Today is the second day of my annual northward migration. So far, so good. Lots to think about, like this common misperception:
The Freedom of the Open Road. Really, the road is quite limiting. It’s just a line from one place to another, through an expansive landscape. When I turn onto the road, I have 2 options: left or right. Or not to go which is then the third option.
Too much freedom is chaos, and that can feel overwhelming, or lonely. Freedom, with its parameters, is usually that I’m looking for. After all, freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. Freedom ain’t worth nothin’, but it’s free. So the song goes.
If I am free on the sea with my kayak, I still need to maintain it and my gear in good order, maintain also my basic nutrition, awareness of the weather and my navigation. I need to have prepared my skills. Without these, I will soon become a floating disaster. Chaos.
Freedom within parameters—the responsibility of preparation and maintenance. This is what I really seek.
The more I have, the less free I am. The more house, property, business, boats, the more responsibility. The more stuff to worry about. There is a balance between having nothing—utter freedom—and having the parameters or tools or toys to pursue that which brings us joy. A boat to go paddling or water skiing or sailing. Work for money. Money for travel. Land to dream with, or farm, or rent, or just mow repeatedly.
How about relationships? Are freedom and commitment compatible? Can a relationship be a parameter within which a satisfying freedom can be found?
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Love Eclipse
Venus is the slimmest Mona Lisa smirk in the morning sky. My rickety old telescope has its legs sunk into the sand on a beach in Baja. It also shows me the red face of Mars in close pursuit in the sky, but far off in its true orbit. And Jupiter with its whirling moons, the timings of which first told us skywatchers that light was mortal and had a speed.
The moon has been marching through this lineup this week, getting thinner and thinner like a pilgrim on a diet. Now it smirks the same as Venus, which is a small coincidence since the two are near to sunrise and lie between us and the sun. An hour ago the two were so close together I could barely see Venus, just a comma next to an entire glowing novel.
Now, she’s gone. Venus, the goddess of love, has been eclipsed by the moon. The orange glow of day creeps up stage to steal the drama of darkness.
Today is my last day here at the beach, and I feel the eclipse with a sad heart. Tomorrow I begin the journey back to sleeping inside.
But wait! Look again. As I write this on the tailgate of my pickup truck, listening to the birds of morning and little wavelets on the shore, Venus reappears from the shaded side of the moon! Love returns. Unrestrained celebration in a brilliant point of light! Oh, joy!
Do I still have to pack today?
The moon has been marching through this lineup this week, getting thinner and thinner like a pilgrim on a diet. Now it smirks the same as Venus, which is a small coincidence since the two are near to sunrise and lie between us and the sun. An hour ago the two were so close together I could barely see Venus, just a comma next to an entire glowing novel.
Now, she’s gone. Venus, the goddess of love, has been eclipsed by the moon. The orange glow of day creeps up stage to steal the drama of darkness.
Today is my last day here at the beach, and I feel the eclipse with a sad heart. Tomorrow I begin the journey back to sleeping inside.
But wait! Look again. As I write this on the tailgate of my pickup truck, listening to the birds of morning and little wavelets on the shore, Venus reappears from the shaded side of the moon! Love returns. Unrestrained celebration in a brilliant point of light! Oh, joy!
Do I still have to pack today?
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Overconfidence
The scorpionfish is an overconfident creature. It has camouflage so convincing that I have been snorkeling nose to nose with one and thought it was part of the rock, until it moved an eyeball. It will venture into water so shallow that you can step out of a kayak onto one. The venom in its dorsal spines is legendary. I once saw someone whose arm was still swollen up to the elbow two days after a puncture on the thumb. I heard about another strong and mature adult male stepping on one and screaming virulent curses upon the fish’s entire lineage, then whimpering for days.
After a morning run today, I waded barefoot into the Sea of Cortez for a rinse, and in water less than knee deep lay a scorpionfish, confident as ever. Thankfully, I saw it. This situation posed an interesting opportunity, with just enough risk to be tempting. The flesh of a scorpionfish is tasty, if you can capture it, kill it, and fillet it without getting pricked by a dorsal spine. That, and I was hungry.
I submerged a 5-gallon bucket in front of the fish, scooped the bucket under its wide head and pushed it in with a stick. All it did was raise its spines. It was way too easy. Too late it realized its captivity and thrashed about in the bucket. The price of overconfidence.
Its head was as hard as a rock. With a pancake flipper I held its spines to the side while trying to stab something vital through the gills with a 6” kitchen knife. Quick stab and pull back while it thrashes. A few times. I felt my adrenaline starting to build, so I walked away. Not a good time to be hasty with those spines flying about. I bathed in the sea and returned to see if the fish was any closer to dead. A couple gulls inquired about the progress. How do they know what’s in the bucket?
The fish thrashed less when I prodded it, and allowed itself to be turned on its side. With the spatula holding it, and my knife hand wrapped in a T-shirt, I began to fillet it in the bucket. I did side B with the fish on the sand. The colors in its skin and tail were beautiful. Greens, browns, oranges all blended in a minute camo.
The second fillet always comes out worse. I left it on a plate while moving 2 steps away to rinse the first one in the sea. This was overconfidence on my part, and I paid in an instant. In swooped a waiting gull and made off with the other fillet! In two midair gulps it was gone. “F*&#$@ER!” I hollered after it. “You stole half my fish! How it got that whole fillet down in one piece, I don’t know.
I had been looking forward to tossing the carcass to the birds. Instead I briefly considered burying it in revenge, but that wore off quickly. A pelican tried to get the wide head and prickly attachments into its bill but couldn’t manage, so the gulls pecked at it and at each other for a while.
Meanwhile, the remaining fillet made two tasty breakfast tacos, and an interesting contemplation on the price of overconfidence.
After a morning run today, I waded barefoot into the Sea of Cortez for a rinse, and in water less than knee deep lay a scorpionfish, confident as ever. Thankfully, I saw it. This situation posed an interesting opportunity, with just enough risk to be tempting. The flesh of a scorpionfish is tasty, if you can capture it, kill it, and fillet it without getting pricked by a dorsal spine. That, and I was hungry.
I submerged a 5-gallon bucket in front of the fish, scooped the bucket under its wide head and pushed it in with a stick. All it did was raise its spines. It was way too easy. Too late it realized its captivity and thrashed about in the bucket. The price of overconfidence.
Its head was as hard as a rock. With a pancake flipper I held its spines to the side while trying to stab something vital through the gills with a 6” kitchen knife. Quick stab and pull back while it thrashes. A few times. I felt my adrenaline starting to build, so I walked away. Not a good time to be hasty with those spines flying about. I bathed in the sea and returned to see if the fish was any closer to dead. A couple gulls inquired about the progress. How do they know what’s in the bucket?
The fish thrashed less when I prodded it, and allowed itself to be turned on its side. With the spatula holding it, and my knife hand wrapped in a T-shirt, I began to fillet it in the bucket. I did side B with the fish on the sand. The colors in its skin and tail were beautiful. Greens, browns, oranges all blended in a minute camo.
The second fillet always comes out worse. I left it on a plate while moving 2 steps away to rinse the first one in the sea. This was overconfidence on my part, and I paid in an instant. In swooped a waiting gull and made off with the other fillet! In two midair gulps it was gone. “F*&#$@ER!” I hollered after it. “You stole half my fish! How it got that whole fillet down in one piece, I don’t know.
I had been looking forward to tossing the carcass to the birds. Instead I briefly considered burying it in revenge, but that wore off quickly. A pelican tried to get the wide head and prickly attachments into its bill but couldn’t manage, so the gulls pecked at it and at each other for a while.
Meanwhile, the remaining fillet made two tasty breakfast tacos, and an interesting contemplation on the price of overconfidence.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Easter trip
April 17 2009
The last trip of the season is over. Eight days around Carmen Island with my friends and clients Sam and Lee. The sea gods smiled on us, for all the windy days were all tailwinds, following us as we rounded the island.
It was a relaxing trip, knocking off the 8-12 nautical miles usually before lunch, and taking time for siesta and exploration in the afternoon. Time too for contemplation and conversation. Time for music and stars and paddling at sunrise.
On day 5 we left Salinas Bay and rode the following seas to the island’s freshwater spring. After a good bath and lunch, we caught some more rides south to the white cliffs that hide a little beach called Arroyo Blanco.
As we rounded the final cliff that Easter Sunday, 5 great egrets took flight from atop the entrance to the cove. Five white angels with long spindly legs and the sun shining through their wings. Up they circled, looking down at us. The purity of their translucent wings, the whiteness of the cliffs, the grace of their flight, balanced between the profound blue of sea and sky, was the perfect Easter song.
