Day 22
Nov 25, 1989
We rose at 3:15 am and spent an hour and 45 minutes cooking breakfast, packing, and idling away some of the abysmal darkness. The wind blew offshore too strongly to be considered wholly katabatic, so the surf was a mere 6 inches.
There is a strong tendency when paddling coastwise in the night, upon reaching a headland and entering its bay to continue steering for the next distant point without realizing how quickly and how far offshore one is inadvertently venturing. This has happened to us from time to time. But this morning we needed to pay the utmost attention to the coastline and its vagaries, or risk being swept out to sea in the overpowering offshore tempest. So rounding every punta we steered hard to starboard and paddled straightway into its bay. In an offshore wind, the fetch must be kept at a minimum in case the wind should suddenly erupt. So this required that we paddle a great deal further point to point, sweeping deeply into each bay. Furthermore, this was not the ideal morning to be out paddling in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, and once again I longed for a sweater. And after a few hours I was considering hauling ashore to build a fire, simply to warm the feet and arms.
The wind increased to such proportions that the big genoa would no longer sail into it, and this meant that we had to drop the sail and wield the paddles arduously. Then, once inside the bay we hoisted the sail again and bowled along to the next headland.
The act of rounding Punta Santa Teresa put the stiff breeze fine on the starboard bow and terminated the morning's sailing. We unstepped the mast, unsegmented its three sections and stowed them belowdecks. The next few hours could best be described as good old fashioned hard work. (For future reference, all along this stretch of coast are patches of offshore rocky reefs, seldom extending more than a few hundred feet out. But this would be a good place to exercise caution if plying these waters at night.) We pulled into one of the many small bays and moored the kayak in a few feet of water, then waded ashore for an hour's respite.
The next cliff-less stretch promised to be even less protected and more strenuous. But when we began paddling again the wind slackened considerably. The sky was clear except for a disquieting swath of silvery clouds hanging ominously among the peaks far inland. At one point our wind died altogether for only a few moments, whereupon immediately the conditions became wretchedly hot. A few miles further on we encountered three young pescaderos setting gill nets. It seemed as though they were intentionally placing the net directly in our path, but maybe not. And when they motored close abreast it seemed like the fellow brandishing a rifle was giving us mute threats. But then, maybe not.
As we paddled around the back of the capacious bay, and now taking the wind more off the bow, we stepped the mast and set the genoa, all in less than a minute. For the next hour Jenny paddled while I played the wind shifts, holding the main sheet in hand so as not have the boat knocked over by a sudden veering gust. Eventually, though, we collected a strengthening headwind, which requiring a sail dousing. After several minutes without showing signs of relenting, the easterly established itself unwaveringly and quickly began spilling whitecaps in our direction.
We paddled nearly full steam, of course making minimal progress, and after an hour we closed the coast and hauled the rig out of the sea, this at 1:00 pm. The disquieting easterly blew throughout the remainder of the afternoon.
The area here is not one I would have chosen for its camping attributes. It is low-lying, rock-strewn, and there is no higher ground standing behind it. But firewood is plentiful and we enjoyed a short walk collecting ironwood and then fossicking across the low tide zone. While collecting ironwood we admired the myriad of old sea shells strewn about: large conch-like shells, huge scallops, rock clams, cone shells, and large, rock-sized chunks of coral.
Today's mileage:22 in 7-1/2 hours of paddling.
Day 23
Nov 26, 1989
A brisk westerly had sprung forth during the night and because of the uncertainties it presented we slept in another hour and a half. With the wind quartering offshore, the surf was again minimal so we set off at 5:30 am. Straightway we set sail and romped along at a brisk rate, traversing in thirty minutes a long sandy beach that against yesterday's headwinds would have required two hours to negotiate. But the recompense followed shortly.
Approaching the rocky headland we entered confused water. The Tub bounced in the chop rebounding from the shore, and she took occasional sluices over the decks and one hefty dollop into the cockpit of her skipper. It was while sailing full-tilt that we discovered that the headland's rocks extended further offshore than anticipated. Suddenly we found ourselves scudding through a nest of shoal reefs.
It is Jenny's job to pilot us through any shoals, because her vantage forward is far better than mine. "Steer left," she instructed, and I replied casually that this would not be a good time to strike a rock. THUD! The boat skidded to an abrupt stop, lifted, tilted, and slued around backwards. We had run hard aground. The next sea lifted the boat whereupon we back paddled away, assisted by the now backwinded sail. We doused the canvas and while Jenny hauled it aboard I paddled seaward, inspecting the bilge. I could see a thin ribbon of water coursing aft between a longeron and the hull, but we were not taking enough water to give concern. Composure regained, we set sail and resumed the journey.
