It’s 5am in my tent at Rattlesnake Beach. I am lightly breaded and ready to be fried. All night the wind blew, and this cheap tent filtered the sand into a fine mist that has dusted everything in here. Clothes, books, the computer somehow even in its case, my pillow, Moose. Me.
It’s a zen practice of acceptance, sleeping in a light rain of sand. Hear the wind stirring the bushes, the blowing particles hitting the tent, then brace yourself. Feel the lightest sprinkling on your face. It doesn’t hurt, but does make you want to stop inhaling for the duration. Relax. Accept what you cannot change, or what you choose not to do the work involved in changing. Eventually through the fairy dust and the flapping of the tent, the intimate nylon clutching alternately at your head and feet, you drift into sleep.
“Sand is my friend,” in the memorable words of Tulio, a guide and student on my last course. “Sand is my friend. I am going to bed with my friend.”
Relax. Accept. You are one with sand. In the Big Geological picture, you and it are made of much the same elements. What makes you different in this moment, is that your sand-dust has the capacity to become grumpy about it, or to cultivate a sense of humor.
It was wind that inspired our moonlight crossing back from Isla Espiritu Santo to a beach near La Paz last week. Three guides Manuel, Rafa and Tulio, plus Ben the owner of the company, and I took a ride in a panga motorboat out to the island with kayaks strapped to the overhead rack. There we met up with guide Leah, who was finishing up a commercial trip. Together we discovered the nuances of kayak maneuvering and discussed risk management for 3 days while traveling down the island.
What a spirited, talented, fun group of people! And they pay me to do this! Or, more accurately, they cover the expenses I incur in becoming able to do this. Certification, insurance, permits, travel, food. They way I am reimbursed is in the way it fills my soul to be with them. The accounts that really matter are filled with laughter, with getting salty and cold and then huddling over cups of hot chocolate together. When Manuel edges his kayak well and plants the paddle just right, making his boat spin… and his smile shows his satisfaction. When I hear Rafa say to his friends after working on a new exercise “Que padre!” When Leah ignores sunset to continue working on her balance brace. When Tulio giggles and declares his friendship with the elements as he crawls into his sandy tent.
Yes, this is why I live. Sure it takes energy, sometimes more than I think I have. It takes preparation in big and little ways. It involves struggle and sometimes feeling like I’m failing, and rethinking my approach. It takes all my heart, but the way it fills me there aren’t words to measure.
But back to the wind, the connector of things, the breath that gives us weather, and rain, and life on this planet. The forecast involved a bit much of it for our plans of crossing back to La Paz by motorboat the morning following our course, so we preemptively paddled the 5 miles back under moonlight over gentle swells. Stealthy silhouettes sliding across moon sparkles. Voices over the water talking, singing. Or silence and a close unity of travelers on a big sea. We camped late on a protected beach outside of La Paz, burned a fire, and crawled into our sleeping bags on the small ledge of beach. Except for Ben, who set his camp way up on the big dune. This should have been a clue to the rest of us.
It was 5am in my sleeping bag on the little sandy beach when something in the sound of the water woke me up. I leaned up on my elbows and looked over the ledge down the slope to the breaking waves. Swell had increased due to wind on the open water. Tide had risen because that’s what it does. Between the two, surges of water were approaching the lip of the ledge we camped on. But not close enough to actually move. I lay my head back down and left one ear open. Some minutes later somebody was moving my feet. I sat up. Water hissed its way into the sand and back down the slope. A wave had floated the foot of my mattress. Salt water was on my tarp, percolating slowly down through the many holes. Awake! I stood up, sleeping bag around my waist. Hopping, I pulled the tarp and everything on it back 20ft to the base of the dune. Then woke the people in the 2 tents closest to the water so they could retreat.
When was high tide? How much higher would it come? I studied Rafa’s tent on a high spot for several minutes, and decided to let him sleep. He seemed to prefer a later start in the mornings. I crawled back into my sleeping bag as the big moon slipped behind the point that protected us from the wind. Shortly Rafa’s light came on in his tent. Figuring it was a sign of more water to come, I relented and got up.
By the time Ben poked his head over the big dune, the sun was well up, and so were we. Leah and I were preparing breakfast as surges of water swept past our ankles. My kitchen at home doesn’t even have running water—what a luxury! “Wave!” someone called out, and we grabbed the table so it wouldn’t wash away with our food on it.
As Leah would point out to her clients at the pre-trip meeting that night with the forecast of a windy week, “We put the adventure in Adventure Travel. Adventure Kayaking, Adventure Snorkeling...” So well prepared is she as a guide that she that very morning practiced Adventure Cooking, and even Adventure Sleeping.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Friday, November 07, 2008
Kayaking to Cedros Island
We wandered tired and dusty through the remote, pirate-descended Baja town of Bahia Tortugas until we happened upon a smiling shopkeeper. He stood by a freshly painted white wall and a young man hand-lettering “Aborro…” with a red brush. The sun was low, the primitive road long with us. We wanted a place to camp. The shopkeeper directed us to Ruben, at the end of the road, past the barren dirt hills, past the cemetery.
Ruben sells diesel to yachters cruising the coast. This very evening, he happens to be welcoming some favorite customers. Within two hours, we are fed fresh lobster from the bay, a local ranch’s cheese drizzled with olive oil and crumbled oregano, and some of the family’s wine from their northern Baja vineyard, and Axel is bitten on the leg by a dog. Then we are regaled with traditional Mexican ranchero music sung by the yacht delivery captain and his first mate. I never realized so many Mexican songs involve lighthouses.
The wine bottle is empty, tequila half gone, the captain and crew on their way, and a fire burns in the 55-gallon drum by the Diesel sign. Ruben stands close under the night sky and tells me his dreams for the place: a cement floor decorated with shells in the shape of a star. A real Pemex gasoline station here. Friends and customers coming by to spend time on that cement courtyard overlooking the mouth of the bay. Evenings much like tonight. He smiles. I can’t help but like Ruben and his sincere face. Even with his dirt floor…especially with his dirt floor. We’ve all got to dream.
In the morning, Ruben and his wife return from their house in town to see us off. He gives me names of friends in all the places we are hoping to pass by: Punta Eugenia, Isla Cedros, Isla Natividad, Bahia Asuncion. Axel and I hope to paddle our kayaks in some of the most remote places on the northwest tip of the Viscaino Peninsula, itself an out-of-the way piece of Baja. Ruben’s friends will be some of the most gracious people we meet.
Everyone has warned us about currents here, from the Baja cruising guides to knowledgeable captains. “Curientes muy fuerte” usually accompanied with a gesture of power. What we can’t get out of anyone, though, is when and what direction those infamous currents run. “Just watch the lobster buoys,” said the singing captain after a few tequilas.
What we learn about Cedros’ currents through the week, piece by piece, follows.
1. Isla Cedros area has one tide cycle per day.
2. If you ask a seasoned local fisherman about currents, he’ll usually ask somebody else.
3. You sometimes get conflicting information about tides from the same person, but part of it is bound to be right.
4. During neap tides (the weaker ones), the currents weren’t stronger than 2 knots, and that just at a small tide race around a headland.
5. All local boaters carry GPS, and consult them if you ask when the tide will change and which direction it will run. That information isn’t always accurate.
6. We deduced that the current ebbs both north and south around the island from the east side (the splitting point probably changes through the daily tidal cycle and the monthly lunar cycle). Visible points of land and underwater topography have the effect of creating eddies both great and small. The captain of the water delivery boat confirmed this for us, but couldn’t tell us what the tides would do the next day.
Despite all the head scratching and complaining we did about our given information, we guessed the currents well enough after 5 days that we had tidal assist all day on day 6 for 3 miles of coastal paddling, 11 miles of crossing, and 9 miles of circumnavigating Isla Natividad. And we guessed the direction of current correctly for the final crossing the next day, even though we underestimated its strength. This could, of course, be pure luck.
Our journey to Cedros and Natividad Islands launched at 11:45 from Punta Eugenia. We first started towards Natividad. The weather was so calm, and forecast for more of the same, that we took the slack in ebb current as an excuse to head directly for Cedros. We landed after five hours near the salt works through sizeable dumping surf.
Guerrero Negro produces a large percentage of the world’s salt from seawater in giant lagoons on the north shore of the Viscaino Peninsula. Due to the shallow and treacherous entrances to the lagoons, they barge the salt to Cedros Island where it is loaded on freighters in a surprisingly industrial patch of wilderness. We landed next to it. Panga driver Nacho drove his motor boat up to tell us there was better camping up the island and he could give us a lift. We thanked him and decided to paddle there. A boy on the beach and his sister collected 5 caracoles, turban snails, for us from the tide line, and gave them to us to eat. The boy recommended bashing them open with a rock and eating them in crema, which is how we prepared them that night, with garlic from home. Chewy, they were, but not bad. We camped in the arroyo at the south end of the town of Cedros, known locally as el pueblo. The village.
The second day we got on the water just after sunrise and leisurely paddled north. And kept paddling. Rocks passed. A few palm trees passed. Panga boats with lobstermen passed. Pelicans and terns and gulls and cormorants passed. We took short breaks, ate, and kept paddling. By late afternoon, the end of the island was in view. As we approached, a ruckus grew in volume. Near the lobstermen’s outpost of Punta Norte, sea lion and elephant seal rookeries lined the shore. When elephant seals move, an impressive wave of blubber goes caterpillaring along the beach. When they bellow at each other, they sound like a diesel boat motor not quite firing properly. Sea lions vocalize in many different ways, the most important quality of sea lion song being that it not stop. A curious sea lion pup sniffed the bows of our kayaks as if asking who we were, a greeting they do often with each other.
At Punta Norte, four young men worked in the shade of a few trees. They clipped and crimped and tied together green coated metal mesh to build lobster pots. We asked for information on the currents at the north end, and conditions on the other side, and where we could camp. We were shown to 2 vacant rooms in the fish camp dorms for the night. Mine had a half sheet of plywood so thin I almost went to the floor when I leaned on it, so I had a good night’s sleep on the floor. Axel’s was close to the generator so he ended up sleeping outside on the other end of camp.
We had access to water, a toilet, and a week-old internet forecast which called for 9’ west swell mixed with a lingering south swell. According to the best information we could get this far, there were no sufficiently protected harbors on the other side of the island to count on a landing place for perhaps 30 nautical miles. Strength and direction of current were still unknown. The general agreement among lobstermen and vigilantes in the outpost was that the other side of the island would be muy feo tomorrow. Neither of us felt up to that.
Before bedding down in my private Punta Norte accommodations, I visited with the women of the camp who were gathered beneath the trees chatting. They were enjoying a weekend with the dads and kids before taking the youngsters back to el pueblo for school. Lots of questions we answered for each other. Ani shared a Hershey’s chocolate bar with me. In any language, this is a gesture of friendship.
A crew of vigilancia headed out in a panga into the darkness. They patrol all night to keep poachers off the lobster pots. While we visited, a voice came over the VHF broadcasting from a speaker on a post in the middle of camp. Everyone listened a moment. Ani explained that they caught somebody at one of their pots. I never quite understood what they do with those folks, but I did see a rifle get hustled through camp, a rare possession among Mexican civilians.
Morning in Punta Norte found the tide in and the NW swell up. The surge rose and swirled and broke on to the landing. It washed nearly the entire beach, then retreated, exposing almost 30’ of sloped rocky shore. A crew of vigilancia in a panga came near shore to be handed a fresh can of fuel, and both the crew and the man on shore danced with the waves for ten minutes before there came a moment of calm long enough to make the hand-off.
The women were still in their dorms with the kids, but several men watched our launch with interest. Per our usual routine, Axel and I carried my boat to the upper reaches of the water, then together launched his on a smaller surge in between the sets. Once he was safely in deeper water getting settled in his boat, I returned to mine. It was parked next to a dinghy on the cement ramp to the gasoline storage hut at the highest point on the landing. A big surge came in, and I grabbed the seaward end and lifted it clear of the wave, gambling that the water wouldn’t also float the inland end, which it didn’t. The dinghy floated and shifted on its short tether.
By the next surge, I had reached the inland end, the bow. When the surge floated the stern, I walked my kayak up the ramp to the metal door of the hut, matching the speed of the wave and keeping control of my heavily laden boat. I waited there a few more waves, hoping they didn’t get bigger because I was up against the door with nowhere else to go, and the dinghy, animated by the waves, was threatening to get intimate with my kayak.
The energy of the waves began to abate. As a surge retreated, I floated the kayak seaward. On a carefully chosen surge, I pulled the kayak down to meet the water, swung a leg across as the cockpit passed my standing place, sat astride, and paddled backwards into deep water where I finished climbing in and skirting up. I got the feeling the audience was disappointed not to see some carnage.
Around the north end we paddled, planning on a peek at the western side and a retreat back down the eastern side. Swells were much bigger on that side and smashed impressively on the cliffs. The spirit of adventure was on us. It was tough to turn back, but we believed our decision to be a sound one, and turn back we did, enjoying a tailwind and a following sea.
It was early afternoon before we saw el Gran Canyon, our destination for the day. It was the low spot on a mountainous island, the most likely hike across. The beach had a hut and a tree. As we approached from the north, a fishing boat, apparently a shrimper, approached from the south, and anchored off the beach. We waved to each other. As two marineros in a dinghy worked at mooring the stern of the boat to a buoy, I paddled up to the boat.
“De donde vienen?” they always ask, and seem impressed that we paddled from Punta Eugenia. Like many people we meet on the trip, they also seem slightly surprised and quite happy that I speak some Spanish. They are eager to chat, answer our questions, and ask plenty of their own.
They are the water delivery boat for the islands. The hut on the beach is a water storage tank, filling via a tube that runs several miles inland to a spring. Every 3 or 4 days, this boat fills and does its deliveries. In an hour and a half they take on 60 tons of water. They offer us watermelon rounds with lime and chili, then invite us on board for a filling lunch of quesadillas, beans, and fried spam.
The cook plays the Eagles over a classy sound system while we eat. He’s a musician, so he thrives on good music, he explains. In halting English, he proudly introduces himself, “My name is Juan.” Captain Alfredo wears a baseball cap with an A on it. He is a soft-spoken man while we’re there, to whom the crew responds to promptly. Nacho, the young marinero who offered us a panga ride from our first beach on Cedros, was among the crew. So was a 12-year old boy, the son of one of the sailors. He showed us how to dive off the rail of the boat and climb back through the tethered dinghy and up the side of the boat.
The boat was a well painted royal blue with a 6’ tall spool of hose on the back deck. Its dinghy was a different story. If it had a color, I forgot what. Several inches of water sloshed about the floor through a maze of fat, fraying lines joined together at a metal ring. This attached to the hoist when it was brought on board the big boat. Seats were bare wood worn so thin that the back one had completely collapsed and the front one threatened to. The little boat served its purpose, though.
As the dinghy brought in the end of the water tube, we prepared to return to our kayaks, having been well fed and generously hosted. The boat motored off under a puff of dark smoke, and we paddled to the rocky beach to explore. Throughout the afternoon, a few pangas motored south, carrying the moms & kids from Punta Norte back to el pueblo. They all waved as they passed.
