Day 15
Nov 18, 1989
We rose at 3:15 am, made a round of coffee and scones to go, and shoved off at 4:15 am. The surf: four inches; the wind: offshore at a genial 8 knots. The moon: perched directly overhead, waning gibbous and shining through a clear sky. The wide-spread clouds of the previous evening had dissipated. Straightway we raised the sail and paralleled the coastal palisades, wafting on a beam reach. This was favorable sailing and we had not moved this well, nor this effortlessly, for days.
Dawn found the Sea Tub rounding the inside bend of Bahia San Rafael. The wind remained offshore until 7 am when of a sudden it switched to NW. So we plied the coastline still on a beam reach, but now on the port tack.
All along the various sandy beaches lay dead porpoises. They appeared to have died at about the same time, but quite a distance offshore as they were dispersed fairly evenly for some 5 or 6 miles. Altogether we must have seen perhaps forty. How they met their demise remains a mystery. Jenny speculated that perhaps they had fallen victim to some seiner's net, while I suggested also that they may have succumbed to some malady.
The wind and sea enlivened and we paddle-sailed with a will toward Punta San Rafael, hoping to round it before the conditions became too rough. But the wind grew only slowly, and by the time we rounded the headland it was blowing perhaps fifteen knots. Rounding the corner, we sailed briskly through the overfalls, whose turbulence we had anticipated. After gybing the genoa onto the starboard tack we then ran before the wind and bulbous following seas. With a bone in her nose, the Tub shaped a determined course for the resort at San Francisquito.
Sailing dead before a stout wind is the Tub's most unstable point of sail. While hogging and sagging the boat, the waves radically effect the kayak's lateral stability and it is not unlikely that a sudden gybe could precipitate a capsize. Using the genoa alone greatly minimizes this risk, though. A mains'l gybe in such brisk conditions could result in instant catastrophe. This is why we were not flying the main.
The mile of coastline south of the point featured several pull-outs, and we turned into one of them to prepare a thermos of hot coffee. Inside the bight the water was calm, but pulling close ashore we noticed a complete dearth of firewood. Besides, the weather was inauspicious. The upcoming crossing of Bahia San Francisco was the higher priority anyway. To the south and east the blackened sky hung low with powerful cu-nims, and the air echoed with mighty fusillades of thunder, like Napoleon and Nelson cannonading one another's galleons.
So we struck out across the expansive bay, crossing it in perhaps thirty minutes, then rounded a few more promontories and closed a beach of baseball sized rocks. After two weeks of Baja paddling, we smelled like a couple of moldering bilge rats who had been hanging around a smoldering campfire, so we took a hasty bath. Our technique consisted of me standing mid-thigh deep bracing the boat against the hefty oncoming surge, while Jenny bathed with Tide detergent. Then we switched roles.
Setting off again refreshed, we reset the headsail and rounded the third point, then sailed across the bay of gnarly combers, steering directly for the picturesque little resort. The wind was fresh and just forward of the beam, and the genoa pulled at what I felt was the very limit of what the boat could handle, structurally. The sail area was so far forward, though, that the lee helm had become practically unmanageable. The strong wind in the headsail, in other words, largely overpowered the effects of the steering rudder, requiring that I sheet the sail as free as possible without luffing, in order to hold the bow to weather.
Arriving at the beach abutting the resort but still standing off, we bagged the sail, stowed Jenny's paddle, took off our spray skirt combings, and beneath us cinched the skirt drawstrings tight, to seal the boat. Then Jenny crawled forward and prepared to jump ashore while I straddled the boat and paddled ahead. The surf was two feet in height. When the prow hit the sand, Jenny rushed to the bow loop and began dragging the boat up the steep, sandy slope. By then I was pulling mightily at a cockpit frame and the surf was assisting alarmingly with briny ram-rods at the stern. A tourist came to assist, and helped us drag the cumbrous boat free of the surf. He then departed the scene just as hastily. Perhaps we should have also brushed our teeth.
We set a foam pad onto the all-pervasive sand, and began off-loading some of the heavier items, onto it. Then we drug the boat to a safer distance from the rising surf. Jenny walked to the establishment to inquire about lunch, and returned with good news that the cook was now preparing our meal. After mopping up a quantity of sea water from the bilge and making the boat ship-shape, we ambled to the outdoor lounge area and met a gentleman vaguely familiar to me. I asked if his name was Ed Studley. Nodding affirmatively, he looked at me quizzically, to which I explained that we had met here some years ago, when he was selling home-made turquoise and silver jewelry and resin encapsulated scorpion paperweights. He said he hasn't sold scorpions for 10 years, and I related that it was about 12 years ago we had met.
The cook invited us to come to the dining area, then laid down a sumptuous meal of fish, refritos, whole wheat bread and fresh-brewed coffee. The cook had prepared the freshly caught yellow-tail with fried potatoes, onion and salsa "Bambino," and we found it excellent.