Later we walked the arroyo up to a pour-off 40-50’ high, sculpted like modern art in the fossil-laden gray and white rock. Fingers, alcoves, and ledges of the craggy formation have long tempted me to decorate them with candles some still and starry night, and play music until the moon finds me. If I ever have an excuse for some ceremony that can be held on an island in the Sea of Cortez, up an arroyo that requires a little climbing, this is the place. It holds magic.
Today, I carry my flute and play a simple, heartfelt rendition of Amazing Grace beside the fig tree as my reflection on Easter.
The last trip of the season is over. Eight days around Carmen Island with my friends and clients Sam and Lee. The sea gods smiled on us, for all the windy days were all tailwinds, following us as we rounded the island.
It was a relaxing trip, knocking off the 8-12 nautical miles usually before lunch, and taking time for siesta and exploration in the afternoon. Time too for contemplation and conversation. Time for music and stars and paddling at sunrise.
On day 5 we left Salinas Bay and rode the following seas to the island’s freshwater spring. After a good bath and lunch, we caught some more rides south to the white cliffs that hide a little beach called Arroyo Blanco.
As we rounded the final cliff that Easter Sunday, 5 great egrets took flight from atop the entrance to the cove. Five white angels with long spindly legs and the sun shining through their wings. Up they circled, looking down at us. The purity of their translucent wings, the whiteness of the cliffs, the grace of their flight, balanced between the profound blue of sea and sky, was the perfect Easter song.
Later we walked the arroyo up to a pour-off 40-50’ high, sculpted like modern art in the fossil-laden gray and white rock. Fingers, alcoves, and ledges of the craggy formation have long tempted me to decorate them with candles some still and starry night, and play music until the moon finds me. If I ever have an excuse for some ceremony that can be held on an island in the Sea of Cortez, up an arroyo that requires a little climbing, this is the place. It holds magic.
Today, I carry my flute and play a simple, heartfelt rendition of Amazing Grace beside the fig tree as my reflection on Easter.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Fresh Crab and Warm Tortillas
I usually plan and prepare the meals for my kayak trips and there’s good reason for this. This week was an exception. I had a custom lesson for a group of 7 plus their 2 leaders—lessons on two levels at once. I welcomed the freedom from the kitchen that they offered so I could focus more on coaching.
Their frugality, resourcefulness, and creativity were admirable and set in my life a new standard for minimalism. They cooked for 10 on a 6” frypan, using a whittled stick as a stirring utensil. A 10-pack of tortillas and an oval tin of sardines was lunch for all. But we all ate equally and nobody complained.
In their defense, they were from Estonia and never had to provision from a Mexican grocery store before. At least they bought lots of tortillas.
Fishing proved fruitless. On day 3, they admitted they hadn’t brought enough food, and went in search of other options. A team came back with 5 small crabs, my friends the Sally Lightfoot, about which I had mixed feelings because I was hungry too. We boiled them and ate them hot out of the water, legs, body meat, and some even crunched on the thin shells.
A sight we made—10 figures huddled over a small pile of brightly colored shells crunching, chewing, twisting, and bashing the joints between rocks. Among the camp detritus of mismatched bowls, half-empty water jugs, and whittled tools, we could have been a primitive tribe sitting on our haunches on the rocks, intent on the minute bits of white meat lodged in a crevice of shell.
The next night was a repeat, but we ate later, after dark. With no fires allowed in the park, our primitive tribe huddled together with our backs to the night and our hands lit by the beams from each other’s foreheads.
The tortillas had begun to mold, so we decided to heat and eat them. We had nothing else to put on them, and everyone was eating their crab directly from the shell, so the random bottle of BBQ sauce that no-one knew what to do with became the spread for our moldy tortillas. It was one of those memorable nights for which the concept of perspective was designed.
We weren’t desperation dining on moldy staples and the only critters we could catch; we luxuriated under the starry Baja sky with friends sharing fresh crab and warm tortillas and memories of a good day’s paddling, complete with dolphins, leaping manta rays, and a humpback whale.
Their frugality, resourcefulness, and creativity were admirable and set in my life a new standard for minimalism. They cooked for 10 on a 6” frypan, using a whittled stick as a stirring utensil. A 10-pack of tortillas and an oval tin of sardines was lunch for all. But we all ate equally and nobody complained.
In their defense, they were from Estonia and never had to provision from a Mexican grocery store before. At least they bought lots of tortillas.
Fishing proved fruitless. On day 3, they admitted they hadn’t brought enough food, and went in search of other options. A team came back with 5 small crabs, my friends the Sally Lightfoot, about which I had mixed feelings because I was hungry too. We boiled them and ate them hot out of the water, legs, body meat, and some even crunched on the thin shells.
A sight we made—10 figures huddled over a small pile of brightly colored shells crunching, chewing, twisting, and bashing the joints between rocks. Among the camp detritus of mismatched bowls, half-empty water jugs, and whittled tools, we could have been a primitive tribe sitting on our haunches on the rocks, intent on the minute bits of white meat lodged in a crevice of shell.
The next night was a repeat, but we ate later, after dark. With no fires allowed in the park, our primitive tribe huddled together with our backs to the night and our hands lit by the beams from each other’s foreheads.
The tortillas had begun to mold, so we decided to heat and eat them. We had nothing else to put on them, and everyone was eating their crab directly from the shell, so the random bottle of BBQ sauce that no-one knew what to do with became the spread for our moldy tortillas. It was one of those memorable nights for which the concept of perspective was designed.
We weren’t desperation dining on moldy staples and the only critters we could catch; we luxuriated under the starry Baja sky with friends sharing fresh crab and warm tortillas and memories of a good day’s paddling, complete with dolphins, leaping manta rays, and a humpback whale.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Just in Time
It was one of those trips that fills the soul. Sometimes an ephemeral magic happens that connects people in a certain place at a certain time in a special way.
A 7-day circumnavigation of Isla Espiritu Santo near La Paz, run by BOA and led by Rafael and myself. Seven clients, including one teen, came together from Ontario Canada, and 4 more, including 2 teens, randomly came from the same town. One gal came from my home state of Washington.
Kayaking in a commercial trip along a desert island is a unique blend of opposites. Wildlife and plants. The populous, wiggly marine life juxtaposes sparse, stoic plants. The geology tells of coming together and ripping apart; of layers building on layers, pink smooth sandstone, red volcanic flows, round brown rocks impossibly holding formation up a cliff. It tells of pushing, tilting, and slowly eroding, making its way into the sea. White sand beaches nuzzle into deep red coves. White sand coming from coral and shells—pieces of the sea washing onto the land.
People. A kayak trip usually self-selects hands-on, outdoorsy, active people. Independent, yet willing to participate in a group and hire leaders.
Anthropology. The ancients left paint on the cliffs, shell piles on the hills, hollows ground into flat rocks, and rock enclosures in the bays. They lived on what they found here. Whole lives. We carry an obscene amount of food and luxury for just 7 days, and get resupplied halfway through. But through some alchemy of grace, we can walk their trails and feel their presence.
It is the balance of opposites that holds tension on the thread on which we spin.
Guides. Rafa likes to sleep late, set no times, and siesta after lunch. He doesn’t mind launching at 4pm and making dinner in the dark. Anytime we get somewhere, we are “just in time”. When will we go? When we are ready. When will we be ready? After we eat and clean up and pack the boats. When will lunch be? When we’re done making it. There is sound logic in this.
I’m a sunrise connoisseur. A pack-in-the-action kind of person. I’d rather chop veggies than sit and watch somebody else do it. I really get excited if somebody wants to learn something like kayaking, stars, plants. I’ll go all day without sitting once.
It is the straining of opposites that frays the thread until it breaks and the spinning beads go bouncing between the floorboards. This did not happen. A light finger on that thread knows when to release its tug and preserve the singing tension. Just in time. Through it all, that ephemeral magic played, and filled my soul.
A 7-day circumnavigation of Isla Espiritu Santo near La Paz, run by BOA and led by Rafael and myself. Seven clients, including one teen, came together from Ontario Canada, and 4 more, including 2 teens, randomly came from the same town. One gal came from my home state of Washington.
Kayaking in a commercial trip along a desert island is a unique blend of opposites. Wildlife and plants. The populous, wiggly marine life juxtaposes sparse, stoic plants. The geology tells of coming together and ripping apart; of layers building on layers, pink smooth sandstone, red volcanic flows, round brown rocks impossibly holding formation up a cliff. It tells of pushing, tilting, and slowly eroding, making its way into the sea. White sand beaches nuzzle into deep red coves. White sand coming from coral and shells—pieces of the sea washing onto the land.
