Day 29
Dec 2, 1989
The wind had diminished during the night, but the lack of moonlight and the sea-state kept us land-bound until the break of dawn. We set off at 6:00 am and for two hours paddled steadily while the genoa dallied in light and variable breezes. At 8:00 am the wind began wafting steadily from the north, and by then the seas rolling in from that direction foretold of another day of northerlies.
The day was one of brisk sailing in fairly rough seas, the sea state increasing to perhaps seven feet in the afternoon. The seas bashing into the cliffs and rebounding kept us well off shore throughout the entire day except for once when we sailed into a large bay. But even here the shore was beset with surf, so we took our break while standing off, just drifting.
Pressing on, the sailing was so splendid that we retired our paddles to their velcro deck keeps. I tended the sheet and Jenny the reaching strut, and while fending off the occasional rogue wave, some breaching our guard and sloshing over the spray cover, we amused ourselves composing various nonsensical songs in our limited Spanish, Jenny belting hers out with gusto.
The shoreline was white and thunderous with interminable miles of surf, discouraging any attempt at making a landing. But as the early afternoon wore on, the wind diminished and we paddled for the day's final hour at sea. Away to the East and North the sky hung smudged with a thick wind haze.
Finally we paddle-sailed into the back of a bay, and at 3:30 pm landed on a rocky shoreline, somewhat short of the back of the bay where we knew must lay a campestino - as we had seen people walking on shore. Over the slippery, moss-covered rocks Jenny lugged the gear ashore, a few pieces at a time, while I man-handled the kayak into and out of a line of 16-inch surf which knocked Jenny aback a few times.
No sooner had we lugged the boat safely ashore than a Mexican fellow and half a dozen kids arrived, parking themselves nearby to watch the show. Soon a few others arrived and we felt embarrassed but were determined to establish our camp despite their presence. We chatted with the fellow as he helped Jenny gather firewood. Then at his authority, a few kids scurried up the steep mountainside and returned with small bundles of firewood also. Angel, as he introduced himself, had lived here all of his 48 years, and is a fisherman. The village just around the corner has 80 inhabitants, mostly ninos. They have 11 buildings including a school. The wind here had been blowing for eight days, and they hadn't been able to fish for that length of time. Then Angel rattled off something in rapid-fire Spanish about his prediction for the morrow's weather, presumably. Later I wondered what he had tried to tell us, and regretted not having asked him to repeat it slower.
Angel called the bay and the village "Bahia Burro." He hardly considered this rocky hillside a place to camp, but Jenny remarked that we'd only be here one night. Then as we began cooking dinner, our visitors politely withdrew. We carefully scraped away a pair of level platforms to sleep on, and in the end we made the place quite comfortable.
One of our regrets is that we don't allow more time with the locals. The folks we've encountered and met on this stretch south of Loreto have been congenial and without guile. It would be to our enrichment to spend more time with them, and to learn what we can from them. Nevertheless, just in the short interaction we had with Angel and his ninos, we learned a tacit and valuable lesson. Helping us collect firewood, he began smashing a larger chunk of wood, then presented Jenny with the fragments. When he could break the chunk no further, he tossed it aside. From this I inferred that these people did not burn large logs or stumps, as there really is no need to. Thus a person in dire need will find fuel at hand.
In return, we left Angel with a lesson. I'm sure he peruses this coastline often and will not fail to notice. Breaking camp, we eradicated virtually all traces of it, leaving no trash, campfire scars, blackened rocks, or mounds of spent embers; and no indication of where we had slept.
Day's mileage: 35 in 9-1/2 hours.
Day 30
Dec 3, 1989
Onto my small platform I had pitched the tent, while Jenny much preferred sleeping under the stars. Before retiring I reminded her that she could come sleep in the tent should the bugs prove aggressive. So it was no surprise when around 9 pm she appeared at the doorway with her sleeping bag under arm, beseeching entry.