A short while later we rounded another point and encountered a herd of sea lions basking upon the smooth rocks. Two of them roared at us, while the others remained listless. And then a few of them followed a ways, playfully maintaining their distance.
We then crossed a large bay, sailing as hard as the Tub would go, rather over-canvassed but still retaining some structural margin. The mast is stayed with only one backstay and two thwartship shrouds that attach to each gunwale just forward of Jenny's cockpit. As simple as the rigging is, it is surprisingly strong. It was while approaching San Francisquito and within swimming distance of shore that I purposely tested the rig, sheeting the sail hard in on a reach in a goodly blow, fortunately without consequence.
As we approached Pulpito, (pull'-pee-to...The Pulpit) this impressively high, rocky sentinel blocked the wind in its entirety. So we doused and paddled ahead, watching for the tunnel I had paddled through during past expeditions. Then I saw it, on the starboard quarter, astern. Having missed the entrance, we turned tail and backtracked around the corner, then unstepped the mast to permit the boat to pass through. We paddled into a vaulted room, gazing at it's cathedral ceiling and admiring the pellucid emerald and turquoise water below, incandescing like a light bulb. The luminescence was transmitted underwater from the ambient light outside. In this astounding chamber one cannot help but to stare, eyes agape. Paddling through the exit we could see that the four or five foot deep basin had a sand bottom.
Expecting to encounter headwinds after rounding the bold promontory, we left the mast secured in its deck fastenings. A second archway presented itself, and we paddled part way into it, but the water was thrashing much more here, so with discretion we backed away. All this while, incidentally, we were bailing at a constant rate.
Next we engaged the expected stiff headwinds, while holding close the shore. Then reaching another band of cliffs that blocked the wind, we found conditions amenable to easier traveling. But the rent in the hull needed repairing, as the constant bailing would mitigate our safety and day's progress. So we pulled into a snug cove and landed on a sand beach flanked with cliffs, and there we unloaded and hauled the Tub ashore for the purpose of stanching the inflow of sea water. Examining the hull we found some sizeable gashes. These we dried meticulously with a sponge and towel, then sanded with a piece of wet-and-dry. After the sunshine had dried the hull, using no patch we simply applied Vyna-bond adhesive to the holes and scrapes.
An hour after landing, we relaunched, and for hour after interminable hour paddled onward, the sail wafting and flagging and occasionally providing a bit of drive as if to justify its existence aloft. The sun beat down with a vengeance, at least upon me, for Jenny sat largely in the shade of the sail. In the hours to come I felt like I was being broiled alive, and indeed my arm blistered. But the coastline was always interesting to observe and we were glad to see that the Mexican campestinos hadn't established their presence along this pristine stretch of coast; at least not yet.
Late in the afternoon we closed a high rock cliff that plunged into the sea. I had sighted this from a great distance and had hoped it would offer shade, which indeed it did. The kayak bobbed dead in the water at the foot of the precipice, the sea heaving at its base. We shifted out of our mandatory paddling positions to grant reprieve to the hapless derrieres. Roosting high overhead on their guano stalagmites were boobies with striking blue webbed feet. These animated birds seemed somehow glued to the cliff, so small were their stances.
Pressing on we cut three miles across an expansive bay with the sail drawing unenthusiastically and the crew paddling doggedly. Reaching and rounding the next headland, where we had intended to land, we found a campestino and so carried on. Eventually rounding another headland we found only impossible cliffs that presented the discouraging view of another mile of the same. At least the sun had slid behind the mountains, providing relief from the scorching heat.
It was here that Jenny began catching, and loosing, fish: sierras and barracudas. The first one put up an admirable fight which indeed effected its escape. Our lure had but a single barbed hook, and that configuration was proving ineffectual for this type of fishing. How we longed for a selection of treble hooks. Jenny hauled in the second fish, and for a moment held it over my lap while awaiting my lifting the catch bag. But the fish flopped and thrashed with such violence that I feared being impaled by a fishhook, so I asked her to place the fish back into the water for a moment. But just then the fish flipped free and we lost it. Catching three more fish in the next hour, we managed to secure only one of them.
Eventually we came upon a lovely cobbled beach, most suitable for camping, and there we landed at 4:00 pm.
Day's mileage: 29 in 9-1/2 hours of paddling.
