4 Guys, & a 25 Foot Boat
A Baja Adventure
A Baja Adventure
CHAPTER 1
Three AM usually comes too early, but it couldn’t come early enough on July 6th, 2004. None of us had slept a whole lot the night before, as we had been preparing for this day for about a year. It all started about a year and a half earlier when my friend Chris Aplet called me up one day to tell me about a book he had been reading called “The Water in Between.” He started out telling me about how the guy who wrote the book had purchased a boat and sailed from Vancouver to Tahiti, and ended up somehow convincing me that buying our very own boat and cruising it somewhere was a great idea. “Buy a boat,” he said. “It’ll be fun,” he said. I have to admit, it seemed like a great idea at the time.
Now, a year and a half later, as my three blurry-eyed shipmates and I heaved the last few supplies onboard our beautiful 25 foot 1977 Beach craft, The Rock Bottom, the dream was becoming a reality. Our crew was made up of Chris Aplet, his brother Joe, Marcus Freeman, and me, Scott Paulin. Despite the many skeptics who liked to dwell on things like the fact that none of us had ever actually driven a boat on the ocean, or been to our destination, Bahia de Los Angeles, we were in good spirits and ready for an adventure. Besides, all of had seen sailing movies and watched people drive boats on T.V., and it really didn’t look that difficult.
We said our final farewells to my dad, who had set his alarm and brought us a thermos of coffee to see us off, and we were on our way. The big, beast of a boat behind us towed beautifully down the early morning highway, across the San Rafael Bridge and through Oakland as we headed south. The sun was slowly rising in the East, and all was right with the world. I was contemplating the greater mysteries of the universe, sipping some rich, black coffee, and watching the road unfold before us when all of a sudden there was an unmistakable explosive thump, a slight shudder in the general direction of the boat trailer, and I realized we were experiencing the first setback of our great journey. We had blown one of the twenty year old retread tires on the boat trailer. We deftly steered to the side of the road and surveyed the damage before limping to the next exit. Luckily, there was a Wal-Mart just off the next exit, and we had brought an extra tire for just such an eventuality. We quickly pulled the blown out retread, unhitched the trailer, and whipped over to get the new tire mounted on our old rim. Forty minutes or so later we were back on the open road with Chris behind the wheel.
It would be wind in our hair, open road, smooth driving all the way to San Diego where we planned to pull off and sleep. Then, just outside Gilroy, we experienced a little bit of Déjà vu as the same explosive thump and shudder rocked us from the opposite side of the boat trailer. What were the odds that two of our tires would blow out? Ok, pretty good, but we were hoping for the best. There has always been a hazy line between optimism and foolishness for Chris and me. This time, however, our blown tire allowed the trailer fender to drop down and score the sidewall of the rear dual as well. Once again in the course of our friendship, Chris and I found ourselves on the wrong side of a calculated risk, having not replaced the tires prior to leaving. We unhitched the trailer for the second time and headed in the direction of Gilroy in search of an early morning tire shop. As luck would have it the Good Year dealer was just open. As luck wouldn’t have it, their tires were about 87 bucks, well outside of our carefully calculated budgetary allowance for such disasters. On the brighter side, the guy behind the counter knew of a guy just a few miles away that had a little used tire business. We slipped down a couple back roads, dusted off our Spanish and tried to explain our needs using the tattered remains of our last tire as a visual aid. He had just what we needed, at 27 bucks a pop, no pun intended. He assured us the two we were looking at were mucho bueno, until we told him we were headed about 400 miles into Baja. He scratched his chin and smilingly suggested we might want one more, so we bought three and had him throw in an extra rim. Now we even had a spare already mounted. Three tires and a rim all for about the price of one new one – God was smiling on us. Back to the van, tires swapped, fender removed, and we were on our way again.
It was now well past noon, and our time schedule was quickly morphing into Mexico mode a few hundred miles early. Marcus, Joe, and Chris took their turns behind the wheel, as we sped down the 101 south through little towns and gently sloping fields of dry grass and lonely oaks. The miles slowly ticked away and 7:30 PM found us refueling and grabbing Taco Bell dinner in Santa Barbara. I was rested and ready to drive again. I was sure I could remember some place along the beaches near Oceanside where we could pull off and park for the night. Our goal was to get as close to the border as possible tonight and make an early morning crossing at San Ysiedro outside San Diego.
By 11:00 PM my catatonic grip on the steering wheel, blurry vision, and aggressive attitude toward the road and all other drivers on it began to concern the guys, and they started encouraging me to find a place to pull over for the night. Four or five exits later, just after a car behind us mysteriously crunched into the center divider after one of my lane changes, I decided maybe they were right, and we should call it a night. We pulled down into San Clemente Beach Park and surveyed the empty parking lot. There were no signs forbidding us to camp over night, but the very fact that it was so empty bothered us. We decided instead to backtrack one exit and find the Wall Mart. By midnight we were successfully settled in and sleeping at our Wally World R.V. Park.
Three AM usually comes too early, but it couldn’t come early enough on July 6th, 2004. None of us had slept a whole lot the night before, as we had been preparing for this day for about a year. It all started about a year and a half earlier when my friend Chris Aplet called me up one day to tell me about a book he had been reading called “The Water in Between.” He started out telling me about how the guy who wrote the book had purchased a boat and sailed from Vancouver to Tahiti, and ended up somehow convincing me that buying our very own boat and cruising it somewhere was a great idea. “Buy a boat,” he said. “It’ll be fun,” he said. I have to admit, it seemed like a great idea at the time.
Now, a year and a half later, as my three blurry-eyed shipmates and I heaved the last few supplies onboard our beautiful 25 foot 1977 Beach craft, The Rock Bottom, the dream was becoming a reality. Our crew was made up of Chris Aplet, his brother Joe, Marcus Freeman, and me, Scott Paulin. Despite the many skeptics who liked to dwell on things like the fact that none of us had ever actually driven a boat on the ocean, or been to our destination, Bahia de Los Angeles, we were in good spirits and ready for an adventure. Besides, all of had seen sailing movies and watched people drive boats on T.V., and it really didn’t look that difficult.
We said our final farewells to my dad, who had set his alarm and brought us a thermos of coffee to see us off, and we were on our way. The big, beast of a boat behind us towed beautifully down the early morning highway, across the San Rafael Bridge and through Oakland as we headed south. The sun was slowly rising in the East, and all was right with the world. I was contemplating the greater mysteries of the universe, sipping some rich, black coffee, and watching the road unfold before us when all of a sudden there was an unmistakable explosive thump, a slight shudder in the general direction of the boat trailer, and I realized we were experiencing the first setback of our great journey. We had blown one of the twenty year old retread tires on the boat trailer. We deftly steered to the side of the road and surveyed the damage before limping to the next exit. Luckily, there was a Wal-Mart just off the next exit, and we had brought an extra tire for just such an eventuality. We quickly pulled the blown out retread, unhitched the trailer, and whipped over to get the new tire mounted on our old rim. Forty minutes or so later we were back on the open road with Chris behind the wheel.
It would be wind in our hair, open road, smooth driving all the way to San Diego where we planned to pull off and sleep. Then, just outside Gilroy, we experienced a little bit of Déjà vu as the same explosive thump and shudder rocked us from the opposite side of the boat trailer. What were the odds that two of our tires would blow out? Ok, pretty good, but we were hoping for the best. There has always been a hazy line between optimism and foolishness for Chris and me. This time, however, our blown tire allowed the trailer fender to drop down and score the sidewall of the rear dual as well. Once again in the course of our friendship, Chris and I found ourselves on the wrong side of a calculated risk, having not replaced the tires prior to leaving. We unhitched the trailer for the second time and headed in the direction of Gilroy in search of an early morning tire shop. As luck would have it the Good Year dealer was just open. As luck wouldn’t have it, their tires were about 87 bucks, well outside of our carefully calculated budgetary allowance for such disasters. On the brighter side, the guy behind the counter knew of a guy just a few miles away that had a little used tire business. We slipped down a couple back roads, dusted off our Spanish and tried to explain our needs using the tattered remains of our last tire as a visual aid. He had just what we needed, at 27 bucks a pop, no pun intended. He assured us the two we were looking at were mucho bueno, until we told him we were headed about 400 miles into Baja. He scratched his chin and smilingly suggested we might want one more, so we bought three and had him throw in an extra rim. Now we even had a spare already mounted. Three tires and a rim all for about the price of one new one – God was smiling on us. Back to the van, tires swapped, fender removed, and we were on our way again.
It was now well past noon, and our time schedule was quickly morphing into Mexico mode a few hundred miles early. Marcus, Joe, and Chris took their turns behind the wheel, as we sped down the 101 south through little towns and gently sloping fields of dry grass and lonely oaks. The miles slowly ticked away and 7:30 PM found us refueling and grabbing Taco Bell dinner in Santa Barbara. I was rested and ready to drive again. I was sure I could remember some place along the beaches near Oceanside where we could pull off and park for the night. Our goal was to get as close to the border as possible tonight and make an early morning crossing at San Ysiedro outside San Diego.
By 11:00 PM my catatonic grip on the steering wheel, blurry vision, and aggressive attitude toward the road and all other drivers on it began to concern the guys, and they started encouraging me to find a place to pull over for the night. Four or five exits later, just after a car behind us mysteriously crunched into the center divider after one of my lane changes, I decided maybe they were right, and we should call it a night. We pulled down into San Clemente Beach Park and surveyed the empty parking lot. There were no signs forbidding us to camp over night, but the very fact that it was so empty bothered us. We decided instead to backtrack one exit and find the Wall Mart. By midnight we were successfully settled in and sleeping at our Wally World R.V. Park.
CHAPTER 2
Day two dawned under the soft southern California sun and the beckoning flicker of a Starbucks sign. We slipped into the store, got a cup of hot coffee and a few supplies we decided we still needed and pulled back onto I-5 headed for the border. By 10 Am or so we were topping off the tank at National City, just three miles from the International Border, and looking for a water station to fill our water tanks for drinking and cooking aboard the boat. Then it was a scavenger hunt through shopping centers obviously not built to accommodate a van pulling a big boat in search of auto insurance. This task achieved, I eased up the on ramp and pointed the nose toward Tijuana.
If you’ve never experienced the border crossing at San Ysidro, it is one of those things that words fail to completely capture. This is the busiest border crossing in the world, and has become a completely unique commercial, cultural, and olfactory zone all of its own. I have crossed the border here numerous times, both on foot and by vehicle, and it never ceases to surprise and entertain me. The first memory of past adventures is always jogged by that Tijuana smell. It isn’t exactly a horrible smell, at least not in a sickening way, but it is a definite nasal experience that remains with you in memory for a long time, a sort of stew of poor quality petroleum exhaust, body odor, raw sewage, and fried meats of various persuasions. The ensuing circus of street entrepreneurs, cabbies, beggars, thieves, and Federales explodes upon the scene like a rogue wave breaking over the bow in heavy seas. I always find myself absolutely enchanted, yet just ever so slightly apprehensive somewhere in the recesses of my mind as it all unfolds before me; the Carnival of the crossing.
This particular crossing would be a first for two of our crew, Marcus and Joe, and unique to Chris and me in the sense that we were dragging a 25 foot cabin cruiser behind us and headed deeper into Baja than either of us had ever driven on our own. We pulled up to the grave looking Border Guard in the military issue uniform that was waving us into an inspection lane. He requested the papers for our vehicle and boat, asked me a few questions regarding our intended destination, and instructed us to pull forward and park somewhere on the road so we could visit the immigration office to get our tourist cards. We pulled cautiously forward through the visibly annoyed traffic and crowd of waving Mexicanos hawking their wares to an insistent fellow with just enough curb for rent to house our van and boat. We countered his first offer and agreed on five dollars to have him watch our stuff while we legally checked into his country.
I guess the first personality trait required to work for Mexican immigration at the border is a complete lack of compassion and sense of humor. At least the few border officials I have dealt with seem to fit this description. Though not openly antagonistic, they are definitely a no-nonsense sort of individual. The official we encountered on this crossing was no different. We requested the forms for our tourist cards, answered his questions regarding our intended destination, and attempted to remain pleasant and cordial under his forbidding glare. He requested our passports and we explained that we brought birth certificates and I.D. as proof of citizenship. This was where things first began to deteriorate. His already menacing demeanor darkened slightly, and he stated flatly that we must have passports to visit Mexico. I put on my best “confused tourist” face and offered that I only needed my birth certificate last time I visited Baja. “All visitors must have a passport. No pass port, no travel in Mexico,” he replied flatly. We all tried to look pathetic as we explained that we had just traveled two days to come enjoy his country. Couldn’t we work something out? He requested our birth certificates, which we handed over in anticipation of success. Unfortunately we had miscalculated and brought photocopies instead of the real thing from the van. Our cession ended abruptly with a toss of our papers and the instruction to proceed to the turn around and head back to the U.S. We couldn’t believe it. Had we come this far only to be turned back now?
Chris, the only one of our entourage who actually had a passport, met us as we exited the dimly lit office and read the discouragement on our faces. We explained the predicament to him and began to discuss our options. Perhaps we could cruise out to Catalina Island instead, or try to come back across the border tomorrow and hope for a different official. Back at the van, our personal parking attendant transformed instantly into an expert on the vagaries of Mexican immigration law and tourist visa options, assuring us that all hope was not lost. He was fairly positive that we could obtain the necessary papers in Ensenada, just a couple hours down the coast, or perhaps at the Tijuana airport. He was also certain that there would be no military checkpoints of significant negative consequence between us and Ensenada if we chose to make the run. We weighed the options and decided to change our money over to pesos and go for it.
Chris and I climbed a small fence and visited the Casa de Cambio by the walk across ramp, changed currency, and then rejoined the others at the van. We started up, waited impatiently for a break in the continuous stream of cars, and finally veered out into the flood of humanity headed into the bowels of TJ. We stayed right instead of taking the turn around route, and slipped undetected onto the “cuota,” or toll road, out of Tijuana to Ensenada; four white guys reversing the basic laws of nature to become illegal aliens headed south of the U.S. Mexico border instead of north. We cruised along the tall, ominous border fence to the smell of raw exhaust and began the precariously steep climb up the hill toward the coast. Our trusty Chevy Van lugged down into second gear and chugged steadily upward. We crested the hill, paid our first road toll of 48 pesos, and sped south across the Mexican landscape, fugitives in search of a kinder, friendlier immigration office. If all went well, we would be honest, law abiding tourists by night fall. If things went poorly, well, we’d cross that bridge when we got there.
CHAPTER 3
If you ever get the chance to travel the old “Libre” or free road to Ensenada, you should take it and experience the trip to Ensenada much like it was for years before the massive efforts to draw tourist dollars to the area. If, however, you are pulling a boat that pretty much maxes the weight capacity of your van, and you’ve already gone through two tires on the trailer, I would suggest you stick to the toll road as we did. Even here, one is struck by the vast difference in road construction and maintenance between the U.S. and Mexico. Towing a boat trailer helps you appreciate things like road width and steepness of grade on an even more visceral level, and this stretch between TJ and Ensenada is the good road!
We wound our way steadily southward through the once sleepy town of Rosarito Beach, now a booming tourist destination all on its own, past miles of housing developments obviously marketed to U.S. retirees and those who can afford a vacation home. Before long the last big, curving grade dropped down along the north-eastern end of Bahia Todos Santos and into the outskirts of Ensenada. We navigated carefully into town, threading our way through the crowded throng of people and cars on Avenida Lazaro Cardenas, having been unable to make the sharp turn at the beginning of town that takes you out toward the port and the immigration office. At the far end of town, we managed a turn around and weaved back to the port where we parked along side the street and left Chris in the Van while the rest of us made one more attempt at talking our way into tourist cards and legal entry into Mexico.
In stark contrast to the cave-like, subterranean office we had visited at the border, the Ensenada office was airy and clean. The two men behind the counter looked more laid back, and a young lady behind another counter laughed and flirted with a middle-aged Mexicano in the waiting area. Things felt much more optimistic. We approached the counter armed this time with original birth certificates, except for Marcus who only had a copy, smiled and bid the immigration official Buenos tardes. He responded in cordial return and asked how he could help us. We requested tourist cards and he asked the now familiar questions regarding our intended destination. We told him we had just driven straight in from the San Francisco area and were planning to take our boat down to San Quintin and maybe Bahia de Los Angeles. He pulled out the forms and requested our pass ports. Now was the moment of truth. I told him we brought our birth certificates, because we didn’t have passports, and handed over the papers nonchalantly as if there was no problem. The official’s countenance changed ever so slightly, he ignored the papers on the counter in front of him, and he repeated once again that we needed passports to visit Mexico. Again I gave my best impression of the confused tourist first learning we needed passports. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know we needed passports to visit Mexico,” I stammered. He addressed me sternly, stating that things in Mexico worked the same way they did in my country, and that I should be smart enough to check these things out before crossing international borders. I apologized again, and tried to explain that the last time I had visited Baja, passports were not required. At this point he finally slid our birth certificates over and examined them for a minute or so. He began again, “Things in Mexico work just the same as in the United States, only better here, because sometimes we can accept a birth certificate. I will help you out this time, but next time you visit my country, bring a passport!” At this he handed each of us the tourist card form and instructed us to fill them out carefully and then sent us to a bank to pay a processing fee before he would stamp our cards. Twenty minutes later we were all legally papered and headed back down Mexico One towards the unknown wilderness of Baja.
