from the sea, executing two or three backward somersaults before thwacking back down recklessly into the water. Once a bevy of sea lions intersected our track, craned their necks in curiosity when reaching our proximity, then began cavorting about excitedly. Peering down into the pellucid abyss we could see them turning and wheeling beneath the kayak in graceful underwater ballets. Then they regrouped and commenced their foray further out to sea. They appeared to have a sense of purpose, as if late for work.

The seas were mostly calm as on we paddled directly into the eye of the wind, hour after hour. Judging our progress by aligning mountains and shoreside objects, we knew that an adverse current was hindering our speed. So there was nothing for it but to redouble our efforts. Three and a half hours after entering the bay we reached its far side at a small off-lying island.

We watched a half a dozen fishing skiffs speeding about this way and that, reminding us that we were less than twenty miles from road's end at Bahia de Los Angeles. For hours we continued plying the coast, straining against interminable headwinds but enjoying the passing scenery of striking cliffs, cobbled beaches, the occasional sea cave, and the remarkably clear water in which myriad reef fish darted away from the darkening hull of the approaching kayak. We watched a large sea turtle sound at our approach, and one particular pelican that did not fly away; it appeared to have suffered a broken wing. This sort of mishap must occur with some regularity, the result of miscalculating a high-speed dive, or of plunging into water too shallow.

Enervated by the intense sunshine far more than by the physical exertion, we pulled ashore, moored the boat to a rock in three feet of water, and enjoyed a thirty minute respite in the welcome shade of a cliff. Then pressing on into the unremitting wind we paddled until two pm. Just before rounding Punta Gringa we landed ashore and called it a day.

As we hoped to arrive at Bahia de Los Angeles in the morning, it behooved us to take a bath. For the third time on the trip we bathed in the sea, washing hair and body with Tide laundry detergent. An ordinary bar of soap feels like the same size block of wood in sea water: it is not slippery and it certainly doesn't cleanse the skin. Dr. Bronner's soap gives much the same results. But laundry detergent semi suds into a slippery lather that leaves the hair almost as clean as if shampooed in fresh water. The comb easily runs through hair washed by this method. The secret is to use a small towel immediately afterward to remove as much brine as possible from the skin and hair, as opposed to air drying which only concentrates the pernicious salt.

At low tide we strolled over the the inter-tidal zone, perusing the menagerie of sea life represented in astounding variety and vibrancy. We collected one scallop lying loose in a crevice and rekindled the campfire to cook it. The button was magnum sized, bigger than anything found in a seafood market.

Day's mileage: 24 in 9-1/2 hours' paddling.

Day 10

Nov 13, 1989

Rising at 3:00 am, in the nearly full moon plainly illuminating the inland scenery and the flat calm sea we boiled a small, (being nearly out of fresh water) pot of coffee and baked a pan of tinned-blueberry muffins. After my jamming the sleeping bags into their not-so-waterproof bags and lifting the poncho, hundreds of black beach-bugs scurried for cover. Only 2 or 3 that we knew of had crawled on us during the night. These bugs are fairly ubiquitous at the water line, moving up and down the shore with the turning of each tide. Backed by an abrupt hillside, we had slept only 18 inches above the high tide line, and this was well within the black-bug zone.

Setting off and paddling around Punta Gringa, we struck out across the bay, unable to see the shore on the far side. I was navigating strictly by memory. Straightway we were met with headwinds, which didn't bother us much anymore - having accepted our fate. By the time we reached the far side, an hour and a half later, the wind had grown quite strong.

Reaching the trailer park we found it rather abandoned. Stepping out of the boat to go ashore, Jenny reported seeing several crabs scurrying about. Then she said, "No, they're small sting rays." Then she began jumping and stomping about. She has been stung. Sure enough, blood was dribbling from a small incision in her heel.

The trailer park appeared to offer no amenities, so we paddled away, and once safely afloat I applied antiseptic to Jenny's puncture wound. Such an injury can be altogether incapacitating, but Jenny said it felt merely like a bee sting for a few hours. This was surely a miracle. But then she is one of the world's paradigms of stoicism.