Day 24
Nov 27, 1989
The wind and sea had fallen silent during the night, so we rose at 3:15 am, reluctant to bestir ourselves from the comforts of the tent and sleeping bags, but eager to greet the new day. The grizzled chunk of ironwood we had thrown onto the fire the night before was still hot, and the surrounding coals were ideal for Jenny's pre-dawn baking. Before retiring she had prepared a frying pan of dough and left it covered. The dough contained a self-perpetuating sourdough yeast, and the nights are warm enough so that the dough rises suitably.
One day before the new moon, the night was illuminated only by starlight, and even this was mitigated by cloud cover. But not to worry; we had not gone to bed without organizing things and making them ready for the morrow's departure. And anyway, we had packed the gear in the dark so many times that darkness presented no obstacle. Loading the kayak while standing knee-deep in the eight-inch surf, we amused ourselves with the startlingly brilliant phosphorescence that bristled around our legs like Fourth of July sparklers. Every stirring of the water created a scintillating sweep of the fairy's magic wand. The effect of course was the result of the photoplankton pervading the water and the lack of moonlight that otherwise would obscure this marvelous phenomenon.
After setting off at 4:15 am we paddled for half an hour, watching the eastern sky slowly acquire its pre-dawn illumination. The lambent light comes so subtlety at this time of day, that one wonders if the sunrise is merely wishful thinking.
Then with just enough light to see what we were doing in the event of a knockdown, we made sail on a broad reach, taking advantage of the morning's katabatic offshore breeze.
Pongas zoomed past at random intervals, perhaps a dozen altogether. The Mexican fishermen driving these open boats would often alter course to give us a closer inspection and then pretend not to notice us as they flew past. Most of the time they returned my wave, usually in a shunted gesticulation of the macho variety. Should the sea kayaker ever require help, one would surely appreciate their presence, which is more ubiquitous the closer to the towns. In the absence of any mishap however, we're finding that their sheer numbers detract from each individual's unique character. And rocketing past in their high-speed boats, many times they put on airs of superiority that we fail to appreciate.
Rounding a few low lying points, one featuring an old, defunct mission, we encountered increasing NW and offshore winds, which soon became unmanageable for the amount of sail area the kayak was carrying. We doused the canvas and paddled vigorously shoreward, this for the third time in as many days. Having now circumvented the major headlands, we had escaped the four-foot swell rolling in from the North. The conditions suggested stronger winds to come, though, so we paddle-sailed vigorously without letting up, while the town of Loreto began slowly materializing upon the distant shoreline. The gusts were on the verge of unmanageability, yet I was reluctant to douse sail because it was pulling so aggressively, and because our speed was at times bordering on astounding, at least for the likes of a soft-shelled kayak.
The plastic jam cleats had worn to the point where they would no longer clasp the sail's sheet during the wind gusts. The sheet would suddenly rip free, the boat would right itself with a jerk, and the sail would flog violently. Anyway, if the jam cleat were holding, the boat would probably suffer a knockdown, that is if the rigging would hold together without wrenching up a gunwale. A sorry state of affairs that would leave us in. So while Jenny paddled single-sided on the lee to balance the enormous lee helm, I manned the genoa sheet, easing and taking in with each wind shift, and steering hard to weather, trying to close the shoreline now some fifty yards distant.
At 8:00 am we landed in front of the El Presidente hotel, recently renamed La Pinta. While I stood off, afloat, Jenny proceed to the office in order to inquire the price of a room. It was just under our limit of $40.00, so we deemed ourselves having arrived. After carrying our belongings to the veranda, we then lifted the Tub from the sea, carried it across the palm-studded hotel grounds, and after wiping it dry with a sponge, we slotted it through the veranda's double doors and into the room. It barely fit.
An hour later the NW wind began wreaking havoc upon the high seas. We were glad to have reached our desired haven before the storm's onset. With impunity we enjoyed a leisurely day wandering about sprawling Loreto, shopping for provisions, twice eating combinacion dinners at Don Luis', who for some reason had relocated his restaurant to a more obscure location.
Day's mileage: 11 in 3-1/2 hours paddling.
Day 25
Nov 28, 1989
Stormbound today by the stiff northerly, festering the sea in formidable whitecaps.
Like tourists we enjoyed two long ambles about town. Once, while strolling along the shoreline south of town, we were chased away from someone's property by a couple of gnarly hogs (pigs). These massive, ill-tempered bacon rashers had somehow assumed the role of watchdogs, and startled us with their novelty as much as with their aggressiveness.
Back at the hotel, we carried the boat to the beach and worked yet another few hours attempting to seal the leaky gunwales.
That night I slept in the tent, pitched on a single bed in order to elude the mosquitoes. Jenny, who isn't bothered much by them, preferred the more cultured approach to hotel life, and luxuriated between the clean sheets of the other bed.