The seaside conditions were on the increase, prompting a hasty departure. After filling six one-gallon jugs we returned to the boat - aghast to see that the surf had more than doubled in size during the hour's shore break. I harbored no desire to camp in the sand, and directly in front of the resort at that. Nor did I wish to rent one of the bungalows. Jenny, on the other hand, didn't relish a launching through the now prodigious surf, and she could hardly believe we were about to do just that.
Removing the water bottles from the boat and setting them aside, we sealed the spray cover and dragged the kayak fore and aft just far enough into the water such that the breakers were washing over the deck to about a third it's length. Holding the kayak fast we scrutinized the oncoming combers further out, and waited for just the right moment to spring into action. At my signal Jenny heaved the boat seaward, just as the last big wave in the series washed ashore and floated the boat free. At the same time I jumped aboard and began paddling furiously. The shore was fairly steep-to, so the swell was breaking only yards from the beach. So within moments the danger lay astern.
Jenny's task was now to swim out with the water jugs, four at a time. Her expression told of scant enthusiasm for such an absurd task, but never having failed to muster the courage, whatever the challenge, she bravely waded into the sea, to the waist, suffered the onslaught of surf to the eyebrows, and swam out with the first four bottles. I hoisted the precious cargo aboard, then back-paddled earnestly to safer water while she swam back through the surf and returned ashore. Twice more we repeated this routine, much to the awe of the incredulous onlookers. A dozen Mexicans had gathered at the portico and all eyes were in our direction. If our curious antics weren't sufficiently spellbinding, then surely poor Jenny's sea-going rompers, having gone somewhat more translucent in the dunking, further distinguished our departure.
With Jenny clinging at the bow, I back-paddled to a safer distance offshore, removed the spray cover and adjusted the water bottles to afford some measure of accommodation. Then I quickly seated myself low within the cockpit, on my usual foam pad make-shift seat. Equilibrium and stability regained, Jenny crawled aboard.
Turning tail to the wind and beach we set sail, and were away--bounding over globular, undulating seas. An ominous swell was working in from the southeast, from the direction of the menacing cumulo-nimbus clouds, and was growing at a concerning rate.
With the resort fading astern we rounded a prominent point of land, entered an expansive bay and paddled for the welcoming arms of a secluded beach. We landed ashore but were unable to drag the boat free of the surf. Anxious moments ensued: legs, backs and weary arms strained mightily at see-sawing the Tub out of the danger zone. After off-loading the heavier gear and struggling the Tub out of the water, we turned and saw a solitary sea lion bobbing in the swell, perhaps 30 feet away, as if to check us out.
We lugged the gear up into the desert and took possession of the welcome shade of a thorny tree, and noticed by the watch that we had landed at 1:45 pm. We busied away the afternoon removing things from their so-called waterproof bags, for the purpose of drying. The evening's campfire heated water for hot chocolates, while the coals simmered a cookpot of tantalizing black-eyed peas and rice.
Day's mileage: 30 in 8-1/2 hours paddling.
Day 16
Nov 19, 1989
We slept in late, both because the boisterous sounding sea lapping the beach had effectively dampened the ambient paddling enthusiasm, and because an underlying sense of fatigue had done the same. Rising at dawn we struck a campfire, then while the coffee was brewing and a batch of Baja scones were baking we carried the Tub nearly to the water's edge and began loading it, save for the water bottles. Breakfast procured, fire extinguished, and camp erased, we dragged the boat out past the foot-high surf then loaded the bottles into it. Embarking at 5:45 am, Jenny served breakfast afloat: hot, fresh coffee from the thermos and savory, piping scones. The view comprised a blazing sunrise of oranges and golds.
A light and contrary breeze required our paddling until 7 am. Then the onslaught of an ever-strengthening offshore zephyr caught us further from shore than the sudden change in conditions warranted. Dousing the genoa we began clawing our way shoreward, glancing dolefully at an overhead cu-nim, the cloud dump of which had promulgated the sudden blow. Eventually we closed the coast, just south of Rancho Barril. Rather than paddle into the windless lee of the sea cliffs, though, we turned and stood off just far enough to allow the breeze to fill the genoa. As such, onward we scudded, playing the capricious breezes while making agreeable progress in our intended direction. Further offshore we could see that the wind was blowing out of the northwest, and eventually this pushed back the offshore wind, prompting a sail gybe. With that, the wind steadied and the Tub scurried along at a merry clip.
After rounding Punta San Miguel the tailwinds freshened and the next half hour's sailing was exhilarating. The Tub was over-canvassed, but her crew was reluctant to douse sail and so relinquish this fantastic speed. So we semi-reefed the genoa by easing the halyard, tack guy, and the sheet. This shifted the body of sail well forward, lowered its foot nearly to the water line, and rather gave it the shape of a parachute. Whatever works.