Paddling past the lighthouse and across the bight we landed in front of the Casa Diaz and hauled our outfit up to the space between two bungalows of the Casa Diaz, the very spot where I have camped during several kayaking trips previously. The Casa was no longer serving meals, so after securing everything within the boat and fitting the spray cover we wandered to the far end of town and enjoyed a Mexican Combinacion breakfast at the Las Hamacas.

We spent the day relaxing and effecting numerous changes in the boat's fittings. We had placed our empty water bottles in a pile awaiting filling when a Mexican fellow tried to take the best two among them, thinking the lot was trash. Lo siento, senior. Later, we filled the water jugs at the invitation of a guest of the nearby bungalow.

The bungalows were practically full with guests (gringo anglers), so in order to retire early we pitched the tent there between the bungalows and, as it were, crawled into the woodwork. The guests proved not of the rowdy types, affording a good night's sleep.

Morning's paddle: 10 miles in 3-1/2 hours.

Day 11

Nov 14, 1989

We rose at 3:15 am, loaded the Tub by moonlight and at 4 am set off into fairly calm waters. Striking out across the open bay we encountered a fair wind fine on the starboard beam. Soon Bahia de Los Angeles lay far astern, indicated only by one or two lights. Once, a porpoise splashed not far away, and this was the only sign of pre-dawn life, save for a few wheeling pelicans and gulls.

Closing the headland we landed ashore for a quick pit stop, then struck out again, paddling into wind now fine on the port bow. The dawn sky hung smeared with cirrus, illuminated with brilliant hues of orange which reflected from the seas's surface. Skiffs began charging past, throttles agape, as the morning's fishermen forays volleyed forth. It seems that fishing is not genuine without an hour's bone jarring boat ride to and from the scene, and one had the impression the territory is fairly fished out an hour's jackhammering in any seaward direction from Bahia de Los Angeles.

As we rounded the final point and headed south a sailboat passed by, motoring to windward. And as the morning wore on the sailboat gradually vanished into a distant silvery blanket of fog creeping Northward.

Reaching the mouth of Bahia Animas we decided to lay a course directly across the expansive bay, but not before taking a few compass bearings in case the encroaching fog should engulf us en route. One of the skiffs approached and we recognized the two fellows we had talked with back at the bungalows. They wished us a good journey.

After we had left land far astern a sizeable manta ray vaulted from the water and belly-flopped with a great splash. One would have to be very quick of reflex to snap a photo of this, as it is always such a surprise. The distance across Bahia Animas is about 12 miles and we knew it was going to be quite a slog, battling these headwinds and possibly some adverse current. So we kept a close watch on various and distant landforms denoting our progress. Should the current and headwinds stop us cold, were we not watching carefully ashore we could paddle in situ for hours without realizing it. But our progress was steady, although decidedly slow. It is said that when the conditions are adverse, ease up and don't fight them. But I maintain the essentiality in such conditions of adverse current and wind to maintain as much speed as possible. Easing boat speed is to travel slower for a disproportionately longer time, and this has a double effect at mitigating progress. The ultimate example would be in giving way to the headwind and easing the boat speed until it equals that of the counter current. In such a case one would be paddling but not progressing one whit.

We relished the hourly rests, sipping water, finding something to munch, and shifting out of the paddling position for 5 minutes, before once again resuming our dogged labors. At times the seas rose, requiring wearing the spray cover and frequently sponging the bilge. Then the seas would decrease, allowing us to ventilate the cockpit by removing the spray cover. How thankful we were for those clouds that blocked the fiery solar heat.

I had estimated a 4-hour crossing. At the end of that period of time I asked Jenny if she thought we could reach the far shore in another hour. After that next hour I asked her the same question. We were most assuredly flagging by now. That shoreline was proving elusive; and still we could not see beyond the curvature of the earth to the actual seashore, although the cliffs stood before us quite distinct. While seated in a kayak, the height of eye is about 3 feet, and therefore the horizon lies only 2.0 nautical miles, or 2.3 statute miles distant.