We fueled up at the Pemex just south of the main drag, swung left and headed south again. Just before leaving Ensenada, we stopped at another Casa de Cambio and changed the remainder of our U.S. currency into pesos. U.S. dollars are preferred around Tijuana and Ensenada, but where we were headed there would be many small villages where only pesos would do. We thought we might try to make it to San Quintin and camp there for the night, but it was already late afternoon, so it was going to be a push. As we left the urban sprawl of Ensenada, however, the roads deteriorated even more and progress slowed down to around forty miles per hour. The trailer tires just squeaked between the center line and the edge of the highway most of the time, often with only four or five inches between them and certain disaster. To make things just a little more interesting, the Mexican road crews periodically repave over the old road surface without adding to the shoulder, so that the edge of the highway in most places consists of a three to six inch abrupt drop onto little or no shoulder at all. This is particularly fun along the stretches of highway where there is a long, steep cliff just off the three inch shoulder, which is most of Mexico One.
The miles crept slowly beneath the van; one monotonous minute after another, punctuated with moments of white knuckle terror as speeding big rigs bore down on us as they headed North or swept out across the center line to pass us despite blind corners or undulating hills. We began to settle in and make an uneasy peace with the driving conditions that would be our fate for the next 400 or so miles. Each of us in turn adapting to the reality of the road, we made our way slowly up into the mountains and deeper into the moonscape topography of Baja California Norte. It is amazing how desolate yet beautiful Baja can be. Its barren slopes dotted here or there with unique cacti and washed with a soft watercolor of browns, oranges, and reds. Around San Vicente we began to see the first of what would be many Boojum trees, Dr. Suess like plants that twist oddly upward from the desert floor and end in an absurdly tufted top knot. These fascinating trees are found nowhere else in the world. Then came the giant cardon cactus, yucca, and agave plants. We finally pulled off the side of the road at a wide spot and took a brief walk around to get a closer look at this surreal botanical garden. Everything had points and each step had to be carefully placed to avoid introducing our sandaled feet to the business end of the thorns and spikes which adorned each plant. I was surprised to see that many of the cactus were in various stages of bloom, even though this was the second week of July. Hiding all about were small bursts of brilliant color attesting to the presence of life and Gods gift of beauty even here in the middle of a hot and forbidding desert. Life is a constant journey of surprise.
Chris and I made our way further off the road to leave behind a little fertilizer we were no longer capable of carrying with us, and then Chris took the wheel to press onward toward San Quintin. The sun made its daily trek across the afternoon sky and began to crash toward the mountains in the west. We passed through an agricultural area producing grapes, olives, chilies, barley, and cactus, shadows lengthened, and we began to realize that San Quintin by nightfall was not going to happen. Now I have driven in Baja at night, but never pulling a big boat, and never without such adventures ending in negotiations with a Federale to determine the amount of the mordida necessary to continue on my way instead of enjoying his hospitality at the jail down town. We discussed it and felt pretty confident we were far enough into Baja that the Federales wouldn’t be a problem, but decided that lack of visibility and uncertain roads would, so we began to look for a place to hole up for the night. After another half hour or so, and just after the sun had disappeared completely behind the silhouetted hills we pulled off at a small, unnamed gathering of houses scattered around a small plaza somewhere north of Colonet and asked the owner of a small tienda if we could camp by the park for the night. He assured us that it was fine to park anywhere we wanted, we bought some sodas from his general electric fridge, and settled in for the night; our first noche in Mexico. We made some dinner on our little propane BBQ, Marcus lazily strummed his guitar, and our new Mexican friend sprayed water on the dusty road in front of his tienda and shouted requests for songs like La Bamba or Guantanamera. Curious little kids came up with excuses to wander by and gawk at the strangers aboard the boat in the middle of the desert, and stars began to dance overhead like they could hear the songs on Marcus’ guitar.
CHAPTER 4
At dawn the next day, I was up and boiling the coffee over a small propane burner while young men and old campesinos alike ambled up the road and packed into the back of a few pickups headed to the fields to work. Small plantings of chilies and leaf cactus adorned open patches in each nook and cranny of the wrinkled mountains surrounding our little village. We gobbled up a couple pop tarts each with our coffee and then ignited the engine on our intrepid van, nicknamed the Limo, and drug the boat up the steep dusty slope and back onto Mexico One. From this point to just south of El Rosario, Baja actually sustains a thriving agricultural economy. Farms and ranches stretched out on either side of the highway between patches of desert, like golf greens carefully sculpted into the natural folds of the land. The contrast was beautiful.
We passed through Colonet, where a group of doctors from the U.S. called “The Flying Samaritans” run a small hospital that, at one time, provided the majority of the medical services south of Ensenada. Colonia Guerrero and its cauliflower, brussels sprouts, tomatoes, and chiles faded into the rearview mirror, and soon San Quintin came into view. Though tempted to take a break and cool off with some boogie boarding in the Pacific Surf of this still developing town, we decided it would be more prudent to press on. Well, actually, Joe talked some sense into the rest of us by reminding us we still had mile to go before we slept, and a lot of unknown territory between us and Bahia de Los Angeles. We made a quick pit stop in El Rosario for sodas, bottled water and some M&M’s at the little tienda across the street from a military outpost and then continued on. From here the highway bent east and began to alternate between steep and steeper as it climbed up onto the backbone of the Baja peninsula. Marcus somehow managed to end up behind the wheel for this stretch, and earned the dubious honor of captaining our van up and down the slender, harrowing inclines that comprise this section of the trans-peninsular. We all agreed that he did a fine job keeping us from ending up like the incredible volume of burned out derelicts that populated the roadside and ravines below. We were definitely traveling in the protective grip of angels.
Once on top of the mountains, we slipped through gigantic rock jumbles adorned with the graffiti of innumerable travelers who left their mark in spray paint to immortalize their passing. This was once again a reminder that we were strangers in a strange land, and we pontificated over the outrage such volume of graffiti would cause if it were deposited on the landscape anywhere in the U.S; Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes. Here along Mexico One, it seemed merely an accepted slice of Mexican culture.
We eventually pulled in to a Pemex station Rancho Santa Inez next to the Hotel La Pinta Catavina to make our last refueling stop before Bahia de Los Angeles where gas would no longer come from a station, but begin to be procured if and when it was available from 50 gallon barrels that someone hauled in. Chris took the wheel from Marcus and drove us on across the dusty lake bed of Laguna Chapala, then down the eastern slopes of Baja.
CHAPTER 5
Before long we found ourselves arriving at Parador Punta Prieta, the turn off to Bahia de Los Angeles and the Sea of Cortez. We were almost to our launching point. I took the wheel and we turned off the highway onto some of the best roads we had seen since entering Mexico. The fairly recent improvements here were part of a project called the Nautical Ladder, and were designed to bring more boating to the Sea of Cortez. Originally, there was to be a large, modern marina built on the pacific side, and wide, well paved highway connecting it to Bahia de Los Angeles so that cruisers could sail the Pacific down from San Diego and then have their boats tailored across to the Sea. Environmental battles and normal Mexican politics, however seem to have derailed the efforts at this point, but we were still benefiting from the original improvements. Traffic was nonexistent as well, so I was able to crank it up and fly at a breathtaking speed of near 55 miles per hour. We owned the open road.
Then, just as we were nearing our final destination, road construction signs gave me just enough warning to slow our break-neck pace before we plunged onto newly graded dirt and gravel road bed. The next ten miles or so were still under construction. At one point we came across the crew operating a grader and dumping gravel from a semi-truck, and I got the opportunity to hone my trailer backing skills as we retreated about 50 yards through soft gravel until the charging dump truck could turn off the road and let us by. We then waited as the grader smoothed out the gravel so we could wade through it and continue on. About five miles further, we bounced back up onto old pot holed pavement and climbed the final hill to Bahia. We crested the top of the hill and were greeted by a dozen or so young soldiers with M-16’s waving us over to a make-shift check point. We were instructed to exit the vehicle and open the doors for inspection. A couple of the soldiers rummaged through the van, tapping on the head liner and various spots on the walls, while I escorted another guy back to check out the boat. It was then that we noticed the all too familiar hissing sound and squatty appearance of one more of our trailer tires. We had another flat. The soldier tried to hurry his inspection so we could get down the hill before it was completely out of air, but not before taking noticeable interest in the case of Pepsi on the cabin floor of the boat and mentioning how hot it was out there on the side of the road. In the interest of International relations I offered him a cold one and ended up supplying the entire regiment. They then waved us on, and we pulled forward to the hiss of a deflating tire and fourteen cold Pepsis popping open; our little contribution to world peace.
As we pulled away over the crest of the hill, the glistening Bay of Angels stretched out in a silver-blue line in the distance, beckoning us to come play in its welcoming waters. There was a wide spot next to the welcome to Bahia de Los Angeles billboard, so we did a tire change there and headed in to town. Just before the main drag swings left, we hung a right and bounced out a rough old road that paralleled the bay and then took a right onto the packed sand drive that was marked “Daggett’s Campground.” Squatty elephant trees and sparse cactus formed a sporadic hedge just outside the painted white rocks that lined the edge of the road. We drove in past several trailers obviously set up to full-time it, and then pulled around to the small building marked “Office.” Two or three Mexican youngsters played lazily on the front porch and a man swung silently in a rope hammock tied to the poles supporting the porch roof. An emaciated dog wagged its tail and sniffed our tires, and the gentle Sea of Cortez surf whispered in the background. I glanced around at the small wooden palapas that dotted the beach as I walked up to the office, and Marcus and Joe headed for the beach to take their first look at and dip their feet for the first time in the Sea of Cortez.
A pleasant young lady met me at the door, and I asked if we could have a camp spot. She went over all the details in perfect English and we were all set for the night. We paid 16 dollars, or 166 pesos, for a place to camp and use of the showers, perhaps the most necessary piece of the transaction after three days crossing the desert in a van. We agreed to pay 20 pesos a day for parking our van and boat trailer there while we were at sea. I pulled around the little row of palapas and backed the boat into a camp spot facing the sea. Our adventure on the water would begin tomorrow.
Night collapsed quickly in the shadow of the Sierra San Pedro Martir as we ravenously consumed a dinner of hotdogs and began to relax from the arduous journey across the desert. Exhausted, Chris and Joe climbed in the van for the night and Marcus and I decided to sleep on the top deck of the boat under the stars. The soothing surf and gentle breeze across the water worked their magic and we quickly drifted off to sleep. I’m not exactly sure how long I’d been asleep before I began to stir and shift under my thin Mexican blanket to escape a building breeze from the mountain slopes to the west. Before long, the wind was roaring down through the pass in the surrounding mountains and ripping across our little boat top, making sleep almost impossible. We tossed and turned for a half hour or so and then finally surrendered to the infamous Bahia wind and went below for the night. We had our first introduction to life aboard a boat and its vulnerability to the elements.
Before long we found ourselves arriving at Parador Punta Prieta, the turn off to Bahia de Los Angeles and the Sea of Cortez. We were almost to our launching point. I took the wheel and we turned off the highway onto some of the best roads we had seen since entering Mexico. The fairly recent improvements here were part of a project called the Nautical Ladder, and were designed to bring more boating to the Sea of Cortez. Originally, there was to be a large, modern marina built on the pacific side, and wide, well paved highway connecting it to Bahia de Los Angeles so that cruisers could sail the Pacific down from San Diego and then have their boats tailored across to the Sea. Environmental battles and normal Mexican politics, however seem to have derailed the efforts at this point, but we were still benefiting from the original improvements. Traffic was nonexistent as well, so I was able to crank it up and fly at a breathtaking speed of near 55 miles per hour. We owned the open road.
Then, just as we were nearing our final destination, road construction signs gave me just enough warning to slow our break-neck pace before we plunged onto newly graded dirt and gravel road bed. The next ten miles or so were still under construction. At one point we came across the crew operating a grader and dumping gravel from a semi-truck, and I got the opportunity to hone my trailer backing skills as we retreated about 50 yards through soft gravel until the charging dump truck could turn off the road and let us by. We then waited as the grader smoothed out the gravel so we could wade through it and continue on. About five miles further, we bounced back up onto old pot holed pavement and climbed the final hill to Bahia. We crested the top of the hill and were greeted by a dozen or so young soldiers with M-16’s waving us over to a make-shift check point. We were instructed to exit the vehicle and open the doors for inspection. A couple of the soldiers rummaged through the van, tapping on the head liner and various spots on the walls, while I escorted another guy back to check out the boat. It was then that we noticed the all too familiar hissing sound and squatty appearance of one more of our trailer tires. We had another flat. The soldier tried to hurry his inspection so we could get down the hill before it was completely out of air, but not before taking noticeable interest in the case of Pepsi on the cabin floor of the boat and mentioning how hot it was out there on the side of the road. In the interest of International relations I offered him a cold one and ended up supplying the entire regiment. They then waved us on, and we pulled forward to the hiss of a deflating tire and fourteen cold Pepsis popping open; our little contribution to world peace.
As we pulled away over the crest of the hill, the glistening Bay of Angels stretched out in a silver-blue line in the distance, beckoning us to come play in its welcoming waters. There was a wide spot next to the welcome to Bahia de Los Angeles billboard, so we did a tire change there and headed in to town. Just before the main drag swings left, we hung a right and bounced out a rough old road that paralleled the bay and then took a right onto the packed sand drive that was marked “Daggett’s Campground.” Squatty elephant trees and sparse cactus formed a sporadic hedge just outside the painted white rocks that lined the edge of the road. We drove in past several trailers obviously set up to full-time it, and then pulled around to the small building marked “Office.” Two or three Mexican youngsters played lazily on the front porch and a man swung silently in a rope hammock tied to the poles supporting the porch roof. An emaciated dog wagged its tail and sniffed our tires, and the gentle Sea of Cortez surf whispered in the background. I glanced around at the small wooden palapas that dotted the beach as I walked up to the office, and Marcus and Joe headed for the beach to take their first look at and dip their feet for the first time in the Sea of Cortez.
A pleasant young lady met me at the door, and I asked if we could have a camp spot. She went over all the details in perfect English and we were all set for the night. We paid 16 dollars, or 166 pesos, for a place to camp and use of the showers, perhaps the most necessary piece of the transaction after three days crossing the desert in a van. We agreed to pay 20 pesos a day for parking our van and boat trailer there while we were at sea. I pulled around the little row of palapas and backed the boat into a camp spot facing the sea. Our adventure on the water would begin tomorrow.
Night collapsed quickly in the shadow of the Sierra San Pedro Martir as we ravenously consumed a dinner of hotdogs and began to relax from the arduous journey across the desert. Exhausted, Chris and Joe climbed in the van for the night and Marcus and I decided to sleep on the top deck of the boat under the stars. The soothing surf and gentle breeze across the water worked their magic and we quickly drifted off to sleep. I’m not exactly sure how long I’d been asleep before I began to stir and shift under my thin Mexican blanket to escape a building breeze from the mountain slopes to the west. Before long, the wind was roaring down through the pass in the surrounding mountains and ripping across our little boat top, making sleep almost impossible. We tossed and turned for a half hour or so and then finally surrendered to the infamous Bahia wind and went below for the night. We had our first introduction to life aboard a boat and its vulnerability to the elements.
CHAPTER 6
By morning the wind had subsided and we were readying things for the big launch. Camping neighbors, Dan and Nancy, had arrived in the late evening and were up and about setting up their camp next to ours. They were Bahia regulars who left a motor home here year round and visited about four times annually. Dan was a wealth of information regarding the Bay and town surrounding it, and also told us he would keep an eye on our van while we were at sea. He loaned me a lure for Yellow Tail and Dorado fishing and gave us a few tips on trolling or Yo Yo’ing the lure for bait fish. We thanked him and piled into the van, ready to finally launch the boat. This was the moment we had been working towards for the past year. I almost felt like we should have a bottle of champagne to bust over the bow.
Rock Bottom bounced along behind the van as we pulled into town to the launch ramp. I rumbled to a stop, dropped the van into reverse and weaved our wide load backward to the raised ramp as amused locals stood by and enjoyed the show. I’m sure there were more than a few who would have placed bets on my dropping at least one wheel off the narrow ramp and dumping the whole mess over onto its side on the sand, but God was with us, and once again providence kept all wheels on solid ground. The trailer scraped loudly over the crest of the ramp, shuddered, and slowly descended down into the waters of the sea. ROCKBOTTOM floated up off its trailer rails, fired to life with Chris behind the wheel, and motored out into the bay; it was a thing of beauty.
Safely off shore, Chris and Joe began to make their way slowly out past the sand spit break water and down the shore towards camp. Marcus and I jumped back in the van and headed into town to try to find one more gas can and then meet them back at Camp. No one had gas cans, but one little store had a 20 liter jug that had once contained vegetable oil, so we took it, rinsed it out with a little gas, and had the local gas guy fill it up. It would have to do.
Once we had our make-shift jerry can, we flew down the old rugged road toward camp almost weightless and carefree without the six thousand pound load dragging behind us. We parked, unloaded the gas and removed the battery from the van, and walked down to meet the guys who were sitting at anchor about 30 yards off shore in around 4 feet of water. A family of curious onlookers in kayaks paddled around and watched as Marcus and I began to wade out to the boat with our load. I was enjoying the cool, clear water as I waded up to my chest toward the boat. Then our helpful onlookers reminded me to shuffle my feet to keep from stepping on a stingray buried in the sand. I glanced around and began to notice small dark circles scurrying away in front of me as I walked, their graceful wings kicking up a fine dust of sand as they flew just over the bottom to settle again in the distance. I decided to take the guy up on his offer to paddle our gas and battery over to the boat for me, and swam the rest of the way there happy to have arrived without a closer encounter with the business end of the rays.