The nearby surf was vociferous and kept us deeply entrenched in our sleeping bags well past the sounding of my wristwatch alarm. We did rise in time to rekindle the campfire and to cook and eat breakfast before daylight. But the surf was so intimidating that we sat by the embers watching the stars fade and the eastern sky slowly illuminating.
Loading the boat didn't go quite as smoothly as hoped. We were in to our waists while loading, embroiled in a 2-foot surf, sometimes much greater. I was holding the kayak stern into the waves when a greenie crawled over the afterdeck and sluiced my cockpit. But it was a minor thing, and would be easily rectified with the sponge once we were under way.
Meanwhile Jenny had lugged the remainder of gear, dumped it into her cockpit, jumped in, and away we paddled at 6:15 am. Once beyond threat of the battering waves, Jenny crawled forward and more carefully stowed the bags into their proper places in the fo'c'sle.
Catching a light offshore breeze, we paddle-sailed out into the capacious bay and eventually discovered it to be much larger than it had first appeared. The mountains and cliffs surrounding it were "Hee-GAN-tay" as the Mexicans say. And we have heard them say that a lot. By the time we reached the far shore of the bay, the seas were kicking up a wild jig, tossing the kayak violently this way and that. The thunderous surf bashed the unending line of imposing cliffs, and were proving quite intimidating. So I steered well seaward, preferring the attendant risks of the open ocean to the perils of becoming embroiled in surf smashing against unyielding rock. We were going for it, with no turning back, and this imparted a somewhat palpable feeling of vulnerability.
A North wind piped forth and we sailed briskly, doing our best at managing the boat in the rough seas, and largely succeeding. Then it happened.
At my request, Jenny reached back to hand me a cup of steaming coffee. At that moment I was gazing seaward and my arms were stroking the paddle blades as if on autopilot. Inadvertently Jenny placed the coffee cup into the path of my forward sweeping paddle and the two collided. I never knew what hit me, but man did it hurt!
Later we surmised that the cup had fallen inverted onto my bare ankle. Earlier that morning I had made a special effort to insure the coffee went into the thermos boiling hot. The result was a scalding, third degree burn that annihilated a few square inches of skin, which in turn was surrounded by reddened first degree burn. The skin peeled away of its own accord, and to the underlying tissue we applied a salve of hydrocortisone cream. I swallowed two aspirin, then spent the next two hours paddling, sailing, and grimacing.
Rounding a projecting headland, we paddled into the calm bight and while Jenny maneuvered the kayak close ashore, I stepped out on my good leg and hobbled ashore. Jenny had noticed some Aloe type cactus on the hillside, so I limped away, pocketknife in hand, to acquire a leaf for medicinal use. The plant proved to be an Agave - Mescal; the leaf was fibrous and not the best for this application; but better than nothing. Meanwhile Jenny had been retrieving the first aid kit from the aft stowage, and while she stood in thigh-deep water mooring the boat, bodily, I went to work on my ankle, soaking a patch of sterile gauze in Betadine and taping it loosely over the burn.
For the next hour I helped Jenny paddle but only half-heartedly, but then the wind sprang forth with a vehemence that obviated the need for paddles, so we stowed them in their fore and aft deck keeps. Throughout the remainder of the morning the sailing became more of a wrestling bout, as the wind grew too brisk for the genoa. I could only reef the sail by easing the sheet forward, whereupon it would flap violently. At times the kayak surfed down the face of the following seas and plowed into the trough ahead, whereupon I would ease the sheet completely to slow the boat. At these times the bow would plunge into green water and the foredeck would not be merely awash, it would submerge. The spray flying off the humming rudder was a sight to behold. With enough wind, she can move, this old tub.
Just past San Evaristo salt works, we rounded the punta and entered a magnificent cove that featured remarkably calm, emerald green and aquamarine water. Here was the respite we needed. While still afloat, I sponged the bilge then studied the maps for a suitable pull-out ahead. The condition of my ankle made it important that I not step into the water and risk an infection, and I figured this bay would be our only chance for a dry landing. The wind was blowing with such intensity that we spent several laborious minutes paddling against it, into the back of the bay. There we landed ashore at 11:30 am.