The following morning, in the light of the orange horizon and the tiniest sliver of moon, we set out up the Gran Canyon of Cedros Island. Two and a half hours up, we allowed, and hustled. For an island only about 6 miles across, this canyon seems impossibly broad and long. The walking is fairly easy since the occasional waters scoured nice walkways bare. On the north side of some high peaks, dark patches of juniper trees grew. These trees once covered more of the islands and were the reason behind the name Cedros Island, since the Spaniards thought they were cedars.
The canyon narrows and finally we climb a ridge to see Isla San Benito and on the west, and the hazy mountains of the Baja peninsula 60 miles east. It’s our only peek at the west side of Cedros Island. We descend, rest a bit, and resume paddling south to el pueblo for the night, arriving to the frolicking of dolphins.
We leave our beach at el pueblo as sunrise starts to show her colors. The abandoned shacks south of town look like their story should be told in a faded old paperback with the back cover torn half off. Mismatched panels of old plywood, rusty corrugated roofing, and unidentified scraps comprise the walls of windowless huts whose black doorless openings swallow the predawn light.
Low barren ridges of earth embrace the lifeless village. Hills fold upon more hills away from the old memories, pale, then tan, then brown, retreating back to the red mountain before any living thing appears.
The sun rises beyond a freighter anchored near the salt works. Barges with ridges of purest white salt await unloading. Gulls perch on the salt crest, adding their own whitener. The current starts strong on our crossing from Cedros to Natividad, then slacks. We paddle over kelp forests. Looking down through the clear water at the leaning underwater trees, I feel like I’m flying.
Around Natividad we paddle, admiring reef breaks and sea lion colonies, and shriveling our noses at the fragrance of sea bird guano that covers the rocks.
At Punta Arena on Natividad Island, northwest swell and south swell both wrap around and find just the right bottom contour to make two perfectly rideable surf waves in front of our camp. We eat the last delicata squash from my home garden, and watch blue throated lizards devour flies. The view is a perfect overview of both Cedros Island where we came from, and Punta Eugenia, where we paddle the next morning into the rising sun.
Ruben sells diesel to yachters cruising the coast. This very evening, he happens to be welcoming some favorite customers. Within two hours, we are fed fresh lobster from the bay, a local ranch’s cheese drizzled with olive oil and crumbled oregano, and some of the family’s wine from their northern Baja vineyard, and Axel is bitten on the leg by a dog. Then we are regaled with traditional Mexican ranchero music sung by the yacht delivery captain and his first mate. I never realized so many Mexican songs involve lighthouses.
The wine bottle is empty, tequila half gone, the captain and crew on their way, and a fire burns in the 55-gallon drum by the Diesel sign. Ruben stands close under the night sky and tells me his dreams for the place: a cement floor decorated with shells in the shape of a star. A real Pemex gasoline station here. Friends and customers coming by to spend time on that cement courtyard overlooking the mouth of the bay. Evenings much like tonight. He smiles. I can’t help but like Ruben and his sincere face. Even with his dirt floor…especially with his dirt floor. We’ve all got to dream.
In the morning, Ruben and his wife return from their house in town to see us off. He gives me names of friends in all the places we are hoping to pass by: Punta Eugenia, Isla Cedros, Isla Natividad, Bahia Asuncion. Axel and I hope to paddle our kayaks in some of the most remote places on the northwest tip of the Viscaino Peninsula, itself an out-of-the way piece of Baja. Ruben’s friends will be some of the most gracious people we meet.
Everyone has warned us about currents here, from the Baja cruising guides to knowledgeable captains. “Curientes muy fuerte” usually accompanied with a gesture of power. What we can’t get out of anyone, though, is when and what direction those infamous currents run. “Just watch the lobster buoys,” said the singing captain after a few tequilas.
What we learn about Cedros’ currents through the week, piece by piece, follows.
1. Isla Cedros area has one tide cycle per day.
2. If you ask a seasoned local fisherman about currents, he’ll usually ask somebody else.
3. You sometimes get conflicting information about tides from the same person, but part of it is bound to be right.
4. During neap tides (the weaker ones), the currents weren’t stronger than 2 knots, and that just at a small tide race around a headland.
5. All local boaters carry GPS, and consult them if you ask when the tide will change and which direction it will run. That information isn’t always accurate.
6. We deduced that the current ebbs both north and south around the island from the east side (the splitting point probably changes through the daily tidal cycle and the monthly lunar cycle). Visible points of land and underwater topography have the effect of creating eddies both great and small. The captain of the water delivery boat confirmed this for us, but couldn’t tell us what the tides would do the next day.
Despite all the head scratching and complaining we did about our given information, we guessed the currents well enough after 5 days that we had tidal assist all day on day 6 for 3 miles of coastal paddling, 11 miles of crossing, and 9 miles of circumnavigating Isla Natividad. And we guessed the direction of current correctly for the final crossing the next day, even though we underestimated its strength. This could, of course, be pure luck.
Our journey to Cedros and Natividad Islands launched at 11:45 from Punta Eugenia. We first started towards Natividad. The weather was so calm, and forecast for more of the same, that we took the slack in ebb current as an excuse to head directly for Cedros. We landed after five hours near the salt works through sizeable dumping surf.
Guerrero Negro produces a large percentage of the world’s salt from seawater in giant lagoons on the north shore of the Viscaino Peninsula. Due to the shallow and treacherous entrances to the lagoons, they barge the salt to Cedros Island where it is loaded on freighters in a surprisingly industrial patch of wilderness. We landed next to it. Panga driver Nacho drove his motor boat up to tell us there was better camping up the island and he could give us a lift. We thanked him and decided to paddle there. A boy on the beach and his sister collected 5 caracoles, turban snails, for us from the tide line, and gave them to us to eat. The boy recommended bashing them open with a rock and eating them in crema, which is how we prepared them that night, with garlic from home. Chewy, they were, but not bad. We camped in the arroyo at the south end of the town of Cedros, known locally as el pueblo. The village.
The second day we got on the water just after sunrise and leisurely paddled north. And kept paddling. Rocks passed. A few palm trees passed. Panga boats with lobstermen passed. Pelicans and terns and gulls and cormorants passed. We took short breaks, ate, and kept paddling. By late afternoon, the end of the island was in view. As we approached, a ruckus grew in volume. Near the lobstermen’s outpost of Punta Norte, sea lion and elephant seal rookeries lined the shore. When elephant seals move, an impressive wave of blubber goes caterpillaring along the beach. When they bellow at each other, they sound like a diesel boat motor not quite firing properly. Sea lions vocalize in many different ways, the most important quality of sea lion song being that it not stop. A curious sea lion pup sniffed the bows of our kayaks as if asking who we were, a greeting they do often with each other.
At Punta Norte, four young men worked in the shade of a few trees. They clipped and crimped and tied together green coated metal mesh to build lobster pots. We asked for information on the currents at the north end, and conditions on the other side, and where we could camp. We were shown to 2 vacant rooms in the fish camp dorms for the night. Mine had a half sheet of plywood so thin I almost went to the floor when I leaned on it, so I had a good night’s sleep on the floor. Axel’s was close to the generator so he ended up sleeping outside on the other end of camp.
We had access to water, a toilet, and a week-old internet forecast which called for 9’ west swell mixed with a lingering south swell. According to the best information we could get this far, there were no sufficiently protected harbors on the other side of the island to count on a landing place for perhaps 30 nautical miles. Strength and direction of current were still unknown. The general agreement among lobstermen and vigilantes in the outpost was that the other side of the island would be muy feo tomorrow. Neither of us felt up to that.
Before bedding down in my private Punta Norte accommodations, I visited with the women of the camp who were gathered beneath the trees chatting. They were enjoying a weekend with the dads and kids before taking the youngsters back to el pueblo for school. Lots of questions we answered for each other. Ani shared a Hershey’s chocolate bar with me. In any language, this is a gesture of friendship.
A crew of vigilancia headed out in a panga into the darkness. They patrol all night to keep poachers off the lobster pots. While we visited, a voice came over the VHF broadcasting from a speaker on a post in the middle of camp. Everyone listened a moment. Ani explained that they caught somebody at one of their pots. I never quite understood what they do with those folks, but I did see a rifle get hustled through camp, a rare possession among Mexican civilians.
Morning in Punta Norte found the tide in and the NW swell up. The surge rose and swirled and broke on to the landing. It washed nearly the entire beach, then retreated, exposing almost 30’ of sloped rocky shore. A crew of vigilancia in a panga came near shore to be handed a fresh can of fuel, and both the crew and the man on shore danced with the waves for ten minutes before there came a moment of calm long enough to make the hand-off.
The women were still in their dorms with the kids, but several men watched our launch with interest. Per our usual routine, Axel and I carried my boat to the upper reaches of the water, then together launched his on a smaller surge in between the sets. Once he was safely in deeper water getting settled in his boat, I returned to mine. It was parked next to a dinghy on the cement ramp to the gasoline storage hut at the highest point on the landing. A big surge came in, and I grabbed the seaward end and lifted it clear of the wave, gambling that the water wouldn’t also float the inland end, which it didn’t. The dinghy floated and shifted on its short tether.
By the next surge, I had reached the inland end, the bow. When the surge floated the stern, I walked my kayak up the ramp to the metal door of the hut, matching the speed of the wave and keeping control of my heavily laden boat. I waited there a few more waves, hoping they didn’t get bigger because I was up against the door with nowhere else to go, and the dinghy, animated by the waves, was threatening to get intimate with my kayak.
The energy of the waves began to abate. As a surge retreated, I floated the kayak seaward. On a carefully chosen surge, I pulled the kayak down to meet the water, swung a leg across as the cockpit passed my standing place, sat astride, and paddled backwards into deep water where I finished climbing in and skirting up. I got the feeling the audience was disappointed not to see some carnage.
Around the north end we paddled, planning on a peek at the western side and a retreat back down the eastern side. Swells were much bigger on that side and smashed impressively on the cliffs. The spirit of adventure was on us. It was tough to turn back, but we believed our decision to be a sound one, and turn back we did, enjoying a tailwind and a following sea.
It was early afternoon before we saw el Gran Canyon, our destination for the day. It was the low spot on a mountainous island, the most likely hike across. The beach had a hut and a tree. As we approached from the north, a fishing boat, apparently a shrimper, approached from the south, and anchored off the beach. We waved to each other. As two marineros in a dinghy worked at mooring the stern of the boat to a buoy, I paddled up to the boat.
“De donde vienen?” they always ask, and seem impressed that we paddled from Punta Eugenia. Like many people we meet on the trip, they also seem slightly surprised and quite happy that I speak some Spanish. They are eager to chat, answer our questions, and ask plenty of their own.
They are the water delivery boat for the islands. The hut on the beach is a water storage tank, filling via a tube that runs several miles inland to a spring. Every 3 or 4 days, this boat fills and does its deliveries. In an hour and a half they take on 60 tons of water. They offer us watermelon rounds with lime and chili, then invite us on board for a filling lunch of quesadillas, beans, and fried spam.
The cook plays the Eagles over a classy sound system while we eat. He’s a musician, so he thrives on good music, he explains. In halting English, he proudly introduces himself, “My name is Juan.” Captain Alfredo wears a baseball cap with an A on it. He is a soft-spoken man while we’re there, to whom the crew responds to promptly. Nacho, the young marinero who offered us a panga ride from our first beach on Cedros, was among the crew. So was a 12-year old boy, the son of one of the sailors. He showed us how to dive off the rail of the boat and climb back through the tethered dinghy and up the side of the boat.
The boat was a well painted royal blue with a 6’ tall spool of hose on the back deck. Its dinghy was a different story. If it had a color, I forgot what. Several inches of water sloshed about the floor through a maze of fat, fraying lines joined together at a metal ring. This attached to the hoist when it was brought on board the big boat. Seats were bare wood worn so thin that the back one had completely collapsed and the front one threatened to. The little boat served its purpose, though.
As the dinghy brought in the end of the water tube, we prepared to return to our kayaks, having been well fed and generously hosted. The boat motored off under a puff of dark smoke, and we paddled to the rocky beach to explore. Throughout the afternoon, a few pangas motored south, carrying the moms & kids from Punta Norte back to el pueblo. They all waved as they passed.
The following morning, in the light of the orange horizon and the tiniest sliver of moon, we set out up the Gran Canyon of Cedros Island. Two and a half hours up, we allowed, and hustled. For an island only about 6 miles across, this canyon seems impossibly broad and long. The walking is fairly easy since the occasional waters scoured nice walkways bare. On the north side of some high peaks, dark patches of juniper trees grew. These trees once covered more of the islands and were the reason behind the name Cedros Island, since the Spaniards thought they were cedars.
The canyon narrows and finally we climb a ridge to see Isla San Benito and on the west, and the hazy mountains of the Baja peninsula 60 miles east. It’s our only peek at the west side of Cedros Island. We descend, rest a bit, and resume paddling south to el pueblo for the night, arriving to the frolicking of dolphins.
We leave our beach at el pueblo as sunrise starts to show her colors. The abandoned shacks south of town look like their story should be told in a faded old paperback with the back cover torn half off. Mismatched panels of old plywood, rusty corrugated roofing, and unidentified scraps comprise the walls of windowless huts whose black doorless openings swallow the predawn light.
Low barren ridges of earth embrace the lifeless village. Hills fold upon more hills away from the old memories, pale, then tan, then brown, retreating back to the red mountain before any living thing appears.
The sun rises beyond a freighter anchored near the salt works. Barges with ridges of purest white salt await unloading. Gulls perch on the salt crest, adding their own whitener. The current starts strong on our crossing from Cedros to Natividad, then slacks. We paddle over kelp forests. Looking down through the clear water at the leaning underwater trees, I feel like I’m flying.
Around Natividad we paddle, admiring reef breaks and sea lion colonies, and shriveling our noses at the fragrance of sea bird guano that covers the rocks.
At Punta Arena on Natividad Island, northwest swell and south swell both wrap around and find just the right bottom contour to make two perfectly rideable surf waves in front of our camp. We eat the last delicata squash from my home garden, and watch blue throated lizards devour flies. The view is a perfect overview of both Cedros Island where we came from, and Punta Eugenia, where we paddle the next morning into the rising sun.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Gloria
It’s a hot night in Bahia Asuncion, too hot to hide under the sleeping bag from the mosquitoes, so I get eaten alive right in Gloria’s front yard. Despite the mosquitoes, meeting Gloria was one of those miracles that happen when you let yourself arrive someplace without knowing exactly what you’re doing there.
Bahia Tortugas. The map got us there on a Baja road trip in late October 2008. Winding roads led us through the maze of town, only once in the wrong direction, head on to an amused local. A shopkeeper directed us to Ruben’s place where we could camp. Ruben gave us the names of his best friends in nearby towns where we might also camp. Gloria was one. “Muy buena persona.”
We arrived a week later in Bahia Asuncion. The map got us there, too. That and the help of some men who pushed us and the Sabritas truck out of the soft sand. Stopping at an aborrotes store for cold drinks, I asked for Gloria, esposa of the late Simon Salinas. The restaurant next door happened to be hers.