We thanked our new friend, bid him farewell and pulled up anchor, bringing a large oyster up with it. Dan and Nancy waved from shore, Joe climbed behind the wheel, and we motored out into the bay. About a half mile out, Joe noticed that the oil pressure gauge wasn’t registering anything and the alternator didn’t seem to be charging the batteries. We killed the engine, dropped anchor again, and opened the engine compartment. Chris, the only really reliable mechanic on the crew, began to look things over while Marcus and I gave helpful input like, “maybe something’s wrong with the charging thingamajig,” or “I bet we need to figure out why it’s not charging.” Chris looked over the engine and told Joe to start it back up. When Joe turned the key, the engine made a slow, weak attempt at turning over, and then nothing. The battery was dead. Joe, mentioned that the alternator never showed a charge when we drove, but the batteries seemed to charge, so maybe it was the gauge. Chris pulled off the instrument panel and began to trace down wiring from the gauges. He quickly noticed that the sending wire for the oil pressure gauge was disconnected, and remedied that issue. I suggested that the battery terminals looked fairly corroded and started cleaning them with some sand paper. Soon Chris had the wiring diagram out and was working on reconnecting various things until smoke began to issue from the panel and we shut the battery switch off. Smoke on the Water, was now officially our theme song. With a scratch of his head, Chris decided to just put everything back the way it started and see if the battery terminal cleaning had solved the problem. A few minutes later, we turned the key again, and Rock Bottom jumped to life without missing a beat. Problem solved.
We adjusted the trim and motored out across the bay towards Isla Ventana, one of the closest islands of any real size. I read the section out of Charlie’s Charts that described the Island and the best passage into a small cove on its northern end, giving Joe directions to stay clear of the little, rocky islands that lay just off the point. The chart book listed some submerged rock hazards there. We rounded the end and eased into the cove. Marcus went to the fore deck and scouted the bottom for any rocks, but it was mostly small pebble and sand. Joe was able to ease right up to shore where I jumped out and had Marcus toss me the bow line. There was a sign just up the beach describing the area as a natural preserve, so we figured we could tie off to it. I took a step toward shore in the knee-deep water and noticed baseball sized urchins scattered about the sandy bottom like small, spiky land mines waiting for any careless step. Then there was a whoosh of sand and a swift little sting ray swept off to deeper water. Things here were such a dichotomy of beautiful danger. I warned Marcus to check out his landing zone before jumping off the bow just in time and he chose a non-urchined spot to hit as he joined me in the water. I headed up the beach to tie off and Marcus waded down the shore, making sting rays swim. I thought again of that hazy line between optimism and foolishness, shaking my head as he pointed left and right in child-like joy with each departing cloud of sand.
CHAPTER 7
There was a trail heading up into the barren slopes of the island that looked like it might eventually make its way to the top, so we lathered up with sun screen and trudged off to conquer the summit. Small, pale lizards scuttled for the protective cover of spiky cactus as we passed, and the sun beat down across our down turned necks. All was rock, and thorn, and heat. As we crested the top of the trail, the island revealed a crater-like center, as if it were some ancient, extinct volcano. The vista from our new vantage point allowed us to see almost 360 degrees around the island, except for one small section where a rocky uplift still obscured our view. Deep blue water undulated gently with the tide in all directions, and Isla Angel de La Guardia dominated the eastern horizon. It was striking how something that looks so small on the map can be such a massive feature when you actually get there. Bahia’s guardian stretched as far as the eye could see in each direction and might just as well have been the main land as far as we could tell. It would be some time before its ominous hulking presence would be left in the wake of the Rock Bottom as we cruised south.
We snapped a few pictures of the crater, the sea, and our beautiful little home bobbing in the cove below, and then headed back down the trail. We had considered snorkeling near the mouth of the cove in the rocks, but decided that it was getting late, and we should probably head on south if we wanted to make it to a good anchorage before nightfall. We cast off and checked the charts as we exited our cove and set a course for the open sea. It felt great to finally be cruising on plane across the azure waters, mariners at last. As we passed Punta Pescador, the final point of Bahia de Los Angeles, a strange noise like a loud swoosh of air drew our attention to the starboard side of the boat and something large and black slipped beneath the surface of the water about thirty yards away. We scanned the water and then a large fin broke the surface again. With another loud puff, a small jet of vaporous water shot skyward, the long, black body of a fin back whale slid effortlessly in an arc above the water, and finally a tail emerged and then slapped down as the whale dove again. “Sweet! It’s a whale,” Marcus shouted from the top deck. I backed off on the throttle, and scanned the water for another sighting. Then there was another puff from the opposite side of the boat. Suddenly another whale broke the water directly in front of us, this time so close, I grabbed the throttle and slammed the boat into neutral, afraid I might run the creature over. As we looked about, the waters were alive with whales, especially in the big curving cove along the shore. Twenty or thirty whales were rolling, blowing, and playing lazily in the shelter of the rocky inlet. It was all we could do to keep ourselves from wasting more daylight by motoring over and attempting to kayak in for a closer encounter, but our destination was still a long way off, and according to the GPS we were only making about 15 miles per hour. I eased Rock Bottom back into gear and pushed the throttle forward until the nose leveled off and the tachometer read 3700 RPM’s. The whales would have to wait for another day.
We aimed the nose towards the farthest bit of land we could make out in the distance and continued on a south easterly course about ten miles off shore. Marcus stood topside, holding onto the mast and spotted huge manta ray underneath the surface of the water, and even saw one big sea turtle. I just kept my eyes on the horizon and pondered how the distance between us and the point we were striving for seemed to stay about the same as the minutes and hours crept lazily by. Distance on the water is an interesting thing. As far from land as we were, it was difficult to judge. A peak of the mountainous landscape in the distance might look fairly close, but as you approached, you realized it was actually much taller than you first supposed, and therefore much farther away as well. Slowly, but surely, the point in the distance began to take on more definition, and we began to notice that it looked like a high spot on the end of a low peninsula, but that didn’t agree with anything I could find on the charts. I traded spots with Marcus, and tried to figure out where we were while he drove. After double checking the book and checking it a third time, it all began to make sense. We weren’t looking at a high peninsula end at all, but a new island out past the low peninsula. Chris brought up our map program on the lap top and confirmed our location for sure. We were much farther from our destination than I had hoped.
All at once the water erupted with new excitement as a pod of porpoise danced across the waves and played in our wake. They jumped, flipped and raced in to disappear under the boat and then explode from the water again in acrobatic grandeur. Time crunch or not, I had to get a closer look. We killed the engine; I untied a kayak and jumped into the sea, paddling like mad in the direction of the dolphins. Believe it or not, those things can swim way faster than I can paddle. The harder I tried, the farther they moved away. I tried to coax them closer by giving my best squeaking imitation of dolphin speak, but apparently must have said something very insulting to dolphins, because they soon turned their flippers and tore off into the distance, leaving me alone and depressed in the vast Sea of Cortez. The guys aboard Rock Bottom fired her up, and I paddled silently back to rejoin them. Joe helped me aboard and Marcus continued southward, ever southward while I dried off and strapped the kayak back on top.
After another hour or so of gliding over the water, Joe glanced forlornly out over the wake and contemplated the proximity of the sun to the western mountains of Baja. “Hey guys, it’s gonna’ to be dark pretty soon,” he shared. We all admired the crimson sky over the bleak mountains that tumbled haphazardly into the sea. Everywhere, the mountains plunged steeply into the water, without so much as a sandy cove or sheltered breakwater of rock to be seen. “This is so perfect,” I yelled over the sound of the wind and the droning motor, “Our first day at sea and we’re racing the sun to a safe harbor!” “Hey, if we don’t make it before dark, at least we’ll get to see the bioluminescence in the wake.” Joe, obviously unimpressed with my attempt to find the bright side, fired back, “Yeah, at least we’ll get to see that before we die.”
Marcus kept her steady on course, kicked it up to about 17 miles pr hour, and motored on. We rounded the last point and started to identify landmarks for Bahia Sanfrancisquito just as the last embers of the sun disappeared behind the mountains. A pod of dolphins suddenly appeared to cheer us on and celebrate our arrival, jumping and twisting and racing off in all directions. Keeping to the center of the opening, we slipped into a serene little lagoon and dropped anchor in about 10 feet of water. There were a couple small houses nestled on the shore, one just off the beach at the east end, and another at the top of a bluff on the western end. A small dock jutted out into the lagoon in the center and two or three small fishing pangas rested up on the sand near the dock. There was little sign of life anywhere, as we turned on the anchor light on the mast and began setting up our propane stove and BBQ to cook dinner. We pulled a bag of chicken breast strips out of the fridge and stir fried them in lemon-garlic with a touch of salt and pepper. We also opened a couple cans of raviolis to have on the side, and Joe made up a pitcher of lemonade. It was a quite a feast. After we ate Chris sat on the dive deck doing the dishes while Marcus strummed quietly on the guitar and big grey pelicans plunged awkwardly from the sky, splashing into the lagoon for their dinner.
I walked aft to hand Chris more dishes, and found him gazing intently and quizzically down into the water at his sandaled foot. “Something’s in my sandal,” he exclaimed, handing me a clean plate. He reached down and dug his finger carefully between the sandal and his toes and drug out a little crab about the size of a quarter. I shined a flashlight down to get a better look at it, and noticed that the water was alive with the little buggers. Thousands of crabs swam to and fro scooping tiny squid-like creatures into their mouths, if crabs have mouths. As we looked across the water, we began to notice all sorts of other life, eels or sea snakes of some sort, larger crabs, and thin, needle shaped fish. Occasionally, a larger squid would sweep by just under the surface. Flying fish broke the bonds of the lagoon and skimmed through the air over the water. Chris scooped his hands through the water in an attempt to grab another crab, and the trail behind his hand lit up in an eerie yellow-green cloud of bioluminescence. “Cool, check this out guys,” we yelled up to Joe and Marcus. We grabbed the pole hook and swished it through the water, lighting it up with a million microscopic fireflies. This amused and busied us for the next hour or so before we finally tired of searching out new and bizarre forms of sea life and decided to ready for sleep. Marcus and I once again tried to sleep up topside, and Chris and Joe retired to the front births. I nestled down into one of the kayaks and drifted off to the sound of sea birds still busily diving into the water to feed.
There was a trail heading up into the barren slopes of the island that looked like it might eventually make its way to the top, so we lathered up with sun screen and trudged off to conquer the summit. Small, pale lizards scuttled for the protective cover of spiky cactus as we passed, and the sun beat down across our down turned necks. All was rock, and thorn, and heat. As we crested the top of the trail, the island revealed a crater-like center, as if it were some ancient, extinct volcano. The vista from our new vantage point allowed us to see almost 360 degrees around the island, except for one small section where a rocky uplift still obscured our view. Deep blue water undulated gently with the tide in all directions, and Isla Angel de La Guardia dominated the eastern horizon. It was striking how something that looks so small on the map can be such a massive feature when you actually get there. Bahia’s guardian stretched as far as the eye could see in each direction and might just as well have been the main land as far as we could tell. It would be some time before its ominous hulking presence would be left in the wake of the Rock Bottom as we cruised south.
We snapped a few pictures of the crater, the sea, and our beautiful little home bobbing in the cove below, and then headed back down the trail. We had considered snorkeling near the mouth of the cove in the rocks, but decided that it was getting late, and we should probably head on south if we wanted to make it to a good anchorage before nightfall. We cast off and checked the charts as we exited our cove and set a course for the open sea. It felt great to finally be cruising on plane across the azure waters, mariners at last. As we passed Punta Pescador, the final point of Bahia de Los Angeles, a strange noise like a loud swoosh of air drew our attention to the starboard side of the boat and something large and black slipped beneath the surface of the water about thirty yards away. We scanned the water and then a large fin broke the surface again. With another loud puff, a small jet of vaporous water shot skyward, the long, black body of a fin back whale slid effortlessly in an arc above the water, and finally a tail emerged and then slapped down as the whale dove again. “Sweet! It’s a whale,” Marcus shouted from the top deck. I backed off on the throttle, and scanned the water for another sighting. Then there was another puff from the opposite side of the boat. Suddenly another whale broke the water directly in front of us, this time so close, I grabbed the throttle and slammed the boat into neutral, afraid I might run the creature over. As we looked about, the waters were alive with whales, especially in the big curving cove along the shore. Twenty or thirty whales were rolling, blowing, and playing lazily in the shelter of the rocky inlet. It was all we could do to keep ourselves from wasting more daylight by motoring over and attempting to kayak in for a closer encounter, but our destination was still a long way off, and according to the GPS we were only making about 15 miles per hour. I eased Rock Bottom back into gear and pushed the throttle forward until the nose leveled off and the tachometer read 3700 RPM’s. The whales would have to wait for another day.
We aimed the nose towards the farthest bit of land we could make out in the distance and continued on a south easterly course about ten miles off shore. Marcus stood topside, holding onto the mast and spotted huge manta ray underneath the surface of the water, and even saw one big sea turtle. I just kept my eyes on the horizon and pondered how the distance between us and the point we were striving for seemed to stay about the same as the minutes and hours crept lazily by. Distance on the water is an interesting thing. As far from land as we were, it was difficult to judge. A peak of the mountainous landscape in the distance might look fairly close, but as you approached, you realized it was actually much taller than you first supposed, and therefore much farther away as well. Slowly, but surely, the point in the distance began to take on more definition, and we began to notice that it looked like a high spot on the end of a low peninsula, but that didn’t agree with anything I could find on the charts. I traded spots with Marcus, and tried to figure out where we were while he drove. After double checking the book and checking it a third time, it all began to make sense. We weren’t looking at a high peninsula end at all, but a new island out past the low peninsula. Chris brought up our map program on the lap top and confirmed our location for sure. We were much farther from our destination than I had hoped.
All at once the water erupted with new excitement as a pod of porpoise danced across the waves and played in our wake. They jumped, flipped and raced in to disappear under the boat and then explode from the water again in acrobatic grandeur. Time crunch or not, I had to get a closer look. We killed the engine; I untied a kayak and jumped into the sea, paddling like mad in the direction of the dolphins. Believe it or not, those things can swim way faster than I can paddle. The harder I tried, the farther they moved away. I tried to coax them closer by giving my best squeaking imitation of dolphin speak, but apparently must have said something very insulting to dolphins, because they soon turned their flippers and tore off into the distance, leaving me alone and depressed in the vast Sea of Cortez. The guys aboard Rock Bottom fired her up, and I paddled silently back to rejoin them. Joe helped me aboard and Marcus continued southward, ever southward while I dried off and strapped the kayak back on top.
After another hour or so of gliding over the water, Joe glanced forlornly out over the wake and contemplated the proximity of the sun to the western mountains of Baja. “Hey guys, it’s gonna’ to be dark pretty soon,” he shared. We all admired the crimson sky over the bleak mountains that tumbled haphazardly into the sea. Everywhere, the mountains plunged steeply into the water, without so much as a sandy cove or sheltered breakwater of rock to be seen. “This is so perfect,” I yelled over the sound of the wind and the droning motor, “Our first day at sea and we’re racing the sun to a safe harbor!” “Hey, if we don’t make it before dark, at least we’ll get to see the bioluminescence in the wake.” Joe, obviously unimpressed with my attempt to find the bright side, fired back, “Yeah, at least we’ll get to see that before we die.”
Marcus kept her steady on course, kicked it up to about 17 miles pr hour, and motored on. We rounded the last point and started to identify landmarks for Bahia Sanfrancisquito just as the last embers of the sun disappeared behind the mountains. A pod of dolphins suddenly appeared to cheer us on and celebrate our arrival, jumping and twisting and racing off in all directions. Keeping to the center of the opening, we slipped into a serene little lagoon and dropped anchor in about 10 feet of water. There were a couple small houses nestled on the shore, one just off the beach at the east end, and another at the top of a bluff on the western end. A small dock jutted out into the lagoon in the center and two or three small fishing pangas rested up on the sand near the dock. There was little sign of life anywhere, as we turned on the anchor light on the mast and began setting up our propane stove and BBQ to cook dinner. We pulled a bag of chicken breast strips out of the fridge and stir fried them in lemon-garlic with a touch of salt and pepper. We also opened a couple cans of raviolis to have on the side, and Joe made up a pitcher of lemonade. It was a quite a feast. After we ate Chris sat on the dive deck doing the dishes while Marcus strummed quietly on the guitar and big grey pelicans plunged awkwardly from the sky, splashing into the lagoon for their dinner.
I walked aft to hand Chris more dishes, and found him gazing intently and quizzically down into the water at his sandaled foot. “Something’s in my sandal,” he exclaimed, handing me a clean plate. He reached down and dug his finger carefully between the sandal and his toes and drug out a little crab about the size of a quarter. I shined a flashlight down to get a better look at it, and noticed that the water was alive with the little buggers. Thousands of crabs swam to and fro scooping tiny squid-like creatures into their mouths, if crabs have mouths. As we looked across the water, we began to notice all sorts of other life, eels or sea snakes of some sort, larger crabs, and thin, needle shaped fish. Occasionally, a larger squid would sweep by just under the surface. Flying fish broke the bonds of the lagoon and skimmed through the air over the water. Chris scooped his hands through the water in an attempt to grab another crab, and the trail behind his hand lit up in an eerie yellow-green cloud of bioluminescence. “Cool, check this out guys,” we yelled up to Joe and Marcus. We grabbed the pole hook and swished it through the water, lighting it up with a million microscopic fireflies. This amused and busied us for the next hour or so before we finally tired of searching out new and bizarre forms of sea life and decided to ready for sleep. Marcus and I once again tried to sleep up topside, and Chris and Joe retired to the front births. I nestled down into one of the kayaks and drifted off to the sound of sea birds still busily diving into the water to feed.
CHAPTER 8
Dawn greeted us with great splendor, the sun washing over our little boat around six AM. I started the coffee and cleaned up a bit as my ship mates began to stir and climb out of bed. There was no sign of our crabby friends in the water this morning, but several pelicans floated sleepily on the water all about the lagoon. In the crisp daylight, we could now survey our surroundings more clearly. Steep rocky slopes ran from a gently sloped sand beach, out to an opening about a quarter mile wide. There was a non-functioning little light pillar on the rocky promontory that formed the north western side of the entrance. Peculiar rock walls made small enclosures up the steep slope of the opposite side of our lagoon, and we sipped our coffee and postulated as to their purpose to no avail. It was a tranquil little anchorage.