The hill behind camp, perhaps 200 feet in height, was venturiing bullets of wind straight down onto the otherwise placid water, fronting camp, creating spreading mushrooms of troubled water. I climbed the hill, and caught a fabulous view of the gale-tossed sea. The wind was so strong that standing on the ridge was a genuine effort. Chards of wind ripped and tore at the precipice below, sounding like rending cloth.
Morning's mileage: 13 in 5 hours.
Day 31
Dec 4, 1989
The early morning brought with it not the slightest doubt that the face of the sea was wind-tossed, even though we were tucked back in this bay, a long way from the open sea. So we rose at what had become our usual wind-blown hour of 5:00 am, and put the coffee pot to boil, and Jenny's pan of sourdough scones to bake. Loading the boat was a simple matter, due to the lack of any surf whatsoever.
Our normal loading procedure was to shuttle the gear to the water's edge, in three or four trips apiece. Then to carry the boat and place it by the gear. The sleeping bags, each in two "waterproof" bags, we lash athwart Jenny's cockpit on either side, using quick-release buckles and webbing permanently attached to the boat as tensioners. Into the bow goes empty water bottles and a few satchels of gear. Into the stern, a clothes bag and a bag containing the tent, daypack and poncho. In my cockpit I have lashed my ditty bag, and off to port is a battened bag lashed to the inner gunwale to hold fishing gear and waterproof camera. In Jenny's cockpit she carries a kit containing the day's munchies, drinking water and coffee cups, her ditty bag, second camera, and various articles of clothing as befitting the daily fluctuations in wind and temperature. We sit on our sleeping pads and place our life jackets under our knees as more cushioning.
One of us at each end, we typically lift the kayak and carry it into the sea, then while I steady the boat, Jenny shuttles the bulk of remaining gear, which I then stow. It should be noted that each item had its own niche, so that by familiarity we could load in darkness.
But today, because the conditions permitted and I was reluctant to get my ankle wet (sea water contains bacteria well known for accelerating infection), Jenny accomplished the loading while I stood ashore and handed her the various pieces of gear. Then from a projecting rock I climbed aboard. Jenny then shoved us into deeper water, jumped into her cockpit, and we were away at 6:30 am.
The day unfolded as an ongoing exercise in arduous paddling, for as soon as we had cleared the protecting headland, the wind took a hold of us, the kayak and its bare mast, and fairly hurled the lot in the appropriate direction. The further we traveled and therefore the greater became the fetch, the higher grew the waves. Everywhere across the face of the deep, dashes of spray were been torn from the disquieted surface. However, we figured that such improbably strong wind would not pose a serious threat, because of the convexity of the coastline ahead that provided intrinsic shelter. So with little anxiety we submitted ourselves forthright to the gale, considering this a rare opportunity to test the kayak and the skills of its crew in tempestuous conditions.
Running bare-poled, the kayak moved as if sailing before a moderate wind, and for perhaps half an hour we paddled with inordinate briskness so as to find purchase in the water rushing past. The paddling was more an effort in maintaining stability; as a balance pole does to a tight-rope walker, the paddle shaft represents security to a kayaker.
Without a doubt we were maintaining control, so as an experiment we bent on the spitfire jib, a very small headsail of 5 square feet (42" by 42" by 39"). Even in such strong wind though, perhaps 35 or 40 knots, the sail proved vastly undersized for the job. It provided little increase in speed. This says a great deal against the windage of our overall outfit, which is prodigious. The spitfire did exhibit one favorable attribute though: it behaved with impeccable manners, unlike the genoa which has a decidedly cantankerous propensity.
We went like this for an hour, whizzing along. The seas had risen to three or four feet and were assailing the stern and sending the kayak surfing, sometimes dangerously. So we doused the spitfire as the wind began to slack some.