Day 26
Nov 29, 1989
Another stormbound day.
At the suggestion of a fellow hotel guest named Moiyra, Jenny spoke to the hotel manager, Senor Serano, regarding our need to have a bank check made, to pay our storage space rent back in El Centro. Within a matter of minutes Jenny was on her way to the bank with one of the hotel receptionists serving as a translator and driver. She experienced no problems getting the bank check (cheque de banco), the fee being 15,800 pesos - about $6.00. Then at the post office Jenny mailed the check, with a short note, and received a receipt stub for the registered letter.
Day 27
Nov 30, 1989
Rising at 3:30 am and walking in the darkness a quarter mile NW upon the beach, among the scattered bushes we struck a fire and made coffee. Then back at the hotel room we carried the boat, stores, water, and gear to the shore. The surf had fallen to 12 to 15 inches. The task of loading the boat in the water proved something of a wrestling match, the heaving and lurching boat being difficult to hold onto while stowing each item of gear in its place.
We were relieved to be on our way. As comforting a shelter as the hotel room had been initially, we felt increasingly as though incarcerated. We set off at 6 am and soon bent the genoa to a variable offshore breeze, and paddle-sailed on into the early morning, while dodging the occasional ponga. This was the first day of fishing after 3 days of wretched northerlies, and the pescaderos were eager to get out there and catch those fish. They acted as though performing in some wild west rodeo.
At 8 am the wind began strengthening, and for two hours we sailed on a beam reach in ever more boisterous seas.
Just before rounding the bold headland fronting Punto Escondido, as we were bouncing ahead with the genoa drawing hard and the spray a'flying, we caught one breaking wave that slammed into the hull and pounced onto the spray cover. In the strong wind, the force of the wave yawed the kayak sharply to weather. My attention was diverted to the astounding mass of water moiling in my spray skirt mote, and just then the kayak nearly broached. The boat lurched sharply, rolling away from the face of the next oncoming wave, whereupon the lee deck began scooping water. Instinctively I released my grip on the genoa sheet and leaned hard uphill, whereupon the boat quickly righted.
Rounding the point, the wind venturied to unruly proportions, so we doused and bagged the sail, an act that greatly ameliorated our plight. Then while paddling into the remarkably quiet water of the protected lee, we noticed a double folding kayak resting on the beach, a great pile of gear nearby and two people wandering about. So we decided to paddle over and say hello.
After talking with them awhile, we made a most surprising discovery. These folks were from Vancouver Island, and the fellow mentioned that they had met two people like us in the laundromat in Nanaimo, two summers ago. We replied that during our 3,300 mile kayaking journey to the Bering Sea, two summers ago, in Nanaimo, we had met two kayakers who lived on an offshore island. After exchanging memories of that morning, indeed, we confirmed that we had met.
Doug and Marie were planning to paddle around Isla Carmen, this being their first kayaking trip in Baja. We visited with them for about an hour, then reluctantly set off for parts SE. Doug's parting remark was, "See you again somewhere in a few years!"
Sheltered by the bold headland, the sea lay fairly calm and the wind was much diminished. We paddle-sailed onward, and the further we went the stronger grew the wind and the larger the waves, until finally we were sailing full tilt with the wind just forward of the port beam. The waves rolled in, one after the other, each lifting the boat by as much as six feet. We were really sailing hard and the Tub was showing herself proud, kicking up her heels.
We cut two large bays, the second one being Agua Verde, and then just before we rounded Punta Candaleros the wind grew truly impetuous. After dousing, we paddled a ways around the corner, only to meet an entirely foreboding scene of churning, confused seas, seething in gnarly whitecaps. Discretion being the greater part of determination, we turned tail and paddled a short distance to a small offshore island. Closing the shore in its lee, we off-loaded our tonnage; Jenny shuttled gear while I paddled into and away from the surge. Then at 1:15 pm we hauled the boat ashore and established an impromptu camp. Gazing seaward, we found the sea state and size of the waves extraordinary. We were glad for the safety of shore.
Back at the hotel we had done a considerable amount of seam sealing on the Tub, using silicone to bond the fabric hull and deck to the aluminum gunwales. It was because of this that we were able to sustain the voyage in today's rough seas.
Day's mileage: 25 in 6-1/4 hours.
Day 28
Dec 1, 1989
The wind continued unabated throughout most of the night, and the sound of the nearby surf kept us lingering in the sleeping bags. But before dawn's first light illuminated the seas, we rose and made breakfast. The waves had reduced to perhaps one third yesterday's height, and anyway we were determined to go, whatever the sea state.