Eventually the tailwind mitigated and we ran before the favorable northwesterly for hour after profitable hour. Here though, we were in dire need of a reaching strut. For awhile Jenny held the sail's clew out using her paddle, and this produced the desired effect, but the effort was tiring. So I withdrew the main boom tubing and threaded the genoa sheet through a hole in the boom's end. With the pole's other end braced against a frame in Jenny's cockpit, it served admirably in holding the sail open to the tail winds. Proving itself remarkable stable, this configuration allowed us to relax and wholly enjoy the ride.
Ten miles further on, just before rounding the next headland, a number of events transpired - simultaneously - that threw us into chaos. The animated, burgeoning seas seemed wanting a photo snapped of them. As I was raising camera to eye, suddenly the trolling line, held beneath my leg, yanked taut. And at that very moment the wind freshened and drove the bow hard down, steering us uncontrollably toward a dangerous, surf trounced shore of ragged rocks. Jenny volunteered to reel in the fish while I attempted to sail us off the lee shore. And while I sailed at my utmost, with a free hand I groped about beneath the spray cover in search of a bag in which to thrust the fish. My efforts at sailing off proved futile; the reefs were almost dangerously close and getting closer. My request for Jenny to douse the sail was interrupted momentarily by her lifting aboard a sizeable sierra, and placing it deftly in my lap. Gee thanks. As an exigency, with the end of the genoa sheet I tied a sturdy knot around the fish's tail, as the lure had just wrenched free of the hook and the beautiful, thrashing trophy was making every attempt at taking its leave of absence. Bag found, I thrust the fish into it, and while it flopped around in my lap, we paddled furiously seaward into fairly astounding, sometimes breaking seas that loomed overhead and drenched us through. A lively sport sometimes, this sea kayaking.
We paddled full tilt around the point and into much less boisterous seas, and with the apparent wind now just aft of the beam we hoisted canvas once again and sped away, romping over the bounding main; me mopping the fish slime from my spray skirt, the sierra twisting and squirming but well ensconced within the hold, and Jenny smacking her lips in anticipation of dinner.
We continued another few miles before reaching a reasonably protected pull-out. Landing ashore, we see-sawed the boat laboriously up and away from the surf line. Standing there, sort of slumped, arms dangling, and our weary faces grinning with delight, we both breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. We felt as if we had been riding a carnival ride gone wildly out of control, and this throughout most of the day, and were mighty glad to have stepped off it at last.
The grilled sierra provided a tantalizing feast and we fell upon it with gusto.
Today's mileage gain: 34 miles in 8-1/2 hours.
Day 17
Nov 20, 1989
During the second half of the night we listened to the endless crashes, rumblings, and hissings, as each wave toppled onto the nearby beach. At dawn we struck the campfire, and squeamishly looking seaward, grimaced. Somewhere far away to the southeast a storm was sending its portends. We were loathe to allow another layover day, especially as beyond the surf the sea was rolling but fairly benign. But how to launch the boat through the three-foot combers? Standing at the water's edge, I studied the wave cycles long and hard. Launching through this onslaught would be an intimidating proposition, but between wave sets came an occasional lull that might permit a well-timed departure. Nevertheless, the conditions called for extreme caution. Having witnessed, on three separate occasions, fiberglass kayaks being smashed in much smaller surf than this, I reminded myself that the sixty miles to the next town would be a long, hot, survival hike should the surf destroy our seagoing mode of transport.
We carried the boat down to the surf's farthest reach, and loaded it. The occasional breaker, two or three times larger than the others, sent foamy brine spewing far enough up the beach to float the kayak, onto which we clutched tenaciously. I gave Jenny explicit instructions on how we would launch. She nodded in understanding but the expression on her face reflected grave doubts in the soundness of my reasoning. With the next high wave that lifted the boat from the steeply inclined sand, we allowed the kayak to slide ahead one boat length. And there we held it fast, bracing mightily against the rushing onslaught of each toppled wave, waiting for a lull. When the first one came, I saw two extra large rollers headed our way, still far offshore. So we wrestled the kayak back out of harm's way, up the sloping beach.
Once again in position at the surf's edge, we waited. And soon a favorable null occurred. As the last menacing breaker rushed past our legs and lifted the kayak to knee height, I gave the signal and we charged ahead full tilt. I had advised that once we started we could not stop for any reason. Any hesitation would surely invite disaster in the maws of the next breaker. The impetus of the seaward rushing back-wash was of itself almost sufficient to propel the boat seaward, and adding to this I was vaulting ahead like a charging ram. In a matter of moments I reached deeper water, leapt aboard the sealed spray cover, and on bent knees I began wielding the paddle I had been holding in one hand.
However, Jenny, being a novice to this sort of curious launch, had not been expecting the boat to go rushing ahead with such dispatch. At the critical moment, when the scene was charged with kinetic energy, she found she needed to release her grip on the boat in order that the mast shroud could pass without fouling her arm. Desperately she tried to regain her grip on the wet, slippery deck, as the boat charged past like a freight train. Recognizing the potential and grave danger in her ill-timed dawdling, in the heat of the moment I directed my distressed mate to let go of the boat, and to swim out.