Now to a more manageable draft we hoisted the genoa, an unruly beast in such winds though it proved to be. Running downwind under a sail too large for the conditions is an exercise guaranteed to augment the adventure. Repeatedly the sail collapsed, whereupon it would catch the wind anew and open with a loud retort that shuttered the boat through, heeled it suddenly 20 or 30 degrees to lee, and incited yet another surge of adrenalin in the arteries of the crew. My singular method of reefing was simply easing the sheet to its maximum length. And this I did with each overly furious gust. Free to flap ahead like a great white flag, the sail's clew fluttered well ahead of the boat. Then when the drilled holes in the mast would cease fluting, telling of a lesser wind, I would haul in the sheet, the dacron would fill with an explosive jerk or two, the boat would shudder as if about to succumb but then it would dutifully accelerate. When the conditions permitted, Jenny would hold the clew far out, using her paddle, and this wholly alleviated the danger of an impromptu broach. Her technique was to position the sheet in a small notch she had hack-sawed in the paddle blade. A few times the gusts were so violent that we could only douse the sail altogether, and on one of these occasions the sail wrapped itself around the bow with a boa constrictor's death grip, required re-hoisting in order to clear it. Usually, though, this untimely occurrence required our turning the boat into the wind and backing off the submerged headsail.
Rounding the next punta where stands a small light beacon, we met a shrieking wind and waves breaking in a long succession of white combers - overfalls resulting from wind acting against the flow of tide. Once past these, something happened that we had not expected. The wind and seas were apparently unable to cling to the coastline as it turned the bend, so the wind went sallying away to the Southeast, leaving us paddling, incredulously, in dead calm water.
The respite from the gale's vehemence proved most welcome, at first. But all too soon the sun began searing from a cerulean sky, and the heat became oppressive. Soon an even stranger event happened: we collected a light headwind. Into this we paddled for an hour, as if time-warped into a different season and year. The effect was so pronounced that we wondered if the wind had switched altogether, until we saw a small white dot of a sailboat far out to sea and running South.
Slowly the local wind backed, until eventually the genoa filled and faintheartedly aided our paddling exertions. Rounding another point I lay a course further offshore to collect a better wind, and soon the familiar Northerly filled the sail and the boat resumed its speed, still aided by our paddling. The seas grew quickly as they found their way back toward shore, requiring that we secure the spray skirts tightly once again.
After several miles we closed the coast looking for a landing, in the vicinity where I had camped on previous expeditions. But we were dismayed to find the shoreline everywhere embroiled in boisterous surf. We paddled another mile or so, then rounded a bit of a headland, and I decided to search for the slightest possibility of a safe landing.
Even if successful we would be taking a chance landing in this area, knowing that the surf could hold us shore-bound for as long as the North wind blew strong. But the alternative of pressing ahead seemed even less in our favor. The surf was growing larger the longer we remained at sea, and the unbroken coastline in the distance promised little hope of securing a protecting pull-out.
A quarter mile past the headland we began easing ashore tentatively, sliding out of the ambient conditions, sizing the waves ahead and assessing their dangers. Waves were breaking 100 yards from shore, but there seemed to be a narrow slot, where, between the sets the occasional lull rolled nearly to the shore intact. I judged that if our timing was right we could land here without mishap.
After we had eased in a ways, a few big waves suddenly broke ominously astern. Had they crashed atop the boat they might have sent us reeling. Ahead we paddled cautiously, glancing far astern at the waves charging toward us. Making ready for the landing we emerged from the cockpits and secured the spray skirts closed while riding the boat with legs straddling it. With the last large comber rolling beneath and lifting the kayak alarmingly, I signaled and we padded furiously toward shore. Several large waves bowled underneath, then one broke just astern--sending the boat lurching ahead. Surfing at breakneck speed we back-paddled with all our might, coercing the wave to release its grip. Free at last, we paddled full steam ahead.