We skipped the hourly rest at the 4-hour milestone, but took one at the 5, and after only a few minute's respite my landmark leads indicated we were loosing ground at an alarming rate, so we jumped back into action, wielding the paddles determinedly. Having come this far we certainly were not about to capitulate. Fearing being swept back into the bay we charged ahead, and reached the blessed proximity to shore half an hour later.

It felt wonderful to have crossed Bahia Animas, even though it had been a most arduous, 5-1/2 hour endeavor. It felt even better to reach the lee of the cliffs blocking the pernicious headwinds. We planned to remain afloat another hour before making camp, so Jenny tied a lure onto the fishing line and paid it astern. Results: one strike, no catch. Just beyond the headland is quite an alluring bay with two entrances, at least at high tide. At the back of this we could see three double kayaks lying on the beach before a trio of dome tents. We assumed this was some kind of kayaking-for-hire outfit. Rounding the next headland we found, of all things, the sailboat that had passed us by earlier in the morning, lying at anchor in the protected bight. No doubt the skipper had grown tired of motoring into the headwinds.

Rounding the next point and entering the shallow bay, we landed ashore at 2:15 pm. Twenty feet from the water's edge the desert was unbearably hot, so waiting until after the sun had dropped behind the nearby mountains, we traipsed back into the arroyo, inspecting the profusion of desert flora - remarkable in its variety and also in its verdure - for some reason - in the torrid climate.

Day's mileage:25 in 10-1/4 hours.

Day 12

Nov 15, 1989

We awoke during the night to hear the mast fluting, as wind whistled forcefully through the drilled holes in the aluminum tubing. That, and the ever increasing roar of the surf made it apparent that we would have to wait here on this beach until daylight to assess the situation.

Dawn's first light revealed that the strong nor'westerly had strewn white caps across the face of the sea, and that the surf was much too large to penetrate with the Tub. Clearly, we weren't going anywhere for awhile.

Taking advantage of the respite we hiked a few miles back into the arroyo, working our way into the rough-hewn mountainous terrain. By the time we had returned the morning had grown stiflingly hot, so we took refuge behind a solitary palo verde tree. Stunted, its trunk lay horizontally upon the ground, and its branches projected four or five feet into the air. Thorny though it was, it was a most lovely provider of shade, and therefore it afforded the needed comfort as we whiled away the day.

I read Barry Lopez's Arctic Dreams while Jenny bided her time sketching small plants and snoozing. We made several forages into the desert arroyo to gather firewood, in part seeking scraps of ironwood. This wood is far and away the most useful for the campfire. It is so dense it sinks in sea water, and because of its density it burns with remarkable longevity. We are finding mostly small scraps, but we did find one old trunk of a tree, long since deceased but still anchored firmly in the upright position.

When the sun had set, we started to climb a nearby peak. From a higher vantage we could see that the ocean was quite rough beyond our semi-protected coastal bight. Our attempts at climbing higher, however, were thwarted by the wind which made the going unpleasant. So we retreated to the protection of the arroyo and enjoyed the evening seated before the campfire.

Day 13

Nov 16, 1989

The wind had not mitigated, so we spent a second day on this beach.

Jenny was keen to try her luck at fishing from shore, so while she ventured south to the rocky point, I set out for an extended mountain foray. I climbed the ridge just south of camp to the peak's summit, descended its far side, and climbed another, from where I could see the ocean away to the southeast. Then I followed a rocky and bushy arroyo back to the coast.

At camp, Jenny excitedly showed me a surf perch she had caught, using a periwinkle for bait. We tossed it on the grill, saving the head for bait. Seasoned with the juice of a fresh lime and a few sprinkles of Lawry's, the fish was delicious.

Again I read my book for a few hours while Jenny fished and managed a few encouraging strikes but no further catches.

The previous evening we had slept in the open, but tonight the flies, both large and small, were making a nuisance of themselves so we slept in the tent.