Meanwhile the Tub charged ahead mightily, powered by Attila the Hun brandishing his paddle. The kayak vaulted over the first wave just before the wave broke, the boat's forward half spearing abruptly into the air, then hammering down with a splash. Ahead, the seas were calm, meaning that I had safely crossed the surf zone and gained safe water. Whirling my head back I could see Jenny, undaunted and swimming my way. So letting the boat drift I busied myself with sponging the sand and pooled water from the sunken and bulbous spray skirt collars. Then I opened mine and sponge-dried the foam-pad seat. Crawling in to my seat, I found that surprisingly very little water had entered the boat.
Shoving her floating paddle ahead of her using neck and shoulders, Jenny dog-paddled to the waiting kayak with a look of mighty relieved chagrin, if such an expression can be imagined. After stowing her paddle with the starboard deck velcro tabs, she climbed aboard. And with that we were on our way.
We paddled past an offshore rock festooned with basking sea lions. The few animals that were standing watch barked, but not in a manner that alarmed the thirty so others - they held their ground in seeming disregard. Regrettably, a pounding surf obviated our going anywhere near them.
For an hour we paddled in calm seas, the Tub bobbing like a cork over each globular wave and sinking into the ensuing channel. Then we collected an offshore wind and sailed to advantage until it grew overpowering.
This time of year, when a seaward wind springs suddenly forth, and if the time of day is before 7:30 am, then the breeze is likely katabatic: colder, more dense air rushing like a toboggan down the nearby mountains. If the time is after 7:30 am then the offshore breeze may be instead the harbinger of a genuine gale streaming over the great Baja peninsula. In any event, finding oneself blown out to sea could be life threatening, so at the onset of any offshore breeze I purposely head for shore in order to reduce the fetch and to gain refuge. (I have learned this first hand on my past trips.)
On this morning, as the offshore wind strengthened we dropped sail and paddled shoreward at full strength for fifteen minutes. Within reach of land, the conditions grew benign once again.
As we had a few days previously, we paddled through water occasionally crimson red with photoplankton. The red tide was so dense here that it made the water opaque. In one instance the munge formed a layer a few feet below the surface, giving one a sensation of flying over clouds.
Before long the wind backed into the most adverse sector and we found ourselves bucking a headwind. We doused the sail and a short while later unstepped the mast to reduce windage, and proceeded to enact the Greek expression festina lente: Make haste slowly.
At one point we found a dead sea lion afloat. I steered close to determine if perhaps it had been shot. Indeed, there were holes in the carcass. I could not be certain as to their cause, but it looked to me like some mighty big-game hunter had killed this good and noble animal for sport. Whatever the cause, it saddened us greatly, because we love the Baja sea lions.
reason suggested - or maybe it was only conjecture - that since the sea lions eat fish, and since the fisherman are out to get those same fish, then to the fisherman, the sea lions are bad; in much the same way that coyotes are bad to ranchers who tend sheep and cattle. And to stick my neck out even further, the people who have fished the sea out are not gringos but in the main Campestinos - Mexican people who have migrated to the beaches for the good fishing. We have seen them camped in the bays by the hundreds, living in small, makeshift driftwood shelters, and know that a many of these people have powerful outboard skiffs - called pongas - that can go quite a distance.
At 1 pm I said to Jenny, "those look like the coffee break rocks ahead" and of course the first mate wondered what I was talking about. Reaching the low-lying, tabular projections, we found that they provided a most suitable cove, and the water in their lee lay dead calm. Combating enervating headwinds, our energy was flagging and I considered this a favorable opportunity to land ashore, to strike a small campfire, and to steep a brew. While the coffee water heated I explored the area, according to my usual practice. The protection here was excellent should the night's wind blow strong from either the northwest or the southeast. The camping was good, driftwood plentiful, and the temptation to stay was strong. And more so, considering the strengthening headwinds. But Jenny's resolve showed no signs of weakening, so we slid the Tub sternward, back into the sea, and reseated ourselves in the cockpits.
The local congregation of pelicans stood resolute on their rock as we paddled close around them, then we pressed ahead into the disheartening wind and increasing chop. On we went, persisting doggedly and making headway at perhaps two-thirds the usual rate and twice the usual level of exertion.
Several miles further the wind began knocking the seas into gnarly white caps, so we closed the shore, this in the lee of a promontory where we found an excellent landing. We pulled in and established camp on an expanse of clean cobblestones. We hadn't fished that afternoon because of the fairly ubiquitous red tide, which is said to make the sea creatures toxic. instead, spaghetti comprised the evening's bill of fare.