The second wave to break onto the stern was much larger than the first. Grasping the boat in its clutches, it hurled the kayak forward, knocking jenny completely aback. The deck moiled in briny wash, and in the sluice Jenny wallowed like a helpless turtle on its back, arms and feet flailing at the air. Just as she was beginning to abandon ship, I hollered the obvious direction for her to sit up and paddle. Having barely remained seated by keeping the kayak locked between my legs, I back-paddled powerfully, attempting to pry the tub sternward out the wave's backside. And after long moments of glissading headlong across the inclined, swirling white water, the boat shook free. Jenny righted herself and together we paddled shoreward like warriors. A few more waves moiled past and then the last fractious wave, broken and seething, flung the stalwart kayak onto the beach, unharmed. Thus, we stepped ashore at 2 pm.
We vaulted off, rather; and grabbing the boat by the gunwales we dragged it laboriously, a foot at a time, up the steeply inclined beach, assisted astern by each sluicing wave. Removing the spray cover, I found six inches of brine invading the hold. This I removed with the bailer (plastic pitcher) while Jenny unloaded the gear onto a foam pad.
We were pleased with our passage through the surf zone, and with the wild landing. The double boat had felt much more stable in the surf than a single kayak would have, due to its greater mass and huge beam.
Now that we were safely ashore, however, we wondered how we were going to effect an escape. Against the event that the sea state worsened, I scouted the territory en route to the headland.
It was with joy that I found a relatively surf-less passage leading from the beach to the open sea, protected by an extending shoal that diagonalled from the bastille out and southward. Little wonder that we hadn't noticed it on the approach, as the required angle of perception was very narrow.
Even so, should the morning's surf prove large, we would be reluctant to use this passage without knowing where the next protected coves lay.
Returning to Jenny and the kayak, I pondered aloud the prospects of having to remain here a day or two, awaiting improved weather.
The camping hereabouts was among coyote and lizard tracked dunes, and though I disdain camping on sand, of a necessity we were becoming slightly more adept at it. The problem was, the evening's dew condenses upon one's gear and acts as an adhesive for the sand that tends to pervade the tent, sleeping bag, and even worse, the food. As if moon walking, one uses an entirely different gait at a sandy campsite, a moderate one that does not flip grains into the air even a fraction of an inch. And one walks a wide circle around whatever is to be kept sand-free.
As darkness fell, so did the wind; and soon we felt a slight contrary breeze, miraculously wafting the campfire smoke toward the north. With that, the eight day period of North wind had concluded, and throughout the night the surf gradually mitigated.
Day's mileage: 28 in 7-1/2 hours.
As usual, I ventured outside at about 1:00 am for the middle-of-the-night micturition while assessing the wind and sea state, and to enjoy a few moments of immersion in the glorious starlight. The wind was calm and the surf had fallen to 18 inches. I decided we would rise in a couple of hours and depart.
Day 32
Dec 5, 1989
It was with some surprise, upon hearing Jenny rising, that I peered out to see that the coming of day was already in process. We had overslept. Dew covered everything exposed, but at least sopping wet gear was not a consideration at that point.
The morning was truly glorious. The beauty of dawn breaking over the Cortez made us forget our daily routine of haste. Instead, we took our time, in honor of the trip's forthcoming conclusion. We were not eager to see the journey come to an end, but then neither were we in a position to stand by idly, only to run short of drinking water. Besides, such a fine day called for a stint of paddling.
We loaded the kayak at ocean's brink, with the bow pointing seaward; and after waiting for a lull in the surf we dragged the tub five feet down the steeply inclined sand, where the next oncoming wave lifted the boat free. Jenny waded into the shoals, guiding the boat, then quickly I hopped aboard, keeping my burned ankle dry. And so we paddled away at what seemed a banker's hour: 7:30 am. Soon the genoa hung airing, as if ignoring the variable offshore breeze.
All along the way, the country was most striking. Cierro Natividad towered nearly a mile overhead. And a conglomeration of mountains rises from the desert floor, part of the Las Sierras de la Gigante. In the morning sunlight, the mountains were variegated in reds, yellows and the unlikely green of some mineral. And at our level, everywhere were interesting arroyos and beaches that beckon the sea rover to come explore. But these are shores reserved for relatively calm days, for they afford scant shelter from the North wind and its attendant seas.