You know when you walk into a restaurant and all three patrons greet you warmly, that you’re in the right place. Then the patrons turn out to be Gloria, her son, and her brother, sitting to eat their own meal. You’re so much in the right place, that you set aside your freshly bought cold drinks, order up whatever cold thing she might have in the fridge, and revel in the refreshment and the rightness of it all until they’re done eating.
“Any friend of Ruben’s is a friend of mine,” says Gloria. Her son Memo leads us to their house on the bay, shows us the water hose, and leaves us to ourselves. Oh, beautiful laundry day! Oh, delightful bucket bath! Ah, to rinse away the salt and dust of travel and leave only fresh memories.
Sun swings low, we feel organized and clean again, and walk back to the restaurant for fish dinner and some visiting.
In the mosquito dawn, Little Black Dog limps with me down the beach to admire the gift of the new day waking. Seems he’s adopted us.
Something about Baja is visceral. It’s simple, bare. Close to the soul. Is it the land? The rawness and precious brevity of life here in the desert where survival can be as uncertain as the rains? Is it in speaking from my heart in a language I hardly command, but can limp around in a bit?
Gloria and I get to talking in the morning. She comes out in her nightgown to wish us Buenos dias. She talks about other friends who’ve stayed. Some setting up whole tarp villages. Ruben and his family visiting before her husband died 5 short months ago. Plans to move the restaurant to her house and expand the hospitality aspect. The kids grown and out of school, her husband finally had time and resources to get the permits for those dreams. And then he died.
She doesn’t say how, not that it matters. The sorrow, the tears, she says. Memo came up from La Paz to stay with her for the year and help out. “I’m beginning to feel I can be strong,” she says. “Dios es grande.” Tears come to her eyes, and to mine, too. I can’t imagine the weight of such a loss.
Her kids are coming in 3 days for Dia de los Muertos. It’s the first time this celebration has meant anything personal to them. Not for her, because she lost her parents some time ago. But for her kids, it is now significant. A way to honor and celebrate the connection with those who’ve gone. A reuniting of the family, those present in body and those in spirit.
Lately she’s stayed busy with the humble, 3-table restaurant, which she’s run for 20 years. “I always was more busy than he was.” A smile. The busyness now is good, she says, because it keeps her occupied.
I say to her that feeding people is valiente. I can’t think of a better word at the moment. What I’m trying to say is that I believe in food and the sharing of it. That she is more than staying occupied. Through her grief, she is vibrant. She is giving life to others. The old man who came in last night and ordered “una cena”, a dinner. Simple as that. He probably comes in often.
Food. Its nourishment is a gift of the earth. A ray of the sun. A piece of the soul and a work of the hands that give it. A gift of connection, a gift of life. Even as a negocio it is a gift.
I want to give her my last apple from the home tree. This poor apple is beat up. It’s driven many miles over all kinds of roads. It’s been in a kayak to Cedros Island and back. It’s the most pathetic apple I had since I gave all the prettier ones away already. But its significance is more than a piece of bruised fruit from far away. It’s everything I just said. It’s a piece of my heart, of my home. It’s my gift of living to a woman I admire.
Bahia Tortugas. The map got us there on a Baja road trip in late October 2008. Winding roads led us through the maze of town, only once in the wrong direction, head on to an amused local. A shopkeeper directed us to Ruben’s place where we could camp. Ruben gave us the names of his best friends in nearby towns where we might also camp. Gloria was one. “Muy buena persona.”
We arrived a week later in Bahia Asuncion. The map got us there, too. That and the help of some men who pushed us and the Sabritas truck out of the soft sand. Stopping at an aborrotes store for cold drinks, I asked for Gloria, esposa of the late Simon Salinas. The restaurant next door happened to be hers.
You know when you walk into a restaurant and all three patrons greet you warmly, that you’re in the right place. Then the patrons turn out to be Gloria, her son, and her brother, sitting to eat their own meal. You’re so much in the right place, that you set aside your freshly bought cold drinks, order up whatever cold thing she might have in the fridge, and revel in the refreshment and the rightness of it all until they’re done eating.
“Any friend of Ruben’s is a friend of mine,” says Gloria. Her son Memo leads us to their house on the bay, shows us the water hose, and leaves us to ourselves. Oh, beautiful laundry day! Oh, delightful bucket bath! Ah, to rinse away the salt and dust of travel and leave only fresh memories.
Sun swings low, we feel organized and clean again, and walk back to the restaurant for fish dinner and some visiting.
In the mosquito dawn, Little Black Dog limps with me down the beach to admire the gift of the new day waking. Seems he’s adopted us.
Something about Baja is visceral. It’s simple, bare. Close to the soul. Is it the land? The rawness and precious brevity of life here in the desert where survival can be as uncertain as the rains? Is it in speaking from my heart in a language I hardly command, but can limp around in a bit?
Gloria and I get to talking in the morning. She comes out in her nightgown to wish us Buenos dias. She talks about other friends who’ve stayed. Some setting up whole tarp villages. Ruben and his family visiting before her husband died 5 short months ago. Plans to move the restaurant to her house and expand the hospitality aspect. The kids grown and out of school, her husband finally had time and resources to get the permits for those dreams. And then he died.
She doesn’t say how, not that it matters. The sorrow, the tears, she says. Memo came up from La Paz to stay with her for the year and help out. “I’m beginning to feel I can be strong,” she says. “Dios es grande.” Tears come to her eyes, and to mine, too. I can’t imagine the weight of such a loss.
Her kids are coming in 3 days for Dia de los Muertos. It’s the first time this celebration has meant anything personal to them. Not for her, because she lost her parents some time ago. But for her kids, it is now significant. A way to honor and celebrate the connection with those who’ve gone. A reuniting of the family, those present in body and those in spirit.
Lately she’s stayed busy with the humble, 3-table restaurant, which she’s run for 20 years. “I always was more busy than he was.” A smile. The busyness now is good, she says, because it keeps her occupied.
I say to her that feeding people is valiente. I can’t think of a better word at the moment. What I’m trying to say is that I believe in food and the sharing of it. That she is more than staying occupied. Through her grief, she is vibrant. She is giving life to others. The old man who came in last night and ordered “una cena”, a dinner. Simple as that. He probably comes in often.
Food. Its nourishment is a gift of the earth. A ray of the sun. A piece of the soul and a work of the hands that give it. A gift of connection, a gift of life. Even as a negocio it is a gift.
I want to give her my last apple from the home tree. This poor apple is beat up. It’s driven many miles over all kinds of roads. It’s been in a kayak to Cedros Island and back. It’s the most pathetic apple I had since I gave all the prettier ones away already. But its significance is more than a piece of bruised fruit from far away. It’s everything I just said. It’s a piece of my heart, of my home. It’s my gift of living to a woman I admire.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Snapshot
Five colorful kayaks plunge through choppy seas along Carmen Island’s rocky coast. Yellow Tempest, Blue Tempest, and Red Romany frolic in the waves. Sea Green Romany (that’s me) parallels Yellow Explorer, trying to encourage and keep him off the rocks. The dark sea is studded with whitecaps
I see something floating in the waves, olive green or brown, about 18” across. Perhaps a mat of sargassum, a prickly seaweed. Wavelets distort my brief glimpses. Then it rises on a crest, a sea turtle, backlit in the water. Round body, long front flippers, stubby back flippers, little round head in the air. A perfect silhouette--a tiny island of tranquility in a turbulent sea.
“This beach sucks!” announces Ryan of the Yellow Tempest. We’ve landed at the first available beach after Yellow Explorer capsized in the wind. It was the first potential landing spot in half an hour of paddling after the rescue, but it’s sloped, rocky, and exposed. The coastline is about to turn into an even more exposed direction.
We hunker in the little dry watercourse, or arroyo, out of the wind for lunch, and consider our options. I check the landing at the next beach over, and it’s not feasible with loaded boats, 3’ dumping waves, and dog-sized rocks in the surf. Yellow Explorer is not going any further. Indeed, the Port Captain would come out the next morning to pick him up in a motor boat. He has overestimated his skill, and is not interested in continuing with a forecast of building wind.
I declare that we’re staying at “Sucky Beach” for the night. Campers can start excavating their sleeping hollows. There are still waves to be played in, however. I go ride some in the little break off our beach, then stay close to the cell phone to organize pick-up logistics. Ryan, who is the other guide and organizer of this trip, goes with the other two wave-frolickers to explore the coast for the rest of their afternoon. I don’t want to know if there’s a perfect beach just around the corner.
Of course the boys return with reports of just that beach. It’s the most perfect in all the world. Sandy landing, glowing golden in the sun, dancing girls (and one handsome guy, they note), angels sliding down sunbeams, turning into masseuses when they touch the ground, beach music playing from the cactus-tops, cold beer flowing from the cactus tap.
“Sure, whatever,” I say. “Just don’t tell me there’s a clean point break at one side of it.”
“Yeah, there is! That’s the best part of it! We surfed it for hours.”
I groan and go flatten a little sleeping nest beside my kayak for the night. Where would we be without imagination?
I see something floating in the waves, olive green or brown, about 18” across. Perhaps a mat of sargassum, a prickly seaweed. Wavelets distort my brief glimpses. Then it rises on a crest, a sea turtle, backlit in the water. Round body, long front flippers, stubby back flippers, little round head in the air. A perfect silhouette--a tiny island of tranquility in a turbulent sea.
“This beach sucks!” announces Ryan of the Yellow Tempest. We’ve landed at the first available beach after Yellow Explorer capsized in the wind. It was the first potential landing spot in half an hour of paddling after the rescue, but it’s sloped, rocky, and exposed. The coastline is about to turn into an even more exposed direction.
We hunker in the little dry watercourse, or arroyo, out of the wind for lunch, and consider our options. I check the landing at the next beach over, and it’s not feasible with loaded boats, 3’ dumping waves, and dog-sized rocks in the surf. Yellow Explorer is not going any further. Indeed, the Port Captain would come out the next morning to pick him up in a motor boat. He has overestimated his skill, and is not interested in continuing with a forecast of building wind.
I declare that we’re staying at “Sucky Beach” for the night. Campers can start excavating their sleeping hollows. There are still waves to be played in, however. I go ride some in the little break off our beach, then stay close to the cell phone to organize pick-up logistics. Ryan, who is the other guide and organizer of this trip, goes with the other two wave-frolickers to explore the coast for the rest of their afternoon. I don’t want to know if there’s a perfect beach just around the corner.
Of course the boys return with reports of just that beach. It’s the most perfect in all the world. Sandy landing, glowing golden in the sun, dancing girls (and one handsome guy, they note), angels sliding down sunbeams, turning into masseuses when they touch the ground, beach music playing from the cactus-tops, cold beer flowing from the cactus tap.
“Sure, whatever,” I say. “Just don’t tell me there’s a clean point break at one side of it.”
“Yeah, there is! That’s the best part of it! We surfed it for hours.”
I groan and go flatten a little sleeping nest beside my kayak for the night. Where would we be without imagination?
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Three Days to Guerrero Negro
Abraham Levy is kayaking the entire coast of Mexico. He has already completed the Caribbean side and now paddles some weeks south of Tijuana.
Ginni Callahan is taking a two-week break from guiding and coaching in the Sea of Cortez to surf with Dave at their favorite break on Baja’s Pacific coast.
January 9, 2008, Abraham paddles by the surf camp too far out to see, lands some miles south at a fishing village, and begins to set up camp.
In the village, Nacha and Sergio are preparing fish tacos to sell at the surf camp when they notice a brilliant yellow and orange kayak pulled up on the beach across the road from their house. They invite the handsome, travel-worn kayaker in for food, hear about his mission, and bring him to the surf camp, along with their fish tacos that evening, to meet some other kayakers.
At first he doesn’t look familiar, but his journey rings a bell. Yes, the guy paddling around Mexico. He was mentioned in a Canoe & Kayak magazine given to us because of a feature on Ginni. We swap notes on coasts we’ve both paddled, gather information on new places, trace our fingers along nautical charts by the dim light of our headlamps. Questions, answers, English, Spanish. The energy builds like a wave.
“Que remas?” I give him a tour of my Romany kayak. Abraham follows with video camera. Then the interview. Como se llama? Ginni Callahan. Donde estamos? At Rancho San Andres. Que piensas sobre este viaje? Sounds like fun. I want to go!
It was an offhand remark on my part. But a serious invitation followed.
Just after sunrise the next morning, a dirt-encrusted blue pickup lumbers over the rocky road towards the fishing village of Santa Rosalillita carrying one light green Romany kayak on the roof. David has decided not to paddle three days to Guerrero Negro with this ambitious young man, and Ginni, yes.
Nacha and Sergio serve us all a warm breakfast of eggs and beans and tortillas and homemade salsa. Some fussing with gear, some goodbyes, and Abraham and Ginni take to the sea, each with their own style of entry.
It’s a two-foot beach break, dumping all at once onto a moderately steep, scalloped beach. Abraham puts his kayak in the low spot, on the sand, enters, and inches forward with his hands until a wave meets him and he can paddle through the little break. Less traditionally, Ginni waits at the bow of her kayak on a slightly higher hill of surf-rounded cobbles until a medium-sized wave washes up to the boat. She pulls it down with the retreating water, hops aboard on her belly like a surfer to paddle a few strokes past the breaker zone, sits up, and slides her legs into the cockpit.
“Nunca lo he visto eso.” I have never seen that before, says Abraham. It was one of many firsts.
Santa Rosalillita falls behind as we head towards the distant point. The coast between Santa Rosalillita and Guerrero Negro is not a part I’d choose to paddle this time of year. January brings the biggest swell and chance of the worst winds. The route has few landings and miles of steep beaches that are completely exposed to the predominant NW swell. One landing is a surf spot they call The Wall. It’s where surfers go when they want to catch the biggest waves.
Abraham sets a good pace and evidently enjoys having someone to talk to. We drift toward whichever side I’m on as I try to keep the boats just far enough apart to avoid hitting paddles on each others boats at the exit of each stroke. We talk the whole day, and there is much to learn about each other.
He loved beaches as a kid and wanted to know all the beaches in Mexico. What better vehicle than a kayak? He learned to paddle in rivers. Pursued sponsorship of his dream for four years before finally launching his expedition. Continued learning en route along the Caribbean, and the Pacific would teach him even more.
Even more than a paddling trip and a dream, this trip is his business. “If you want to do well at anything, you have to learn how to sell,” an uncle once advised. Abraham learned to sell telephones door to door. Trying to sell his trip to sponsors he discovered that nobody wants to support something little. Make it big; ask for lots of money. His success is grandly evident in the boat he paddles, brightly smattered with logos. The shirt he wears for interviews has his sponsors printed on it. The wall behind him at speaking events is papered in logos. “If you want to do anything badly enough, and you keep working at it, you can do anything,” he declares. That smile doesn’t hurt a bit either, I’m sure.