Just at sundown, as the wind punctually dwindled, I climbed the short rise behind camp to assess the sea state and meteorological conditions. Here I came upon a herd of wild burros, mules and mustangs. I called softly to Jenny to come bring the camera, then for several gravid minutes we stood watching the animals - heads fixed in our direction and ears perked at the alert. There were what appeared to be one or two mustangs in the group, and several burros. The remainder were some amalgamation thereof, including one large mule. Intensely curious, they remained aloof, as would any wild animal. These creatures, rather their progenitors, had roved these badlands at will for perhaps hundreds of years, and we found it a genuine pleasure observing them at close range. Speaking quietly, Jenny tested them by sauntering in their direction. They allowed her intrusion for a minute or two, but then turned tail and rapidly increased the intervening distance.
Day's mileage: 21, having paddled for 7-1/2 hours.
Day 18
Nov 21, 1989
The wind held silent throughout the night and the dew accumulated with particular heaviness, requiring us to groggily cover the sleeping bags with the tent fly. Each evening the dew begins to form just before sunset and persists until midnight or so. Oddly, during previous trips I had never found so much dew on everything.
The southeasterly swell persisted throughout the night, and by morning we were glad we had landed in this protected pull-out, as it would greatly facilitate the launching. We loaded the Tub as it lay floating in the water, then set off at five am, cups of steaming coffee clutched between knees. The waning crescent moon shed but a feeble light, so we navigated primarily by the din of sonorous breakers. But the sound proved deceptively loud, as daylight revealed the shore lay perhaps a mile distant. Unknowingly bisecting a bay, we had been making for a staggeringly distant headland.
The breeze was light and shifty, and many times we handed and doused the sail, which added impelling force only for occasional moments. By 6:30 am the day had already grown stifling. The sea was calm and its semi-mirrored surface nearly doubled the incoming solar radiation. At day's end we would be surprised to find our foreheads quite suntanned, up underneath the brims of our hats.
Today we passed by campestinos in large numbers. Practically each cove or pull-out harbored one or two tiny ram-shackle hovels, and their attendant pongas anchored just offshore. Often we were greeted with a whistle or a wave, but in the main we passed them by too far offshore to communicate.
The swell decreased, and at 9:30 am we closed the shore and see-sawed the kayak onto a cobble landing. Soon we had the coffee pot a'boiling. Our supply of flour and cornmeal scone mix had waned, so we had to do without the scones that had become such a familiar part of the trip. Instead we breakfasted on granola, beef jerky and fruit leather, all home-made in Jenny's kitchen a month earlier. With cups and thermos filled, we put back to sea.
Occasionally we paddled by lofty, seaside cliffs, and once we pulled in close to take advantage of the shade they offered. Overhead squawked a bevy of seabirds, perched on various sloping ledges, each ledge drooling stalactites of bird lime.
Further on we approached a solitary pelican floating on the water, as pelicans often do. Curiously, the pelican didn't take flight, but allowed us to pass within a few feet. The thought of its having sustained an injury was dispelled when the creature spread its great wings and flew away.
On another occasion we paddled past three wild burros grazing near the shore in the back of the bay we were short-cutting.
How we longed for a bit of wind to fill the sail, which would have afforded respite from the labor of incessant paddling. The aching begins in the back, travels through the muscles that attach the scapula to the neck, where they support the shoulder frame. From a previous kayaking journey I had torn a muscle there, on the right side of the base of the neck (rhomboid minor) and at such times as this, it stabs as I paddle. The injury notwithstanding, from the neck, the fatigue travels into the shoulders, biceps, arms, wrists, and ends up in the stiffened and sensitized tendons that control chafed and swollen hands and fingers. The end result is a body well wearied at the closing of each day.
Still no wind. The heat stifled like a sauna with a locked door. Sometimes though, a whispering breeze played over the sea, barely rippling the water but bringing inestimable relief. With wind, a person's sweat evaporates, providing its intended cooling effect. Without it, it does not.
Two young fishermen in a ponga passed us at fairly close range, then stopped for a bit of fishing to allow us to pass them again, whereupon they then repeated the procedure. Were they overly intrigued or were we imagining ill intent? At any rate they had us feeling vulnerable. The vast majority of these campestinos are friendly, but statistics in human nature might suggest a few bad apples in the bushel. At rare times like these a person might harbor thoughts of carrying some sort of weapon to save oneself at the last possible moment. Suffice it to say that one's vulnerability is extreme, at times, and the attendant witnesses are entirely lacking.
It was my turn at fishing today, but I relinquished the honor because yesterday's persistent red tide prevented the first mate's having a go at the finny prey. Our fishing tackle consists of a long line wrapped around a one-liter plastic bottle. In the event that a too-large fish takes the lure, it will yank the bottle out of the boat, and we can retrieve it later, because it floats. In theory, that would save our line from breaking and would prevent the loss of the lure. I have never actually tested this, because I have always managed to hang on to the bottle. But this time Jenny caught a fish so powerful that it immediately broke the line, at the point were it was knotted around the fishing bottle. Indeed, that must have been a hefty fish (or the bottom). We re-rigged the outfit but soon reached waters filled with red tide, so reluctantly she reeled in the lure.