People. A kayak trip usually self-selects hands-on, outdoorsy, active people. Independent, yet willing to participate in a group and hire leaders.
Anthropology. The ancients left paint on the cliffs, shell piles on the hills, hollows ground into flat rocks, and rock enclosures in the bays. They lived on what they found here. Whole lives. We carry an obscene amount of food and luxury for just 7 days, and get resupplied halfway through. But through some alchemy of grace, we can walk their trails and feel their presence.
It is the balance of opposites that holds tension on the thread on which we spin.
Guides. Rafa likes to sleep late, set no times, and siesta after lunch. He doesn’t mind launching at 4pm and making dinner in the dark. Anytime we get somewhere, we are “just in time”. When will we go? When we are ready. When will we be ready? After we eat and clean up and pack the boats. When will lunch be? When we’re done making it. There is sound logic in this.
I’m a sunrise connoisseur. A pack-in-the-action kind of person. I’d rather chop veggies than sit and watch somebody else do it. I really get excited if somebody wants to learn something like kayaking, stars, plants. I’ll go all day without sitting once.
It is the straining of opposites that frays the thread until it breaks and the spinning beads go bouncing between the floorboards. This did not happen. A light finger on that thread knows when to release its tug and preserve the singing tension. Just in time. Through it all, that ephemeral magic played, and filled my soul.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wild, Wild Life
There were sea monsters last night in my dreams. But they weren’t dreams. The moon was more than halfway through its night’s journey and flirting with clouds. The sea, almost still. I lay in my truck on the beach with the back open, awakened by something from the depths. I listened.
PWWWWFT! An explosion of breath, followed by a great gasp. Whale! A big whale, within a mile of shore. Then a smaller breath. Was it the blue whale mom and calf pair? There are now two of those roaming the National Marine Park, according to a number of researchers who are out there daily. We saw one pair cruise by our lunch beach last week, the kayak-long crescent of the baby’s back arcing over the water, and the gigantic mottled grey flank of its mother.
Again a pair of breaths, and a big splash. A splash? It sounded like something very big falling in the water, more than something flat slapping it. A breach? Was there a humpback pair in the area? I hadn’t heard of one. They’re more prone to breaching, and blues are not officially supposed to fling their enormous mass skyward. The biggest animals on the planet should be more sedate.
However, one boat of researchers watched a blue mom and baby blue do just that a couple of weeks ago. The whales had been lounging near the panga motorboat for some time, then suddenly took off speed swimming along the surface, throwing up big wakes, toward another distant blue whale. When the 3 met a few miles away, enormous splashing ensued. Through binoculars, the researchers could see whale bodies launching partway out of the sea and falling back, throwing out great walls of water. It was too late in the day and too far away to clearly document the activity, so the whales got away with their unofficial breaching. Ah, there is much we don’t know about these magnificent sea monsters.
Tonight as well. They are silent, gliding through their underwater world. The next set of breaths is further off, and I can’t hear the inhaling gasp. Again there is a huge splash near the end of the cycle of breathing. They go silent again, making short work of this 4-mile bay. The next breaths are further yet. I am about to let them go from my nighttime thoughts and resume sleep, when I hear a much more impressive splash. Like somebody dropped a house in the water. It’s the longest splash I’ve ever heard in my life. And what followed was even better. A loud and distinct VVVVRRRRR, like something got jammed in the vacuum cleaner. As if the other whale were cheering. It’s the first whale vocalization I’ve ever heard, and it made me tingle.
A guide friend told me once of camping on a beach in western Canada and hearing blues vocalize as they passed close by. The ground vibrated. The next morning, everybody in her group reported feeling and hearing it. Tonight these whales must be about 3 miles off, and the sound is impressive.
I’m talking ‘bout good vibrations, yeah they’re coming from those cetaceans!
Speaking of vibrations, on my way to the out “house” this morning, I crossed 5 snake trails. It’s not uncommon to see one, but 5 is a lot, even for a place called Rattlesnake Beach. After a few weeks of unseasonably warm weather, the snakes are on the move early this year.
In 12 years of guiding, I’ve seen 2 or 3 rattlesnakes on the islands during the kayak season, but last week’s trip doubled that number. Four of us were walking up the plant hike to the overlook on Danzate Island’s southern end. Client Ruedi was in the lead when he screamed and jumped 4 feet into the air. I heard the rattling before he came back down. He had stumbled into not 1 but 2 intertwined snakes. As we watched, they appeared to be competing rather than mating. I’ve since learned that if 2 males encounter a female at the same time, they will engage in a “combat dance” where the male who manages to stand up the tallest for the longest or pin the other to the ground, will win the affections of the watching female. It is rare to actually get to watch this.
We never saw the female in the thick brush, but we didn’t look, either. For a half a hour, the males posed and tumbled down the trail in a ritual both graceful and primal. Sometimes slow and weaving, sometimes reaching too high and falling over, sometimes lightning fast spinning maneuvers. The snakes were 4-5’ long, and one had 12 rattles. They stood at times about 2’ high.
We left them still posing, though not as tall as initially, and one appeared to have taken the upper, uh, tongue? Still the other wouldn’t give up. Client hunger drove us back to the beach and we left the snakes to their rituals.
PWWWWFT! An explosion of breath, followed by a great gasp. Whale! A big whale, within a mile of shore. Then a smaller breath. Was it the blue whale mom and calf pair? There are now two of those roaming the National Marine Park, according to a number of researchers who are out there daily. We saw one pair cruise by our lunch beach last week, the kayak-long crescent of the baby’s back arcing over the water, and the gigantic mottled grey flank of its mother.
Again a pair of breaths, and a big splash. A splash? It sounded like something very big falling in the water, more than something flat slapping it. A breach? Was there a humpback pair in the area? I hadn’t heard of one. They’re more prone to breaching, and blues are not officially supposed to fling their enormous mass skyward. The biggest animals on the planet should be more sedate.
However, one boat of researchers watched a blue mom and baby blue do just that a couple of weeks ago. The whales had been lounging near the panga motorboat for some time, then suddenly took off speed swimming along the surface, throwing up big wakes, toward another distant blue whale. When the 3 met a few miles away, enormous splashing ensued. Through binoculars, the researchers could see whale bodies launching partway out of the sea and falling back, throwing out great walls of water. It was too late in the day and too far away to clearly document the activity, so the whales got away with their unofficial breaching. Ah, there is much we don’t know about these magnificent sea monsters.
Tonight as well. They are silent, gliding through their underwater world. The next set of breaths is further off, and I can’t hear the inhaling gasp. Again there is a huge splash near the end of the cycle of breathing. They go silent again, making short work of this 4-mile bay. The next breaths are further yet. I am about to let them go from my nighttime thoughts and resume sleep, when I hear a much more impressive splash. Like somebody dropped a house in the water. It’s the longest splash I’ve ever heard in my life. And what followed was even better. A loud and distinct VVVVRRRRR, like something got jammed in the vacuum cleaner. As if the other whale were cheering. It’s the first whale vocalization I’ve ever heard, and it made me tingle.
A guide friend told me once of camping on a beach in western Canada and hearing blues vocalize as they passed close by. The ground vibrated. The next morning, everybody in her group reported feeling and hearing it. Tonight these whales must be about 3 miles off, and the sound is impressive.
I’m talking ‘bout good vibrations, yeah they’re coming from those cetaceans!
Speaking of vibrations, on my way to the out “house” this morning, I crossed 5 snake trails. It’s not uncommon to see one, but 5 is a lot, even for a place called Rattlesnake Beach. After a few weeks of unseasonably warm weather, the snakes are on the move early this year.
In 12 years of guiding, I’ve seen 2 or 3 rattlesnakes on the islands during the kayak season, but last week’s trip doubled that number. Four of us were walking up the plant hike to the overlook on Danzate Island’s southern end. Client Ruedi was in the lead when he screamed and jumped 4 feet into the air. I heard the rattling before he came back down. He had stumbled into not 1 but 2 intertwined snakes. As we watched, they appeared to be competing rather than mating. I’ve since learned that if 2 males encounter a female at the same time, they will engage in a “combat dance” where the male who manages to stand up the tallest for the longest or pin the other to the ground, will win the affections of the watching female. It is rare to actually get to watch this.
We never saw the female in the thick brush, but we didn’t look, either. For a half a hour, the males posed and tumbled down the trail in a ritual both graceful and primal. Sometimes slow and weaving, sometimes reaching too high and falling over, sometimes lightning fast spinning maneuvers. The snakes were 4-5’ long, and one had 12 rattles. They stood at times about 2’ high.