Marcus boiled water and pulled out packets of Quaker instant oatmeal for breakfast, as our supply of pop-tarts had finally been depleted. A brief, but friendly, argument ensued over which flavor oatmeal best as we each mixed our gooey plates of cholesterols fighting goodness. We munched hungrily and watched as a dust cloud in the south slowly made its way towards the beach. Soon a beat up old truck appeared and pulled down to the dock. A man began to unload fishing gear and a fuel tank for one of the pangas as four women carried their personal gear out and dumped it into the boat. There was a resort marked on the map about a mile and a half away across the promontory of land that formed the beach side of our lagoon. We were planning on walking there with jerry cans in hope of refueling for the push to Santa Rosalia that day. This was our chance to get info as to whether or not gas was available before we walked all the way there. We started up the engine and slowly motored up to the beach. Chris and I jumped off and tied up to a big mooring strap that ran from the beach out into the water. We walked over and bid our good mornings and inquired as to gas. Our new friend was an American in his fifties who flew into the resort on a regular basis and assured us that gas was no problem. He offered to take us over once he got the ladies launched.
A few minutes later, Chris and I were bouncing across the sandy desert in the back of his pickup headed for the resort. Gas was indeed available, $3.60 a gallon U.S. Being as this was the only gas for about a hundred miles, we figured it was probably useless to attempt to haggle. We talked it over and decided we could probably make it to Santa Rosalia without filling all our cans, so we just bought 20 gallons. This would prove to be more costly in the poor decision department than in dollars and cents. The resort owner stuck a hose into a 55 gallon barrel, sucked on the other end to start a siphon, and filled our cans. He told us he would drive us back to the lagoon, and soon we were loading cans onto the boat and dumping the contents through our filter funnel into the tank. Our refueling complete, we bid farewell to the anchorage and nosed past the point towards the sea once again.
CHAPTER 9
Joe again set a course for the farthest visible point of land and motored on. I went below to change into some dry shorts, and Marcus and Chris caught up on a little reading. We ran about twenty miles off shore and continued south past more desolate islands and the endless, trackless slopes of Baja California. This particular stretch of Baja, held no towns or villages until Santa Rosalia, and was the longest stretch we had to make without any hope of help from shore. After about an hour, however, we began to see a number of curious dots bobbing up and down on the horizon, too large for marine life, yet too small for islands. As we closed the distance they began to become clearer. It was a small floatilla of fishing pangas, ten or twelve of them. We gave them a wide berth and continued south. One of the boats motored towards the shore twenty or so miles to the west, and we tried to scan the area with our binoculars to see if we could locate a fish camp or small village, but couldn’t see anything. These guys were a long way from anything that was marked on our charts. Some things will remain a mystery.
I climbed up topside with Marcus and set about rigging a hammock chair from the mast so that we could hang out and get a better view of the water. We strapped the wooden pole that the chair hung from to the support poles running from the mast to the bow deck. The chair hung about four feet above the top deck, ten feet above the main deck. The view was indeed better, and you didn’t have to work as hard to keep your balance while standing. Marcus tried it out for a while and then discovered that we could actually sit on the pole instead of in the hammock and rest our backs against the mast. This new perch added another couple feet of altitude and improved the view even more. It was like being in the crows nest. I left Marcus to his fun and went below to rest and start sewing some curtain for the windows. I wanted to be able to draw the curtains if we all left the boat to go into Santa Rosalia, so that the laptop and other gear wouldn’t be in plain sight. I measured, cut, and threaded the needle, no simple trick on a moving boat, by the way. For the next hour or so, I worked to no avail making scraps of cloth out of the material I had brought along. I guess I may someday be able to call myself a mariner, but probably never a seamstress.
Just as I was reaching my terminal frustration point, I felt the boat pitch forward as the engine throttled back and then went silent. “Hey, Scott,” Chris called down into the cabin. “You better come up here and check my math, I think we’ve got a problem.” I stuffed the ragged remains of my sewing attempt into a garbage sack, and headed up to the helm. “How’s the curtains coming?” Joe asked as I emerged from the doorway. “Shut up!” I replied pleasantly, “I decided to make grease rags instead. I didn’t like the pattern of the material.” Chris jumped in to save me any further humiliation and explained that his calculations showed us using about twice as much fuel as we had figured on using. We sent the GPS info to the laptop and pinpointed our position. We were somewhere thirty-five to forty miles south of Bahia Sanfrancisquito. According to our best guess, we had used about forty gallons of fuel getting here. This left us about thirty gallons of gas on board. With Santa Rosalia still fifty miles away, and our last refueling forty, it was a question mark whether or not we could make it to either place.
We pulled out Charlie’s charts, The Baja Book, and our Fishing chart book and searched for other options. If there was anything we could count on between us and Santa Rosalia, we needed to find it now. We came up empty, however, and briefly discussed the possibilities of running across other boat traffic or sending a couple guys in kayaks if, I mean when, we ran out of fuel. “How long do you think it would take a guy to paddle fifteen or twenty miles in an inflatable kayak carrying gas cans,” Joe queried, thus effectively ending this line of speculation. I related the tale of my attempt to walk across the desert from Mulege to Bahia Conception years ago, describing in detail the blinding heat, horrible thorns and rugged terrain. So walking from wherever we ran dry also seemed foolish. We finally succumbed to the inevitable and decided to head back toward Sanfrancisquito. At least, if we ran out before reaching it, there was the possibility of running across the fishing pangas. I glanced disgustedly at the gas cans we had decided not to fill earlier that day and kicked myself. Always plan for the worst, that way you’re rarely disappointed, I reminded myself.
I climbed up topside with Marcus and set about rigging a hammock chair from the mast so that we could hang out and get a better view of the water. We strapped the wooden pole that the chair hung from to the support poles running from the mast to the bow deck. The chair hung about four feet above the top deck, ten feet above the main deck. The view was indeed better, and you didn’t have to work as hard to keep your balance while standing. Marcus tried it out for a while and then discovered that we could actually sit on the pole instead of in the hammock and rest our backs against the mast. This new perch added another couple feet of altitude and improved the view even more. It was like being in the crows nest. I left Marcus to his fun and went below to rest and start sewing some curtain for the windows. I wanted to be able to draw the curtains if we all left the boat to go into Santa Rosalia, so that the laptop and other gear wouldn’t be in plain sight. I measured, cut, and threaded the needle, no simple trick on a moving boat, by the way. For the next hour or so, I worked to no avail making scraps of cloth out of the material I had brought along. I guess I may someday be able to call myself a mariner, but probably never a seamstress.
Just as I was reaching my terminal frustration point, I felt the boat pitch forward as the engine throttled back and then went silent. “Hey, Scott,” Chris called down into the cabin. “You better come up here and check my math, I think we’ve got a problem.” I stuffed the ragged remains of my sewing attempt into a garbage sack, and headed up to the helm. “How’s the curtains coming?” Joe asked as I emerged from the doorway. “Shut up!” I replied pleasantly, “I decided to make grease rags instead. I didn’t like the pattern of the material.” Chris jumped in to save me any further humiliation and explained that his calculations showed us using about twice as much fuel as we had figured on using. We sent the GPS info to the laptop and pinpointed our position. We were somewhere thirty-five to forty miles south of Bahia Sanfrancisquito. According to our best guess, we had used about forty gallons of fuel getting here. This left us about thirty gallons of gas on board. With Santa Rosalia still fifty miles away, and our last refueling forty, it was a question mark whether or not we could make it to either place.
We pulled out Charlie’s charts, The Baja Book, and our Fishing chart book and searched for other options. If there was anything we could count on between us and Santa Rosalia, we needed to find it now. We came up empty, however, and briefly discussed the possibilities of running across other boat traffic or sending a couple guys in kayaks if, I mean when, we ran out of fuel. “How long do you think it would take a guy to paddle fifteen or twenty miles in an inflatable kayak carrying gas cans,” Joe queried, thus effectively ending this line of speculation. I related the tale of my attempt to walk across the desert from Mulege to Bahia Conception years ago, describing in detail the blinding heat, horrible thorns and rugged terrain. So walking from wherever we ran dry also seemed foolish. We finally succumbed to the inevitable and decided to head back toward Sanfrancisquito. At least, if we ran out before reaching it, there was the possibility of running across the fishing pangas. I glanced disgustedly at the gas cans we had decided not to fill earlier that day and kicked myself. Always plan for the worst, that way you’re rarely disappointed, I reminded myself.
CHAPTER 10
We fired Rockbottom back up, watched the compass needle rotate a hundred and eighty degrees, and brought her up on plane. Then we backed her off a few RPMs and chugged back toward Sanfrancisquito. I climbed dejectedly up into the mast chair and watched the water slip back beneath our bow in a smooth, translucent stream. The mast rigging clanked as I swayed back and forth to the gentle bounce of bow and swell. A dark spot off the starboard rail caught my eye, and I turned just in time to see a large manta ray tilt sideways and shoot off into the dark waters of the deep. I tried to shrug off the disappointment and thanked God for the beauty and freedom of the salt wind in my hair and the broad expanse of water before me. Even in unachieved aspirations there are things to appreciate, the journey is, after all, most exciting because of its unpredictable glory.
Soon familiar horizonal dots began to drift ghost-like into view as we slowly approached islands we had sped past in the morning. Marcus and Joe appeared on the foredeck below me, and I climbed down out of the mast chair. Joe mentioned that we seemed to be running through pretty smooth water, and that it should help our mileage. I hoped he was right being as I hadn’t seen any signs of the fishermen we had passed in the morning, and we still had a long ways to go. Marcus climbed into the mast chair, and Joe and I went back to the main deck to see how Chris was doing at the helm.
I took a turn at the wheel, and Chris went inside to grab a cold drink. He laughingly confirmed the death of my curtain project. “Maybe we can use this for blindfolds if we make anyone walk the plank,” he consoled me. Just then Marcus and Joe began to shout excitedly that our dolphin friends were back. The ocean exploded in a spectacular array of glistening, grey forms leaping to free themselves from the confines of the sea and shoot skyward. There were at least twenty sleek dolphins racing along with us, closer than ever before. “They’re right under the boat!” Marcus shouted from his perch above. I leaned out to take a better look and noticed a huge dolphin gliding right under the surface next to me, effortlessly overtaking the boat. He shot past me, almost to the front of the boat, hit the breaks letting us catch up, and then leapt out of the water about a foot from my head. For a split second we were eye to eye as he arced into the air and then splashed back into the sea. He repeated the close encounter twice more, leaping so close to me that I could have reached out and touched him as he flew by. Then he hit the afterburners and launched out past the bow and swam off leaving our little vessel in the dust. Words are vastly incapable of expressing the moment.
Our dolphin friends disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, like phantoms, or aquatic angles. I yelled up to Chris to see if anyone had caught the moment on film. Like most close encounters, however, the only evidence would have to remain the images in our collective memories. Perhaps there are certain special moments that God intends to remain that way, unchained from the captivity of film, and free to grow more magnificent with the passing years in the fertile fields of the mind. We chattered excitedly for a half hour or so, each retelling the event from the perspective of our particular position on the boat; each highlighting our own unique brush with majesty. Points on the horizon began to become more familiar as we talked, and the distance between recognizable landmarks appeared to be closing at about the same rate as the needle on the fuel gauge closing on the “empty” insignia. We were fairly sure, now that we would at least make it close enough to Sanfrancisquito to kayak in before nightfall.
CHAPTER 11
As the broad, sandy beach of the Sanfrancisquito Resort drew closer and closer we began to feel more and more at ease. This would definitely become our “One Particular Harbor” on Senor Cortez’ beautiful Sea.
The previous night we had anchored in the secluded, shelter of the cove on the other side of the large point to the south. Today we were motoring right up to the beach below the small resort. A large stucco structure with palm thatch roof served as restaurant and had an open patio area between it and five or six small cabanas that stretched out along the top of the beachhead. A steep, white sand beach dropped off in front of the cabanas and disappeared into the azure sea. Small white crested waves curled over and tumbled up onto the sand in a quick progression, something we hadn’t yet encountered here. I headed forward, motioning for Joe to join me on the front of the boat and get the bow line ready. “Just run it up on the beach nice and easy, Joe and I’ll jump off and pull it up on the sand,” I hollered to Chris, at the wheel. Chris eased Rockbottom forward, and Joe and I jumped off into surprisingly deep water. I grabbed the bow line and waded ashore with Joe right behind me. Rockbottom began to swing sideways as Chris fought to keep her steady under little to no throttle. Marcus, standing on the same side of the boat as Chris glanced shoreward and then pitched against the starboard rail as the next wave crested against the port side of the boat and shoved Rockbottom violently toward the beach. The quickly retreating surf off the shore raced beneath the keel about a half second later and Rockbottom touched the steep sand bottom and rocked over on its side, water sloshing up almost over the rail. Could this be the final resting place for our intrepid vessel? Chris acted quickly, and as the next wave lifted Rockbottom off the sand he jammed the throttle to full reverse. Joe and I pushed against the hull, and Rockbottom shifted back upright, and flowed back away from the beach with the retreating surf. Marcus returned to view from his position sprawled on the deck, and we all began laughing hysterically at our near disaster. If Chris hadn’t acted when he did, Rockbottom would have been rolled in the surf and deposited on the bottom of the long bay in about twelve feet of water. We gathered our composure and decided to anchor off shore instead of attempting another run at the beach.
The water here was crystal clear and small fish darted about beneath the boat, so Chris and I decided to snorkel a bit, besides, I wanted to check and make sure our anchor was holding in the sandy bottom before we all went ashore to purchase more fuel and have a cold soda. We thought we might even check out the price of dinner at the little restaurant. I splashed over the side and kicked quickly away towards the bow. Chris followed and soon we were diving and exploring the waters about our floating home. There’s something about being in the sea. You are so out of your natural element, yet so welcomed by the creatures that make the sea their home. I gave my fins a couple quick kicks, and then drifted as still as possible across the warm, glassy surface. With the sea wrapping its velvet embrace about my skinny frame, the world around me faded away and, for a few moments, I was at embryonic one with the sea. The waves cast dancing shadow across the sandy sea floor, colorful fish hovered and whirled by in kaleidoscopes of majestic wonder, and I bobbed alone in the midst of creation. Magic.
We fired Rockbottom back up, watched the compass needle rotate a hundred and eighty degrees, and brought her up on plane. Then we backed her off a few RPMs and chugged back toward Sanfrancisquito. I climbed dejectedly up into the mast chair and watched the water slip back beneath our bow in a smooth, translucent stream. The mast rigging clanked as I swayed back and forth to the gentle bounce of bow and swell. A dark spot off the starboard rail caught my eye, and I turned just in time to see a large manta ray tilt sideways and shoot off into the dark waters of the deep. I tried to shrug off the disappointment and thanked God for the beauty and freedom of the salt wind in my hair and the broad expanse of water before me. Even in unachieved aspirations there are things to appreciate, the journey is, after all, most exciting because of its unpredictable glory.
Soon familiar horizonal dots began to drift ghost-like into view as we slowly approached islands we had sped past in the morning. Marcus and Joe appeared on the foredeck below me, and I climbed down out of the mast chair. Joe mentioned that we seemed to be running through pretty smooth water, and that it should help our mileage. I hoped he was right being as I hadn’t seen any signs of the fishermen we had passed in the morning, and we still had a long ways to go. Marcus climbed into the mast chair, and Joe and I went back to the main deck to see how Chris was doing at the helm.
I took a turn at the wheel, and Chris went inside to grab a cold drink. He laughingly confirmed the death of my curtain project. “Maybe we can use this for blindfolds if we make anyone walk the plank,” he consoled me. Just then Marcus and Joe began to shout excitedly that our dolphin friends were back. The ocean exploded in a spectacular array of glistening, grey forms leaping to free themselves from the confines of the sea and shoot skyward. There were at least twenty sleek dolphins racing along with us, closer than ever before. “They’re right under the boat!” Marcus shouted from his perch above. I leaned out to take a better look and noticed a huge dolphin gliding right under the surface next to me, effortlessly overtaking the boat. He shot past me, almost to the front of the boat, hit the breaks letting us catch up, and then leapt out of the water about a foot from my head. For a split second we were eye to eye as he arced into the air and then splashed back into the sea. He repeated the close encounter twice more, leaping so close to me that I could have reached out and touched him as he flew by. Then he hit the afterburners and launched out past the bow and swam off leaving our little vessel in the dust. Words are vastly incapable of expressing the moment.
Our dolphin friends disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, like phantoms, or aquatic angles. I yelled up to Chris to see if anyone had caught the moment on film. Like most close encounters, however, the only evidence would have to remain the images in our collective memories. Perhaps there are certain special moments that God intends to remain that way, unchained from the captivity of film, and free to grow more magnificent with the passing years in the fertile fields of the mind. We chattered excitedly for a half hour or so, each retelling the event from the perspective of our particular position on the boat; each highlighting our own unique brush with majesty. Points on the horizon began to become more familiar as we talked, and the distance between recognizable landmarks appeared to be closing at about the same rate as the needle on the fuel gauge closing on the “empty” insignia. We were fairly sure, now that we would at least make it close enough to Sanfrancisquito to kayak in before nightfall.
CHAPTER 11
As the broad, sandy beach of the Sanfrancisquito Resort drew closer and closer we began to feel more and more at ease. This would definitely become our “One Particular Harbor” on Senor Cortez’ beautiful Sea.