The sea is gentle with us, and after three hours of sociable paddling we approach The Wall. An old river mouth a mile in width, forms a NW point which magnifies the swell. Breakers begin tumbling well offshore because of the long rocky reef. Arrecife, in Spanish. The rolling of rr’s sounds like the rumble of surf at a distance.
We take turns being taller than each other on the lifting swell. “Soy mas alta.” “Ya no.”
“I know why they call this place The Wall,” says Abraham. “These are walls of water.”
There are also walls of rock on land, built by surfers as meager protection from the frequent winds, which mercifully forget to blow while we’re there. Ten miles is Abraham’s shortest day yet, but we have plans to surf in the afternoon.
Abraham, for all his miles, has never just gone surfing. Surf is a door for him to pass through between beach and sea. I, on the other hand, live on the beach and paddle the sea so I can find fun places to surf. So it is to be for the 3 days we paddle together to Guerrero Negro: two skilled paddlers with different strengths, different perspectives, different backgrounds, and different languages, yet plenty enough in common to relish the playful sharing of company.
If the wave is gentle and hard to catch, especially if you’re starting far down the shoulder, aim towards the breaking part of the wave to catch it, then turn and ride with it. Abraham learns quickly. On a wave too big to see his head as he rides it (from my perspective further out to sea) I can follow the trail of his kayak moving towards the peak, then back away in a perfect reading and riding of a wave.
Dinner involves some strange combinations. Freeze-dried Mountain House Sante Fe Chicken (his contribution), and Mexican staples refried beans, fresh avocado and tortillas (my addition). The world of the burrito has never seen the like. Abraham breaks out his camping luxuries for the occasion—a short aluminum table, a foldable plastic serving spoon, and a titanium spork. A pair of osprey watches us from their nest in a nearby datilillo, or Joshua Tree. The nest is much bigger than the spindly, bent trunk should support, which makes it look like a Dr Seuss invention.
Darkness brings the setting of a red crescent moon, then photo sharing. On my camera, we see shots of Abraham surfing. On his phone/camera/marvel of technology, we see his entire trip. Stars revolve slowly past this private showing of a very publicized trip.
The image in my mind that exemplifies Abraham Levy will never be seen by any other. With my camera in my pocket, I paddle for my own survival as we leave The Wall the next morning. I summit a wave, slide down the backside, and look over my shoulder for Abraham. Through the crest of the wave bursts an orange and yellow streak, water streaming off as it soars completely airborne into the morning sunlight. This man has the muscle and grit to make his dreams fly.
Scale is deceiving on the water, especially with the low sunlight angle of winter. Abraham, with his poor eyesight, thinks the hazy distant point which alone populates our southern horizon, is Isla Cedros, some 60 NM away. I disagree. The day will reveal it as we get closer.
Intensive talk of day one diminishes, as it usually does. Spanish practice switches to English practice. Abraham fishes and catches some Sargasso, but no fish. The wind picks up and then dies back down. Still we paddle. A gull inspects us so closely I almost whack it with my paddle by accident.
Shore is over 2 miles away, and we are an island. The island sings. It sings poorly in English. It sings quite beautifully in Spanish. Traditional songs, sad songs. Sometimes the island is quiet and moves slowly along its course. “You don’t feel so far away when you paddle with someone else,” says Abraham. This is the first time he has paddled with someone on his entire trip.
The headland turns out not to be Isla Cedros, but Morro Santo Domingo, a long rocky point with several little sandy beaches near the mouth of Laguna Manuela. Most of the pocket beaches have big surf crashing onto them, but we work our way around into more protection and find the perfect one under the lighthouse, whose position is mismarked on my nautical chart. Everything about the beach is right. It faces south so we can see sunset, sunrise, and tomorrow’s paddling direction. The sand is clean and lovely for going barefoot. Red rocks embrace the evening sunlight with a most satisfying hue. The flat sand at the top of the beach is just large enough for two kayaks, two tents, and a common eating area. A trail leads up the hill to the lighthouse. And, for the businessman, signal for the phone and internet actually work for the first time in ten days. We can sit on the beach and GoogleEarth the upcoming coastline. Who needs those old-fashioned nautical charts?
It’s quite an undertaking, kayaking the whole coast of Mexico, especially solo. In the Caribbean Abraham had to shelter from hurricane winds in a patch of mangrove, constructing a platform above alligator-infested waters for the night. Further north on the Pacific he had to crash land through big surf when winds made it impossible to continue. But he’d never seen anything like the mouth of the Estero de San Jose. Our destination Guerrero Negro is situated inside this bay.
Estero San Jose is one of several lagoons along Baja’s Pacific coast, most famous for the gray whales that calve and mate here from January through March. Laguna Ojo de Liebre, Laguna San Ignacio, Bahia Magdelena.
As we approach Estero San Jose, the entire horizon is house-sized breakers. They tumble and tumble without getting closer to the coast. Two forces collide to make it thus: swell and current.
Earlier that morning could tell that the swell is building on our beach below the lighthouse by the tremendous crashing of waves on our eastern rocky point. “Such power without malice,” comments Abraham. “Beautiful.”
Paddling towards the boca, the entrance to the lagoon, we follow a compass bearing of 170 degrees. We need this reference because we can only see land occasionally, when we are on the crests of long swells. Even from the tops of waves, we can’t spot the 2-mile wide entrance because of the flatness of the sandy coast and the height of the breakers between us and there. The primary view is green, undulating sea, and each other. We won’t know until we check the online report in Guerrero Negro that the swell was 19-22’ on exposed NW-facing beaches, which this is.
Current is the other force. Living on the beach, in the surf, one gets in tune with the rhythm of tides. I didn’t have a tide chart, but could calculate that if we left the beach at our usual 9 or 10 am, we’d fight an increasing ebb current as we tried to enter the bay around 1 pm. Having had experience at the mouth of another Pacific lagoon, I suggest we aim to enter before 11am, and get an early morning start. Abraham is young and strong and does not need to plan around tides, so we leave at 10.
The bocas of Baja’s Pacific estuaries are notorious for their power and their shifty channels. I have the only nautical chart between us, and it shows four light towers, none of which still exist. This is the opening through which much of the world’s salt was once exported, so I envision something tamer, something less… well, less Baja. The horizon of tumbling white houses extends well over a mile out to sea. There is no visible channel of deeper smooth water. Breakers from the current meet the breakers along the sandy beach where more big swells trip over themselves and fall into a white froth. It’s a bit more than I have prepared myself for, so I adjust my mental calibration of “gnarly landing” as we approach. About then the wind begins building and pushing us shoreward.
“Plans?” I ask the man whose trip I have been invited on. He seems surprised by the question. “You’re the guide,” he says, as if my certifications mean more than his experience.
I have been working on a plan, which we both execute cleanly, though I wish for a ready camera once again and miss a fun shot of a small orange and yellow kayak in front of the open mouth of a hungry wave. Between sets of very big waves, I surf a shoulder-high one in to the shore. I look over the back of it and see that image, then hear the wave break, and see him skimming along broadside with a mighty fine brace keeping him just in front of its gnashing teeth. Once inside the bigger breakers, we paddle parallel to the smaller inshore waves for about 15 minutes until we think we see the entrance, take a quick look about from shore, and spot a channel to follow into the mouth. Mission accomplished, except for a few small breakers inside the mouth and 2 more hours of paddling against the current to meet David for our ride into town.
As it is with travelers, the sharing of a path, however briefly, has its influences. Abraham gleaned some skills along the way. For me, another piece of the Pacific coast is mapped in my mind. Before the forces of the sea, I am again as ever, humbled. Yet have gained in a feeling of peaceful confidence. I have been stretched and challenged and found myself capable, though at the end, mortally tired. The experience has broadened my awareness of what is and can be the business of kayaking, though to guard my heart and soul, I don’t even want to think about it. On some level I agree with Abraham’s uncle that you have to sell to succeed; I just don’t want to live my whole life that way. Not much of it at all, really.
Paddle on. May the sea be gentle with you!
Follow Abraham's trip at http://www.abrahamlevy.com
see photos at http://www.columbiariverkayaking.com/pixntales.html#grono
Ginni Callahan is taking a two-week break from guiding and coaching in the Sea of Cortez to surf with Dave at their favorite break on Baja’s Pacific coast.
January 9, 2008, Abraham paddles by the surf camp too far out to see, lands some miles south at a fishing village, and begins to set up camp.
In the village, Nacha and Sergio are preparing fish tacos to sell at the surf camp when they notice a brilliant yellow and orange kayak pulled up on the beach across the road from their house. They invite the handsome, travel-worn kayaker in for food, hear about his mission, and bring him to the surf camp, along with their fish tacos that evening, to meet some other kayakers.
At first he doesn’t look familiar, but his journey rings a bell. Yes, the guy paddling around Mexico. He was mentioned in a Canoe & Kayak magazine given to us because of a feature on Ginni. We swap notes on coasts we’ve both paddled, gather information on new places, trace our fingers along nautical charts by the dim light of our headlamps. Questions, answers, English, Spanish. The energy builds like a wave.
“Que remas?” I give him a tour of my Romany kayak. Abraham follows with video camera. Then the interview. Como se llama? Ginni Callahan. Donde estamos? At Rancho San Andres. Que piensas sobre este viaje? Sounds like fun. I want to go!
It was an offhand remark on my part. But a serious invitation followed.
Just after sunrise the next morning, a dirt-encrusted blue pickup lumbers over the rocky road towards the fishing village of Santa Rosalillita carrying one light green Romany kayak on the roof. David has decided not to paddle three days to Guerrero Negro with this ambitious young man, and Ginni, yes.
Nacha and Sergio serve us all a warm breakfast of eggs and beans and tortillas and homemade salsa. Some fussing with gear, some goodbyes, and Abraham and Ginni take to the sea, each with their own style of entry.
It’s a two-foot beach break, dumping all at once onto a moderately steep, scalloped beach. Abraham puts his kayak in the low spot, on the sand, enters, and inches forward with his hands until a wave meets him and he can paddle through the little break. Less traditionally, Ginni waits at the bow of her kayak on a slightly higher hill of surf-rounded cobbles until a medium-sized wave washes up to the boat. She pulls it down with the retreating water, hops aboard on her belly like a surfer to paddle a few strokes past the breaker zone, sits up, and slides her legs into the cockpit.
“Nunca lo he visto eso.” I have never seen that before, says Abraham. It was one of many firsts.
Santa Rosalillita falls behind as we head towards the distant point. The coast between Santa Rosalillita and Guerrero Negro is not a part I’d choose to paddle this time of year. January brings the biggest swell and chance of the worst winds. The route has few landings and miles of steep beaches that are completely exposed to the predominant NW swell. One landing is a surf spot they call The Wall. It’s where surfers go when they want to catch the biggest waves.
Abraham sets a good pace and evidently enjoys having someone to talk to. We drift toward whichever side I’m on as I try to keep the boats just far enough apart to avoid hitting paddles on each others boats at the exit of each stroke. We talk the whole day, and there is much to learn about each other.
He loved beaches as a kid and wanted to know all the beaches in Mexico. What better vehicle than a kayak? He learned to paddle in rivers. Pursued sponsorship of his dream for four years before finally launching his expedition. Continued learning en route along the Caribbean, and the Pacific would teach him even more.
Even more than a paddling trip and a dream, this trip is his business. “If you want to do well at anything, you have to learn how to sell,” an uncle once advised. Abraham learned to sell telephones door to door. Trying to sell his trip to sponsors he discovered that nobody wants to support something little. Make it big; ask for lots of money. His success is grandly evident in the boat he paddles, brightly smattered with logos. The shirt he wears for interviews has his sponsors printed on it. The wall behind him at speaking events is papered in logos. “If you want to do anything badly enough, and you keep working at it, you can do anything,” he declares. That smile doesn’t hurt a bit either, I’m sure.
The sea is gentle with us, and after three hours of sociable paddling we approach The Wall. An old river mouth a mile in width, forms a NW point which magnifies the swell. Breakers begin tumbling well offshore because of the long rocky reef. Arrecife, in Spanish. The rolling of rr’s sounds like the rumble of surf at a distance.
We take turns being taller than each other on the lifting swell. “Soy mas alta.” “Ya no.”
“I know why they call this place The Wall,” says Abraham. “These are walls of water.”
There are also walls of rock on land, built by surfers as meager protection from the frequent winds, which mercifully forget to blow while we’re there. Ten miles is Abraham’s shortest day yet, but we have plans to surf in the afternoon.
Abraham, for all his miles, has never just gone surfing. Surf is a door for him to pass through between beach and sea. I, on the other hand, live on the beach and paddle the sea so I can find fun places to surf. So it is to be for the 3 days we paddle together to Guerrero Negro: two skilled paddlers with different strengths, different perspectives, different backgrounds, and different languages, yet plenty enough in common to relish the playful sharing of company.
If the wave is gentle and hard to catch, especially if you’re starting far down the shoulder, aim towards the breaking part of the wave to catch it, then turn and ride with it. Abraham learns quickly. On a wave too big to see his head as he rides it (from my perspective further out to sea) I can follow the trail of his kayak moving towards the peak, then back away in a perfect reading and riding of a wave.
Dinner involves some strange combinations. Freeze-dried Mountain House Sante Fe Chicken (his contribution), and Mexican staples refried beans, fresh avocado and tortillas (my addition). The world of the burrito has never seen the like. Abraham breaks out his camping luxuries for the occasion—a short aluminum table, a foldable plastic serving spoon, and a titanium spork. A pair of osprey watches us from their nest in a nearby datilillo, or Joshua Tree. The nest is much bigger than the spindly, bent trunk should support, which makes it look like a Dr Seuss invention.
Darkness brings the setting of a red crescent moon, then photo sharing. On my camera, we see shots of Abraham surfing. On his phone/camera/marvel of technology, we see his entire trip. Stars revolve slowly past this private showing of a very publicized trip.
The image in my mind that exemplifies Abraham Levy will never be seen by any other. With my camera in my pocket, I paddle for my own survival as we leave The Wall the next morning. I summit a wave, slide down the backside, and look over my shoulder for Abraham. Through the crest of the wave bursts an orange and yellow streak, water streaming off as it soars completely airborne into the morning sunlight. This man has the muscle and grit to make his dreams fly.
Scale is deceiving on the water, especially with the low sunlight angle of winter. Abraham, with his poor eyesight, thinks the hazy distant point which alone populates our southern horizon, is Isla Cedros, some 60 NM away. I disagree. The day will reveal it as we get closer.
Intensive talk of day one diminishes, as it usually does. Spanish practice switches to English practice. Abraham fishes and catches some Sargasso, but no fish. The wind picks up and then dies back down. Still we paddle. A gull inspects us so closely I almost whack it with my paddle by accident.
Shore is over 2 miles away, and we are an island. The island sings. It sings poorly in English. It sings quite beautifully in Spanish. Traditional songs, sad songs. Sometimes the island is quiet and moves slowly along its course. “You don’t feel so far away when you paddle with someone else,” says Abraham. This is the first time he has paddled with someone on his entire trip.