We left them still posing, though not as tall as initially, and one appeared to have taken the upper, uh, tongue? Still the other wouldn’t give up. Client hunger drove us back to the beach and we left the snakes to their rituals.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Rising Jupiter
By the light of a rising Jupiter the day begins. The sound of waves tripping over themselves comes like a chorus of disorganized voices, one here, one over there, each singing their part without a common rhythm.
I want to paddle but I also don’t. It’s not the lumpiness that’s bound to be out there that holds me back so much as the lumpiness inside. I have LoCo Roundup on my mind, and am frustrated that my energy seems wasted in trying to organize a functional database by trial and error. The days available to work on it are winding down, and I want something to show for all the time invested. In relationships, I am also floating on a rogue current without orientation or direction. Trips will resume soon, and that will give me purpose and direction, but I also feel anxious because I will have time for nothing else like laundry or personal balance. Whatever that is!
The horizon behind Danzante’s sleeping form is glowing. The sun has made its night’s journey. Last night after sunset, its trail still glowed into the stars. A column of side-lit space particles. Beside its trail, the moon and Venus followed obliquely. Two crescents visible together in the locator on my telescope. While I watched, they passed each other. The bottom of the smiling moon at first just a smidge below the planet, and at touchdown, noticeably above.
I carried my beat-up old telescope to a friend’s camper, but they weren’t in. So I watched the sky for a while, watched the pair of evening crescents descend, the craters on the moon dancing as it settled deeper into the atmosphere. Turned and focused on Saturn, now a beautiful zero—a fat circle with an angled line across. The furthest member of our solar family visible to the naked eye.
Now Mercury rises, chasing Jupiter. Three days ago, Mercury led the charge; this morning Jupiter has a good lead. Mars should be coming soon, to make a full serving of visible planets in one night. I get the telescope from under the mesquite tree and look through the locator. No, that trick of the eye is a planet. I was wrong. They’ve switched places and Mars now chases Jupiter while Mercury falls back into the orange brightness of morning.
How can tiny points of light be so exciting? I don’t know. But I do find comfort in the elegant sky drama. Dawn reveals the noisy waves as miniscule, and it makes me smile to see how silly my anxiety has been. Another day is being unwrapped as the gift it is, and I will go enjoy it.
I want to paddle but I also don’t. It’s not the lumpiness that’s bound to be out there that holds me back so much as the lumpiness inside. I have LoCo Roundup on my mind, and am frustrated that my energy seems wasted in trying to organize a functional database by trial and error. The days available to work on it are winding down, and I want something to show for all the time invested. In relationships, I am also floating on a rogue current without orientation or direction. Trips will resume soon, and that will give me purpose and direction, but I also feel anxious because I will have time for nothing else like laundry or personal balance. Whatever that is!
The horizon behind Danzante’s sleeping form is glowing. The sun has made its night’s journey. Last night after sunset, its trail still glowed into the stars. A column of side-lit space particles. Beside its trail, the moon and Venus followed obliquely. Two crescents visible together in the locator on my telescope. While I watched, they passed each other. The bottom of the smiling moon at first just a smidge below the planet, and at touchdown, noticeably above.
I carried my beat-up old telescope to a friend’s camper, but they weren’t in. So I watched the sky for a while, watched the pair of evening crescents descend, the craters on the moon dancing as it settled deeper into the atmosphere. Turned and focused on Saturn, now a beautiful zero—a fat circle with an angled line across. The furthest member of our solar family visible to the naked eye.
Now Mercury rises, chasing Jupiter. Three days ago, Mercury led the charge; this morning Jupiter has a good lead. Mars should be coming soon, to make a full serving of visible planets in one night. I get the telescope from under the mesquite tree and look through the locator. No, that trick of the eye is a planet. I was wrong. They’ve switched places and Mars now chases Jupiter while Mercury falls back into the orange brightness of morning.
How can tiny points of light be so exciting? I don’t know. But I do find comfort in the elegant sky drama. Dawn reveals the noisy waves as miniscule, and it makes me smile to see how silly my anxiety has been. Another day is being unwrapped as the gift it is, and I will go enjoy it.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Rock and spirit
The weighty, slow transience of rocks. The airy permanence of spirit.
A gull preens on the waves in front of camp. Bobs, dips, shakes. Wades shoreward to stand in knee deep breakers on yellow pencil legs. Its triangle feet fold with each step as it walks to a standing place, face into the wind.
A hole in the busy-ness. Not a lack of things on the never-ending list, but something I’ve dug for myself today. How shallow it seems for all the “have to do” I’ve piled around it. Of course they are all choices.
This morning whitecaps tumble by 100yds offshore, but don’t come in. Not a leaf trembles in the mangle dulce bushes. Castle mountains rise almost vertical in the west, reaching for a setting, waning moon. Cold night air pours down their striped and fluted walls, meets the incoming wind, and holds it off the beach. They hold each other in a tender sunrise balance broken finally by the warmth of the sun. Breezes sputter to the shore and start to play with my camp things. I sit and watch it happen.
Another morning I launch alone just before 6am. The crescent moon rises fuzzy behind eastern clouds. Arcturus, Spika, and Antares disappear behind a veil. Bioluminescence glows in my bow wake and around each paddle stroke. Sometimes the blade of my Greenland stick comes out of the water entirely glowing. I hear a big splash behind me and a snort; a sea lion follows for a few minutes.
Clouds have a hint of light behind them as I pass the southern end of Danzante Island about 7am. A small ray leaps out of the water as if to check on the progress of sunrise. Pelicans cover Submarine Rock and somebody fishes out of a skiff nearby as I head out for Carmen Island. There is no wind and only the most subtle swell. Below clouds, Isla Santa Cruz is clear on the distant horizon. A far boat trails black smoke as it passes between Monserrate and Santa Catalina Islands.
Somehow the names are a comfort. I know where I am because I know what the map says that island is. I have a place in the universe because I know what other people call that star. Blue footed boobies and brown boobies in groups of 2 or 3, circle overhead before moving along. Trying to figure out a name for me, this funny yellow island with the windmill in the middle. But they probably don’t need names to feel at home.
I take a 15 minute break on Punta Baja, scolded by two pairs of yellow legged gulls, then push off for the northern tip of Danzante Island. A kayak group awakes to breakfast on park beach CN27, put I pass far offshore. A light breeze ripples the water. The sun never really rose; it slipped unnoticed over the horizon and is walking about wearing clouds today. Despite a slight NW breeze, an opposing current pushes me gently into it, and I drift north.
Around the northern tip of Danzante, rafts of little grebes float together. Another small ray leaps. This kind is called a mobula. Thousands of them flock together just below the surface around the whole NW end of the island and into Honeymoon Cove. I drift and watch them flap slowly. An undulating carpet. Wingtips break the surface here and there.
Like little peeks into a dimension where it all becomes clear. Like I sit in the shade of a mesquite, squinting at my computer screen, wondering which is the purpose of what, or if it’s all just about being present wherever now happens to be. How to stay in that mindset and run a kayak company, or any other endeavor that requires forethought?
It’s all a matter of perspective, really. Again I slide towards the eastern horizon which is still as dark as the whole circle of sky. The Mountain Man is hard to discern this morning. He’s a cartoonish character with his round head tilted back, a bulbous nose, and a wide open mouth. He aligns with Bird Poop Rock when I’m halfway to the southern tip of Danzante Island. Today Bird Poop Rock is more of a looming feeling than a visual clue. A low bright star east of Crux slides along the southern horizon as I paddle. Nearer and nearer to the Mountain Man comes the star.
“I’ll feed you a star,” I proclaim.
“AHHHHH,” he replies
I paddle faster until the star aligns with his open mouth. It all feels so close in the darkness. The Mountain Man is family. The star could be the song just sung, lingering as a perfect point of light. It could be a golden-red apple ready to fall into the maw.
“Eat it!” I say. Nothing. The star slides onward. “Get it! Gulp it!”
Mountain Man yawns passively at the sky as the star slides up his nose.
A gull preens on the waves in front of camp. Bobs, dips, shakes. Wades shoreward to stand in knee deep breakers on yellow pencil legs. Its triangle feet fold with each step as it walks to a standing place, face into the wind.
A hole in the busy-ness. Not a lack of things on the never-ending list, but something I’ve dug for myself today. How shallow it seems for all the “have to do” I’ve piled around it. Of course they are all choices.
This morning whitecaps tumble by 100yds offshore, but don’t come in. Not a leaf trembles in the mangle dulce bushes. Castle mountains rise almost vertical in the west, reaching for a setting, waning moon. Cold night air pours down their striped and fluted walls, meets the incoming wind, and holds it off the beach. They hold each other in a tender sunrise balance broken finally by the warmth of the sun. Breezes sputter to the shore and start to play with my camp things. I sit and watch it happen.