The previous night we had anchored in the secluded, shelter of the cove on the other side of the large point to the south. Today we were motoring right up to the beach below the small resort. A large stucco structure with palm thatch roof served as restaurant and had an open patio area between it and five or six small cabanas that stretched out along the top of the beachhead. A steep, white sand beach dropped off in front of the cabanas and disappeared into the azure sea. Small white crested waves curled over and tumbled up onto the sand in a quick progression, something we hadn’t yet encountered here. I headed forward, motioning for Joe to join me on the front of the boat and get the bow line ready. “Just run it up on the beach nice and easy, Joe and I’ll jump off and pull it up on the sand,” I hollered to Chris, at the wheel. Chris eased Rockbottom forward, and Joe and I jumped off into surprisingly deep water. I grabbed the bow line and waded ashore with Joe right behind me. Rockbottom began to swing sideways as Chris fought to keep her steady under little to no throttle. Marcus, standing on the same side of the boat as Chris glanced shoreward and then pitched against the starboard rail as the next wave crested against the port side of the boat and shoved Rockbottom violently toward the beach. The quickly retreating surf off the shore raced beneath the keel about a half second later and Rockbottom touched the steep sand bottom and rocked over on its side, water sloshing up almost over the rail. Could this be the final resting place for our intrepid vessel? Chris acted quickly, and as the next wave lifted Rockbottom off the sand he jammed the throttle to full reverse. Joe and I pushed against the hull, and Rockbottom shifted back upright, and flowed back away from the beach with the retreating surf. Marcus returned to view from his position sprawled on the deck, and we all began laughing hysterically at our near disaster. If Chris hadn’t acted when he did, Rockbottom would have been rolled in the surf and deposited on the bottom of the long bay in about twelve feet of water. We gathered our composure and decided to anchor off shore instead of attempting another run at the beach.
The water here was crystal clear and small fish darted about beneath the boat, so Chris and I decided to snorkel a bit, besides, I wanted to check and make sure our anchor was holding in the sandy bottom before we all went ashore to purchase more fuel and have a cold soda. We thought we might even check out the price of dinner at the little restaurant. I splashed over the side and kicked quickly away towards the bow. Chris followed and soon we were diving and exploring the waters about our floating home. There’s something about being in the sea. You are so out of your natural element, yet so welcomed by the creatures that make the sea their home. I gave my fins a couple quick kicks, and then drifted as still as possible across the warm, glassy surface. With the sea wrapping its velvet embrace about my skinny frame, the world around me faded away and, for a few moments, I was at embryonic one with the sea. The waves cast dancing shadow across the sandy sea floor, colorful fish hovered and whirled by in kaleidoscopes of majestic wonder, and I bobbed alone in the midst of creation. Magic.
CHAPTER 12
Back on the boat we made the decision to set about ferrying fuel out to Rockbottom by kayak before it got dark, just in case this proved to be more challenging than we anticipated. We were getting fairly proficient with our inflatable kayaks, but we hadn’t yet attempted to transport gas cans through any significant surf. Getting the empty cans to shore went fairly well. We purchased five cans full of gas and then sat in the shade of a big palapa and sipped a cold Coke before heading back to the boat. The breeze was beginning to pick up as it usually did towards evening, and the bay was beginning to frost over with small, wind-driven ripples. Joe and I headed to the shore with the first set of cans. Joe climbed in the kayak first, and then I gingerly straddled the bow in front of him and, clutching a gas can in my lap, pushed us forward with my legs, as Joe began furiously paddling into the first breaker. Foamy sea water slammed down across our little kayak, as we nosed up in the air and then plunged forward down the back side of the small wave. Gas sloshed up the can spout and glugged out in three or four bursts, over my arms and down into my lap where it joined with the salty water already soaking into the waistline of my shorts. We repeated this procedure twice more, just for good measure, and were then free of the break, and paddling across the choppy bay to the boat. About this time I began to feel a strange burning sensation as the gas, sand, and sea began to join forces in an all out assault on the skin around the drawstring of my shorts. By the time we finally reached the boat, I was virtually on fire, a red, blotchy rash expanding up my stomach and down inside my shorts. Needless to say, I unloaded my cargo of fuel onto the dive deck as quickly as possible and stripped off the gas-soaked shorts in an attempt to stop the expansion of this new experience before it reached more sensitive targets below. Joe paddled back toward shore for another load, cracking up as I jumped buck naked with a bar of soap into the sea.
With the last of our fuel loaded and dumped through the funnel into the tank, we motored back out around the point and into our little harbor of the previous night. We dropped anchor and settled in. Marcus began to strum his guitar as the pelicans provided a percussion section plunking into the water around us. Chris and I played some rummy and the sun slowly dimmed and then disappeared on its trip around the globe. Somewhere in the distance its rays would soon be breaking over an eastern shore, and somebody else would be beginning their day, but for us another had come to completion, and it was time to sleep. I climbed the ladder to the top deck and found Marcus sprawled out in one of the kayaks, staring out through space and still plunking away on the guitar. “Kinda peaceful, huh?” I queried, wiggling into the other inflatable.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, and strummed on. I thought of Jimmy Buffett’s song, Tonight I Just Need my Guitar, and wondered if he might have written it on a night like tonight. There is a lonely, yet comforting feeling you get when you get off the treadmill long enough to acclimate to the reality that there’s nothing you really have to do. All you really need is your own few feet of space in the cosmos, air to breathe, and dreams to dream. God takes care of the rest. I drifted off to sleep afloat on my musings as much as on the sea.
“ Need is a relative thing these days,
It borders on desire
The high-tech world is full of bright shiny things
We think that we really require.
Sometimes more than others,
You see who and what and where you are.
I’m a one man band with no immediate plan
Tonight I just need my guitar.”
Jimmy Buffett
Back on the boat we made the decision to set about ferrying fuel out to Rockbottom by kayak before it got dark, just in case this proved to be more challenging than we anticipated. We were getting fairly proficient with our inflatable kayaks, but we hadn’t yet attempted to transport gas cans through any significant surf. Getting the empty cans to shore went fairly well. We purchased five cans full of gas and then sat in the shade of a big palapa and sipped a cold Coke before heading back to the boat. The breeze was beginning to pick up as it usually did towards evening, and the bay was beginning to frost over with small, wind-driven ripples. Joe and I headed to the shore with the first set of cans. Joe climbed in the kayak first, and then I gingerly straddled the bow in front of him and, clutching a gas can in my lap, pushed us forward with my legs, as Joe began furiously paddling into the first breaker. Foamy sea water slammed down across our little kayak, as we nosed up in the air and then plunged forward down the back side of the small wave. Gas sloshed up the can spout and glugged out in three or four bursts, over my arms and down into my lap where it joined with the salty water already soaking into the waistline of my shorts. We repeated this procedure twice more, just for good measure, and were then free of the break, and paddling across the choppy bay to the boat. About this time I began to feel a strange burning sensation as the gas, sand, and sea began to join forces in an all out assault on the skin around the drawstring of my shorts. By the time we finally reached the boat, I was virtually on fire, a red, blotchy rash expanding up my stomach and down inside my shorts. Needless to say, I unloaded my cargo of fuel onto the dive deck as quickly as possible and stripped off the gas-soaked shorts in an attempt to stop the expansion of this new experience before it reached more sensitive targets below. Joe paddled back toward shore for another load, cracking up as I jumped buck naked with a bar of soap into the sea.
With the last of our fuel loaded and dumped through the funnel into the tank, we motored back out around the point and into our little harbor of the previous night. We dropped anchor and settled in. Marcus began to strum his guitar as the pelicans provided a percussion section plunking into the water around us. Chris and I played some rummy and the sun slowly dimmed and then disappeared on its trip around the globe. Somewhere in the distance its rays would soon be breaking over an eastern shore, and somebody else would be beginning their day, but for us another had come to completion, and it was time to sleep. I climbed the ladder to the top deck and found Marcus sprawled out in one of the kayaks, staring out through space and still plunking away on the guitar. “Kinda peaceful, huh?” I queried, wiggling into the other inflatable.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, and strummed on. I thought of Jimmy Buffett’s song, Tonight I Just Need my Guitar, and wondered if he might have written it on a night like tonight. There is a lonely, yet comforting feeling you get when you get off the treadmill long enough to acclimate to the reality that there’s nothing you really have to do. All you really need is your own few feet of space in the cosmos, air to breathe, and dreams to dream. God takes care of the rest. I drifted off to sleep afloat on my musings as much as on the sea.
“ Need is a relative thing these days,
It borders on desire
The high-tech world is full of bright shiny things
We think that we really require.
Sometimes more than others,
You see who and what and where you are.
I’m a one man band with no immediate plan
Tonight I just need my guitar.”
Jimmy Buffett
CHAPTER 13
Another perfect morning greeted us in our anchorage and we lazily went through our morning rituals of coffee, oatmeal, and dishes off the dive deck. It was Sunday morning, day seven of our adventure. I went into the cabin and put on a CD of a talk for “church,” and we all gathered on the main deck to listen. Afterward we had some robust debate over some of the Scriptures used and annoyed Joe with our inability to just agree to disagree. He finally busied himself with some long overdue cleaning and reorganizing of the mess that was beginning to encroach on our ability to move about the boat and left us to our musings. I was convicted of how pointless some arguments can be, and I sent out a silent, little prayer that my foolishness wouldn’t be a reflection on my God to Joe. Sometimes being “right” is way less important than being gracious. Marcus and Joe checked to be sure everything was secure topside, and we were underway. As we motored out the mouth of the little cove, sea birds swooped in to check our wake for breakfast, and an already warm breeze rippled the surface of the sea. Joe took the wheel, and I settled in on the bow of the boat, feet dangling in the spray, and nothing but the empty expanse of water and my thoughts before me.
A peaceful, melancholy mood settled in as we motored onward. Every once and a while dark shapes of the huge manta rays who inhabit this part of the sea would swoop away under the surface, and whales would breech in the distance. Small islands we had passed on our way south slowly materialized on the horizon, grew closer and larger, then settled into the sea behind us as we cruised ever onward. About noon, the breeze died down, the sea turned to glass, and Rockbottom gained a few miles per hour in speed. Chris climbed up front and gazed over the ocean with me. We both talked about the silliness of our argument, and put it to rest. A little while later Marcus yelled down from the hammock chair in the mast. A gigantic manta had just leapt out of the water, flipped upside-down and crashed back into the sea. We hollered for Joe to stop the boat, and I hurried through the hatch to grab our video camera. Marcus whooped again as I was climbing back out and pushing the little red “record” button. I scrambled to the top deck and trained the viewfinder on the area of the sea that Marcus pointed out. Ripples still radiated across the surface from where the ray made his last acrobatic launch. I waited as patiently and as long as an A.D.D. cameraman can stand and then slowly began to sweep the camera over the sea in search of the something interesting, after all, it had been almost 30 seconds, and the manta was nowhere to be seen. As soon as I turned the lens away the sea erupted with the manta’s last jump, and I swung back around to catch some riveting footage of ripples on the water again. Marlin Perkins would have fired me on the spot. Marcus lowered our digital camera, laughing hysterically at my inability to focus. At least he got a shot for posterity!
After some good-natured ribbing over my lack of patience and inability to remain focused for periods of time larger than a minute, we all headed back below to make some lunch. I swung my butt into the cockpit and fired her back up and headed north. After lunch Chris rechecked the charts and matched our GPS position to the correct page in Charlie’s Charts so that we could make a plan for reentering Bahia de Los Angeles. We figured on veering into the bay through the clear channel between the Twin Islands and the southeastern point of the bay. There is an old navigation light on the innermost of these small rocks that jut up between the land and the larger Horsehead Island, and the passage is only about a quarter mile wide, so we figured it would be easy to recognize. Our only possible challenge would be rounding the area known as Punta Que Malo where the infamous afternoon winds bump heads with unusually strong currents created by the geographic anomalies of the Midriff area. One guide book describes the area as follows:
During new and full moon periods, the outer channels of the Midriff Area are filled with strange and wonderful sights, such as offshore waterfalls, whirlpools, and the famous “jumping water” off Punta Que Malo, which can be translated as “what a bad point.” These effects occur when abrupt changes in underwater topography disrupt the smooth laminar flow of the tidal currents, causing eddies and reverse currents to form.
The Lord smiled on us, however and we entered the Midriff narrows just as the afternoon winds were beginning to build up steam. We cruised effortlessly past the dark slopes of Que Malo, into Bahia de Los Angeles without incident, moored off the beach of our campground, and kayaked in for showers. Joe wanted to relax back on the boat, but the rest of us unhitched the trailer and drove into town for dinner at a roadside taco stand. We gorged ourselves on carne asada and fresh fish tacos, and then bought a few cold sodas and some candy bars to take back to Joe on the boat. The whole town seemed to be abuzz with the excitement of a big evening event down at the town square where a live band was going to play, and they would crown the new Queen of Bahia de Los Angeles.
We decided to motor over to the other end of the bay and anchor near the big festival, so we could enjoy the band. I jokingly tied on a medium sized lure and fed line out behind us to troll our way across the bay. It was more for laughs than anything else, but after a few minutes, the line jerked downward and began to click out off the reel. I jumped back to the stern and started reeling it in with expectation. Moments later I had landed my first yellowtail. It was a monster, at least 12 inches long, maybe 14! I was officially a yellow tail fisherman. We released our catch back to the bay and dropped anchor in the semi-protected area behind a long sand spit near the center of town. The water here was only about 12 feet deep and mostly sand. We set the anchor and settled in for an evening of music and rummy. Home sweet home.
Another perfect morning greeted us in our anchorage and we lazily went through our morning rituals of coffee, oatmeal, and dishes off the dive deck. It was Sunday morning, day seven of our adventure. I went into the cabin and put on a CD of a talk for “church,” and we all gathered on the main deck to listen. Afterward we had some robust debate over some of the Scriptures used and annoyed Joe with our inability to just agree to disagree. He finally busied himself with some long overdue cleaning and reorganizing of the mess that was beginning to encroach on our ability to move about the boat and left us to our musings. I was convicted of how pointless some arguments can be, and I sent out a silent, little prayer that my foolishness wouldn’t be a reflection on my God to Joe. Sometimes being “right” is way less important than being gracious. Marcus and Joe checked to be sure everything was secure topside, and we were underway. As we motored out the mouth of the little cove, sea birds swooped in to check our wake for breakfast, and an already warm breeze rippled the surface of the sea. Joe took the wheel, and I settled in on the bow of the boat, feet dangling in the spray, and nothing but the empty expanse of water and my thoughts before me.
A peaceful, melancholy mood settled in as we motored onward. Every once and a while dark shapes of the huge manta rays who inhabit this part of the sea would swoop away under the surface, and whales would breech in the distance. Small islands we had passed on our way south slowly materialized on the horizon, grew closer and larger, then settled into the sea behind us as we cruised ever onward. About noon, the breeze died down, the sea turned to glass, and Rockbottom gained a few miles per hour in speed. Chris climbed up front and gazed over the ocean with me. We both talked about the silliness of our argument, and put it to rest. A little while later Marcus yelled down from the hammock chair in the mast. A gigantic manta had just leapt out of the water, flipped upside-down and crashed back into the sea. We hollered for Joe to stop the boat, and I hurried through the hatch to grab our video camera. Marcus whooped again as I was climbing back out and pushing the little red “record” button. I scrambled to the top deck and trained the viewfinder on the area of the sea that Marcus pointed out. Ripples still radiated across the surface from where the ray made his last acrobatic launch. I waited as patiently and as long as an A.D.D. cameraman can stand and then slowly began to sweep the camera over the sea in search of the something interesting, after all, it had been almost 30 seconds, and the manta was nowhere to be seen. As soon as I turned the lens away the sea erupted with the manta’s last jump, and I swung back around to catch some riveting footage of ripples on the water again. Marlin Perkins would have fired me on the spot. Marcus lowered our digital camera, laughing hysterically at my inability to focus. At least he got a shot for posterity!
After some good-natured ribbing over my lack of patience and inability to remain focused for periods of time larger than a minute, we all headed back below to make some lunch. I swung my butt into the cockpit and fired her back up and headed north. After lunch Chris rechecked the charts and matched our GPS position to the correct page in Charlie’s Charts so that we could make a plan for reentering Bahia de Los Angeles. We figured on veering into the bay through the clear channel between the Twin Islands and the southeastern point of the bay. There is an old navigation light on the innermost of these small rocks that jut up between the land and the larger Horsehead Island, and the passage is only about a quarter mile wide, so we figured it would be easy to recognize. Our only possible challenge would be rounding the area known as Punta Que Malo where the infamous afternoon winds bump heads with unusually strong currents created by the geographic anomalies of the Midriff area. One guide book describes the area as follows:
During new and full moon periods, the outer channels of the Midriff Area are filled with strange and wonderful sights, such as offshore waterfalls, whirlpools, and the famous “jumping water” off Punta Que Malo, which can be translated as “what a bad point.” These effects occur when abrupt changes in underwater topography disrupt the smooth laminar flow of the tidal currents, causing eddies and reverse currents to form.
The Lord smiled on us, however and we entered the Midriff narrows just as the afternoon winds were beginning to build up steam. We cruised effortlessly past the dark slopes of Que Malo, into Bahia de Los Angeles without incident, moored off the beach of our campground, and kayaked in for showers. Joe wanted to relax back on the boat, but the rest of us unhitched the trailer and drove into town for dinner at a roadside taco stand. We gorged ourselves on carne asada and fresh fish tacos, and then bought a few cold sodas and some candy bars to take back to Joe on the boat. The whole town seemed to be abuzz with the excitement of a big evening event down at the town square where a live band was going to play, and they would crown the new Queen of Bahia de Los Angeles.