The headland turns out not to be Isla Cedros, but Morro Santo Domingo, a long rocky point with several little sandy beaches near the mouth of Laguna Manuela. Most of the pocket beaches have big surf crashing onto them, but we work our way around into more protection and find the perfect one under the lighthouse, whose position is mismarked on my nautical chart. Everything about the beach is right. It faces south so we can see sunset, sunrise, and tomorrow’s paddling direction. The sand is clean and lovely for going barefoot. Red rocks embrace the evening sunlight with a most satisfying hue. The flat sand at the top of the beach is just large enough for two kayaks, two tents, and a common eating area. A trail leads up the hill to the lighthouse. And, for the businessman, signal for the phone and internet actually work for the first time in ten days. We can sit on the beach and GoogleEarth the upcoming coastline. Who needs those old-fashioned nautical charts?
It’s quite an undertaking, kayaking the whole coast of Mexico, especially solo. In the Caribbean Abraham had to shelter from hurricane winds in a patch of mangrove, constructing a platform above alligator-infested waters for the night. Further north on the Pacific he had to crash land through big surf when winds made it impossible to continue. But he’d never seen anything like the mouth of the Estero de San Jose. Our destination Guerrero Negro is situated inside this bay.
Estero San Jose is one of several lagoons along Baja’s Pacific coast, most famous for the gray whales that calve and mate here from January through March. Laguna Ojo de Liebre, Laguna San Ignacio, Bahia Magdelena.
As we approach Estero San Jose, the entire horizon is house-sized breakers. They tumble and tumble without getting closer to the coast. Two forces collide to make it thus: swell and current.
Earlier that morning could tell that the swell is building on our beach below the lighthouse by the tremendous crashing of waves on our eastern rocky point. “Such power without malice,” comments Abraham. “Beautiful.”
Paddling towards the boca, the entrance to the lagoon, we follow a compass bearing of 170 degrees. We need this reference because we can only see land occasionally, when we are on the crests of long swells. Even from the tops of waves, we can’t spot the 2-mile wide entrance because of the flatness of the sandy coast and the height of the breakers between us and there. The primary view is green, undulating sea, and each other. We won’t know until we check the online report in Guerrero Negro that the swell was 19-22’ on exposed NW-facing beaches, which this is.
Current is the other force. Living on the beach, in the surf, one gets in tune with the rhythm of tides. I didn’t have a tide chart, but could calculate that if we left the beach at our usual 9 or 10 am, we’d fight an increasing ebb current as we tried to enter the bay around 1 pm. Having had experience at the mouth of another Pacific lagoon, I suggest we aim to enter before 11am, and get an early morning start. Abraham is young and strong and does not need to plan around tides, so we leave at 10.
The bocas of Baja’s Pacific estuaries are notorious for their power and their shifty channels. I have the only nautical chart between us, and it shows four light towers, none of which still exist. This is the opening through which much of the world’s salt was once exported, so I envision something tamer, something less… well, less Baja. The horizon of tumbling white houses extends well over a mile out to sea. There is no visible channel of deeper smooth water. Breakers from the current meet the breakers along the sandy beach where more big swells trip over themselves and fall into a white froth. It’s a bit more than I have prepared myself for, so I adjust my mental calibration of “gnarly landing” as we approach. About then the wind begins building and pushing us shoreward.
“Plans?” I ask the man whose trip I have been invited on. He seems surprised by the question. “You’re the guide,” he says, as if my certifications mean more than his experience.
I have been working on a plan, which we both execute cleanly, though I wish for a ready camera once again and miss a fun shot of a small orange and yellow kayak in front of the open mouth of a hungry wave. Between sets of very big waves, I surf a shoulder-high one in to the shore. I look over the back of it and see that image, then hear the wave break, and see him skimming along broadside with a mighty fine brace keeping him just in front of its gnashing teeth. Once inside the bigger breakers, we paddle parallel to the smaller inshore waves for about 15 minutes until we think we see the entrance, take a quick look about from shore, and spot a channel to follow into the mouth. Mission accomplished, except for a few small breakers inside the mouth and 2 more hours of paddling against the current to meet David for our ride into town.
As it is with travelers, the sharing of a path, however briefly, has its influences. Abraham gleaned some skills along the way. For me, another piece of the Pacific coast is mapped in my mind. Before the forces of the sea, I am again as ever, humbled. Yet have gained in a feeling of peaceful confidence. I have been stretched and challenged and found myself capable, though at the end, mortally tired. The experience has broadened my awareness of what is and can be the business of kayaking, though to guard my heart and soul, I don’t even want to think about it. On some level I agree with Abraham’s uncle that you have to sell to succeed; I just don’t want to live my whole life that way. Not much of it at all, really.
Paddle on. May the sea be gentle with you!
Follow Abraham's trip at http://www.abrahamlevy.com
see photos at http://www.columbiariverkayaking.com/pixntales.html#grono
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
12-step Program for those aspiring to run a Mexican Kayak Company
1. Admit you have a problem.
2. Accept that the rules, requirements, and personnel responsible for them will change regularly.
3. The amount and consequences of the change will be proportional to how much time, energy, and resource you have already invested in doing things the old way.
4. Laugh.
5. Cry.
6. Comply.
7. Pay.
8. Borrow Money. (This step may precede step 7)
9. Learn that “mañana” does not mean the day following this one. It just means “certainly not today.”
10. Repeat steps 2-9.
11. Repeat steps 2-9 a few more times.
12. Review step 1.
Hi Friends & Family!
We’re actually hoping to cross the border today, for real, into Mexico with our kayaks and gear for the first Sea Kayak Baja Mexico season. We’ve been at the border for a week working on what we thought was already in order (really we knew it couldn’t possibly be that easy; we just didn’t know WHAT the challenges were going to be. This is what makes it so exciting!). We will gladly accept any prayers, good thoughts, sacrifices etc. that you may be willing to offer up in support of this folly. Repeat step 4 often!
Lots of love and good humor!
Ginni & David & 11 dusty kayaks
2. Accept that the rules, requirements, and personnel responsible for them will change regularly.
3. The amount and consequences of the change will be proportional to how much time, energy, and resource you have already invested in doing things the old way.
4. Laugh.
5. Cry.
6. Comply.
7. Pay.
8. Borrow Money. (This step may precede step 7)
9. Learn that “mañana” does not mean the day following this one. It just means “certainly not today.”
10. Repeat steps 2-9.
11. Repeat steps 2-9 a few more times.
12. Review step 1.
Hi Friends & Family!
We’re actually hoping to cross the border today, for real, into Mexico with our kayaks and gear for the first Sea Kayak Baja Mexico season. We’ve been at the border for a week working on what we thought was already in order (really we knew it couldn’t possibly be that easy; we just didn’t know WHAT the challenges were going to be. This is what makes it so exciting!). We will gladly accept any prayers, good thoughts, sacrifices etc. that you may be willing to offer up in support of this folly. Repeat step 4 often!
Lots of love and good humor!
Ginni & David & 11 dusty kayaks
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Swim
5/4/07
Baja Hwy 1
The challenge of forming a company in a foreign country where over half of the working population are civil employees supported by the fees, permits, registrations, and bribes of your tourist-based enterprise is taking its toll on both of us. Work up north is closing in from the other side. We leave our new Mexican partner with some alternatives to “just make it work for now and we’ll fix it right in November”, jump into the already packed Toyota Corolla and head out of Loreto just before sunset. Cue the dust, billowing backlit among cardon cacti as the car dwindles into the mountains. Pop in a tape that has “freedom” in the title of every song on it.
The immediacy and opportunity of the road infect our spirits with lightheartedness. We begin rebuilding positive momentum and the fundamental joy of simply being, and even being together.
Sunrise is a good start. We awake on Playa Escondida. A fat moon one day past full has marked time all flea-infested night and now waits over the western mountains. Under its light and the first blush of the coming sun I succumb to the desire to swim out to the nearest island in the glassy Sea of Cortez.
Leaving my towel and clothes just above the wet sand on the surf-softened shell fragments, I wade barefoot into the sea. It’s a little cool, but comfortable.
The surface of the water reflects the colors of the sky as they mature in to peachy orange and turquoise. I can see my hands extend in front of me under the diaphanous colors. The moon, too, floats behind a transparent curtain of water colors. Pink clouds waft across its bright face.
It feels good to move, stretch, loosen up after days of computer work, bending to pack, sitting in a car, and sleeping on a sloped beach. It feels particularly good to be gliding through the water as absolutely naked as I was born. No suit to billow in the water, no bulky mask to fog or grip my head. No fins to rub. Not even a hair band to keep the tresses from drifting across my back or under my arms on the crawl stroke. Just me and the sea and a brand new day.
I could see David walking the beach for interesting fragments from the sea or the indigenous people. It’s our new era—co-owning a Mexican company as a means to the dream of instructional sea kayak expeditions in Baja. Somehow the dreams are always cleaner than the work to birth them. If it were easy, would the accomplishment be so sweet? The challenge is to remain human and to stay in touch with the fundamental, simple pleasures of just being and being together in places that we love.
Baja Hwy 1
The challenge of forming a company in a foreign country where over half of the working population are civil employees supported by the fees, permits, registrations, and bribes of your tourist-based enterprise is taking its toll on both of us. Work up north is closing in from the other side. We leave our new Mexican partner with some alternatives to “just make it work for now and we’ll fix it right in November”, jump into the already packed Toyota Corolla and head out of Loreto just before sunset. Cue the dust, billowing backlit among cardon cacti as the car dwindles into the mountains. Pop in a tape that has “freedom” in the title of every song on it.
The immediacy and opportunity of the road infect our spirits with lightheartedness. We begin rebuilding positive momentum and the fundamental joy of simply being, and even being together.
Sunrise is a good start. We awake on Playa Escondida. A fat moon one day past full has marked time all flea-infested night and now waits over the western mountains. Under its light and the first blush of the coming sun I succumb to the desire to swim out to the nearest island in the glassy Sea of Cortez.
Leaving my towel and clothes just above the wet sand on the surf-softened shell fragments, I wade barefoot into the sea. It’s a little cool, but comfortable.
The surface of the water reflects the colors of the sky as they mature in to peachy orange and turquoise. I can see my hands extend in front of me under the diaphanous colors. The moon, too, floats behind a transparent curtain of water colors. Pink clouds waft across its bright face.
It feels good to move, stretch, loosen up after days of computer work, bending to pack, sitting in a car, and sleeping on a sloped beach. It feels particularly good to be gliding through the water as absolutely naked as I was born. No suit to billow in the water, no bulky mask to fog or grip my head. No fins to rub. Not even a hair band to keep the tresses from drifting across my back or under my arms on the crawl stroke. Just me and the sea and a brand new day.
I could see David walking the beach for interesting fragments from the sea or the indigenous people. It’s our new era—co-owning a Mexican company as a means to the dream of instructional sea kayak expeditions in Baja. Somehow the dreams are always cleaner than the work to birth them. If it were easy, would the accomplishment be so sweet? The challenge is to remain human and to stay in touch with the fundamental, simple pleasures of just being and being together in places that we love.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Last Islands Trip
Was it an omen when we discovered on the first night that we’d forgotten to pack the coffee? What could be worse to forget, except perhaps toilet paper? Or maybe the prevailing omen was one of resourcefulness and kindness when David paddled the coffee out to us the next morning through the rare Sea of Cortez fog.
I didn’t think about it until almost the end of the trip, but if plans hold their course, this was my last Sea of Cortez Islands trip that I will lead for my employers of 8 years, Sea Kayak Adventures. On this route I have spent most of my last 8 winters, on the beaches of Carmen and Danzante Islands. My next trip is the La Paz 10-day, and that’s it for the season. Next season I hope to be busy with my own trips in new areas, and gently close the book on an era of paddling giant double kayak/barges and making extravagant meals. A change to look forward to while still feeling nostalgic, and a little nervous about braving the new. But at the beginning of this trip, its significance had not yet dawned on me.
When my well-coffee’d group finally launched into the fog later that morning to skirt Danzante Island, we were accompanied by a pod of dolphins. They passed directly beneath some of the kayaks. Leisurely we cruised together along the rocky coastline while mystery clouds poured into the creases between hills. Fog played hide and seek with silhouettes of odd desert plants on the ridges. Dolphins stuck their noses in the air to look around. Slapped the water with their tails. Circled back with apparent curiosity. The white darkness of fog moved behind us on the water, and sun bathed our happy aquatic procession.
One afternoon on southern Carmen Island we all hiked inland from Playa Blanca to see if we could find the fabled Indian well. There is a shell midden at the beach being eroded by recent storms, and a guest on my trip years ago found an arrowhead on the beach. An Indian well would make sense here. Except for the flat marine shelf we were on, and the proximity of the sea. Curiosity had all of us in its grip, so we followed the south rim of the arroyo naming, photographing, fondling and sniffing plants along the way. The arroyo below us was thick with foliage. Mesquite trees and giant torote reached up to the level of the rim. Palo verde clung onto the sides tenaciously.
A little barrel cactus torn by some torrent or wind clung to the rim’s sharp soil by one filamentous root. One of our party wanted to pick it up and “save” it, though she didn’t know what she would do with it, exactly. That instinct to give suffering things a hug.
We were a group more experienced in administering hugs than kayaking. Eight women in or near their 60s, woven together by threads of friendship and friends of friends, though none knew everybody. Plus one young couple and a middle-aged pair of fun-loving best friends. Derek from the couple and our guide Mario were the only men, but they managed. The eight women were all fit and spirited. Well versed in rolling with the surprises of life. Motherhood, grandparenting for many, travels around the globe. At least two had fought breast cancer and won. Several owned their own businesses, one donating much to cancer research. Now they were tackling the new challenges of a kayak camping trip with grace and humor. For some it was their first time in a kayak, ever. And it was the first time for all of them on an archeological expedition to find an Indian well on a desert island.
Mario walked ahead, and called my name. I left the pitied barrel cactus and those who wanted to hug it and followed the sound of his voice. At the top of the pouroff, just above what would be the waterfall had there been water running, and overhung by trees, was a hole about 4 ft around with fine gravel at the bottom. Decades or centuries after its creation, after untold storms had carried debris into it, it was still deep enough to hold significant water after a storm. Mario lowered himself in, marking the depth, scientifically, at one Mario and a half.
On the fifth day we awoke after a full night of westerlies that had been preceded by southerlies, and both Mario & I suspected north wind within the next days. We changed plans. After a morning hike and early lunch, we crossed to the protection of Punta Coyote. Except Punta Coyote was occupied, so we continued to Rattlesnake Beach with a fun 10 knot following sea. The mesquite-bordered campsite at Rattlesnake where my friends Dan & Heather stayed two years ago was vacant, as was the entire south end of the popular RV beach. So we landed and made ourselves at home. So many layers of memory and experience there for me. Klaus & Parvin’s newly vacant site was the next one, where Derek and Michelle pitched their tent. Bunny put up her tent in the subtle arroyo mouth where David & I slept out on the beach together for the first time. Where the Giggle Girls pitched among the mangle dulce bushes, I used to park my truck when I left on short personal trips, except the year Paul and Alisa were camped there.