A breeze swished forth from the southeast, and just when we were accepting the plight of a protracted dispute with headwinds, the wind began backing through east and northeast, and by noon it was blowing fickle from the north. So with the sail's help we plied the coastline, passing by a mineral loading terminal. Here was a breakwater extending well out, that might offer some measure of protection in an exigency, although the camping at the mine site would be less than ideal.
A few miles further where the loading terminal road dips into an arroyo lies a pull-out of mediocre standards, and which might afford a strategic last camp en route to La Paz. We then passed by a few palapas fronting the beach, but things appeared abandoned, although this condition is not likely to persist, as the place would be ideal for the campestinos, given adequate fishing.
At 2:00 pm we reached what appeared to be the turning point, where the coastline begins to align to the east-southeast, and here we found something of a pull-out that offered adequate protection against the four-foot seas. After organizing most of the gear for unloading, we eased ashore. Jenny disembarked and stood in the water mid-thigh deep, holding the boat against the surge. Then quickly I hopped ashore like a one-legged kangaroo.
The gravel road leading from the mine largely parallels this coast, so our campsite stood on a broad, alluvial pan featuring several car camping sites and their attendant litter strewn carelessly and unconscionably about. Driftwood was in scarce supply, as was kindling of any kind; so we strolled the cobble beach, fiber bag in hand, collecting small bits of fuel. Then in hopes of reaching La Paz on the morrow, we bathed in sea water: no easy task on my part while attempting to avoid wetting the leg. Four gallons of fresh water remained in the ship's larder, so we indulged in a final-rinse, using perhaps two cups each.
While we were cooking dinner, an old, typically ramshackle car pulled in to camp, came to a stop, and the driver bellowed out the open window, "gringos!" I nodded perfunctorily and the two occupants began engaging us in conversation. The driver was a rough-hewn, white-bearded, robust Mexican hombre who spoke a very broken English, not imposing his own language on us. Every now and then he would turn to his passenger for a translation of something more difficult he wished to say. The pair were improbably matched. The passenger, dressed in a Hawaiian print shirt and sunglasses (the sun having been long since set), wore the look of Mr. Cool, and would have easily passed for a native Californian were it not for his decidedly south of the border accent. The driver introduced himself as Eduardo, the owner of the rancho we were apparently visiting.
Eduardo asked where we had come from and where were we going, and took our answers in stride. Along this coast, it seems the kayak has lost its novelty. He asked what were we cooking for dinner and seemed suitably unimpressed at my answer: "frijoles y arroz." He asked if we needed anything, said he had good water from La Paz, and invited us to his house to sign his register and to talk. We thanked him but said we would be going to sleep early, as we were tired from the day's paddling.
Eduardo started his car's engine, which churned a large puff of dust from beneath the exhaust manifold (the car having no muffler), then he drove away leaving us chortling. I found it hard to discern whether or not some Mexican men were a bit boracho, as they often employed similar mannerisms even when sober.
Day's mileage: 25 in 7 hours.
Day 33
Dec 6, 1989
The sea calmed during the night, allowing us an earlier departure. Jenny loaded the boat with its bow pointing seaward, as each six-inch wavelet slapped at the prow and lifted it with a perturbing jounce. With the first mate seated, I lurched aboard and we paddled out into darkness, this at 5:30 am.
The lights and loom of La Paz gleamed in the distance, and these we steered for, cutting wide the coastline's unseen concavity. The early morning was warm, and the breeze was superficial to non-existent. While paddling we shared conversation about this journey's final opportunity to absorb the splendor of the star-studded heavens. How disappointed were we that the rough weather had discouraged our paddling more during the hours of effervescent, pre-dawn glory.