Navigating by dead reckoning and watching the map carefully, we kept close tabs of our estimated coastwise position, and eventually reached our intended landing, nine miles north of Santa Rosalia (rose-ah-lee'-ah). This region is the last place to camp before a line of rocky escarpments, beyond which the beach is accessible by car. A hefty swell rolled in from somewhere far away to the southeast, and the cobblestone beach was very steep-to. So the surge was much too great for me to hold the boat while standing in the water. Jenny waded in, mid-torso, and bag at a time lugged the equipment to high ground. Each time she waded out, I paddled in closer to meet her; and when she had grabbed her load I then back-paddled to a safer distance. After we had emptied the boat, I waited for a lull in the surf and paddled ashore; Jenny grabbed the bow and began dragging it free of the water as I jumped out, grabbed the stern and did the same. In this manner we barely escaped the next breaker.
Landing at 2 pm we bathed using laundry detergent. Then Jenny washed a few clothes while I gathered firewood, finding a scorpion perhaps 3-1/2 inches in length clinging to the underside of one stick.
Pongas motored past incessantly, going one way or the other with characteristic jet-age determination. Their numbers are one of the greatest changes I've noticed since my 8-year absence from the Cortez. The coast harbors people living or camping along this stretch in their hundreds, whereas before it harbored only a few. And, I might add, we have found the fishing mediocre, while in the past it was excellent.
Day's mileage 28 in 8-1/2 hours' paddling.
Day 19
Nov 22, 1989
For once the night was silent. Not only had the sea calmed, but we were camped a few hundred feet from the shoreline. However, true wilderness is never completely silent, and in this instance the beach-side cobblestones were making hollow, crunching sounds - as unknown animals prowled about assiduously in the blackness of night. At various times the footsteps suggested different creatures: a coyote or two; perhaps a wild burro; and once they strongly resembled those of a human, which I doubt was actually the case. Regardless of the species, the distracting noise thwarted a good night's sleep, and finally at 2:00 am I felt compelled to arise in the blackness of night and establish our territorial dominance. Hurling a few stones in the appropriate direction worked wonders at calming the obscurity. Or perhaps I simply slept better after asserting myself.
Again the dew proved remarkably heavy, but this time we had pitched the tent and fitted it with the waterproof fly. So for once the sleeping bags remained comparatively dry; at least not soaking wet.
After loading the Tub while on shore, we slid it broadside a few feet down into the 6-inch surf. Leaving no indication of our visit but shoe prints, we set off into a quiet, pre-dawn morning at 4 am.
Although the traffic of Mexican outboard skiffs had slowed during the night, it had not altogether ceased; and the thought of one of them blindly running us down was now a concern. As such, we held the shore as close as practicable, while gazing at the brilliant lights of Santa Rosalia several miles distant.
Rounding a minefield of offshore rocks, I commented that the oncoming ponga wouldn't dare be this close to the shoals, so we needn't worry. With the passing of moments and the sound of its engine droning rapidly nearer, I withdrew our mini-light from my pocket, flipped its switch, and aimed it at our unknowing assailant. Then I resumed paddling ahead, flashlight in mouth in lieu of a proper headlamp. Within moments the boat veered sharply away, and one could only assume that the pilot had probably found himself more than perplexed at the meaning of the tiny white light. And small lights close at hand appear to be distant larger lights. Disaster narrowly averted, round 1.
The day's vivification only worsened our difficulties. By the Mexican ponga driver's way of thinking, a kayak is unusual, to the extent that it is to be steered for, whenever encountered. Then at close range, having indulged in a good look, the kayak is to be veered narrowly away from. The attendant consternation of the paddlers has to be experienced in order to be appreciated. The question is: does the helmsman see us or not? By way of explanation, the engines on these open boats are so prodigious that they incline the boat's bow steeply upward, such that the helmsman's view is radically obstructed.
Nerves well tested, in 3-1/2 hours we reached the harbor, rounded its breakwater, and entered the placid basin. Noticing a stand of yacht masts off to one corner, we made for them, hoping that some yachtee might watch our kayak while we ventured into town. We entered one of the empty slips and made fast to its floating docks. The place seemed deserted but reasonably secure from curious muchachos equipped with sticky fingers; the place being enclosed with a chain-link fence that featured a gate with a lock, which later proved not to be locked. We secured the kayak and wandered ashore.
A girl from New Zealand met us at the gate and asked which yacht was ours. I told her the boat on the left, but failed to turn around and look for myself. She then asked whether by chance we were looking for crew. Where she intended on riding I hadn't a clue. But later I was surprised to see that from the gate, the dock completely obscured the low-lying kayak.
Jenny had readied her shopping list. It comprised flour, cornmeal or corn flour, powdered milk, rice, beans, sugar, bread, jam or honey, spaghetti, cooking oil, fish hooks, t.p., shoes, and silicon sealant. After perusing several small tiendas and the supermercado, we found everything needed, and them some - the town's panaderia (bakery) receiving our highest accolades. We lugged home several bags of groceries, provender enough, hopefully, to last until reaching the town of Loreto. Jenny repackaged many of the items into resealable bags, in order to alleviate as much plastic and tin as practicable. Then we stowed the supplies.