Day 14

Nov 17, 1989

The strong northeasterlies had died and the sea had calmed considerably. Distrustfully, we rose an hour before dawn, timing our departure until not after we could see the state of the ocean. After coffee and a short round of hot cakes made with the last of the wheat flour, we carried the Tub out past the 8-inch surf. While I steadied the boat Jenny ferried equipment that we then both stowed in our respective holds.

The stars gleamed with uncommon brightness. Just west of the zenith stood Orion, while surrounding him were Sirius, Proseon, Pollux, Caster, and the beauty Capella. In the middle of these hung the planet Jupiter. Dawn revealed a fairly benign sea state far offshore, so we departed at 5:30 am, glad to be on the move once again. The Barrel Cactus Bay, as we had named it for the many vibrant species growing there, had indeed been a fine place to lay over during the blow.

We handed the genoa to a light offshore and bone-chilling breeze, and paddle-sailed half an hour before the wind headed us. At one point we came upon an archway which beckoned us try to negotiate. Paddling cautiously into shoaling, somewhat surging seas we reached a narrow entrance, wide enough to accommodate the Tub with a few generous inches to spare on either beam, except for when the surge receded once--leaving the boat aground. With paddles fore and aft we sometimes had to brace ourselves through, hands on the rock walls comprising both sides. The archway was more than tall enough, though, to accommodate the standing mast. Laying a course for open water once again, we felt a childish delight in having squeezed through that cave.

The coastline for the next few miles proved interesting and alluring: a long rocky palisade replete with numerous small caves and arches. The wind began blowing more forcefully on the bow, as on we struggled, eventually unstepping the mast to reduce windage. The Tub does not move well to windward, much to our present dismay. The seas were not growing, though, despite the wind and fetch, so eventually we closed the shore where the rocks were terraced like thousands upon thousands of carefully laid bowling balls. I waded ashore with a long length of nylon cord and began lining the boat: towing the Tub at a fast pace while Jenny steered with her feet against the rudder peddles. This technique proved a huge success. The headwinds slowed me down not one whit and the Tub proved remarkably easy to pull - an indication of the inefficiency of arm power as compared with leg power. Where the footing permitted, I could actually trot, and this I did for quite some distance. But then the rocks became less stable, mitigating the pace to a fast walk.

Once, climbing the bouldery embankment I was surprised to discover an expansive lagoon. I carried on for about an hour, traveling faster than we could possibly have paddled. Then Jenny wanted a turn, so we traded places. She lined the boat for 20 minutes, but then quite suddenly the seas began to roughen. I had been trolling a fishing line, and when the seas began climbing over the windward gunwale I reeled the line round my plastic bottle, and stowed the lure inside the same bottle, screwing the lid on to keep the hook out of mischief. Then I released Jenny's towing line and powered seaward.

A ways further on, with me paddling and Jenny walking the shore, we reached a sand beach where I maneuvered shoreward and Jenny waded out. She climbed aboard and we turned back out to sea, and after donning the spray skirt we resumed paddling. We kept going for perhaps another hour to the end of the beach.

Rounding a rocky point, we could see no possible landing in the distance ahead. Seas of four or five feet were breaking everywhere, and soaking us through. Worse, the Tub was holding several inches of water, reminding me of it propensity to leak at the most inopportune of times. We turned tail and the wind fairly blew us back to the beach, where a projection of rocks protected an exit and allowed safe and easy landing ashore. Here is the site of an old fish camp, where an unimproved dirt road makes its way from somewhere inland. We named it The Dump Camp, because the place was littered everywhere in trash.

We scrounged a bit of firewood and while eating a dinner of hearty potato soup, Jenny studied the map and asked where I thought we might be. "About were that river is," I replied, pointing to a place on the map. After dinner I wandered back behind the sand dunes and found, of all things, a river. It was not flowing, of course, and was quite stagnant; nonetheless, a bevy of ducks swam placidly, making the setting all the more picturesque and entirely out of context with the stands of cardon cactus asserting their authority.

Day's mileage: 20, paddling 7-1/4 hours.