We decided to motor over to the other end of the bay and anchor near the big festival, so we could enjoy the band. I jokingly tied on a medium sized lure and fed line out behind us to troll our way across the bay. It was more for laughs than anything else, but after a few minutes, the line jerked downward and began to click out off the reel. I jumped back to the stern and started reeling it in with expectation. Moments later I had landed my first yellowtail. It was a monster, at least 12 inches long, maybe 14! I was officially a yellow tail fisherman. We released our catch back to the bay and dropped anchor in the semi-protected area behind a long sand spit near the center of town. The water here was only about 12 feet deep and mostly sand. We set the anchor and settled in for an evening of music and rummy. Home sweet home.
CHAPTER 14
As night began to settle on us, the famous Bahia winds also began to pick up steam. Music from the festival rushed past us on the breeze and we basked in the coolness of evening. Chris was killing me in rummy, so I was happy to take a break when the wind reached the velocity that made keeping cards on the table impossible. Joe moved the cards inside, and Chris went aft to rinse the dinner dishes in the sea. I glanced off to the south at a small sailboat that was anchored in the bay with us and wondered where they had been, how long they had made the sea their home, and what adventures they were storing up for the rocking chair days.
About that time, however, a tumultuous fluttering broke the surface of the water and two or three flying fish skipped through the air off the starboard rail. Chris grabbed our spot light and trained it on the water. We scanned the surface, hoping for another show. After a minute or so we noticed small crabs, about three inches around, swimming toward our light. This, of course, gave birth to new wonder in our easily amused brains and we immediately set about attempting to lure crabs close enough to the boat to capture and place in a bucket of water. Joe held the light while Chris and I leaned over the side and waited. With a quick scoop of the bucket, Chris had our first prisoner. “What the heck are these things,” Joe burst out all of a sudden, pointing down into the shaft of light piercing the salty water. Small, greenish-blue forms about the length of a pencil and not quite as big around darted in and out of the light. At first we thought they were some sort of eel, but closer examination led us to believe they were actually some sort of very thin fish. Just then a larger shape began to materialize and drift toward our light. It was a flying fish. Chris grabbed the net, determined to catch it. We lured it closer and closer, but couldn’t get it quite within reach of the net. Eventually Chris decided to grab one of our long, “emergency” paddles and see if he could use it to reach behind the fish and startle it into the awaiting net by the light. As he reached out over the water, though, the fish suddenly darted forward, and Chris slammed the paddle down in an attempt to, well, no one’s quite sure, but fish and paddle collided, and we all watched in despair as our prize sank, belly up, toward the darkness below. Joe wondered aloud if flying fish were protected or not, and then we all gave up our aquatic assault for the night.
Marcus poked his head down from the top deck long enough to check out the three or four crabs we had taken prisoner, and then announced that he was turning in for the night. We played a little more rummy inside where we were protected from the wind, and then called it a night ourselves. The party over on the shore seamed to be breaking up, taillights made an eerie, dance of gauzy red light through the dust as cars bounced out towards wherever “home” was. I checked the anchor and set the little indicator on the GPS to show our position so I’d know if ours drifted in the night. The wind was now beginning to really howl, stronger than any of our previous nights on the water. Whitecaps covered the bay, and the 25 feet of fiberglass we called home swung in a large arc with the shifting gusts. I hunkered down and tried to sleep.
It wasn’t long before Marcus showed up on the deck below me to get out of the gale. There was no way he could stay up top in wind like this. We had read about these incredible winds, but riding them out in an exposed anchorage was more intense than I had imagined. Anything that wasn’t stowed in a closed area was in danger of taking flight. I got up, checked the GPS, and rearranged a few items that were getting ready for take off. With things carefully stowed, I tried to shut my mind down and get some sleep again. I managed about twenty minutes at a stretch before I would wake up again to the screaming wind and check the GPS to be sure our anchor was still holding. Once, around four in the morning, I tripped over Marcus and knocked the flashlight off the dash and onto the cabin roof, waking Chris who came out and glanced over the GPS with me. How everyone else was able to sleep through the night amazed me. Chris and I grinned at each other in the dim, green glow of the GPS. “Windy,” Chris observed in groggy understatement. I nodded and scanned the darkness in search of the mast light on a sailboat that was anchored to the south of us. We weren’t drifting, according to our GPS, but I wanted to be sure they weren’t either since the wind was gusting steadily from their direction. “Checkin’ for the sailboat?” Chris mumbled.
“Yeah, I think they turned off their anchor light somewhere around midnight, though,” I postulated in his ear over the whistling wind. “At least that’s the last time I saw it.”
“Have you slept yet?”
“Some. I get about twenty minutes at a time, and then I check the GPS and the horizon. I sleep light, ya’ know.”
“Yeah, me too,” he laughed in typical sarcastic glory. A freight train could roll over Chris when he really wanted to sleep. “You gotta’ trust the anchor, it’ll hold.”
“I guess I still haven’t acquired that faith in my anchor setting – Kinda’ like why I’ll climb top rope or bolted routes, but I won’t lead climb. I just don’t trust my ability to anchor on rock either.” Chris nodded in agreement and we let it go. For the next few minutes we stood together in the gale and just enjoyed the company of a kindred soul, brothers in the night, joined through friendship and the shared inability to settle for a quiet, unexamined life of domestic lethargy. The wind could do its best, we would ride it out together.
CHAPTER 15
The winds subsided in the half-light of morning and by 6AM; the sea was as smooth as glass again. Our little craft bobbed contentedly at anchor in the open bay exactly where we had dropped anchor the night before. Coffee bubbled in the pot and our final day in Bahia was coming to life. Today we planned to motor out to Isla Coronado, also known as Smith Island, and do some yellowtail fishing off its windward side. We had heard that the fish were biting there, and I was anxious to catch a trophy. The guidebook also showed a small cove toward the southern end of the island that had a good anchorage if we could pilot Rockbottom between a maze of treacherous, submerged rock outcroppings at the entrance.
After the breakfast dishes were done, we motored out to the south and then brought her up to plane on the smooth water of Bahia de Los Angeles. We skirted the southern end of Isla Ventana and cruised out past a number of low lying islands that speckle the sea between Ventana and Coronado. Off in the distance big, billowy clouds tugged at the hazy crest of Isla Angel de La Guardia. A sticky heat was already building in the early morning sun, and we were looking forward to getting in the water. As we rounded the last low island and turned north towards our destination, I remembered that the head was getting full and the smell was beginning to escape into the cabin below. I went down and carefully carted the portable potty up topside and then to the back of the boat where I unscrewed the cap on the tank drain and then tipped it up over the aft railing. A steady stream of foul smelling waste plopped disgustingly into the wake where gulls from the nearby outcroppings swooped in to gorge themselves on our leftovers. We all decided there was one more reason why people don’t eat seagull.
The South end of Isla Coronado is almost completely separated from the rest of the island at high tide by a meandering lagoon that opens on the west side of the island to the sea and only falls about fifty yards short of the cove on the east side. Here a steep gravel saddle stretches between the main part of the island and the small rock uprising that forms the southern tip of Coronado. We slowed to a crawl and I went up to the bow to spot for rocks as Chris piloted us through the submerged rocks at the mouth of the cove. Numerous fish darted in and out between the rocks in the crystal clear water beneath Rock Bottom. Once past the treacherous entrance, the sea floor turned pebbly and sloped gently up to a shallow, crescent of gravel and sea shells. We dropped anchor twenty or so yards from shore in about fifteen feet of water and got ready to go ashore. Marcus decided to clip in the hammock and take a nap, but Chris and I were anxious to slip on the flippers and do some serious snorkeling.
We flopped over the rail and left the heat of the surface world in a swirl of soothing bubbles. I saw something odd piled up near the far bend of the cove and kicked in that direction. Chris was just ahead of me and went to explore as well. When we got there we could see hundreds of shark heads piled on top of each other where they had obviously been dumped from someone’s fishing boat. We had heard that Japanese fishing fleets were plying these waters and taking a devastating toll on the fish population, but this was the first evidence we had come across. Apparently they harvest the shark fins and dump most of the rest of the shark back in the sea. It reminded me of a trip I’d taken ten years or so earlier down to Mulege where I’d seen a similar carnage of sting ray carcasses littering the beach for miles. The great fish trap of the Sea of Cortez. Could this treasure of the wet part of our planet survive all the over-fishing?
We swam on along the edge of the cove and out to the submerged rocks at the entrance. Beautiful fish slipped silently in and out of nooks in the mottled outcroppings. Large urchins loomed out with their cherry-cola colored spines like brilliant starbursts. We dove and explored for the next hour or so and then swam pleasantly exhausted back to the boat. I pulled off my shorts and climbed up to the top deck to lay naked in the sun while Rockbottom swayed gently beneath me. Big, billowy clouds began to pile up over the towering peaks of Angel de Laguardia to the east. The breeze picked up a little and my stomach grumbled from an imbalance in the ratio of salt water to solid food. I thought I could hear Chris and Joe rummaging around in the galley, so I got up, slipped into my now dry shorts and headed down for a bite.
After a quick PB &J sandwich, we unsuccessfully attempted to wake Marcus who was sleeping in the hammock, and then paddled ashore to explore the island a bit. Chris and I scrambled over the pebbly sand bar and made our way around the meandering little lagoon. Hundreds of tiny crabs scootched away in front of us. The lagoon eventually connected to the bay on the other side of the island at a shallow inlet. We were able to wade across just past ankle depth and then traverse around the other side of the lagoon back to the boat. The air seemed to be growing heavier than usual, more humid than the arid Baja norm. We chalked it up to being down in the middle of the bowl, right near the semi-putrid water that formed our lagoon. Then, as we sat near an arched rock formation and tossed rocks lazily at the water, we began to notice flickers of heat lightning somewhere over the big island in the distance. The water outside the rocky mouth of our cove was beginning to kick up into a little chop and the wind was starting to growl down through the saddle of the island where Rockbottom swayed at anchor.
We kicked Marcus out of the hammock and made ready to slip out and do some yellow tail fishing along the eastern slope of the island. After negotiating the treacherous opening of our cove, Chris brought her up on plane and began bouncing over the chop on our way out to sea. We had it on good authority that the locals were slamming the yellow tail about half a mile off the coast of Isla Coronado. I thought it odd that we weren’t seeing any other boats, but I rigged our borrowed lure and tossed it off the stern anyway and started letting out line. I struggled to keep my footing as Rockbottom lurched like a drunken sailor through heavier and heavier seas. All of a sudden, the line grew taught and began to slip against the drag on my reel. The pole attempted to wrest itself from my hands, and I tightened my grip. The bow of the boat jumped upwards sending me sprawling against the stern rail, and then I felt the deck slip out from beneath my feet as Rockbottom dove forward just as quickly as she had rocketed up. I put my butt down on the engine hatch and braced my feet against the side of the boat. Joe was right beside me, holding onto the top deck support pole. He gave a bewildered glance towards his brother at the wheel, and then shouted up top to Marcus to see if he was ok. Marcus gave a whoop and began laughing maniacally from somewhere near the mast pole. We figured he was fine and turned our attention back to the line spinning out behind us. I tightened the drag a little and it ceased its exodus. Chris yelled something about the water getting rougher, and I began the process of landing whatever was on the other end of my line.
After five minutes or so of rocking back against the tension on my line and then reeling as I came back forward, Joe volunteered to take over for awhile. He got himself braced in next to me, and I handed him the pole. By now the water had become a frothy mess of vengeful waves, racing at a diagonal course up the gulf. Chris was working as hard as he could to keep Rockbottom from being beaten to death by the fury of the wind-driven sea. We conferred and quickly decided that it would be wise to make our way north and tuck in behind the island where, hopefully, the sea would be somewhat sheltered from the building storm. We also decided that we now knew why there weren’t any other boats out at the fishing grounds, they probably had weather radios. Just then Joe hollered from the back announcing the proud capture of a humongous wad of seaweed. We were quite the fishermen, indeed.
The winds subsided in the half-light of morning and by 6AM; the sea was as smooth as glass again. Our little craft bobbed contentedly at anchor in the open bay exactly where we had dropped anchor the night before. Coffee bubbled in the pot and our final day in Bahia was coming to life. Today we planned to motor out to Isla Coronado, also known as Smith Island, and do some yellowtail fishing off its windward side. We had heard that the fish were biting there, and I was anxious to catch a trophy. The guidebook also showed a small cove toward the southern end of the island that had a good anchorage if we could pilot Rockbottom between a maze of treacherous, submerged rock outcroppings at the entrance.
After the breakfast dishes were done, we motored out to the south and then brought her up to plane on the smooth water of Bahia de Los Angeles. We skirted the southern end of Isla Ventana and cruised out past a number of low lying islands that speckle the sea between Ventana and Coronado. Off in the distance big, billowy clouds tugged at the hazy crest of Isla Angel de La Guardia. A sticky heat was already building in the early morning sun, and we were looking forward to getting in the water. As we rounded the last low island and turned north towards our destination, I remembered that the head was getting full and the smell was beginning to escape into the cabin below. I went down and carefully carted the portable potty up topside and then to the back of the boat where I unscrewed the cap on the tank drain and then tipped it up over the aft railing. A steady stream of foul smelling waste plopped disgustingly into the wake where gulls from the nearby outcroppings swooped in to gorge themselves on our leftovers. We all decided there was one more reason why people don’t eat seagull.
The South end of Isla Coronado is almost completely separated from the rest of the island at high tide by a meandering lagoon that opens on the west side of the island to the sea and only falls about fifty yards short of the cove on the east side. Here a steep gravel saddle stretches between the main part of the island and the small rock uprising that forms the southern tip of Coronado. We slowed to a crawl and I went up to the bow to spot for rocks as Chris piloted us through the submerged rocks at the mouth of the cove. Numerous fish darted in and out between the rocks in the crystal clear water beneath Rock Bottom. Once past the treacherous entrance, the sea floor turned pebbly and sloped gently up to a shallow, crescent of gravel and sea shells. We dropped anchor twenty or so yards from shore in about fifteen feet of water and got ready to go ashore. Marcus decided to clip in the hammock and take a nap, but Chris and I were anxious to slip on the flippers and do some serious snorkeling.
We flopped over the rail and left the heat of the surface world in a swirl of soothing bubbles. I saw something odd piled up near the far bend of the cove and kicked in that direction. Chris was just ahead of me and went to explore as well. When we got there we could see hundreds of shark heads piled on top of each other where they had obviously been dumped from someone’s fishing boat. We had heard that Japanese fishing fleets were plying these waters and taking a devastating toll on the fish population, but this was the first evidence we had come across. Apparently they harvest the shark fins and dump most of the rest of the shark back in the sea. It reminded me of a trip I’d taken ten years or so earlier down to Mulege where I’d seen a similar carnage of sting ray carcasses littering the beach for miles. The great fish trap of the Sea of Cortez. Could this treasure of the wet part of our planet survive all the over-fishing?
We swam on along the edge of the cove and out to the submerged rocks at the entrance. Beautiful fish slipped silently in and out of nooks in the mottled outcroppings. Large urchins loomed out with their cherry-cola colored spines like brilliant starbursts. We dove and explored for the next hour or so and then swam pleasantly exhausted back to the boat. I pulled off my shorts and climbed up to the top deck to lay naked in the sun while Rockbottom swayed gently beneath me. Big, billowy clouds began to pile up over the towering peaks of Angel de Laguardia to the east. The breeze picked up a little and my stomach grumbled from an imbalance in the ratio of salt water to solid food. I thought I could hear Chris and Joe rummaging around in the galley, so I got up, slipped into my now dry shorts and headed down for a bite.
After a quick PB &J sandwich, we unsuccessfully attempted to wake Marcus who was sleeping in the hammock, and then paddled ashore to explore the island a bit. Chris and I scrambled over the pebbly sand bar and made our way around the meandering little lagoon. Hundreds of tiny crabs scootched away in front of us. The lagoon eventually connected to the bay on the other side of the island at a shallow inlet. We were able to wade across just past ankle depth and then traverse around the other side of the lagoon back to the boat. The air seemed to be growing heavier than usual, more humid than the arid Baja norm. We chalked it up to being down in the middle of the bowl, right near the semi-putrid water that formed our lagoon. Then, as we sat near an arched rock formation and tossed rocks lazily at the water, we began to notice flickers of heat lightning somewhere over the big island in the distance. The water outside the rocky mouth of our cove was beginning to kick up into a little chop and the wind was starting to growl down through the saddle of the island where Rockbottom swayed at anchor.
We kicked Marcus out of the hammock and made ready to slip out and do some yellow tail fishing along the eastern slope of the island. After negotiating the treacherous opening of our cove, Chris brought her up on plane and began bouncing over the chop on our way out to sea. We had it on good authority that the locals were slamming the yellow tail about half a mile off the coast of Isla Coronado. I thought it odd that we weren’t seeing any other boats, but I rigged our borrowed lure and tossed it off the stern anyway and started letting out line. I struggled to keep my footing as Rockbottom lurched like a drunken sailor through heavier and heavier seas. All of a sudden, the line grew taught and began to slip against the drag on my reel. The pole attempted to wrest itself from my hands, and I tightened my grip. The bow of the boat jumped upwards sending me sprawling against the stern rail, and then I felt the deck slip out from beneath my feet as Rockbottom dove forward just as quickly as she had rocketed up. I put my butt down on the engine hatch and braced my feet against the side of the boat. Joe was right beside me, holding onto the top deck support pole. He gave a bewildered glance towards his brother at the wheel, and then shouted up top to Marcus to see if he was ok. Marcus gave a whoop and began laughing maniacally from somewhere near the mast pole. We figured he was fine and turned our attention back to the line spinning out behind us. I tightened the drag a little and it ceased its exodus. Chris yelled something about the water getting rougher, and I began the process of landing whatever was on the other end of my line.