Next, we engaged in a Mexican fiasco in an attempt to mail back to the States a box containing the mainsail and several items of unused clothing. After forty-five minutes' waiting for the customs officer to come open the box, we transported the box and the appropriate form to the customs office. The officer asked what was inside, then stamped his seal of approval. Then back at the post office the clerk would not accept dollars, necessitating a trip to the bank - might as well call in again at the bakery, next door. Finally we surmounted all obstacles and the clerk accepted the box, and as a bonus he plastered one side with stamps and wound on a quantity of string.
The wind was piping up, stirring the innate, primordial urge to further the migration. So reluctantly we skipped the hoped-for restaurant meal and returned to the marina. After filling water bottles and stowing them, at 11 am we slipped the warps and backed out of the slip, pointed the prow in the direction of the harbor entrance, and set sail. Paddle-sailing ever so smartly we almost rammed headlong into a concrete mass of whatever, standing smack in the middle of the basin. The sail had entirely blocked our view ahead, until the last possible moment. Justifiably humbled, we proceeded on with more caution.
Outside the harbor, the sea had grown choppy and was now strewn with white caps. But the nearby cliffs blocked most of the wind, so onward we jounced. Fifteen minutes was enough to fill the bilge with three inches of water. The ensuing quandary proved unnerving and a bit maddening because bailing was made impossible by the spray skirt which had to remain secured in order to prevent the seas from more rapidly flooding the boat. Yet slowly the Tub was foundering from the deck-to-hull joint leakage. A mile from port we rounded a headland that mitigated the seas, which then rolled in from the aft quarter rather than on the beam. Once the bilge was mostly sponged we joked about the tub's absurd lack of seaworthiness, displayed at the more inopportune of moments. There is nothing like a round of joking to turn an adverse tide, and soon we were laughing uproariously about what only moments ago had seemed a desperate situation.
At 1:30 pm we rounded a bit of a broad point and decided to land where the two foot waves were expending themselves obliquely upon the shore. I paddled and backpaddled while Jenny struggled the gear ashore. The wind was driving the boat wildly out from the unloading position, because it blew nearly perpendicular to the incoming waves, into which I was trying to point the stern. Once safely ashore we determined next time to try unloading in such a chop with me standing waist deep, bracing the kayak stern into the seas while Jenny unloaded. Such is the price one must pay for a soft shelled boat. Even though a hard shelled kayak can be simply run up onto practically any beach, it cannot be delivered to journey's beginning by bus, nor can it be loaded into a bus at journey's end. The collapsible kayak is more sluggish to paddle and more trouble to launch and to land, but at sea it is more stable than most, and in planning the trip it affords far greater independence.
By intent we had landed where the surf was the smallest, knowing that we would have to portage a hundred yards to an arroyo that afforded camping possibilities. And this we did. Then armed with a tube of silicon we had bought in town, I set about sealing the gunwale-hull joint, hoping to mitigate some of the infernal leaks. Jenny prepared a meal of fresh bread and potatoes, canned vegetables, and a dessert of bakery goods. The arroyo was narrow and littered with flotsam, so we conveyed our sleeping bags and pads a short distance inland and found a small flat space on which to sleep. Once again we bedded at a sufficient distance from the shoreline to muffle the sound of the surf.
The day's mileage was 17, and we had paddled for 6 hours.
Day 20
Nov 23, 1989
After preparing coffee and scones by firelight and then setting off at 4:45 am into 6-inch seas, we paddled without using the sail even though the wind was favorably abeam. The utter darkness greatly hampered one's sense of equilibrium and general organizational capabilities, and the offshore wind was a bit strong. But at dawn we quickly made sail.
Cutting a capacious bay we lay a course that would take us across the eight miles of open water. Soon the wind died and by then a larger, but rather inoffensive swell was rolling in from the North. The conditions were benign; the sea was gentle, and the wind just hardy enough to waft away the sultry effects of solar radiation, or nearly so. We enjoyed paddling across the oceanic expanse.
Then closing the shore and paddling paralled with it a few miles, we declared a rest stop afloat, and spent several minutes leaning over the gunwales, watching the seabed glide slowly beneath. The water was remarkably clear, and under the kayak's lee, the surface was mirror flat. So we felt almost as though swimming with mask and snorkel - equipment we both yearned for at the moment. Indeed, I had not seen the Sea of Cortez so crystalline.
We paddled on for several hours, eventually reaching Punta Chivato where, collecting a light northeasterly, we sailed around the rocky cape. A few miles further, and now sailing before the breeze, we cruised in front of a white sand beach replete with numerous R.V. campers. This must be one of Baja Cortez's more tropically alluring areas, i.e. tourist dollar potentials, this side of Cabo, and no doubt one day it will be heavily developed. The missing links are of course the remoteness to a jet port, electricity and and supplies of fresh water. But the intense aridity is a blessing in disguise for we voyaging sea kayakers who revel in remote, secluded and wholly undeveloped coastal places.