We loaded the boat as it sat on the steeply inclined cobble beach, then at 6:30 am slid it into the water quickly to avoid a trouncing in the small waves. The waves here were small because we were in the island's lee. The very moment we began paddling seaward the waves began growing, and soon we were thrashing about in rough water, ensconced snug and dry within the kayak's spray cover. The overfalls that had thwarted us previously had acquiesced, and we negotiated this stretch with comparative ease.
When we had gained our sense of equilibrium and grown accustomed to the rather violent motion of the boat, we made sail and sped southeastward to meet whatever adventures lay ahead.
The day was one of brisk sailing, decidedly disproportionate and gnarly seas, and sunny skies, the brilliant sun being tempered by the cooling wind. One not accustomed to this type of fun would have found it most unsettling, but for us it was just another rowdy day at sea. Generally, the genoa steadied the boat's rolling motion, and when the wind pressed it taut we leaned to weather as a counter balancing effort. Of course this was the direction from which the waves assailed the boat, so often we found ourselves rubbing shoulders with the forces of nature. In fact, the occasional unruly comber drenched us. The waves rebounding from the cliffs kept us steering well offshore, and in fact we cut a few large bays expressly for the purpose of seeking somewhat quieter water.
As the morning wore on, the waves increased in height and the going became far more tumultuous. Having traveled twenty miles, we made our way around a prominent point and entered a deeply hewn bay, in the back of which we found half a dozen sailboats lying quietly at anchor. The seas had been so rough that we could not open our spray skirts to bail, and now we were sitting in an inch of water. So we pulled ashore in the astoundingly calm water of the cove and dragged the boat up onto the sand.
After a 45-minute respite we set off again and paddled across the ever more boisterous bay. The recurving coastline soon had us sailing hard to weather, until eventually, seeing we would not clear the headland, we had to douse the sail and paddle to windward in order to gain needed sea room. The seas were so rough that I had to question the rationality of being out here. The yachties certainly had the right idea of remaining in port, sitting in their cockpits and idling away the day. But our limited water supply did not permit tarrying. More so, we did not feel like languishing about, after having indulged in the forced layover in Loreto.
We set off again, and now the oncoming seas we estimated were occasionally eight feet high. Not only were they breaking, they were rebounding; and more than once I considered turning back. Paddling along a dangerous lee shore shares parallels with the sport of cross country hang gliding. The astute rough-weather coastal kayaker, or pilot, is ever searching for landing sites, ahead as well as astern - all the while judging the wind and conditions that would facilitate or hinder the approach. In this case I was venturing ahead in the knowledge that we could, in fact, negotiate the return two or three miles to the yacht cove. Had the wind been blowing fiercely astern I would not have ventured forth, against the possibility of a batch of dangerous overfalls offlying the headland, which would have blocked further progress, while the strong tailwind would have hindered the return.
But we seemed to be in no danger for the present; the kayak was proving itself adequately water tight, and certainly strong enough to withstand the abuse. It was only our resolves which were being tested, so on we went.
Under sail again we made our way in the utmost effort, eyes agape at the tremendous walls of advancing water. My only real concern was for any overfalls that might be festering off of Punta San Marciel, just ahead. Indeed we could see terrible breakers a ways offshore, but the way ahead remained clear.
Eventually we rounded San Marciel and here we paddled into another world. The coastline makes a 90 degree bend here, and whereas before we were plying a dangerous lee shore, now we sailed downwind with hardly a care, the genoa drawing hard and the boat occasionally surfing in the following seas.
A mile further we paddled into another deep bight and landed ashore on a calm, sandy beach. The shore here was littered with Spiny Oysters (Spondylus) shells, a left by the huka divers.
After sponging out the bilge and enjoying a brief respite, we set off again and paddled-sailed another few miles. Now trolling a fishing lure, Jenny felt a strike which went slack. Turning around, we both saw a couple of "pescado gigantes" following the lure. Truly intimidating, what appeared to be giant grouper followed in our wake for several minutes.
At our intended camping landing we found four campestinos in residence, so we paddled a few hundred yards further into ever-increasing chop and landed before a band of cliffs. A ways further we could see a rancho surrounded by verdant palms. Before long the occupant of the rancho strolled by, a fellow perhaps in his mid-30's. In my stilted Spanish, we learned he does not have a boat, and doesn't fish. There are no roads into here, and for him it is a two-hour horseback ride into Agua Verde.
A few hours later he came by again, on his way back home home after visiting the pescaderos. He kindly offered to give us water, saying that many groups of kayakers stop here to get water. We weren't in need, and thanked him very much anyway.
Day's mileage: 26 in 7-3/4 hours.