As we set up the kitchen in Dan & Heathers site, I wrapped myself happily in blankets of warm memory. Somebody requested for Happy Hour entertainment on our final evening together that Joan and I do some voice & flute duets. I put my flute together and was trying to remove enough popcorn from my teeth to play when I turned to see 3 people entering the edge of the campsite. I waved, then recognized them. Scott and Cara. And Hans! The one responsible for introducing me to kayaking and Baja ten years ago. The one whose fault I was here at all. The inspiration for this life I lead. This is the moment when the soundtrack should do something dramatic. These vortices of energy and time and people just don’t do this except in fiction.
I visited Hans and Scott and Cara that night after my crew had fallen asleep. We retold old stories and caught up on news till the southern cross and scorpius came up. A new memory to snuggle into and smile when the cold wind blows.
The next morning, as planned, and just after coffee was ready, Joan and I faced the Sea of Cortez where Danzante Island’s silhouette glowed pregnant with a sun about to rise, and we harmonized Morning Has Broken. She and I, both recent breast cancer survivors, shared that bond and a general affection for each other. We became one energy for a moment in the music and the first glow of morning. The sun peeked up, a reflection widened on the water, sparkled, and everything came together on this last morning, to the soundtrack of voice and flute.
Thus a magical ending of an era, and a fitting beginning of the next.
I didn’t think about it until almost the end of the trip, but if plans hold their course, this was my last Sea of Cortez Islands trip that I will lead for my employers of 8 years, Sea Kayak Adventures. On this route I have spent most of my last 8 winters, on the beaches of Carmen and Danzante Islands. My next trip is the La Paz 10-day, and that’s it for the season. Next season I hope to be busy with my own trips in new areas, and gently close the book on an era of paddling giant double kayak/barges and making extravagant meals. A change to look forward to while still feeling nostalgic, and a little nervous about braving the new. But at the beginning of this trip, its significance had not yet dawned on me.
When my well-coffee’d group finally launched into the fog later that morning to skirt Danzante Island, we were accompanied by a pod of dolphins. They passed directly beneath some of the kayaks. Leisurely we cruised together along the rocky coastline while mystery clouds poured into the creases between hills. Fog played hide and seek with silhouettes of odd desert plants on the ridges. Dolphins stuck their noses in the air to look around. Slapped the water with their tails. Circled back with apparent curiosity. The white darkness of fog moved behind us on the water, and sun bathed our happy aquatic procession.
One afternoon on southern Carmen Island we all hiked inland from Playa Blanca to see if we could find the fabled Indian well. There is a shell midden at the beach being eroded by recent storms, and a guest on my trip years ago found an arrowhead on the beach. An Indian well would make sense here. Except for the flat marine shelf we were on, and the proximity of the sea. Curiosity had all of us in its grip, so we followed the south rim of the arroyo naming, photographing, fondling and sniffing plants along the way. The arroyo below us was thick with foliage. Mesquite trees and giant torote reached up to the level of the rim. Palo verde clung onto the sides tenaciously.
A little barrel cactus torn by some torrent or wind clung to the rim’s sharp soil by one filamentous root. One of our party wanted to pick it up and “save” it, though she didn’t know what she would do with it, exactly. That instinct to give suffering things a hug.
We were a group more experienced in administering hugs than kayaking. Eight women in or near their 60s, woven together by threads of friendship and friends of friends, though none knew everybody. Plus one young couple and a middle-aged pair of fun-loving best friends. Derek from the couple and our guide Mario were the only men, but they managed. The eight women were all fit and spirited. Well versed in rolling with the surprises of life. Motherhood, grandparenting for many, travels around the globe. At least two had fought breast cancer and won. Several owned their own businesses, one donating much to cancer research. Now they were tackling the new challenges of a kayak camping trip with grace and humor. For some it was their first time in a kayak, ever. And it was the first time for all of them on an archeological expedition to find an Indian well on a desert island.
Mario walked ahead, and called my name. I left the pitied barrel cactus and those who wanted to hug it and followed the sound of his voice. At the top of the pouroff, just above what would be the waterfall had there been water running, and overhung by trees, was a hole about 4 ft around with fine gravel at the bottom. Decades or centuries after its creation, after untold storms had carried debris into it, it was still deep enough to hold significant water after a storm. Mario lowered himself in, marking the depth, scientifically, at one Mario and a half.
On the fifth day we awoke after a full night of westerlies that had been preceded by southerlies, and both Mario & I suspected north wind within the next days. We changed plans. After a morning hike and early lunch, we crossed to the protection of Punta Coyote. Except Punta Coyote was occupied, so we continued to Rattlesnake Beach with a fun 10 knot following sea. The mesquite-bordered campsite at Rattlesnake where my friends Dan & Heather stayed two years ago was vacant, as was the entire south end of the popular RV beach. So we landed and made ourselves at home. So many layers of memory and experience there for me. Klaus & Parvin’s newly vacant site was the next one, where Derek and Michelle pitched their tent. Bunny put up her tent in the subtle arroyo mouth where David & I slept out on the beach together for the first time. Where the Giggle Girls pitched among the mangle dulce bushes, I used to park my truck when I left on short personal trips, except the year Paul and Alisa were camped there.
As we set up the kitchen in Dan & Heathers site, I wrapped myself happily in blankets of warm memory. Somebody requested for Happy Hour entertainment on our final evening together that Joan and I do some voice & flute duets. I put my flute together and was trying to remove enough popcorn from my teeth to play when I turned to see 3 people entering the edge of the campsite. I waved, then recognized them. Scott and Cara. And Hans! The one responsible for introducing me to kayaking and Baja ten years ago. The one whose fault I was here at all. The inspiration for this life I lead. This is the moment when the soundtrack should do something dramatic. These vortices of energy and time and people just don’t do this except in fiction.
I visited Hans and Scott and Cara that night after my crew had fallen asleep. We retold old stories and caught up on news till the southern cross and scorpius came up. A new memory to snuggle into and smile when the cold wind blows.
The next morning, as planned, and just after coffee was ready, Joan and I faced the Sea of Cortez where Danzante Island’s silhouette glowed pregnant with a sun about to rise, and we harmonized Morning Has Broken. She and I, both recent breast cancer survivors, shared that bond and a general affection for each other. We became one energy for a moment in the music and the first glow of morning. The sun peeked up, a reflection widened on the water, sparkled, and everything came together on this last morning, to the soundtrack of voice and flute.
Thus a magical ending of an era, and a fitting beginning of the next.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Saved by a Leaky Boat
The trips began as most do, obediently following its itinerary. Then the wind picked up. This was a group with itchy feet, not wanting to sit on the beach, but preferring to challenge the wind. So, figuring we could always get back to Punta Coyote from Rattlesnake Beach, we cruised a mile downwind to walk a storm-scoured arroyo. The short paddle was in an area relatively protected by the hills of Puerto Escondido.
The excitement began when we launched to return. Digging into the wind was tougher than people expected, and after half an hour we’d put only a few hundred yards behind us. Some people were wearing down, and periodically somebody would lose their angle into the wind and struggle to turn back into it. I towed two doubles from the back of the group to the front, and looking at the big picture, decided it was time to surrender and take the group into the beach. Walking the kayaks up the beach was our pre-discussed back-up plan. The situation would be easier to control, and risks greatly reduced if we walked the kayaks up to the headland, then paddled the short, more protected crossing.
One guy in particular was upset and wanted to continue paddling, but the majority was relieved and saw the sense in it. Dan thought I was singling him out to go to the beach as a punishment for something since I sent him and his wife and their friends Chris and Regina in first, but they happened to be closest, and among the strongest, and I figured they could help others land if they were on shore. Discussion in the wind was not an option; it was one of those rare times for orders. He didn’t hesitate, but he sure got a lot of mileage out of grumbling about it afterwards!
All landed safely, we regrouped, briefed on safe walking of kayaks along the shore—keeping boat between self and shore, and not passing anyone in the line and in so doing putting them at risk of your kayak hitting them. Slowly, the parade progressed to the end of the beach, where a fateful green panga waited. A panga is an oversized rowboat with a motor used for fishing, tourism, and pretty much everything in Baja. Pangas are usually white with blue gunwales, but this one was painted green on the outside.
One gal was so pooped she wanted a hotel. No more wind, no more beach camping, no more paddling. So there were the 2 extremes: one wanted to keep paddling, and one wanted to go home. Friends of both told me later that they are just that way—one flighty and tried to cancel trip twice before it even began, and one (from New Jersey—I should make allowances) always challenging the “rules”. He was the one most often asked to put his shoes back on.
There we were in the wind, fifteen tired, hungry, paddlers facing a quarter mile more wind across the opening to Puerto Escondido. I was opening my mouth to organize a sheltered rest and gorp snack while the rest of my brain tackled the short crossing—partners to switch, strategies and angles… Lino caught me and said, “I know the guy who has that panga. We can find gas from someone on the beach, and take people to camp in the panga.”
I looked at the group, at the panga, and at the wind, and something clicked. To the group I announced, “We’re going to see if we can find gas for the panga while you rest.” A cheer went up. I suggested some places to sit out of the wind, and walked down the beach with Lino.
We chatted about options on the way. My raw left foot started to bleed from the rubbing of my sandal. Option one: We could haul the tired people in Panga, paddle the others, and then tow the kayaks. All that would take time and we’d be late for lunch with hungry tired people. I wasn’t sure about towing the kayaks—what damage we’d do in the wind. The trip was over the next day and we could get a pick-up right where the kayaks were if we wanted to keep the panga and ride out in the morning, which was option two. Or, option three, we could bring camp and lunch to the people where they sat on Rattlesnake beach. But there was no good place to camp where we were. And we did not want to retreat back down the beach to the open spaces and need to paddle back into the headwind again, with a forecast of stronger wind the next day.
Considering the forecast, the tiredness of the group, and all other factors, we decided on option two. Shuttle people, the rest of the food, and all loose gear back to camp in the panga in two shifts, and leave the kayaks in the care of the RVers “Honey Jim” and his wife, both kayakers themselves, and their Rottweiler dog. Back at camp there would be snorkeling opportunities and a single kayak to play with if people wanted in the afternoon.
I asked Lori to wait until after lunch to make a decision on leaving for a hotel. After lunch, Lori did still want a hotel if we could get a taxi and a ride out. We felt we needed to make one more trip back to the kayaks to close them up and tie them together just to feel better about leaving them, and we could take Lori and Glenda (who would go with Lori for support) to the ramp and call a taxi. We could also call SKA house to change our pickup location to Rattlesnake Beach. And make troops happy by bringing back some beer. This part was a secret.
The troops were crashed in their tents or sitting with a book or taking a relaxing walk along the coast. They were ready for some down time. We had challenged the conditions, and met our match. Spirits were generally good, except for grumbling Dan whom nobody took seriously anyway, least of all his wife who’d been in the front of his boat unable to open her eyes for the salt spray. Rest was welcome.
So Hilary held the beach front while I went with Lino and the girls, called a taxi, and walked with the girls to the beer store while we waited for the taxi. They said they’d had a great time, just were ready to sleep in a hotel and take a shower. One more night on the beach, they explained, couldn’t add any more to their experience. Sometimes I just don’t know what to believe about people!
There was beer at the store (which there hadn’t been the afternoon before when Lino and Jim paddled for it), and I sent beer, ice, and the girls in the taxi, which arrived as we reached the store, back to the ramp to deliver beer and pick up the girls’ stuff. I asked the taxi driver to take them to Hacienda Suites, but wait to make sure they had rooms there, or take them to a place with room availability.
Then I ran next door to the internet room to call for the Rattlesnake Beach pickup the next day, and began running back to the ramp. I hailed a passing VW van of yachters for a ride back, met Lino at the ramp, rode to Rattlesnake Beach to close and tie up the kayaks, then quickly back to the group on Punta Coyote. The afternoon jaunt was a mini-adventure involving a panga ride, walking, running, a taxi, and hitchhiking, all in the space of an hour and a half.
The New Jersey contingent of our group, up from their naps, was walking towards the lighthouse when we returned in the panga. We exchanged waves, then continued on to land at the beach, brought up the beer and ice, and got the lowdown on the walkers. Julie, one of our sprightly old ladies, had walked that way while the others napped. She came back reporting that she’d walked around to the side where the yachts anchored, and successfully begged a beer.
“Did you have to show your boobies?” one of the Jersey girls asked.
“Yeah, but you’ll do much better with yours because they’re young and perky,” Julie replied.
Upon hearing that report, the Jersey crew started their hike, wives in tow. That’s when we returned with our surprise cold beer for Julie, the big storyteller, to enjoy first while we laughed at the gullibility of the others and what they would do for a cold brew.
The next morning we panga’d people and gear out in three trips, the first of which I went on, helped unload gear, and rode back with Lino to facilitate the next trip. On the return, at his request, I sat up front to keep the bow down while Lino captained. The early morning sun gilded his straw hat, strap hooked under his brown chin. His full lips were relaxed but stoic, eyes obscured behind sunglasses--mirrors of the morning. Behind him the spray from our boat arched, our white trail stretched through the whitecaps, the red mountains rose impartial. Behind the last light blue bench seat Lino’s sandaled feet stood ankle deep or more in water that was geysering up from the thumb-sized hole and numerous pin-pricks in the bottom. As the captain steered with one hand, his face and manner intent on the horizon, the weather, the future, and all things pertinent to the sea and sky, his other hand scooped water and flung, scooped and flung with a homemade bleach-bottle bailer.
The juxtaposition of chaos and calm, all contained in the light blue interior of our vessel, a cradle in the storm with its dark blue gunwales somehow delineating this patch of peace in the midst of a storm, became not a juxtaposition at all, but a small perfect piece of a larger picture. It was a microcosm of our situation. The team of Lino, Hilary and myself, with the helpful hands of our guests, worked together to execute the ever evolving plan (Plan Q are we up to now?) Managing resources, people, and time, with the wind whipping around our heads and somehow a core of quiet from which we reach out to steer, look ahead, and bail the leaky rescue boat. A metaphor of life itself.
So that was the exciting ending to a memorable trip that also involved the capsize of a guide in a double on a crossing (and uneventful rescue), being followed by a film crew in an inflatable as we landed from that crossing, and seeing a 10’ shark from a hillside on the final morning’s hike. And people wonder how it doesn’t get boring after ten years of guiding here!
Paddle On!
Ginni
The excitement began when we launched to return. Digging into the wind was tougher than people expected, and after half an hour we’d put only a few hundred yards behind us. Some people were wearing down, and periodically somebody would lose their angle into the wind and struggle to turn back into it. I towed two doubles from the back of the group to the front, and looking at the big picture, decided it was time to surrender and take the group into the beach. Walking the kayaks up the beach was our pre-discussed back-up plan. The situation would be easier to control, and risks greatly reduced if we walked the kayaks up to the headland, then paddled the short, more protected crossing.
One guy in particular was upset and wanted to continue paddling, but the majority was relieved and saw the sense in it. Dan thought I was singling him out to go to the beach as a punishment for something since I sent him and his wife and their friends Chris and Regina in first, but they happened to be closest, and among the strongest, and I figured they could help others land if they were on shore. Discussion in the wind was not an option; it was one of those rare times for orders. He didn’t hesitate, but he sure got a lot of mileage out of grumbling about it afterwards!