With the dawn came a chilly wind over the starboard bow. So once again I regretted not having brought a sweater. Bending the genoa, we paddle-sailed a few hours, and it was here that I noticed for the second time how much the boat side-slipped when pointing to weather. With a medium wind broad on the bow, and while steering obliquely towards the shore for some distant object, we would arrive abeam the object even further offshore. Clearly, when sailing into the wind, the boat needed a dagger board. Loosing ground all the while, eventually there was nothing for it but to drop sail and close the coast under paddle power.
At 9:00 am we landed ashore, and I climbed the low-rising hillside in order to determine the whereabouts of Ensenada de Aripes, the vast but shallow natural harbor fronting La Paz. The view from aloft comprised nothing but a sea of sun-parched cardon cactus. Returning to the boat and stowing my paddle, and leaving Jenny to wield hers alone, I walked along the sandy beach for 45 minutes, then climbed the hill for another view - again seeing only the great expanse of desert. Together we paddled onward along a shore criss-crossed with tracks of wild burros and coyote. The entire length of this coastline is sandy, and the bottom drops away only gradually such that the water is quite shallow several hundred feet offshore, where we were now paddling. By now the wind had dropped, and the sea had begun to shed its wavelets and ripples to reveal stunningly pellucid waters, like a giant swimming pool.
In the absence of appreciable surf we landed ashore again, this time near a patch of sand dunes. Barefoot we climbed the sandy heights, and to our delight the great bay we sought presented itself, capaciously and surprisingly close at hand. So we slogged across the dunes nearly to the far water's edge, the distance being about 1/8 mile.
Making our way over the dunes we found myriad diminutive tracks. It seems that here could be found a species of lizard that burrows quickly into the sand to escape its predators. The point where a long line trail abruptly terminates, is the place where one may dig and perhaps capture one of these diminutive reptiles for closer inspection. The fingers of both hands splayed apart, pressed deeply into he sand, drawn together and raised, might unearth the little fellow, who then feigns death for several moments. Maybe it can even be rolled upside down in one's palm. Then the three inches of suddenly charged energy will dash recklessly straight out into space, fall earthward and land presumably upon all fours, unharmed, and scurry away in a track-making blur.
Back at the beach, we found it littered with little sea shells, like most other sand beaches along the way, and Jenny had amassed a modest collection of half a dozen colorful and pretty samples. So here she added a few more to her collection.
Afloat once again, I marveled at the contrast between this placid, docile seashore and the terrible, unrestrained power of an elephantine surf unleashed here during my previous Baja journey. Eleven foot seas were smashing this beach and a massive, Hawaiian-like pipeline was churning the waterfront into a deadly lee shore. Similar conditions must have existed here only a few days previously, in the wake of the recent ten days of north wind that must have been ramming its vehemence onto this beach.
And here is a precept: virtually every section of this entire coastline exhibits an ambiance that reflects the mood of the sea it abuts. I have seen the results of a storm ripping away entire stretches of beach. Toppling cliffs have buried a former camp site of mine. Largely, though, the physical layout remains unchanging. But it is the wind in strength, direction, and duration that drives the seas and renders whatever the landscape according to its moods. Baja anywhere can be a place memorable in its serenity and idyllic tranquility, or shudderingly never forgettable in its inhospitability and relentless fury.
At noon we jibed and rounded the projecting spit of land, coming suddenly face to face with the sight of the sprawling city of La Paz. Now sailing before the breeze we enjoyed an easy going run to the beach, and landed near the public jetty at 12:30. I sat watch aboard the boat, suspended in the shallows, while Jenny walked to the tourist Information Office to learn about the shoreside hotels and to determine the whereabouts of the bus terminal. Then paddling, we followed the shore while admiring a preponderance of anchored yachts of various descriptions. Many sailboats were dilapidated while others were burgeoned in a plethora of glistening marine merchandise. Paddling our little craft amongst the flotilla, we felt a certain pride in our humble vessel, and in the accomplishment of her worthy journey.