After five minutes or so of rocking back against the tension on my line and then reeling as I came back forward, Joe volunteered to take over for awhile. He got himself braced in next to me, and I handed him the pole. By now the water had become a frothy mess of vengeful waves, racing at a diagonal course up the gulf. Chris was working as hard as he could to keep Rockbottom from being beaten to death by the fury of the wind-driven sea. We conferred and quickly decided that it would be wise to make our way north and tuck in behind the island where, hopefully, the sea would be somewhat sheltered from the building storm. We also decided that we now knew why there weren’t any other boats out at the fishing grounds, they probably had weather radios. Just then Joe hollered from the back announcing the proud capture of a humongous wad of seaweed. We were quite the fishermen, indeed.
CHAPTER 16
As we neared the end of the island, the storm reached its full fury. Deep, rolling swells raced up the gulf overtaking our craft and alternately lifting us skyward and dumping us back down again. Chris pushed the throttle forward in a fruitless attempt to outrun the rushing swells. As we cleared the end of the island, he eased the wheel to the left and began to veer around the end of the steep rocky point. I took a Physics class in college, and vaguely remember learning about objects in motion, the effects of force, equilibrium, and stuff like that, but I never really paid that much attention. I think I might have tried harder if the class had been taught on a 25 foot boat that suddenly found itself sideways against a rapidly moving wall of water. The leading edge of the swell caught us broadside and rolled Rockbottom violently forward, at a steep angle. All was foam and sea, time oddly out of sync, as my mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. I realized I was sprawled out on the deck, struggling, staring at the hungry sea that was reaching out to consume us. Then, just as quickly, we reached the top of the passing swell, and Rockbottom attempted to regain equilibrium, only to experience a sickening void as we began a sideways descent of the backside of the swell. What had so recently been a view of froth and sea, was now only sky. We were catapulting even more dramatically into a roll the opposite direction. I wondered how hard it would be to swim ashore in these conditions.
When we completed our thrill-ride down the tailing slope of the swell, Chris instinctively cranked the wheel back around and jammed the throttle as far forward as possible, goosing our boat back on course with the waves. As Rockbottom slowly ceased its side to side rock and once again assumed the rollercoaster rhythm of steep, bow-first climbs and rocket-like descents up and down with the passing waves, we all attempted to regain our composure. Joe crawled forward and went into the cabin, and I carefully climbed to the back, up on the ladder, and checked to see how Marcus had faired up top. He was clinging tightly to the mast pole, and grinning a great big, adrenalin grin. “You OK,” I yelled over the screeching wind.
“Woohoo, I thought we might be going over for a second there,” He yelled back.
“No kidding, that was about as close as that gets, I think.”
“Hey,” Marcus continued, “Tell Chris, Let’s not do that again, OK.”
“Ah, come on,” I laughed, “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Marcus loosened his grip on the pole a little and I could see the blood begin to return to his fingers. “Keep your feet shoulder width apart if you’re gonna stay up here,” I teased. “I’m going back down to help Chris figure out how we’re going to make it around the island without flipping over. I’m not sure we can make the turn without getting caught broadside again.”
Back down at the helm, Chris was grinning as I approached on wobbly legs. He shook his head and spoke over the cacophony of engine, air and sea, “Remember what you were telling me about every ship having a moment, that place where the force of gravity on its dry side overpowers the force of the water on its wet side? I think we just about got a real-time lesson on how that plays out.”
“Yeah, Marcus has requested that we don’t do that again,” I chuckled. “What do you think? How do we play this one? Somehow we have to start making our way toward shore, but we can’t afford to end up sideways with the swell traveling so much faster than we are.”
“I think I have an idea,” Chris answered matter of factly.
“The last time you had an idea we ended up buying this boat.”
“And see how well that’s worked out,” he snickered. “I really think this will work. If we time it right, I think I can keep us pointed with the waves and cut the throttle as they pick us up in passing, then punch it right on top and make as much turn as possible as we slip slowly down the backside, then straighten back out and throttle back again as the leading edge of the next swell catches us. It will be slow progress, and we’ll end up farther north than we expected, but it should work.”
“What the hell, give it a try. It sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”
Optimism, was always our first line of defense against foolishness, so we quickly put Chris’s plan to the test. You’d have thought we were seasoned mariners! Each time a swell raced up behind us, we let it lift us up an carry us a little north with it, and then hit the throttle and cranked the wheel toward the mainland as we rode the backside of the passing swell. About forty minutes later Rockbottom finally reached a point where the island’s mass disrupted the surging strength of the sea enough for us to ease into a long arch and head for the lee side where there was shelter from the storm. Once around the rocky northwestern reaches of Coronado, the sea smoothed out and lay calm and flat before us, all the way to the beaches of the inner bay. Our battle with the storm was complete. Chris and I high-fived, Marcus poked his head down from the top deck to complain about being bored now, and Joe eventually appeared from the confines of the cabin somewhat whiter than before and looking slightly ill. Seeing the obvious amusement on our faces, he just shook his head and stared out behind us at the angry sea and billowy clouds we had recently eluded. “There’s something seriously wrong with you guys,” he muttered, and then collapsed into the rear chair next to the table. Chris, Marcus, and I shrugged, and spent the next few minutes chatting excitedly about the experience as the adrenalin rush slowly subsided.
Rockbottom chugged happily along on almost unimaginably smooth water, as if the ordeal of the past hour were only a figment of our collective imagination. Marcus noticed a whale off to the west and decided we should attempt a closer look. Then he had an epiphany. “Hey, cut the engines and let me out. I’ll try wake skating and see if I can get close to it.” In no time at all Marcus was over the stern and Joe was tossing him the wake skate while I clipped the tow rope into its ring.
As we neared the end of the island, the storm reached its full fury. Deep, rolling swells raced up the gulf overtaking our craft and alternately lifting us skyward and dumping us back down again. Chris pushed the throttle forward in a fruitless attempt to outrun the rushing swells. As we cleared the end of the island, he eased the wheel to the left and began to veer around the end of the steep rocky point. I took a Physics class in college, and vaguely remember learning about objects in motion, the effects of force, equilibrium, and stuff like that, but I never really paid that much attention. I think I might have tried harder if the class had been taught on a 25 foot boat that suddenly found itself sideways against a rapidly moving wall of water. The leading edge of the swell caught us broadside and rolled Rockbottom violently forward, at a steep angle. All was foam and sea, time oddly out of sync, as my mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. I realized I was sprawled out on the deck, struggling, staring at the hungry sea that was reaching out to consume us. Then, just as quickly, we reached the top of the passing swell, and Rockbottom attempted to regain equilibrium, only to experience a sickening void as we began a sideways descent of the backside of the swell. What had so recently been a view of froth and sea, was now only sky. We were catapulting even more dramatically into a roll the opposite direction. I wondered how hard it would be to swim ashore in these conditions.
When we completed our thrill-ride down the tailing slope of the swell, Chris instinctively cranked the wheel back around and jammed the throttle as far forward as possible, goosing our boat back on course with the waves. As Rockbottom slowly ceased its side to side rock and once again assumed the rollercoaster rhythm of steep, bow-first climbs and rocket-like descents up and down with the passing waves, we all attempted to regain our composure. Joe crawled forward and went into the cabin, and I carefully climbed to the back, up on the ladder, and checked to see how Marcus had faired up top. He was clinging tightly to the mast pole, and grinning a great big, adrenalin grin. “You OK,” I yelled over the screeching wind.
“Woohoo, I thought we might be going over for a second there,” He yelled back.
“No kidding, that was about as close as that gets, I think.”
“Hey,” Marcus continued, “Tell Chris, Let’s not do that again, OK.”
“Ah, come on,” I laughed, “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Marcus loosened his grip on the pole a little and I could see the blood begin to return to his fingers. “Keep your feet shoulder width apart if you’re gonna stay up here,” I teased. “I’m going back down to help Chris figure out how we’re going to make it around the island without flipping over. I’m not sure we can make the turn without getting caught broadside again.”
Back down at the helm, Chris was grinning as I approached on wobbly legs. He shook his head and spoke over the cacophony of engine, air and sea, “Remember what you were telling me about every ship having a moment, that place where the force of gravity on its dry side overpowers the force of the water on its wet side? I think we just about got a real-time lesson on how that plays out.”
“Yeah, Marcus has requested that we don’t do that again,” I chuckled. “What do you think? How do we play this one? Somehow we have to start making our way toward shore, but we can’t afford to end up sideways with the swell traveling so much faster than we are.”
“I think I have an idea,” Chris answered matter of factly.
“The last time you had an idea we ended up buying this boat.”
“And see how well that’s worked out,” he snickered. “I really think this will work. If we time it right, I think I can keep us pointed with the waves and cut the throttle as they pick us up in passing, then punch it right on top and make as much turn as possible as we slip slowly down the backside, then straighten back out and throttle back again as the leading edge of the next swell catches us. It will be slow progress, and we’ll end up farther north than we expected, but it should work.”
“What the hell, give it a try. It sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”
Optimism, was always our first line of defense against foolishness, so we quickly put Chris’s plan to the test. You’d have thought we were seasoned mariners! Each time a swell raced up behind us, we let it lift us up an carry us a little north with it, and then hit the throttle and cranked the wheel toward the mainland as we rode the backside of the passing swell. About forty minutes later Rockbottom finally reached a point where the island’s mass disrupted the surging strength of the sea enough for us to ease into a long arch and head for the lee side where there was shelter from the storm. Once around the rocky northwestern reaches of Coronado, the sea smoothed out and lay calm and flat before us, all the way to the beaches of the inner bay. Our battle with the storm was complete. Chris and I high-fived, Marcus poked his head down from the top deck to complain about being bored now, and Joe eventually appeared from the confines of the cabin somewhat whiter than before and looking slightly ill. Seeing the obvious amusement on our faces, he just shook his head and stared out behind us at the angry sea and billowy clouds we had recently eluded. “There’s something seriously wrong with you guys,” he muttered, and then collapsed into the rear chair next to the table. Chris, Marcus, and I shrugged, and spent the next few minutes chatting excitedly about the experience as the adrenalin rush slowly subsided.
Rockbottom chugged happily along on almost unimaginably smooth water, as if the ordeal of the past hour were only a figment of our collective imagination. Marcus noticed a whale off to the west and decided we should attempt a closer look. Then he had an epiphany. “Hey, cut the engines and let me out. I’ll try wake skating and see if I can get close to it.” In no time at all Marcus was over the stern and Joe was tossing him the wake skate while I clipped the tow rope into its ring.
CHAPTER 17
Our near-death experience just another warm-wind memory away, Marcus waved us on and we hit the throttle. The rope came taught and soon Marcus was cutting wide swaths of water under the wake-skate, a beautiful, iridescent rooster tail arching out behind him. We came up on plane, and Marcus made his first attempt at a close encounter of the whale kind. We sped ever onward toward the breeching whale, like Irish in pursuit of the end of the rainbow. No matter how hard we tried, our aquatic mammal friend remained in the distance. Being somewhat ADD, we quickly tired of watching the whale and turned our attention back to Marcus who was happily zipping back and forth behind the boat. It seamed completely surreal to think that only moments ago we had been fighting against the angry sea for control of Rockbottom. It’s bizarre how radically life turns from one moment to the next. Time turns tragic or terrific in a blinding instant. This instant was good, and we were sucking it in.
Marcus tired after a while and I changed places with him on the skate, now more of a knee-board under my less skillful control. I hadn’t quite mastered standing up on the squirrelly piece of wood, but enjoyed hopping the wake from the kneeling position. The sea was magnificent! Salt dried in my hair, and the slick surface of life-giving water slipped beneath me like the wind. There are moments in life where reality and time and all the things that usually crowd in and elbow each other for room in our busy world just sort of dissipate and we find ourselves in a new and peaceful reality. With the sun beginning to fade, and a half an inch of waxed wood separating the slick spray of ocean and me, this was one of those moments.
Daggett’s campground grew nearer, and I let the toe rope go with a wave of my arms, and the guys in Rockbottom swung around to haul me in. A pleasant tired swept over me as I went below to grab a drink and towel off. Chris piloted us into shallow water again and we dropped anchor just off shore. We were still well ahead of our schedule had we made it all the way to Mulege, so a quick crew meeting was informally convened at the aft as we hooked up the BBQ to cook dinner. Our choices were to either hang out a few days longer in the Bahia area and take another day trip, or haul out and take our time towing the boat home. Chris and I discussed the possibility of cruising out to Angel de Laguardia and camping overnight there. In Travel Log From the Sea of Cortez, Steinbeck described the Island:
“The long, snake-like coast of Guardian Angel lay to the east of us; a desolate and fascinating coast. It is forty-two miles long, ten miles wide in some places, waterless and uninhabited. It is said to be crawling with rattlesnakes and iguanas, and a persistent rumor of gold comes from it. Few people have explored it or even gone more than a few steps from the shore, but its fine harbor, Puerto Refugio, indicates by its name that many ships have clung to it in storms and have found safety there. … The mountains that form the backbone of the island rise to more than four thousand feet in some places, sullen and desolate at the tops but with heavy brush on the skirts.”
As inviting as that sounded, everyone eventually agreed that the fuel cost probably wasn’t worth the trip. We figured we could most likely find plenty of opportunity to divert the savings in fuel cost to other interests along the road between Bahia and home. There was a short-lived consideration of leaving the boat on its trailer at the campground for a few days and heading south to Mulege on a banzi road trip with just the van, but that idea too fell by the wayside and we settled on hauling out before nightfall and heading north in the morning.
Chris set about pulling the extra battery we had borrowed form the van, and Marcus, Joe, and I busied ourselves cleaning up from dinner and getting things ready for the transition to land once again. Chris and Joe paddled the battery over, reinstalled it in the van and hooked up the trailer. Satisfied with the condition of supplies and gear on Rockbottom, I swam ashore and joined the Aplet brothers in the waning Baja sun. We decided that Joe and I would drive down to the boat ramp and Chris and Marcus would take Rockbottom for her final swim in the Sea of Cortez. By dark Rockbottom was perched back in its place behind the van and we were visiting with our campground neighbors about the events of the past few days. Tomorrow we would bid Bahia and the Sea goodbye. Bedtime was bittersweet.
Our near-death experience just another warm-wind memory away, Marcus waved us on and we hit the throttle. The rope came taught and soon Marcus was cutting wide swaths of water under the wake-skate, a beautiful, iridescent rooster tail arching out behind him. We came up on plane, and Marcus made his first attempt at a close encounter of the whale kind. We sped ever onward toward the breeching whale, like Irish in pursuit of the end of the rainbow. No matter how hard we tried, our aquatic mammal friend remained in the distance. Being somewhat ADD, we quickly tired of watching the whale and turned our attention back to Marcus who was happily zipping back and forth behind the boat. It seamed completely surreal to think that only moments ago we had been fighting against the angry sea for control of Rockbottom. It’s bizarre how radically life turns from one moment to the next. Time turns tragic or terrific in a blinding instant. This instant was good, and we were sucking it in.
Marcus tired after a while and I changed places with him on the skate, now more of a knee-board under my less skillful control. I hadn’t quite mastered standing up on the squirrelly piece of wood, but enjoyed hopping the wake from the kneeling position. The sea was magnificent! Salt dried in my hair, and the slick surface of life-giving water slipped beneath me like the wind. There are moments in life where reality and time and all the things that usually crowd in and elbow each other for room in our busy world just sort of dissipate and we find ourselves in a new and peaceful reality. With the sun beginning to fade, and a half an inch of waxed wood separating the slick spray of ocean and me, this was one of those moments.
Daggett’s campground grew nearer, and I let the toe rope go with a wave of my arms, and the guys in Rockbottom swung around to haul me in. A pleasant tired swept over me as I went below to grab a drink and towel off. Chris piloted us into shallow water again and we dropped anchor just off shore. We were still well ahead of our schedule had we made it all the way to Mulege, so a quick crew meeting was informally convened at the aft as we hooked up the BBQ to cook dinner. Our choices were to either hang out a few days longer in the Bahia area and take another day trip, or haul out and take our time towing the boat home. Chris and I discussed the possibility of cruising out to Angel de Laguardia and camping overnight there. In Travel Log From the Sea of Cortez, Steinbeck described the Island:
“The long, snake-like coast of Guardian Angel lay to the east of us; a desolate and fascinating coast. It is forty-two miles long, ten miles wide in some places, waterless and uninhabited. It is said to be crawling with rattlesnakes and iguanas, and a persistent rumor of gold comes from it. Few people have explored it or even gone more than a few steps from the shore, but its fine harbor, Puerto Refugio, indicates by its name that many ships have clung to it in storms and have found safety there. … The mountains that form the backbone of the island rise to more than four thousand feet in some places, sullen and desolate at the tops but with heavy brush on the skirts.”
As inviting as that sounded, everyone eventually agreed that the fuel cost probably wasn’t worth the trip. We figured we could most likely find plenty of opportunity to divert the savings in fuel cost to other interests along the road between Bahia and home. There was a short-lived consideration of leaving the boat on its trailer at the campground for a few days and heading south to Mulege on a banzi road trip with just the van, but that idea too fell by the wayside and we settled on hauling out before nightfall and heading north in the morning.
Chris set about pulling the extra battery we had borrowed form the van, and Marcus, Joe, and I busied ourselves cleaning up from dinner and getting things ready for the transition to land once again. Chris and Joe paddled the battery over, reinstalled it in the van and hooked up the trailer. Satisfied with the condition of supplies and gear on Rockbottom, I swam ashore and joined the Aplet brothers in the waning Baja sun. We decided that Joe and I would drive down to the boat ramp and Chris and Marcus would take Rockbottom for her final swim in the Sea of Cortez. By dark Rockbottom was perched back in its place behind the van and we were visiting with our campground neighbors about the events of the past few days. Tomorrow we would bid Bahia and the Sea goodbye. Bedtime was bittersweet.