Another morning I launch alone just before 6am. The crescent moon rises fuzzy behind eastern clouds. Arcturus, Spika, and Antares disappear behind a veil. Bioluminescence glows in my bow wake and around each paddle stroke. Sometimes the blade of my Greenland stick comes out of the water entirely glowing. I hear a big splash behind me and a snort; a sea lion follows for a few minutes.
Clouds have a hint of light behind them as I pass the southern end of Danzante Island about 7am. A small ray leaps out of the water as if to check on the progress of sunrise. Pelicans cover Submarine Rock and somebody fishes out of a skiff nearby as I head out for Carmen Island. There is no wind and only the most subtle swell. Below clouds, Isla Santa Cruz is clear on the distant horizon. A far boat trails black smoke as it passes between Monserrate and Santa Catalina Islands.
Somehow the names are a comfort. I know where I am because I know what the map says that island is. I have a place in the universe because I know what other people call that star. Blue footed boobies and brown boobies in groups of 2 or 3, circle overhead before moving along. Trying to figure out a name for me, this funny yellow island with the windmill in the middle. But they probably don’t need names to feel at home.
I take a 15 minute break on Punta Baja, scolded by two pairs of yellow legged gulls, then push off for the northern tip of Danzante Island. A kayak group awakes to breakfast on park beach CN27, put I pass far offshore. A light breeze ripples the water. The sun never really rose; it slipped unnoticed over the horizon and is walking about wearing clouds today. Despite a slight NW breeze, an opposing current pushes me gently into it, and I drift north.
Around the northern tip of Danzante, rafts of little grebes float together. Another small ray leaps. This kind is called a mobula. Thousands of them flock together just below the surface around the whole NW end of the island and into Honeymoon Cove. I drift and watch them flap slowly. An undulating carpet. Wingtips break the surface here and there.
Like little peeks into a dimension where it all becomes clear. Like I sit in the shade of a mesquite, squinting at my computer screen, wondering which is the purpose of what, or if it’s all just about being present wherever now happens to be. How to stay in that mindset and run a kayak company, or any other endeavor that requires forethought?
It’s all a matter of perspective, really. Again I slide towards the eastern horizon which is still as dark as the whole circle of sky. The Mountain Man is hard to discern this morning. He’s a cartoonish character with his round head tilted back, a bulbous nose, and a wide open mouth. He aligns with Bird Poop Rock when I’m halfway to the southern tip of Danzante Island. Today Bird Poop Rock is more of a looming feeling than a visual clue. A low bright star east of Crux slides along the southern horizon as I paddle. Nearer and nearer to the Mountain Man comes the star.
“I’ll feed you a star,” I proclaim.
“AHHHHH,” he replies
I paddle faster until the star aligns with his open mouth. It all feels so close in the darkness. The Mountain Man is family. The star could be the song just sung, lingering as a perfect point of light. It could be a golden-red apple ready to fall into the maw.
“Eat it!” I say. Nothing. The star slides onward. “Get it! Gulp it!”
Mountain Man yawns passively at the sky as the star slides up his nose.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Isla Santa Catalina
Once in a while a journey comes along that shows us what we’re made of. My solo paddle to Isla Santa Catalina February 2009 was one of those trips. The most remote island in the Bay of Loreto National Marine Park, its specter on the horizon has long haunted me, but I’ve lacked the time and fortitude to make the double crossing out to it, with Monserrate Island as a midway point in what would otherwise be a 24-mile crossing.
Opportunity arose this week: time and a reasonable weather window. I also just caught a good cold from my business partner, but that would have to wait for later on my schedule, because I had decided to go to Catalina.
I did errands by day, packed in the evening, and launched from my camp on Rattlesnake Beach at about 9pm. Night paddling is one of my favorite things. The tranquility, the focus, the simple profundity that those points of light up there are distant suns, and all the potential that opens. The way the water moves and you feel it through the boat, and other senses that awaken with the limiting of sight. The citrus scent of torote on the cool breeze that comes off a hillside.
By 11pm I’d moved out of home turf to Puertecitos, a coastal beach I’d visited a handful of times. I could camp here or push on to Monserrate Island. Fighting a sore throat and unsure if I’d make it there before the moon set, I opted to camp on the coast.
I landed and lugged the heavy boat up the beach by picking up one end and pivoting it uphill, then switching ends until I’d walked the boat above the high tide line. After stomping the small cobbles beside it until they were relatively flat, I fell asleep until 4:30. There’s something about an adventure that wakes me up in the morning ready to go. With some spoonfuls of mango yogurt, an orange, and a pre-boiled egg in the gas tank, the yellow kayak and I pushed off into the darkness. The moon had set and bioluminescence sparkled spectacularly with each paddle stroke. A whale breathed somewhere behind me. Scorpius looped its great tail into the glowing heart of the milky way. Oh, beautiful world, I’m on my way to the islands! Paddling under cover of dark feels like you’re getting away with something. The sun is sleeping, and when it wakes up and finds you, look how far you’ve come!
By the time the yachters’ net crackled on the radio at 8, I’d been circled by a huge manta ray and was within spitting distance of Monserrate. I kept paddling to the east side to make the next crossing as short as possible. On a half-shaded beach I kept the veggies in the boat cool while drying my wet clothes and self in the sun. Naked and barefoot on the firm wet sands of Monserrate, eating mango yogurt with the sun on my back. Not a bad way to live.
Two hours later, I pushed off for the Promised Land. Paddle an hour, stretch, snack, resume. Calm seas and gentle swell, light breeze. To the north, a panga and a blue whale. Tall column of grey against a pale horizon, count to 4, then a detonation—the delayed exhale of the biggest animal on the planet. Just me, a distant boat, a whale, and a whole lot of water. It’s amazing how much water is out here.
Monserrate wouldn’t go away. I paddled for an hour and it was still there, just behind me. The dissonance between insecurity of leaving it, and frustration at how slowly it faded. I guess it’s like anything—to find a distant shore you must leave one behind, with all the excitement and hesitation that conjures.
Watching distant islands crawl across the horizon. Making up songs, singing loud. The euphoria of being more than halfway! Then the eternal last hour. Catalina was right there, I just couldn’t reach it.
Touchdown 2:40pm, 20 mins ahead of projected time, and a couple miles south of anticipated landing. The current was pushing me that way, and a north wind picked up, so I went with them. I picked a beach, landed, and immediately fell in love with the clean granite cobbles at the shore. This speckled salt and pepper stone is different from the other islands. Cooing doves welcomed me to the place.
Wet clothes drying on the beach, I marched up the closest hillside with sandals, camera, and a bamboo pole I found on the beach so I could fend off the endemic rattle-less rattlesnakes that hide under every shrub on Catalina. I never did find even one. Giant barrel cacti are another endemic, more visible to your everyday nakedkayaker tromping enthusiastically about on a new island. I tried to pose with one. I set the timer, left the camera on a rock, and thought I’d run behind the cactus, stick my arms out to the sides and peek over the top. The first attempt showed a just a cactus with a crescent moon off to one side.
A black plastic crate conveniently washed up on the beach to become my cooking table. I arranged it in front of the perfect sitting rock and presto—a kitchen! Top chefs for miles about clamored for just such a spread.
Triangulation and a chart based on 1800s datum placed me in the middle of the west side of the island, and I felt sure I was further south. Circumnavigation the next day would prove my hunch right; this beach was within 2 miles of the south end of the 10-mile island. Paddling the next day would put me literally into uncharted territory, as the island has just dashed lines indicating no solid data for the east side; just a coastline there somewhere. The research vessel that did the charting and soundings had made one pass between Monserrate and Catalina Islands, about in the middle of the 12MN gap. Two hundred forty-nine fathoms deep where I crossed is darn deep, and kept my mind occupied for some time during the crossing trying to figure out in my head how many feet that would be. Sometimes being slow at math is a bonus. I also looked for the numbers in the water as a milestone, but saw nothing but peaceful green water with little tiny krill swimming in the vastness.
Little mouse in the night, are you one of the Catalina endemics? Trotting lightly across my shoulder, munching in the organic trash bag on the kayak deck? I see your brown backside as you scamper away. You’re bigger than the mice I’ve seen on Danzante and Carmen Islands.
Doves heralded sunrise, and were welcome. Sinus pain and difficulty breathing plagued my night and I finally resorted to the detested childhood remedy—gargling with hot salt water. It’s always an indication of how bad I’m feeling if I’ll actually do it. Indeed, I got out of the warm sleeping bag, reassembled the stove, unpacked the pot and mug, and brought them all back to my nest to prepare the remedy. Now, where to find some salt water?