We continued sailing across the expansive sand-bottom bay. Suddenly Jenny's trolling line yanked taut, and snapped. She reeled in, by winding the line around the bottle, and found the lure intact, although its hook was nearly straightened. I replaced the hook with a new one, and a few minutes later she hauled in a barracuda, much smaller than the first customer but sized just right for the dinner later tonight of fish, fried potatoes and canned corn.
Pressing on into the afternoon and now looking for a campsite, we sailed along an extended, sandy shoreline. We loathe camping in fine grain sand because it tends to pervade everything and adheres tenaciously when the dew sets in. So onward we continued, in hopes of finding a variation in the coastal character. The wind ceased, requiring that we humble ourselves to lowly paddling vassals once again.
Not having mentioned the boobies yet, I should report that endlessly we watched these sea birds enact their high-diving plunges, hurling down to seaward from great heights like sharp-nosed meteorites and striking the sea with surprisingly little splash.
At 3;30 pm we concluded the day's travels with an easy landing, and established camp in a broad arroyo littered everywhere with a variety of old sea shells.
Day's mileage: 38 in 11-1/2 hours paddling.
Day 21
Nov 24, 1989
In the Cimmerian pre-dawn, a thin crescent moon hung above us, diffused in greasy cirrus. Carrying the gear fifty feet to the shore was a test of one's ability to walk unsighted over football sized cobbles made slippery with algae. And finally, carrying the boat was the final exam.
The sea was calm and we paddled away glad that dawn was about to show the scenery, as the lack of audible surf severely hampered our navigating. Reaching Sombrerito we bypassed the town of Mulege (moo'-la-hey) and instead paddled a ways toward the next headland then lay a course for Punta Conception, 10 miles across the mouth of Conception Bay.
The day was windless and the sea calm, and we crossed the sound without incident. The smudged-over sky provided a most welcome relief from the tormenting sun. At one point a school of perhaps 50 or 100 porpoise raced past, as if eagerly pursuing some school of delectable fish.
Within a few minutes of rounding Punta Conception we pulled ashore and landed in a north facing cove. While Jenny moored the kayak to a rock in knee-deep water, I struck a fire and put on the coffee pot. This area was most interesting. Driftwood was plentiful, as were various sea shells, and the fronting hinterland beckoned the explorer to come take stock. As a bonus, the cliff here features several bands of interesting inch-long quartz crystals, tightly packed together.
With steaming cuppas secured in the cockpits and a thermos full of coffee in the hold, we paddled away - somewhat reluctantly. But ahead lay one of my favorite stretches of coast, reasonably unfrequented, protected against north winds, and abounding in superlative camping.
Itinerant sailors who frequent the Sea of Cortez see mostly the open sea with some distant, hazy coastline standing away in the distance. To approach this coast in a larger craft is to court danger, and the mariners find suitable coves and protected anchorages scattered but sparsely. For the sea kayaker however, the shoreline usually represents security. The many small headlands provide just the needed protection for a kayak to tuck into, and landing ashore is a marvelous sensation, suddenly removing oneself from the commanding forces of a boisterous sea. This is one of the big attractions of traveling by kayak; but it is not option for the yachtsman, whose larger vessel must remain afloat.
Numerous times today we encountered fish feeding frenzies, mostly roosterfish attacking their prey. And with the birds diving into the action, the scenes were charged with activity that kept us entertained.
Mid day Jenny began reporting that she was seeing little blue lights in the water. Perceiving none, I joked about her becoming somewhat sea crazed. This went on for a few hours until suddenly we were surrounded by little blue lights in the water. Actually, they were the color of burning magnesium: bright aquamarine, emerald, iridescent blue. Reaching out, I scooped one into my bailer, whereupon its light extinguished. Examining the take, I saw that I had captured a few peanut-sized jelly fish type organisms, each one being largely translucent. Oh the joys of discovering interesting and new-to-us things!
At 1:30 pm we rounded Punta Colorada and landed ashore in order to fossick about the extensive rocky reef, which reached a few hundred feet offshore. I was looking for scallops with which to supplement the cabrilla we had just landed. Finding none, we paddled on, bound for a suitable place to camp.
Just then an offshore wind materialized, of sufficient force to sap our remaining strength. For over an hour we paddled doggedly into stiff headwinds, making minimal headway.
Our first landing was on smooth, pumpkin sized rocks, again covered in algae. Walking over these proved so slippery that in the interest of retaining our physical well being, we thought it best to relocate to a better landing. So after rounding the next headland we landed once again, and established a campsite just above the high tide line, directly seaward of a long line of plentiful driftwood.
A three-inch scorpion crawled out of a campfire log, and I found a 1/2-inch stinging critter of a different sort beneath the poncho ground sheet while adjusting the cobbles.
Day's mileage: 28 in 9 hours 15 minutes of paddling.