CHAPTER 18
Our final morning at the Sea of Cortez was about as uneventful as any on our journey. Everyone was up and restless by 6 AM, so we filled our travel mugs with coffee, said our goodbyes and fired up the van. Chris jumped behind the wheel and lurched onto the sandy road from camp, out to the pot-holed pavement and up the hill until Bahia was just a speck in the mirror. No one talked. At the top of the hill we paused to survey the sea one last time and then headed west to Mexico One again. Having traversed the road on our way down we had some sense of what to expect, so we made pretty good time. We drove in one hour shifts from 6:15 to noonish when we found ourselves back in an area of immense rock jumbles that piled up like some giant’s lost mound of marbles. It was lunch time, and we were anxious to get a better look at the rocks. We found a wide spot on the side of the road and pulled in.
After a jubilant scramble across the scorching desert, we arrived at the base of the rocks. Like everything we had encountered in Baja, the desert conspired with illusionistic legerdemain to obscure the actual size of things until you actually arrive there. What had appeared to be large boulders from afar were in actuality humongous boulders, boulders that put to shame the mere pebbles we might see along rocky stretches of road in the states. It was a playground. We set about excited exploration immediately, scrambling and traversing ever upward until we were perched on high with the broad expanse of desert rolling out before our searching gaze. Far below, the Limo and Rockbottom sat in pathetic insignificance alongside the thin thread of blacktop that would eventually return us to home. It was, like many experiences on this trip, a vista difficult to impart on paper. Providence had delivered one more delightful sidetrack on our journey.
Back on the road, we cranked out another couple hours of problem-free miles across the desert before our reoccurring nightmare made an encore appearance with the familiar thump and shudder from behind. We pealed another tire. At least we had a spare, so with pit crew precision and speed we slid to the side of the road, jacked up the trailer, pulled the blown tire, slapped on the spare, and were back up and running. As long as we didn’t blow any more, we would be to San Quintin by nightfall, and we figured we could shop for another spare tire there to insure passage safely home. As luck had it though, an hour further down the road we came across a roadside lantera, or tire repair shop. I had to relieve myself anyways, and they had this really fancy bathroom, so we pulled in and tossed the ragged remains of Goodyear rubber out on the ground. A slow-moving gentleman and his little boy sauntered over and surveyed the damaged tire dispassionately. “Tiene otra mas?” I inquired skeptically.
“Si, no problema, amigo,” answered the man. He mumbled something to the boy who scurried out back and then drug the damaged tire over under his shed roof and began working to break the bead seal using old tire irons and a sledge hammer. We used the restroom, helped the guy fix our tire, and hit the road again.
Our final morning at the Sea of Cortez was about as uneventful as any on our journey. Everyone was up and restless by 6 AM, so we filled our travel mugs with coffee, said our goodbyes and fired up the van. Chris jumped behind the wheel and lurched onto the sandy road from camp, out to the pot-holed pavement and up the hill until Bahia was just a speck in the mirror. No one talked. At the top of the hill we paused to survey the sea one last time and then headed west to Mexico One again. Having traversed the road on our way down we had some sense of what to expect, so we made pretty good time. We drove in one hour shifts from 6:15 to noonish when we found ourselves back in an area of immense rock jumbles that piled up like some giant’s lost mound of marbles. It was lunch time, and we were anxious to get a better look at the rocks. We found a wide spot on the side of the road and pulled in.
After a jubilant scramble across the scorching desert, we arrived at the base of the rocks. Like everything we had encountered in Baja, the desert conspired with illusionistic legerdemain to obscure the actual size of things until you actually arrive there. What had appeared to be large boulders from afar were in actuality humongous boulders, boulders that put to shame the mere pebbles we might see along rocky stretches of road in the states. It was a playground. We set about excited exploration immediately, scrambling and traversing ever upward until we were perched on high with the broad expanse of desert rolling out before our searching gaze. Far below, the Limo and Rockbottom sat in pathetic insignificance alongside the thin thread of blacktop that would eventually return us to home. It was, like many experiences on this trip, a vista difficult to impart on paper. Providence had delivered one more delightful sidetrack on our journey.
Back on the road, we cranked out another couple hours of problem-free miles across the desert before our reoccurring nightmare made an encore appearance with the familiar thump and shudder from behind. We pealed another tire. At least we had a spare, so with pit crew precision and speed we slid to the side of the road, jacked up the trailer, pulled the blown tire, slapped on the spare, and were back up and running. As long as we didn’t blow any more, we would be to San Quintin by nightfall, and we figured we could shop for another spare tire there to insure passage safely home. As luck had it though, an hour further down the road we came across a roadside lantera, or tire repair shop. I had to relieve myself anyways, and they had this really fancy bathroom, so we pulled in and tossed the ragged remains of Goodyear rubber out on the ground. A slow-moving gentleman and his little boy sauntered over and surveyed the damaged tire dispassionately. “Tiene otra mas?” I inquired skeptically.
“Si, no problema, amigo,” answered the man. He mumbled something to the boy who scurried out back and then drug the damaged tire over under his shed roof and began working to break the bead seal using old tire irons and a sledge hammer. We used the restroom, helped the guy fix our tire, and hit the road again.
CHAPTER 19
After making our way lazily across the desert once again and back into view of the mighty Pacific Ocean, our wearying crew cruised into the agricultural shipping center of San Quintin. Large warehouses stacked with pallets of fresh vegetables lined the sides of the road creating a bustling bazaar of truckers, field hands, and packing shed locals. On our way south we were tempted to leave the pavement of Mexico One and take a side street towards the ocean, but we had been anxious to reach the Mid Drifts, and were not exactly sure how well the van would do pulling our heavily laden boat across washboard roads of dusty dirt and dubious destination.
At this point, however, we were game for about anything, our spirits bolstered by recent conquest of the sea. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that we might be crossing that hazy line between optimism and foolishness yet again, but then life was only lived by actually living it, so we hung a hard left at a somewhat disheveled sign advertising camping and the playa. Pavement gave abrupt way to sand and pebbles that stretched westward beneath a canopy of acacia trees. About a mile and a half later the road, if it could be called that, swung southward into a fairly nice little restaurant and motel complex. Just past the motel a sign marked the entrance to the campground, actually nothing more than a large parking lot with bathrooms, beach access, and a little restaurant perched on the second story of a concrete building whose lower story offered only mystery as to its purpose.
We parked the van and noticed another low tire that produced a bubbling leak under further scrutiny. We had one spare left, so that was dispatched in short order, and we were settled in for the night. The restaurant offered a sweeping view of miles and miles of rolling sand dunes along the curling waves of the Pacific, so we decided to give it a try. The tacos were fine Baja style morsels of carne asada, cilantro, and chopped onions on small corn tortillas. The beans and rice were bland, but filling. After a nice dinner and a cold soda we were ready to head to the beach.
Chris immediately recognized the rolling sand dunes as the perfect cross country golf course, so we grabbed our nine irons, a couple golf balls each and set out, like “The Pro’s from Dover” to make golfing history. I jogged from the parking lot about sixty yards to an old, wooden vegetable crate of some kind that was lying on its side about half way up the first dune, and jammed a five foot tall stick through its slats and into the sand, thus declaring it hole number one. Chris teed off first and sent his ball sailing skyward where it disappeared against the slim, white clouds for a moment and then rocketed back to earth and thumped into the sand about twenty or thirty feet from the crate. Marcus was next, then Joe, and then me. Each of us demonstrated the honed skills of genuine cross country golfers and landed shots in a wide, arching array across the sand somewhere closer to the crate than when we started. A few hap-hazard chip shots later each of us had achieved the sharp crack of ball against crate and were discussing placement of the next hole. Someone suggested making it just above the wet sand at the edge of the ocean, but cooler heads and the realization that we only had a couple golf balls each prevailed and we set the next hole down in the bottom of a dune trough about 120 yards down the beach. Play went on for the better part of an hour, and then our little group of golfers discovered a stretch of sand that was almost covered with sand dollars.
Golf immediately gave way to sailing sand dollars into the air and watching them twist and turn acrobatically as they caught the ocean breeze. The nicer specimens we stuffed into pockets as souvenirs, but most we gleefully chucked back out to sea. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so many sea shells on one beach. Besides the sand dollars, there were hundreds of thousands of other interesting shells. There were large clam shells with chalky, white exteriors and shiny, pearlescent interiors, conk-like shells with thorny points at one end, and a myriad of other tiny crustacean skeletons scattered across the waves of sand. We wondered out loud to each other deep philosophical things about the sheer mass of lifeless shells strewn like dead soldiers across the expanse of beach. Then shrugging happily returned to tossing sand dollars into the sky.
As darkness sank down onto the waves and the shadows across the dunes blended into a solid blanket of grey, we trudged our way back to the van and settled in for the night. Chris set up the lap top with a DVD and we watched “My Name is Sam.” Marcus adopted his usual perch on top of the boat and strummed on the guitar. Somewhere in the night, we each drifted off to a pleasant, restful sleep, each dreaming of sand dollars and golfing glory.
After making our way lazily across the desert once again and back into view of the mighty Pacific Ocean, our wearying crew cruised into the agricultural shipping center of San Quintin. Large warehouses stacked with pallets of fresh vegetables lined the sides of the road creating a bustling bazaar of truckers, field hands, and packing shed locals. On our way south we were tempted to leave the pavement of Mexico One and take a side street towards the ocean, but we had been anxious to reach the Mid Drifts, and were not exactly sure how well the van would do pulling our heavily laden boat across washboard roads of dusty dirt and dubious destination.
At this point, however, we were game for about anything, our spirits bolstered by recent conquest of the sea. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that we might be crossing that hazy line between optimism and foolishness yet again, but then life was only lived by actually living it, so we hung a hard left at a somewhat disheveled sign advertising camping and the playa. Pavement gave abrupt way to sand and pebbles that stretched westward beneath a canopy of acacia trees. About a mile and a half later the road, if it could be called that, swung southward into a fairly nice little restaurant and motel complex. Just past the motel a sign marked the entrance to the campground, actually nothing more than a large parking lot with bathrooms, beach access, and a little restaurant perched on the second story of a concrete building whose lower story offered only mystery as to its purpose.
We parked the van and noticed another low tire that produced a bubbling leak under further scrutiny. We had one spare left, so that was dispatched in short order, and we were settled in for the night. The restaurant offered a sweeping view of miles and miles of rolling sand dunes along the curling waves of the Pacific, so we decided to give it a try. The tacos were fine Baja style morsels of carne asada, cilantro, and chopped onions on small corn tortillas. The beans and rice were bland, but filling. After a nice dinner and a cold soda we were ready to head to the beach.
Chris immediately recognized the rolling sand dunes as the perfect cross country golf course, so we grabbed our nine irons, a couple golf balls each and set out, like “The Pro’s from Dover” to make golfing history. I jogged from the parking lot about sixty yards to an old, wooden vegetable crate of some kind that was lying on its side about half way up the first dune, and jammed a five foot tall stick through its slats and into the sand, thus declaring it hole number one. Chris teed off first and sent his ball sailing skyward where it disappeared against the slim, white clouds for a moment and then rocketed back to earth and thumped into the sand about twenty or thirty feet from the crate. Marcus was next, then Joe, and then me. Each of us demonstrated the honed skills of genuine cross country golfers and landed shots in a wide, arching array across the sand somewhere closer to the crate than when we started. A few hap-hazard chip shots later each of us had achieved the sharp crack of ball against crate and were discussing placement of the next hole. Someone suggested making it just above the wet sand at the edge of the ocean, but cooler heads and the realization that we only had a couple golf balls each prevailed and we set the next hole down in the bottom of a dune trough about 120 yards down the beach. Play went on for the better part of an hour, and then our little group of golfers discovered a stretch of sand that was almost covered with sand dollars.
Golf immediately gave way to sailing sand dollars into the air and watching them twist and turn acrobatically as they caught the ocean breeze. The nicer specimens we stuffed into pockets as souvenirs, but most we gleefully chucked back out to sea. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so many sea shells on one beach. Besides the sand dollars, there were hundreds of thousands of other interesting shells. There were large clam shells with chalky, white exteriors and shiny, pearlescent interiors, conk-like shells with thorny points at one end, and a myriad of other tiny crustacean skeletons scattered across the waves of sand. We wondered out loud to each other deep philosophical things about the sheer mass of lifeless shells strewn like dead soldiers across the expanse of beach. Then shrugging happily returned to tossing sand dollars into the sky.
As darkness sank down onto the waves and the shadows across the dunes blended into a solid blanket of grey, we trudged our way back to the van and settled in for the night. Chris set up the lap top with a DVD and we watched “My Name is Sam.” Marcus adopted his usual perch on top of the boat and strummed on the guitar. Somewhere in the night, we each drifted off to a pleasant, restful sleep, each dreaming of sand dollars and golfing glory.
CHAPTER 20
Eager to beat some of the Baja heat, we Departed San Quintin in the early hours of the morning after a brief stop at a roadside paneria for some sweet bread and sour coffee. Our trusty van rumbled along Mexico one on its last set of tires as the Pacific Ocean slipped ever by on our left. We made our way up the coast, stopping briefly at the resort town of El Palomar for some cold sodas and a walk through a quaint little park. To the east the little park, lounging Baja locals swam in a sparkling, clean pool as disco tunes blared from speakers discreetly hidden in the branches of the trees that canopied the little oasis. On the west side of Mexico One there was little more than a small store and a quaint hotel making its way up a terraced slope of desert.
By early afternoon we had arrived in Ensenada. There was an RV park just north of the town center, so we checked in and set up camp for the night overlooking the main marina.
Realizing Ensenada as our last shopping stop in Mexico, we gathered our courage and set out to explore the tourist shops, and crowds of the downtown area. A short walk deposited us amidst throngs of Norteamericanos seeking the cheap or exotic wares of a Mexican Mercado. Shop after tacky shop extended in crowded little lanes sprawling over a ten block radius. The usual panchos, blankets, T-shirts, pottery, and glassware beckoned to us from every nook and cranny. Chris was intent on picking up a couple blankets and hammocks to take back to friends and family, I was in search of glassware for my outside bar back home, and Joe and Marcus were content to wander aimlessly in search of nothing in particular. Joe located a shop bearing his name, and we snapped the obligatory photo, and then moved on down the street. After a while, we began to notice a small group of curious young boys following us and excitedly chattering back and forth as we wandered from shop to shop. Finally, one brave young lad approached and attempted to engage Marcus in conversation. We eventually determined that Marcus bore a striking resemblance to a Mexican Soccer player, and our little entourage was hoping to get an autograph. They were disappointed, but at least we no longer worried that they were tailing us for nefarious purposes.
Back at camp, Marcus perched at the back of the boat and prepared our last out-of -country dinner as we settled in to enjoy the cool ocean evening. Tomorrow we would return to the U.S. and our adventure would be drawing to a close. Night fell, Ensenada glowed in the background and the discos rumbled to life in the distance. Still, it was a peaceful night overlooking the boats that bobbed contently in the harbor, and the four of us sat silently, gazing out at the water and communicating the bond of friendship and shared experience without saying a word. Eventually Marcus pulled out the guitar and strummed serenely into the darkness as the rest of us climbed into bed. Of all the nights I’d spent in Ensenada in my life, none were nearly this peaceful.
Eager to beat some of the Baja heat, we Departed San Quintin in the early hours of the morning after a brief stop at a roadside paneria for some sweet bread and sour coffee. Our trusty van rumbled along Mexico one on its last set of tires as the Pacific Ocean slipped ever by on our left. We made our way up the coast, stopping briefly at the resort town of El Palomar for some cold sodas and a walk through a quaint little park. To the east the little park, lounging Baja locals swam in a sparkling, clean pool as disco tunes blared from speakers discreetly hidden in the branches of the trees that canopied the little oasis. On the west side of Mexico One there was little more than a small store and a quaint hotel making its way up a terraced slope of desert.
By early afternoon we had arrived in Ensenada. There was an RV park just north of the town center, so we checked in and set up camp for the night overlooking the main marina.
Realizing Ensenada as our last shopping stop in Mexico, we gathered our courage and set out to explore the tourist shops, and crowds of the downtown area. A short walk deposited us amidst throngs of Norteamericanos seeking the cheap or exotic wares of a Mexican Mercado. Shop after tacky shop extended in crowded little lanes sprawling over a ten block radius. The usual panchos, blankets, T-shirts, pottery, and glassware beckoned to us from every nook and cranny. Chris was intent on picking up a couple blankets and hammocks to take back to friends and family, I was in search of glassware for my outside bar back home, and Joe and Marcus were content to wander aimlessly in search of nothing in particular. Joe located a shop bearing his name, and we snapped the obligatory photo, and then moved on down the street. After a while, we began to notice a small group of curious young boys following us and excitedly chattering back and forth as we wandered from shop to shop. Finally, one brave young lad approached and attempted to engage Marcus in conversation. We eventually determined that Marcus bore a striking resemblance to a Mexican Soccer player, and our little entourage was hoping to get an autograph. They were disappointed, but at least we no longer worried that they were tailing us for nefarious purposes.
Back at camp, Marcus perched at the back of the boat and prepared our last out-of -country dinner as we settled in to enjoy the cool ocean evening. Tomorrow we would return to the U.S. and our adventure would be drawing to a close. Night fell, Ensenada glowed in the background and the discos rumbled to life in the distance. Still, it was a peaceful night overlooking the boats that bobbed contently in the harbor, and the four of us sat silently, gazing out at the water and communicating the bond of friendship and shared experience without saying a word. Eventually Marcus pulled out the guitar and strummed serenely into the darkness as the rest of us climbed into bed. Of all the nights I’d spent in Ensenada in my life, none were nearly this peaceful.