No radio reception on the water from Catalina, so I didn’t catch the daily yachters’ net. I began a clockwise circumnavigation at 8am, tucking into each cove to inspect beaches, poke into sea caves, and savor the shade of cliffs. Three whales breathed in the distance near another panga as I climbed the NW corner. Lines of pelicans cruised by, usually in odd numbers. Do they count? “Hey, we need another bird for this formation before we’re cleared for takeoff!” Twice, the formation included 11 pelicans and a brown booby. Flight inspector?
Around the north tip, the sea was calm enough to shoot through the rocks, between preening pelicans who didn’t even look up at my passage. Three male sea lions snoozed in the water, hoisting their flippers in the air as dive flags. Three more males lounged on a rock. All the frigates I saw are females. I caught up to a leisurely pod of dolphins as we were both rounding the odd fan of gray cobble on the NE side. They continued on as I stopped for a lunch break of pre-rolled bean burritos.
I picked a tiny beach with just enough shade to sit up in, and this time it’s me I’m keeping cool. Let the veggies roast. The bobos found me immediately. Where did they come from? There’s nothing here but rock. The little bugs don’t bite, but they walk with remarkably heavy feet over every inch of skin, showing preference for facial features. Choices are to accept them, or to go nuts. Or to leave the beach, which I wasn’t ready to do yet. I ate the burritos with one hand and waved them off with the other. Finally, I leaned back into my rock alcove, resigned to accepting the buggars. With a protective arm across my eyes, I let them have their way. The bobos had carnivals, they procreated, they ran marathons, they had sing-alongs. They hosted revival meetings and danced in circles. I wonder if it tickles the earth this much when we walk around?
Dolphins again, coming back towards me once I’m on the water. Animated this time, leaping, tail slapping. One cruises close enough to see it in the water. Along the SE edge of Catalina, the sea caves were marvelous. One had a blow-hole that would consistently go off 4 times in quick succession, then pause. I paddled around the south end where I’d expected to camp, but didn’t feel like it. Low tide left big slimy cobbles along the shore, and the beaches just didn’t feel right. A few minutes around the corner and back up the west side, the perfect beach slid into sight—sand even at low tide! Small cobbles up higher for camping! A cliff that provided all-day shade! A great arroyo for hiking! Looks like home.
While looking for a fresh camera battery in the morning, I discovered I’d packed the hand-crank radio-flashlight in the extra battery bag. Not a bad idea since both my headlamps are on the fritz. I cranked it up and scrolled through the am stations. There actually were some. Music, too. Ode to Joy, of all songs. I often play this one at sunrise on my flute as a wake-up call. I didn’t know it had words. And I didn’t know the words were in Spanish! How appropriate—Ode to Joy for sunrise on Catalina Island, on a trip I’d not brought my flute on, but the music found me anyway.
What I did pack for this trip was 11 days worth of food and water, which makes a remarkably heavy boat. 34 liters (3 per day) of water, 12 raw eggs, 6 boiled eggs, a variety of veggies that keep well, and bags of dry food. The trip ended up only taking 4 days, plus the night paddle before and the morning I didn’t want to leave Danzante to go home and clean up. But with the uncertain February winds, having the means to stay put and wait them out was my safety plan. Five days of wind too strong to paddle a long crossing in isn’t unheard of around here.
I climbed the nearby ridge to try the radio at 8am, and actually got reception! More surprising, was somebody heard me, too, and relayed my data. I felt connected. Voices from home. How nostalgic a person can get with 2 days and a lot of seawater under the hull. I wandered about photographing cacti, and eyed a good hike up to a peak. I carried my trusty snake stick, camera, and tied my water bottle around my neck. This was probably the riskiest activity of the whole trip—wandering about in steep terrain over loose rocks in cactus and rattlesnake country—wearing sandals. Eleven ravens circled about, following my progress, chortling, swooping, glistening in the sun. I had to admit they were worthier beings, and more adapted to this terrain than I.
The summit offered rewarding views of the whole south end of the island, plus tempting other islands as well. When I returned to the beach, the north wind was up to about 12kts, and I didn’t feel like fighting it. Tide was going negative, and the waterfront cobbles were bound to be slippery at most other beaches, so I delayed the plan to move up the island, and read a book, “Almost an Island”. At low tide I crabbed my way around the rocky headland just to have a look.
Eventually the tide began to fill in and the wind began to lay down a little. I scrambled some eggs for dinner, packed up, and paddled into the choppy waves until sunset when I found a beach that had the right feel to it and would make for a shorter crossing in the morning. I hopped around on the cobbles taking photos as the sun went down, then set up camp for sleeping. The smallest cobbles were fist-sized, but they must have been comfortable enough, for I was asleep in moments.
I awoke at 3:30. Clouds were sparse enough to use moonlight for paddling, and the wind was still down enough to give it a shot. However, the wind had turned west in the night, and it didn’t take long for it to begin building. I was headed straight into it. Whitecaps started to hiss around me. The moon shied in and out of clouds. In a much less graceful pattern, my kayak plunged into and through waves. This wave plunging tends to slow a boat down. Every few strokes it felt like I had to get the whole thing moving again, and there was no glide to the action. I leaned hard onto the paddle.
I followed the moon until it set. Leo was the next constellation poised over the western horizon, so I followed Leo for a while. It just happened to be midway between the lighthouse on the south tip of Isla Monserrate, which I could see once I was a couple miles off Catalina, and the glow from the lights of Loreto, which I was dismayed to see soon thereafter. Afterglow of the moon dissipated and the night grew deliciously black. Scorpius hooked his tail into the milky way behind me. Saturn followed Leo down towards home. Waves grew to 2-3feet. In their breaking hiss, bioluminescence sparkled by about head high. As the boat plunged through waves, sea sparkles washed over the deck and onto my skirt. So enchanted was I, that even though I was singing songs like, “The sun will come out…tomorrow”, I didn’t want it to break the spell of lights cavorting in the darkness.
The horizon did begin to glow, and the dimmer stars faded. I found myself worrying, in a strange twist of logic, how I would know where I was going if I couldn’t see Leo.
The sun did come up. I saw Monserrate Island in front of me, and a giant manta ray thrashing around on the surface. Slowly I limped towards the island, having tweaked an old muscle injury over my right ribs by powering through the night waves. I would discover later when I looked at my hands, that despite the fact that I paddle for a living and have been working out by paddling lately, I also earned 5 blisters on that crossing.
Eight o’clock and I was still plugging away. A down & dirty triangulation lining up land forms and relating them to the chart put me at about 2 miles off the NE tip of Monserrate. I turned my radio on for the yachters net and held it in my teeth as I kept paddling. “And that’s all on the tides” was the first snippet I heard, which meant I’d missed check-ins and the weather. I keyed the radio and called in “Kayak Baja” sure nobody would hear me. Somebody did. They relayed my message and said the weather looked good for today. After that exchange, I only caught snippets, but it was still comforting to hear voices from home.
I passed the first landings by a couple of miles and pushed on to the NW tip of Monserrate. I’m a chronic “do it now and get it over with” person, but probably should have stopped at the first beach and rested. By the time I got where I was headed, 14.5miles upwind from my early morning launch, I’d completely lost my sense of humor. Autopilot made cheese and avocado burritos, shoved them in my mouth, and then fell fast asleep on the hard sand.
I woke 30 mins later, still sniffly and coughing with my cold, but feeling significantly better. I even forgave the wind a little bit. After which it relaxed somewhat. I switched back to the Greenland paddle and made myself promise to go slow and easy. Whales in the distance helped pull my spirits along. I was enjoying being on the sea, and Danzante looked reassuringly far away. The wind died and left gently undulating water. Then a breeze picked up from the other direction, as if too much wind had accidently blown that way and had to come back. A churning line of white in the new upwind direction worried me until I saw the black crescents of dolphins leaping out of them. A churning wall of dolphins! I turned north, then back west to see them better. A hundred or more on what looked like a joyous pilgrimage. Ah, life!
Some time later, I turned south to investigate another wall of white, thinking it to be dolphins or rays, but it was a line of strong wind, and I got stuck in it. Once I was there, I couldn’t make it out because the wind line moved with me at the same speed. Tricked! I resigned myself to a slow and bouncy trip.