All landed safely, we regrouped, briefed on safe walking of kayaks along the shore—keeping boat between self and shore, and not passing anyone in the line and in so doing putting them at risk of your kayak hitting them. Slowly, the parade progressed to the end of the beach, where a fateful green panga waited. A panga is an oversized rowboat with a motor used for fishing, tourism, and pretty much everything in Baja. Pangas are usually white with blue gunwales, but this one was painted green on the outside.
One gal was so pooped she wanted a hotel. No more wind, no more beach camping, no more paddling. So there were the 2 extremes: one wanted to keep paddling, and one wanted to go home. Friends of both told me later that they are just that way—one flighty and tried to cancel trip twice before it even began, and one (from New Jersey—I should make allowances) always challenging the “rules”. He was the one most often asked to put his shoes back on.
There we were in the wind, fifteen tired, hungry, paddlers facing a quarter mile more wind across the opening to Puerto Escondido. I was opening my mouth to organize a sheltered rest and gorp snack while the rest of my brain tackled the short crossing—partners to switch, strategies and angles… Lino caught me and said, “I know the guy who has that panga. We can find gas from someone on the beach, and take people to camp in the panga.”
I looked at the group, at the panga, and at the wind, and something clicked. To the group I announced, “We’re going to see if we can find gas for the panga while you rest.” A cheer went up. I suggested some places to sit out of the wind, and walked down the beach with Lino.
We chatted about options on the way. My raw left foot started to bleed from the rubbing of my sandal. Option one: We could haul the tired people in Panga, paddle the others, and then tow the kayaks. All that would take time and we’d be late for lunch with hungry tired people. I wasn’t sure about towing the kayaks—what damage we’d do in the wind. The trip was over the next day and we could get a pick-up right where the kayaks were if we wanted to keep the panga and ride out in the morning, which was option two. Or, option three, we could bring camp and lunch to the people where they sat on Rattlesnake beach. But there was no good place to camp where we were. And we did not want to retreat back down the beach to the open spaces and need to paddle back into the headwind again, with a forecast of stronger wind the next day.
Considering the forecast, the tiredness of the group, and all other factors, we decided on option two. Shuttle people, the rest of the food, and all loose gear back to camp in the panga in two shifts, and leave the kayaks in the care of the RVers “Honey Jim” and his wife, both kayakers themselves, and their Rottweiler dog. Back at camp there would be snorkeling opportunities and a single kayak to play with if people wanted in the afternoon.
I asked Lori to wait until after lunch to make a decision on leaving for a hotel. After lunch, Lori did still want a hotel if we could get a taxi and a ride out. We felt we needed to make one more trip back to the kayaks to close them up and tie them together just to feel better about leaving them, and we could take Lori and Glenda (who would go with Lori for support) to the ramp and call a taxi. We could also call SKA house to change our pickup location to Rattlesnake Beach. And make troops happy by bringing back some beer. This part was a secret.
The troops were crashed in their tents or sitting with a book or taking a relaxing walk along the coast. They were ready for some down time. We had challenged the conditions, and met our match. Spirits were generally good, except for grumbling Dan whom nobody took seriously anyway, least of all his wife who’d been in the front of his boat unable to open her eyes for the salt spray. Rest was welcome.
So Hilary held the beach front while I went with Lino and the girls, called a taxi, and walked with the girls to the beer store while we waited for the taxi. They said they’d had a great time, just were ready to sleep in a hotel and take a shower. One more night on the beach, they explained, couldn’t add any more to their experience. Sometimes I just don’t know what to believe about people!
There was beer at the store (which there hadn’t been the afternoon before when Lino and Jim paddled for it), and I sent beer, ice, and the girls in the taxi, which arrived as we reached the store, back to the ramp to deliver beer and pick up the girls’ stuff. I asked the taxi driver to take them to Hacienda Suites, but wait to make sure they had rooms there, or take them to a place with room availability.
Then I ran next door to the internet room to call for the Rattlesnake Beach pickup the next day, and began running back to the ramp. I hailed a passing VW van of yachters for a ride back, met Lino at the ramp, rode to Rattlesnake Beach to close and tie up the kayaks, then quickly back to the group on Punta Coyote. The afternoon jaunt was a mini-adventure involving a panga ride, walking, running, a taxi, and hitchhiking, all in the space of an hour and a half.
The New Jersey contingent of our group, up from their naps, was walking towards the lighthouse when we returned in the panga. We exchanged waves, then continued on to land at the beach, brought up the beer and ice, and got the lowdown on the walkers. Julie, one of our sprightly old ladies, had walked that way while the others napped. She came back reporting that she’d walked around to the side where the yachts anchored, and successfully begged a beer.
“Did you have to show your boobies?” one of the Jersey girls asked.
“Yeah, but you’ll do much better with yours because they’re young and perky,” Julie replied.
Upon hearing that report, the Jersey crew started their hike, wives in tow. That’s when we returned with our surprise cold beer for Julie, the big storyteller, to enjoy first while we laughed at the gullibility of the others and what they would do for a cold brew.
The next morning we panga’d people and gear out in three trips, the first of which I went on, helped unload gear, and rode back with Lino to facilitate the next trip. On the return, at his request, I sat up front to keep the bow down while Lino captained. The early morning sun gilded his straw hat, strap hooked under his brown chin. His full lips were relaxed but stoic, eyes obscured behind sunglasses--mirrors of the morning. Behind him the spray from our boat arched, our white trail stretched through the whitecaps, the red mountains rose impartial. Behind the last light blue bench seat Lino’s sandaled feet stood ankle deep or more in water that was geysering up from the thumb-sized hole and numerous pin-pricks in the bottom. As the captain steered with one hand, his face and manner intent on the horizon, the weather, the future, and all things pertinent to the sea and sky, his other hand scooped water and flung, scooped and flung with a homemade bleach-bottle bailer.
The juxtaposition of chaos and calm, all contained in the light blue interior of our vessel, a cradle in the storm with its dark blue gunwales somehow delineating this patch of peace in the midst of a storm, became not a juxtaposition at all, but a small perfect piece of a larger picture. It was a microcosm of our situation. The team of Lino, Hilary and myself, with the helpful hands of our guests, worked together to execute the ever evolving plan (Plan Q are we up to now?) Managing resources, people, and time, with the wind whipping around our heads and somehow a core of quiet from which we reach out to steer, look ahead, and bail the leaky rescue boat. A metaphor of life itself.
So that was the exciting ending to a memorable trip that also involved the capsize of a guide in a double on a crossing (and uneventful rescue), being followed by a film crew in an inflatable as we landed from that crossing, and seeing a 10’ shark from a hillside on the final morning’s hike. And people wonder how it doesn’t get boring after ten years of guiding here!
Paddle On!
Ginni
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Wandering
Surf Camp, January 2007
I set out along the road at a jog. I set out into the wilderness, the road being only the memory of passing tires on impressionable desert soil. Beyond the road the influences of consequence are wind and the paws of coyotes, whose tracks are then erased by wind. Sand piles up behind low shrubs, drifts in waves into ravines. It sorts into ripples and stripes of graytone, and remembers passing mice until the wind rearranges all.
There are also decomposing piles of shells from indigenous people long ago. All living things, in their task of being alive, move resources from one place to another, in their hands, their bellies, their shovels, or with their orders. The indigenous people pulled shells from the sea, ate the fleshy manufacturers of those shells, abalone, clam, sea snail, limpet, and mussel. They left shell heaps that are now, two hundred years after the last clamshell was scraped of its flesh and tossed away, composting into mounds of calcium-rich earth. Plants grow out of the gray, fragment-littered ground.
Landscape passes at a slow trot. Sharp contrast of red hills and blue sky. In the distance, the sea dances white with wind and sun. Here it feels like wilderness. Like I am far from what gives modern humans the leverage to make indelible marks on landscape, make disproportionately huge movements in resources. Yet the simple movement of shells still shows, and I accept that this is just the way of things. Everything matters. And everything, eventually, is forgotten.
It feels good to wander. My feet mock intent, and turn left on a coyote trail, or follow a volcanic intrusion to the edge of the sea, or leap across low shrubbery and rocks in a straight line towards some unknown magnet only to turn again and follow the twisting rise and drop of the coastal trail. This feels alive in a way no obedient jog on the island road back “home” can be. There is something fundamental in wandering solo and totally unfettered by expectation (except eventual return).
I identify with the rocks beneath my feet and the wind in my ears. Minerals and matter that makes me was once rock, and will be again. With the wind I share breath and movement and cycles of in and out, draw and relax.
There is perspective in seeing only earth and sea and sky. In hearing only surf and wind and birds. In feeling the cool and warm of wind and sun. There is perspective in the endurance of the shell piles of the indigenous people. Simplicity and legacy; stories left by stone tools, hunger, and ingenuity.
It is human to wonder at ones own legacy and the frame of its endurance: the life span of friends and family? The decay of a homestead? The life of a tree? The time of literacy in a given language? The weathering of a rock? The recognition of a geologic deposit from some resource displaced? The survival of a species? The half-life of plastic and its determination to float in circles on the sea?
It is human, too, to ponder the value of a legacy at all. And the unavoidability of it. My legacy this week will be carved in the face of a wave. It lives but a moment and crashes on the sand. My legacy this hour is set one footfall at a time into the rocks and soil of a tiny coastal mountain range. My legacy today will be the sum of what I own divided by the total of my days, and the landfill it will eventually occupy.
Being out here makes me want to reduce that sum and allow more for wandering. For coming home into the freedom of spirit and feet. Being out here makes me thankful that I’m here at all, and in this moment, all else pales.
Paddle on, my Friends!
Ginni
I set out along the road at a jog. I set out into the wilderness, the road being only the memory of passing tires on impressionable desert soil. Beyond the road the influences of consequence are wind and the paws of coyotes, whose tracks are then erased by wind. Sand piles up behind low shrubs, drifts in waves into ravines. It sorts into ripples and stripes of graytone, and remembers passing mice until the wind rearranges all.
There are also decomposing piles of shells from indigenous people long ago. All living things, in their task of being alive, move resources from one place to another, in their hands, their bellies, their shovels, or with their orders. The indigenous people pulled shells from the sea, ate the fleshy manufacturers of those shells, abalone, clam, sea snail, limpet, and mussel. They left shell heaps that are now, two hundred years after the last clamshell was scraped of its flesh and tossed away, composting into mounds of calcium-rich earth. Plants grow out of the gray, fragment-littered ground.
Landscape passes at a slow trot. Sharp contrast of red hills and blue sky. In the distance, the sea dances white with wind and sun. Here it feels like wilderness. Like I am far from what gives modern humans the leverage to make indelible marks on landscape, make disproportionately huge movements in resources. Yet the simple movement of shells still shows, and I accept that this is just the way of things. Everything matters. And everything, eventually, is forgotten.
It feels good to wander. My feet mock intent, and turn left on a coyote trail, or follow a volcanic intrusion to the edge of the sea, or leap across low shrubbery and rocks in a straight line towards some unknown magnet only to turn again and follow the twisting rise and drop of the coastal trail. This feels alive in a way no obedient jog on the island road back “home” can be. There is something fundamental in wandering solo and totally unfettered by expectation (except eventual return).
I identify with the rocks beneath my feet and the wind in my ears. Minerals and matter that makes me was once rock, and will be again. With the wind I share breath and movement and cycles of in and out, draw and relax.
There is perspective in seeing only earth and sea and sky. In hearing only surf and wind and birds. In feeling the cool and warm of wind and sun. There is perspective in the endurance of the shell piles of the indigenous people. Simplicity and legacy; stories left by stone tools, hunger, and ingenuity.
It is human to wonder at ones own legacy and the frame of its endurance: the life span of friends and family? The decay of a homestead? The life of a tree? The time of literacy in a given language? The weathering of a rock? The recognition of a geologic deposit from some resource displaced? The survival of a species? The half-life of plastic and its determination to float in circles on the sea?
It is human, too, to ponder the value of a legacy at all. And the unavoidability of it. My legacy this week will be carved in the face of a wave. It lives but a moment and crashes on the sand. My legacy this hour is set one footfall at a time into the rocks and soil of a tiny coastal mountain range. My legacy today will be the sum of what I own divided by the total of my days, and the landfill it will eventually occupy.
Being out here makes me want to reduce that sum and allow more for wandering. For coming home into the freedom of spirit and feet. Being out here makes me thankful that I’m here at all, and in this moment, all else pales.
Paddle on, my Friends!
Ginni
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Notes from the journey south.
My Dad once said that flying a jet entailed hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer panic. Driving I-5 can be like that, too. Hours of monotony through Oregon, and then we got a motel for the night in Medford, OR instead of tackling the icy Siskiyou pass in the dark. (Sheer panic averted). Sixteen mostly boring hours after starting out the next morning we found another motel near Hemet, CA. Not that we intended on going that far; we just couldn’t find a motel cheap enough for our tastes! On that stretch, however, we met our one big drama of the trip so far.
The gas gauge doesn’t work in our ‘87 Toyota Corolla, so we measure our gas needs by the trip odometer. Normally you can count on at least 300 miles to the 10 gallon tank. We’ve never loaded the car this full, though. Seven medium sized totes, six small totes, a car repair kit, one full size backpack, two small backpacks, a soft cooler, two kayaks, and a surfboard. Then there was the little or squishy stuff wedged in cracks: a pillow, an accordion, shoes, water bottles, jackets, a stuffed moose, and a stuffed seal.
On the first tank of the trip, the low fuel light came on at just 277 miles. Over the pass it lit up shortly after 250. In southern CA, everybody drives 80, so we went with the flow. In a long stretch of nothing, shortly after dark, the fuel light came on at just 245 miles. The main odometer was also about 7 miles from turning 200,000 miles. The race was on. What would happen first—would we run out of gas, turn 200,000, or find a gas station?
David dropped the speed to about 60, and we counted down. Passed an exit with no facilities. Next exit had fuel, but 2 miles away, according to the sign; most likely on Hwy 14 which was about to meet up with I-5 a few miles ahead. Odometer reading: 199,997.5. “Squeaky”, as we’ve taken to calling the little car on account of its noisy belt, hummed and squeaked all the way to the gas station like a champ! We put 10.4 gallons into a 10 gallon tank, and turned the odometer 200,000 on the on-ramp to Hwy 14 South.
Now we’re in Imperial Beach, staying at David’s roommate’s place which overlooks the Tijuana Estuary and beyond that, Mexico. Projects include changing Squeaky’s oil, re-roofing the addition to David’s mom’s house, outfitting some new-to-us kayaks, and other odd stuff. Estimated departure for Mexico—Tuesday.
Paddle on!