Indulging in a room at La Posada Hotel, we began dismantling the Tub, and while cutting the lashings I couldn't help feeling a wave of nostalgia. The trip was over. At least the kayaking portion, for we had yet to rescue ourselves back into the U.S. The journey had been marvelous, grandiose, more difficult perhaps than Jenny had been led to expect, and harder than I remembered from previous and similar journeys. But the difficulties and physical discomforts are like the stiff north wind that fades away, leaving only whispering palms and burnished memories of the wonder and the splendor, the beauty and the ruggedness, the accommodating and the unforgivability that is the Baja Sea of Cortez. Kayaking the Cardon Coast is for me a lifelong passion. I hope to make the voyage again, one day soon.
Day's mileage: 20 in 6-1/2 hours.
Trip's aftermath
We disassembled the kayak in less than an hour and a half, such was the comparative ease between painstakingly lashing 42 longeron-to-frame junctures and merely severing each one with a single slash of a razor sharp knife. Prior to, and during, our journey we had applied the contents of 1 tube of Lexel and 3-1/2 tubes of silicon sealant to the gunwale-deck and hull seams, in an attempt to mitigate their leaking. As we dismantled the boat, some of these plastic seams easily peeled away, but those that didn't we split with the blade of a screwdriver. After rinsing the parts in the hotel room's shower, we set them out on the veranda to dry in the sun, then began packing and lashing the various parts and the rest of our kayaking and camping gear in bundles and bags suitable for transport.
That evening we set out afoot to peruse the city's beachfront. After spending a few hours walking the dusty sidewalks past garish curio shops, cheap discotheques and the occasional dingy Mexican bar with los borachos belting out their lusty songs, finally we found something of interest. We sat on a park bench facing the placid bay while a floodlight illuminated the shallows. And here we watched a snow-white egret and a night heron of a nondescript grey, fishing for minnows and enjoying reasonable success. It was fascinating. The two birds displayed entirely different techniques: The egret pranced excitedly about, this way and that, aggressively pursuing its prey, occasionally fluttering its wings momentarily, then suddenly ramming its beak into the water and bringing up a silvery, flashing sardinia. Lacking hands to grasp the little fish, the bird could only wait until the morsel ceased its flailing, and then with a few sudden jerks, the fish would disappear, whole, down the bird's maws. The night heron, on the other hand, would stand fairly motionless, awaiting its prey to come to it. At intervals it would lean far forward, neck outstretched, and peer intently into the water. Then with a sudden pounce, a minnow was procured. Which bird was more successful was a matter of conjecture.
1989-12-07
The following morning we jounced by taxi to the bus station, went inside and bought tickets, then stood waiting for an hour to board. The driver loaded our five parcels of baggage, and the passengers began loading, but when it came our turn to board the driver examined our tickets and turned us away. After an extenuated discussion among the bus company personnel, the driver pointed out to us that the date on our tickets was not today's, but tomorrow's. The ticket agent had written the wrong date. Our baggage was unloaded, the bus's door was closed, and the grueling 23-hour ride to Tijuana left without us.
At my request the manager refunded our money. Of their own volition the baggage handlers carried our gear out front. We sat down on it, unable to comprehend the preceding events, and after a time decided we would seek passage to Tijuana on the next flight out, the following day.
With the passing of the hours we began to fit the puzzle's pieces together as best as they would. The problem was obviously a lack of communication, due to our limited Spanish language skills. While purchasing the tickets, Jenny had muttered the words, "para esta mañana" thinking this meant "for this morning" but which the woman at the ticket counter had apparently interpreted "for tomorrow morning." While we then stood by waiting to board, all of today's seats were sold. One could hardly imagine someone bearing five ponderous bags and purchasing tickets for the following day, but such are the inevitable and occasional disparities in this imperfect world.
There was nothing for it but to hail another taxi. On the advise of the driver we registered at the Perla Hotel, downtown and much less expensive than the beachfront hotels. Although we spent a great deal of time rambling about the city, ours was a comparatively non-eventful day awaiting the morrow's flight.
1989-12-08
The 1-1/2-hour flight from La Paz to Tijuana was well worth the extra expense involved, as it afforded a bird's eye view of the coastline we had just spent over a month sallying.
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