I don’t know why speed has to matter so much, as if I always need to prove myself. The point is to enjoy being out there. I have food and water and a warm jacket at hand. I can stop and stretch and rest. I can crawl out of the boat to pee and climb back in through really any conditions I’d remotely want to be caught paddling in. I am happy paddling after dark. The moon will be up tonight. I know well the beaches where I’m headed and have found my destination before even without a moon. So what’s the hurry? Still it frustrates me to be slowed by the wind. At least this time my sense of humor doesn’t retire utterly. It strikes me that I’m enjoying the privilege of paddling in the only wind in sight. All around and just out of reach is a light blue slick line where the boat would glide willingly along and fail to build any character at all in the process.
On the water, time and distance become each other’s measure. Sun, moon, and tides hold the schedule between them. Wind runs around with the megaphone and directs the scene. And clouds can pull the plug on the moon. It’s good to be connected with these things, and even humbled by them from time to time.
In the cyclical way of things, this week just before the full moon of February happened to be the time 11 years ago that I was inspired to spend the night solo on the Pacific ocean south of Todos Santos. A huge step, probably not well advised from a risk management standpoint, but a proving ground for faith and fortitude.
The trip to Isla Catalina being another one of those journeys that shows you what you’re made of, I’d have to say this time it’s Bimbo brand strawberry bran-fruit bars, for that is what I most often reached for during those short on-water breaks.
Suddenly Danzante Island was beside me. Submarine rock on the other side. Ahead, calm water, and 4 miles away at the base of the mountains, home camp. Just an hour away. Fresh water for cleaning up. A bucket shower. The flat padded bed of my truck to sleep in. Neighbors to greet. Emails, and computer work. I decided to camp out on Danzante for the night and wander in around noon tomorrow.
After paddling 83 miles in 4 days, exploring a partly uncharted island, and answering to my own inner taskmaster, it was delicious to wake up late. To roll over and munch peanuts and of course strawberry Bimbo bars out of my day hatch while still in my sleeping bag, and watch the morning get on without me.
Opportunity arose this week: time and a reasonable weather window. I also just caught a good cold from my business partner, but that would have to wait for later on my schedule, because I had decided to go to Catalina.
I did errands by day, packed in the evening, and launched from my camp on Rattlesnake Beach at about 9pm. Night paddling is one of my favorite things. The tranquility, the focus, the simple profundity that those points of light up there are distant suns, and all the potential that opens. The way the water moves and you feel it through the boat, and other senses that awaken with the limiting of sight. The citrus scent of torote on the cool breeze that comes off a hillside.
By 11pm I’d moved out of home turf to Puertecitos, a coastal beach I’d visited a handful of times. I could camp here or push on to Monserrate Island. Fighting a sore throat and unsure if I’d make it there before the moon set, I opted to camp on the coast.
I landed and lugged the heavy boat up the beach by picking up one end and pivoting it uphill, then switching ends until I’d walked the boat above the high tide line. After stomping the small cobbles beside it until they were relatively flat, I fell asleep until 4:30. There’s something about an adventure that wakes me up in the morning ready to go. With some spoonfuls of mango yogurt, an orange, and a pre-boiled egg in the gas tank, the yellow kayak and I pushed off into the darkness. The moon had set and bioluminescence sparkled spectacularly with each paddle stroke. A whale breathed somewhere behind me. Scorpius looped its great tail into the glowing heart of the milky way. Oh, beautiful world, I’m on my way to the islands! Paddling under cover of dark feels like you’re getting away with something. The sun is sleeping, and when it wakes up and finds you, look how far you’ve come!
By the time the yachters’ net crackled on the radio at 8, I’d been circled by a huge manta ray and was within spitting distance of Monserrate. I kept paddling to the east side to make the next crossing as short as possible. On a half-shaded beach I kept the veggies in the boat cool while drying my wet clothes and self in the sun. Naked and barefoot on the firm wet sands of Monserrate, eating mango yogurt with the sun on my back. Not a bad way to live.
Two hours later, I pushed off for the Promised Land. Paddle an hour, stretch, snack, resume. Calm seas and gentle swell, light breeze. To the north, a panga and a blue whale. Tall column of grey against a pale horizon, count to 4, then a detonation—the delayed exhale of the biggest animal on the planet. Just me, a distant boat, a whale, and a whole lot of water. It’s amazing how much water is out here.
Monserrate wouldn’t go away. I paddled for an hour and it was still there, just behind me. The dissonance between insecurity of leaving it, and frustration at how slowly it faded. I guess it’s like anything—to find a distant shore you must leave one behind, with all the excitement and hesitation that conjures.
Watching distant islands crawl across the horizon. Making up songs, singing loud. The euphoria of being more than halfway! Then the eternal last hour. Catalina was right there, I just couldn’t reach it.
Touchdown 2:40pm, 20 mins ahead of projected time, and a couple miles south of anticipated landing. The current was pushing me that way, and a north wind picked up, so I went with them. I picked a beach, landed, and immediately fell in love with the clean granite cobbles at the shore. This speckled salt and pepper stone is different from the other islands. Cooing doves welcomed me to the place.
Wet clothes drying on the beach, I marched up the closest hillside with sandals, camera, and a bamboo pole I found on the beach so I could fend off the endemic rattle-less rattlesnakes that hide under every shrub on Catalina. I never did find even one. Giant barrel cacti are another endemic, more visible to your everyday nakedkayaker tromping enthusiastically about on a new island. I tried to pose with one. I set the timer, left the camera on a rock, and thought I’d run behind the cactus, stick my arms out to the sides and peek over the top. The first attempt showed a just a cactus with a crescent moon off to one side.
A black plastic crate conveniently washed up on the beach to become my cooking table. I arranged it in front of the perfect sitting rock and presto—a kitchen! Top chefs for miles about clamored for just such a spread.
Triangulation and a chart based on 1800s datum placed me in the middle of the west side of the island, and I felt sure I was further south. Circumnavigation the next day would prove my hunch right; this beach was within 2 miles of the south end of the 10-mile island. Paddling the next day would put me literally into uncharted territory, as the island has just dashed lines indicating no solid data for the east side; just a coastline there somewhere. The research vessel that did the charting and soundings had made one pass between Monserrate and Catalina Islands, about in the middle of the 12MN gap. Two hundred forty-nine fathoms deep where I crossed is darn deep, and kept my mind occupied for some time during the crossing trying to figure out in my head how many feet that would be. Sometimes being slow at math is a bonus. I also looked for the numbers in the water as a milestone, but saw nothing but peaceful green water with little tiny krill swimming in the vastness.
Little mouse in the night, are you one of the Catalina endemics? Trotting lightly across my shoulder, munching in the organic trash bag on the kayak deck? I see your brown backside as you scamper away. You’re bigger than the mice I’ve seen on Danzante and Carmen Islands.
Doves heralded sunrise, and were welcome. Sinus pain and difficulty breathing plagued my night and I finally resorted to the detested childhood remedy—gargling with hot salt water. It’s always an indication of how bad I’m feeling if I’ll actually do it. Indeed, I got out of the warm sleeping bag, reassembled the stove, unpacked the pot and mug, and brought them all back to my nest to prepare the remedy. Now, where to find some salt water?
No radio reception on the water from Catalina, so I didn’t catch the daily yachters’ net. I began a clockwise circumnavigation at 8am, tucking into each cove to inspect beaches, poke into sea caves, and savor the shade of cliffs. Three whales breathed in the distance near another panga as I climbed the NW corner. Lines of pelicans cruised by, usually in odd numbers. Do they count? “Hey, we need another bird for this formation before we’re cleared for takeoff!” Twice, the formation included 11 pelicans and a brown booby. Flight inspector?
Around the north tip, the sea was calm enough to shoot through the rocks, between preening pelicans who didn’t even look up at my passage. Three male sea lions snoozed in the water, hoisting their flippers in the air as dive flags. Three more males lounged on a rock. All the frigates I saw are females. I caught up to a leisurely pod of dolphins as we were both rounding the odd fan of gray cobble on the NE side. They continued on as I stopped for a lunch break of pre-rolled bean burritos.
I picked a tiny beach with just enough shade to sit up in, and this time it’s me I’m keeping cool. Let the veggies roast. The bobos found me immediately. Where did they come from? There’s nothing here but rock. The little bugs don’t bite, but they walk with remarkably heavy feet over every inch of skin, showing preference for facial features. Choices are to accept them, or to go nuts. Or to leave the beach, which I wasn’t ready to do yet. I ate the burritos with one hand and waved them off with the other. Finally, I leaned back into my rock alcove, resigned to accepting the buggars. With a protective arm across my eyes, I let them have their way. The bobos had carnivals, they procreated, they ran marathons, they had sing-alongs. They hosted revival meetings and danced in circles. I wonder if it tickles the earth this much when we walk around?