Ginni
The gas gauge doesn’t work in our ‘87 Toyota Corolla, so we measure our gas needs by the trip odometer. Normally you can count on at least 300 miles to the 10 gallon tank. We’ve never loaded the car this full, though. Seven medium sized totes, six small totes, a car repair kit, one full size backpack, two small backpacks, a soft cooler, two kayaks, and a surfboard. Then there was the little or squishy stuff wedged in cracks: a pillow, an accordion, shoes, water bottles, jackets, a stuffed moose, and a stuffed seal.
On the first tank of the trip, the low fuel light came on at just 277 miles. Over the pass it lit up shortly after 250. In southern CA, everybody drives 80, so we went with the flow. In a long stretch of nothing, shortly after dark, the fuel light came on at just 245 miles. The main odometer was also about 7 miles from turning 200,000 miles. The race was on. What would happen first—would we run out of gas, turn 200,000, or find a gas station?
David dropped the speed to about 60, and we counted down. Passed an exit with no facilities. Next exit had fuel, but 2 miles away, according to the sign; most likely on Hwy 14 which was about to meet up with I-5 a few miles ahead. Odometer reading: 199,997.5. “Squeaky”, as we’ve taken to calling the little car on account of its noisy belt, hummed and squeaked all the way to the gas station like a champ! We put 10.4 gallons into a 10 gallon tank, and turned the odometer 200,000 on the on-ramp to Hwy 14 South.
Now we’re in Imperial Beach, staying at David’s roommate’s place which overlooks the Tijuana Estuary and beyond that, Mexico. Projects include changing Squeaky’s oil, re-roofing the addition to David’s mom’s house, outfitting some new-to-us kayaks, and other odd stuff. Estimated departure for Mexico—Tuesday.
Paddle on!
Ginni
Friday, December 29, 2006
Amazon Pirate
Not much reliable history has survived about the Amazons, so it is not surprising that some fringe elements escaped till now.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Freedom Report
News the other day was good. No chemo, no radiation. Baja bound in 3-4 weeks! I’ve got an appointment Jan 9 with an oncologist to discuss “adjuvant” therapy, a word with too many harsh sounding consonants to actually sound therapeutic. I guess that is appropriate, though, as the most common prescription is a five-year course of hormone blocking Tamoxafin, which brings on artificial menopause and other fun things.
In a week the surgeon will remove the rest of my staples. At the last appointment she removed the drain tube (ahhh), but not before we got a good laugh out of it. The perforated drain tube runs internally for about 12 inches around the perimeter of the surgery site, then exits through a hole. From there a non-perforated tube hangs loose and ends in a fist-sized plastic collection pouch which safety pins to the attractive purple tube top I’ve been sporting for a week.
In the doctor’s office, I was instructed to undress and drape myself with some pastel shred of cloth. I had nowhere to pin the pouch… except for that one remaining nipple. Not wanting to be that drastic, I wedged the safety pin on there so it looked pierced, but wasn’t. Perfect fit. David agreed we should see what reaction we got out of my friendly surgeon. We were not disappointed.
Upon lifting back the cloth to inspect the healing process, she gasped and covered her eyes. I demonstrated that it wasn’t pierced by removing it. Still in shock, but laughing with the rest of us, she said, “My god! I knew you were tough but I didn’t know you were that tough!” I assured her that I’m not. We all giggled about it for some time. She was kind enough to remove the tube and some staples anyway.
As you can probably tell, I’m feeling quite good. Getting spunkier by the day. I went outside to do some light farm work yesterday when a scrap of sunshine broke through. Although we have some more doctor visits ahead, I feel the Baja momentum start to pull, and am drawn into its energy. Or maybe it’s Mom’s Christmas cookies that are bringing on the energy! If you’re around and want to come by for a sample, come quick!
As always, thank you for the prayers, healing thoughts, and good energy you’re sending my way. I don’t know how to prove or quantify it, but I am confident that it has been essential. Healing starts in the spirit!
Paddle on!
Ginni
PS I’m trying to sell one of the wooden kayaks I built, if anyone knows anyone interested.
Sales pitch--
“Well made Pygmy Arctic Tern 17’ with hatches and bulkheads, deck lines, and padded thigh braces. Seal Line rudder with solid, gas-pedal style foot pedals (operated with toes while the foot remains stationary). Custom touches such as mahogany tension rounds on hatch covers and matching, fiberglassed-on, pad eyes (the “inchworms” that hold on the bungees & deck line). Matching mahogany end toggles, too. Complete deck rigging for safety. $2,400. Parting with it because I could use the $$. Also available nice fiberglass Werner paddle $170 (230cm, big blade). Located on
Monday, December 18, 2006
Unwrapping
Dec 18 2006
I was an oversized Christmas present bound in a retro purple floral tube top, and it was time to unwrap. We waited till dark so I could see my reflection in the picture window since we don’t have a mirror in here. I turned up the heat, and David put on some sultry strip tease music. When faced with a lack of options, celebrate the one!
Off came the warm fleece with a shimmy of the shoulders. Around in a circle it twirled, and launched in a direction away from the propane heater. Then the long sleeved T-shirt. Ahh, there was the lovely tube top with drain tube and receptacle pinned to it. After repining the drain to my sweats, I seductively pulled open that luscious Velcro, slowly, slowly, with flirtatious glances at David, who ultimately helped me with the satiny shoulder straps and the gauze packing.
And there was our first full view of the work of that talented flesh artist, my surgeon. A line of gathered and stapled skin ran from just off my sternum to a few inches below my armpit in the subtlest of s-curves. A few inches down my side, the drain tube exited a tight hole in my body, secured there with one loop of thread through the skin next to it.
In this unveiling, we were the fortunate heirs of information from many who’d experienced it before. We’d heard how traumatic this first look can be, and we waited until we both felt ready. We’d talked in the days before, speculated, joked, peeked at the first few staples, and I’d run my hand over part of the new flatness to combat itchiness. We were as mentally ready as we could be.
We looked in the window-reflection, took close-up photos so I could see different angles, counted the 20 staples, tried my arm through a range of motion, studied the pattern of purple-yellow bruises, traced where the drain tube went under the skin, admired how smoothly the skin came together, and probed where the missing nerves interrupted the sensation of touch. Best of all, I got a thorough back scratch with the tube top gone.
“What do you think,” David asked about this marvel of modern medicine, my new body.
I grinned and said, “It’s pretty cool!”
…..
I am being sustained by the prayers and good energy of family and friends, and I thank you more than I can say with words.
Paddle on!
Ginni
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Self portrait 4 days after surgery
Dec 16 2006
If I were to do a glue-together sketch of myself with photos clipped out of National Geographic, I’d start with a big oxbow bend of the
I haven’t actually looked at the whole picture yet, just seen glimpses of the incision edges stapled together, peeked at the tight bruised skin above the staples, and felt where the drain tube comes out under my arm. Unless I suspect infection, which I don’t, I’m in no hurry to unwrap the new me.
More interestingly, there was 40’ swell forecast on the coast yesterday, and the stormy winds had passed. David and I drove to the mouth of the
Surrounded by spruce and the sound of surf and the smells of damp forest, I knew the decisions had been the right ones. Three days after surgery I was back where I wanted to be—outside under my own power. Thus, the oxbow smile today!
releasing the storm
Dec 15 2006
The storm hit in early evening with enough ferocity to make a 1-story cinderblock building tremble. Winds picked up as night enveloped the farm. The breeze found its way in the cracks, and candles fluttered. I held my breath for the impending power outage, then laughed because the power was already out.
Dusk had seen cedar shingles flying off the barn. Imagination had beams sailing overhead in dark. David went out to check on things and was gone a long time.
My bandage was irritating. I tried to scratch lightly underneath it. Felt corrugated ribs. Found where the drain tube entered, then followed it as it slithered along under the skin. My hand headed towards the stapled incision and a gust picked up. The building trembled, tarp flapped on the stove outside. The roof rumbled. My insides tensed as if trying to hold the roof on with willpower.
Late in the darkness came tragic thumping on the roof. A single thump at first, vibrating the building. Organic, like perhaps the owl had gotten blown from her barn perch and splattered on the milk room lid. Then multiple thumps. My mind ran out of owls and pictured shingles from the barn roof. Or clumps of grass ripped from the earth itself and launched upon the roof in a great muddy impact.
Winds rent the night as I sat with flickering candlelight in an unknown body-machine, mysterious beneath an itchy bandage. Curious and not curious at the same time. The picture window showed, in place of the farm, a darkened, rain-streaked image of my own face.
I could use that window and watch my reflection unpackage itself. Part of the primal, unfathomed night. The shuddering room, the womb. Splitting cocoon to reveal metallic, foreign newness. I started to peel the bandage.
I could do it. I could peel back that bandage, and a crack of lightening might rip the darkness. Might reveal the hands of Dr Frankenstein on the other side of the glass, working at my reflection with rusty tools. Hacking, sewing. Hair mad in the storm. Then darkness again. And the wolves of wind.
They leapt and chewed ravenously. Block walls hummed like a wingless 747 preparing for takeoff. Preparing to break the binds of gravity, headlong and wild.
Arrows of rain rattletattled on the roof and windows.
In the end, I didn’t do it. I left the mystery and the drama. I left the bandage, and slept in the surrender of exhaustion. Whatever pieces were left, we’d gather them in the light of morning.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The new adventure
The adventure is not always what you anticipate. In a slight detour, our kayak guide is temporarily experimenting with breast cancer. Here are some updates:
December 7
Requiem for Lefty
We’re celebrating tonight, though it feels funny to celebrate an impending mastectomy. The pathology report from last week’s biopsy led two doctors from two separate facilities to recommend a simple mastectomy without radiation, with chances of needing chemotherapy extremely unlikely. Both said I should be able to head to
I was so happy when we got home that I dragged David on a frolicking sprint over our jogging course :) For the first time since biopsy surgery last week, I feel like myself—I have energy! Whether last week’s slog was the weight of the unknown or simply recovery time, I don’t know and don’t really care. It’s past.
I’ll be having a mastectomy on Dec 12, with first follow-up visit on Dec 20. I will be able to rule out the minute chance of chemo for sure Dec 20. I’ll probably have drain tubes in place for about 3 weeks the Doc says, which would end early January. Then more visits to determine if I should start hormone treatment, and how I take to it, if so. Early Feb I’ll get back in shape physically, and head down to
David is staying here with me, helping and inspiring in so many ways. We’ll travel south together as soon as I’m ready. I’m very thankful to be such a lucky gal!
I know the road isn’t over; it’s just begun, but I want to thank everyone who’s sent a thought or prayer or informative, encouraging word, or offers to help in various ways. One thing I feel more than ever is the connection with loved ones, a strong community of family and friends.
In case you’re interested, the pathology details are as follows: Ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS, a non-invasive cancer limited to duct tissue) extending beyond the limits of the biopsy sample in all directions. Because they don’t know the extent to which the cancer has followed the ductal system, they recommend mastectomy over a kind of blind lumpectomy. I’m comfortable with that.
In a way I’m lucky because this kind of cancer rarely makes a detectable lump or anything visible on mammogram or ultrasound, but I happened to have a cyst in that area which the doctors investigated sufficiently to discover this. They were surprised at the report because the two are not necessarily related. Being an aggressive DCIS, the doctor believes it was a matter of time before it managed to metastasize to other places. We will monitor the other half of my early warning system, Righty, over the years.
Because my personal goals are long term health and high level of function achieved as soon as possible and as simply as possible, I am opting not to pursue reconstructive surgery at this time, possibly never. It is most important to me to be active and strong, and if I look a little lopsided, well, that’s just character, isn’t it? I wonder if I could get away with wearing half a bikini top like a pirate’s eye patch?
Thanks for all your care and support.
Paddle on!
Ginni
Dec 12
The Pirate Emerges from
Back from surgery, a little lighter. Good spirits and ability to get around. Ran into paddling buddy Dan Haghighi as we were entering the hospital this morning. Just happens that he’s chair of surgical dept there. He told my docs to take extra good care, and checked in on me throughout the day, which was a wonderful reassurance and pick-me-up!
There had been some miscommunication in advance about pre-surgery time and procedure so that I missed having a radioactive tracer injected to aid in locating my sentinel lymph nodes for biopsy, but after consultation with my surgeon, whom I’ve come to know and trust throughout this whole journey, we decided to proceed as planned. The nodes were located with blue dye and all went fine. Blue urine afterwards was a little surprising until I remembered why!
I remember two things as I was waking up, but can’t recall which was first. One was Dr Dan touching my left hand and talking to me in a reassuring way. The other was waking up with a realization of what had just happened and feeling tremendous grief whereupon a nurse placed a tissue in my right hand. In a few moments I noticed a giant poster of what looked like a lush version of Baja on the wall with palm trees and a white beach, then surprisingly I noticed it again a few moments later, and realized my mind wasn’t as sharp as I thought it was.
Within moments I was in Recovery 2, the second stage, with David by my side. The surgery and recovery took about an hour 30, less than expected. Recovery 2 took about an hour as I battled nausea and a shaking of the legs when I’d let my body tense, which it wanted to do. If I consciously relaxed the shaking stopped. David read to me from the newspaper then from the book Five Acres and
We’re home now, in the milk room of the old barn, with heaters and bolero music and warm soup and cornbread from my neighbors the Stockhouses. I’m very thankful for them and all the wonderful friends, neighbors, and family who have all been generous in so many ways!
Thanks so much for all your care and encouragement!
Paddle on!
Ginni
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Goodbye party at the office
Dec 13 2006
A banner hung over the doorway. “Goodbye Lefty” All the body parts milled about the refreshment table. Lefty’s partner and best friend Righty had just finished making the farewell speech.
“Lefty, my bosom buddy, I’ll miss you terribly! I’ll have to keep abreast of matters by myself.”
Applause followed, and cries of “Goodbye Lefty, we’ll miss you, see you in the great by-and-by!”
But at the refreshment table the mustard heard other mutterings. Right Knee asked Left Knee, “Did you know Lefty very well?”
“No, just an occasional visit when the old boob stooped to say hello.”
Left Foot, who was prone to grumbling about his job as well as making odd rhymes, said, “That’s a little less weight I’ll have to freight, not that Lefty was ever too hefty.”
The Eyes, twins who never did anything independently, rolled together upon overhearing Left Foot. They agreed that the view would be different without Lefty in the picture, and would take some getting used to.
Gall Bladder was experimenting heavily with intoxicating concoctions and grew loose in the tongue. “Never met her, they keep me in the dark, you know. Maybe I’ll put in a bid for her window office. Still, it’s a shame the old gal’s going tits up.”
At a table, Lefty chatted with Spine, whom she’d never known very well since they worked on opposite sides of the complex. “Still,” said Lefty, “I’ve appreciated your support over the years.”
Skin had a big job, including contact with just about everybody at the office, except the Internal Special Forces. As a result of his constant protective duties, he was quite extended, but stopped in quickly to bid farewell. “Lefty, it sure has been great hanging out with you. Bon Voyage. I’ve got you covered!”
A chorus of Ribs twittered by. “We’ll be facing the world without you, Lefty. We’ll miss you!”
Al and his wife Viola wheezed out from behind the Ribs, “So long, Lefty. We’ve weathered the rise and fall of every breath together. All the best to you!” The rest of the lungs sighed in agreement.
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