Dolphins again, coming back towards me once I’m on the water. Animated this time, leaping, tail slapping. One cruises close enough to see it in the water. Along the SE edge of Catalina, the sea caves were marvelous. One had a blow-hole that would consistently go off 4 times in quick succession, then pause. I paddled around the south end where I’d expected to camp, but didn’t feel like it. Low tide left big slimy cobbles along the shore, and the beaches just didn’t feel right. A few minutes around the corner and back up the west side, the perfect beach slid into sight—sand even at low tide! Small cobbles up higher for camping! A cliff that provided all-day shade! A great arroyo for hiking! Looks like home.
While looking for a fresh camera battery in the morning, I discovered I’d packed the hand-crank radio-flashlight in the extra battery bag. Not a bad idea since both my headlamps are on the fritz. I cranked it up and scrolled through the am stations. There actually were some. Music, too. Ode to Joy, of all songs. I often play this one at sunrise on my flute as a wake-up call. I didn’t know it had words. And I didn’t know the words were in Spanish! How appropriate—Ode to Joy for sunrise on Catalina Island, on a trip I’d not brought my flute on, but the music found me anyway.
What I did pack for this trip was 11 days worth of food and water, which makes a remarkably heavy boat. 34 liters (3 per day) of water, 12 raw eggs, 6 boiled eggs, a variety of veggies that keep well, and bags of dry food. The trip ended up only taking 4 days, plus the night paddle before and the morning I didn’t want to leave Danzante to go home and clean up. But with the uncertain February winds, having the means to stay put and wait them out was my safety plan. Five days of wind too strong to paddle a long crossing in isn’t unheard of around here.
I climbed the nearby ridge to try the radio at 8am, and actually got reception! More surprising, was somebody heard me, too, and relayed my data. I felt connected. Voices from home. How nostalgic a person can get with 2 days and a lot of seawater under the hull. I wandered about photographing cacti, and eyed a good hike up to a peak. I carried my trusty snake stick, camera, and tied my water bottle around my neck. This was probably the riskiest activity of the whole trip—wandering about in steep terrain over loose rocks in cactus and rattlesnake country—wearing sandals. Eleven ravens circled about, following my progress, chortling, swooping, glistening in the sun. I had to admit they were worthier beings, and more adapted to this terrain than I.
The summit offered rewarding views of the whole south end of the island, plus tempting other islands as well. When I returned to the beach, the north wind was up to about 12kts, and I didn’t feel like fighting it. Tide was going negative, and the waterfront cobbles were bound to be slippery at most other beaches, so I delayed the plan to move up the island, and read a book, “Almost an Island”. At low tide I crabbed my way around the rocky headland just to have a look.
Eventually the tide began to fill in and the wind began to lay down a little. I scrambled some eggs for dinner, packed up, and paddled into the choppy waves until sunset when I found a beach that had the right feel to it and would make for a shorter crossing in the morning. I hopped around on the cobbles taking photos as the sun went down, then set up camp for sleeping. The smallest cobbles were fist-sized, but they must have been comfortable enough, for I was asleep in moments.
I awoke at 3:30. Clouds were sparse enough to use moonlight for paddling, and the wind was still down enough to give it a shot. However, the wind had turned west in the night, and it didn’t take long for it to begin building. I was headed straight into it. Whitecaps started to hiss around me. The moon shied in and out of clouds. In a much less graceful pattern, my kayak plunged into and through waves. This wave plunging tends to slow a boat down. Every few strokes it felt like I had to get the whole thing moving again, and there was no glide to the action. I leaned hard onto the paddle.
I followed the moon until it set. Leo was the next constellation poised over the western horizon, so I followed Leo for a while. It just happened to be midway between the lighthouse on the south tip of Isla Monserrate, which I could see once I was a couple miles off Catalina, and the glow from the lights of Loreto, which I was dismayed to see soon thereafter. Afterglow of the moon dissipated and the night grew deliciously black. Scorpius hooked his tail into the milky way behind me. Saturn followed Leo down towards home. Waves grew to 2-3feet. In their breaking hiss, bioluminescence sparkled by about head high. As the boat plunged through waves, sea sparkles washed over the deck and onto my skirt. So enchanted was I, that even though I was singing songs like, “The sun will come out…tomorrow”, I didn’t want it to break the spell of lights cavorting in the darkness.
The horizon did begin to glow, and the dimmer stars faded. I found myself worrying, in a strange twist of logic, how I would know where I was going if I couldn’t see Leo.
The sun did come up. I saw Monserrate Island in front of me, and a giant manta ray thrashing around on the surface. Slowly I limped towards the island, having tweaked an old muscle injury over my right ribs by powering through the night waves. I would discover later when I looked at my hands, that despite the fact that I paddle for a living and have been working out by paddling lately, I also earned 5 blisters on that crossing.
Eight o’clock and I was still plugging away. A down & dirty triangulation lining up land forms and relating them to the chart put me at about 2 miles off the NE tip of Monserrate. I turned my radio on for the yachters net and held it in my teeth as I kept paddling. “And that’s all on the tides” was the first snippet I heard, which meant I’d missed check-ins and the weather. I keyed the radio and called in “Kayak Baja” sure nobody would hear me. Somebody did. They relayed my message and said the weather looked good for today. After that exchange, I only caught snippets, but it was still comforting to hear voices from home.
I passed the first landings by a couple of miles and pushed on to the NW tip of Monserrate. I’m a chronic “do it now and get it over with” person, but probably should have stopped at the first beach and rested. By the time I got where I was headed, 14.5miles upwind from my early morning launch, I’d completely lost my sense of humor. Autopilot made cheese and avocado burritos, shoved them in my mouth, and then fell fast asleep on the hard sand.
I woke 30 mins later, still sniffly and coughing with my cold, but feeling significantly better. I even forgave the wind a little bit. After which it relaxed somewhat. I switched back to the Greenland paddle and made myself promise to go slow and easy. Whales in the distance helped pull my spirits along. I was enjoying being on the sea, and Danzante looked reassuringly far away. The wind died and left gently undulating water. Then a breeze picked up from the other direction, as if too much wind had accidently blown that way and had to come back. A churning line of white in the new upwind direction worried me until I saw the black crescents of dolphins leaping out of them. A churning wall of dolphins! I turned north, then back west to see them better. A hundred or more on what looked like a joyous pilgrimage. Ah, life!
Some time later, I turned south to investigate another wall of white, thinking it to be dolphins or rays, but it was a line of strong wind, and I got stuck in it. Once I was there, I couldn’t make it out because the wind line moved with me at the same speed. Tricked! I resigned myself to a slow and bouncy trip.
I don’t know why speed has to matter so much, as if I always need to prove myself. The point is to enjoy being out there. I have food and water and a warm jacket at hand. I can stop and stretch and rest. I can crawl out of the boat to pee and climb back in through really any conditions I’d remotely want to be caught paddling in. I am happy paddling after dark. The moon will be up tonight. I know well the beaches where I’m headed and have found my destination before even without a moon. So what’s the hurry? Still it frustrates me to be slowed by the wind. At least this time my sense of humor doesn’t retire utterly. It strikes me that I’m enjoying the privilege of paddling in the only wind in sight. All around and just out of reach is a light blue slick line where the boat would glide willingly along and fail to build any character at all in the process.
On the water, time and distance become each other’s measure. Sun, moon, and tides hold the schedule between them. Wind runs around with the megaphone and directs the scene. And clouds can pull the plug on the moon. It’s good to be connected with these things, and even humbled by them from time to time.
In the cyclical way of things, this week just before the full moon of February happened to be the time 11 years ago that I was inspired to spend the night solo on the Pacific ocean south of Todos Santos. A huge step, probably not well advised from a risk management standpoint, but a proving ground for faith and fortitude.
The trip to Isla Catalina being another one of those journeys that shows you what you’re made of, I’d have to say this time it’s Bimbo brand strawberry bran-fruit bars, for that is what I most often reached for during those short on-water breaks.
Suddenly Danzante Island was beside me. Submarine rock on the other side. Ahead, calm water, and 4 miles away at the base of the mountains, home camp. Just an hour away. Fresh water for cleaning up. A bucket shower. The flat padded bed of my truck to sleep in. Neighbors to greet. Emails, and computer work. I decided to camp out on Danzante for the night and wander in around noon tomorrow.
After paddling 83 miles in 4 days, exploring a partly uncharted island, and answering to my own inner taskmaster, it was delicious to wake up late. To roll over and munch peanuts and of course strawberry Bimbo bars out of my day hatch while still in my sleeping bag, and watch the morning get on without me.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wind and Tide
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.
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, 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
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