Sea    
Kayaking
    Baja

San Felipe to Bahia Animas

Baja trip #3: 24 Days, December 1976

Copyright © 1976 - 2024 Ray Jardine

"Suddenly we feel alone. Immensely alone, to say nothing about committed, and vulnerable. A wave of misgiving floods over me, and for the first time in months of planning and preparation the prospects of a successful outcome seem absurd. Aloud, I utter those classic words: "What have we gotten ourselves into this time?" Having heard this many times before, Linda breaks into a grin. And with that we begin putting our plan into effect."

Linda's ramshackle VW bus has no heater, and since we are thinking of tropical climes we have brought little warm-weather clothing. So our mid-December drive from our place of residence in Yosemite is a nippy one. But from San Diego we turn eastwards into the desert and finally find welcome warmth.

Reaching the fishing village of San Felipe at last, we drive an additional mile south to a pristine beach. Here we reach the shore of the Sea of Cortez - or Gulf of California as it was formerly known - near its northern end. After nearly a year of planning and preparation we cast off our shoes and run barefoot in the warm Baja sand to the water's edge. Along with the shoes go our shackles to the civilized world.

The Baja peninsula blocks the swell rolling in from the vast Pacific and creates a haven for marine life. A brown pelican makes a reckless aerial dive into a school of fingerlings. A solitary snowy egret, white like a patch of snow, pokes along the shoreline. A pair of magnificent frigate birds soar overhead, motionless like kites anchored to the ground with a long string.

Our driver friends from San Diego, Jerry and his sister, are not of the reckless, Baja aficionado kind; so they are understandably anxious to return back across the border before nightfall catches them in this no-man's land. Still, it is with surprising haste that they leave us with our pile of equipment and drive away into the afternoon sun.

Suddenly we feel alone. Immensely alone, to say nothing about committed, and vulnerable. A wave of misgiving floods over me and for the first time in the months of planning and preparation the prospects of a successful outcome seem absurd. I utter those classic words aloud:

"What have we gotten ourselves into this time?"

Having heard this many time before, Linda breaks into a grin. And with that we begin putting our plan into effect.

Being on an extremely tight budget, we had made most of our gear. Sorting through what now seems like a mountain of it, we locate the boat parts and start putting them together. Plywood rib frames fit to floorboards, and longitudinal tubing into their slots in the frames. For additional safety we wire the tubing to the frames at each point of contact. The resulting wood and aluminum skeleton then slips into the waterproof fabric shell, and with a mighty heave on the compression strut the leverage forces the structure drum taut and . . . voila! A kayak!

To this point in time we had been running mainly on theory. Yosemite's frigid weather had prevented us from testing the new boat and our equipment. Eagerly, we grab the paddles and shove off into the ocean for a test run. Our hand-made paddles seem about the right length, and the boat responds well to my make-shift rudder assembly. Like a couple of kids trying out new bicycles at Christmas we paddle gleefully on a quiet ocean. This is paradise!

With the late afternoon shadows stretching far out, we make camp among the nearby sand dunes. The night is still and warm, and we lay in the two-person goose-down sleeping bag, which I had made, gazing at a brilliant panorama of stars. Occasionally we spot a satellite coursing across the heavens, and I begin to ponder. . .

As an aerospace engineer I had worked in computer simulated space flight mechanics and had participated, indirectly, in the launching of several satellites. How ironic it feels, then, to be engaged in this rather primitive endeavor - lying on a beach with a pile of gear and a small boat as our only belongings. How out of step with the awesome technological age! But alas, where was the glamor? For me there had been little more than the claustrophobic, windowless confines of my small office cubicle and its endless reams of computer printout. I believe the space program to be one of the more important and fascinating endeavors of humankind. But on a personal level, the engineer, or in this case, the pilgrim of sorts, has a choice among many roads leading to uncharted realms here on earth. I am more imbued with a longing for adventure of the physical sort, and I had left the space program knowing it would do fine without me.

Day 1

December 21, 1976

We awaken in the chilly reassess of darkness and grope around in search of firewood. We then manage to construct a small fire of what amounts to desert weeds. Weeds or no, it is enough to produce two steaming cups of cafe con leche. The ocean is silent, and its surface reflects the gleaming of the rising sun.

One of us at the bow and the other at the stern, we lug the heavy boat down the sand embankment to the water's edge. This two-person kayak now seems quite large, but even so, it is cramped for space and sensitive to the weight of our gear and provisions. So we have included only the bare minimum - or so we had tried to do - but now after carrying five heavy and bulky loads down to the shore, it seems like tons. "Where will it all fit?" we wonder to ourselves.

With Linda's small frame, she is particularly well suited for stowing things deep inside the boat's bow and stern. With a few muffled grunts she worms herself into the confines like a spelunker.

With the boat loaded, we are ready to attempt a launching. We drag the seemingly frail but ponderously over-loaded craft into the water, and make the reassuring discovery: the kayak still floats. However, as a precautionary measure I offer to let Linda climb aboard first. The remaining freeboard seems ample, so I squeeze in between pack and duffel into my position aft.

Let the journey begin!

New to our seagoing environment, we paddle cautiously. Foremost in our minds is the fear of capsizing into the uninviting brine. So I carefully steer the kayak along the shoreline so that we are never in water more than three feet deep. In theory, if we tip over, I want us to be able to rescue ourselves by simply standing up. But unused to padding this boat, we paddle in clumsy zigzags. The boat wobbles and gyrates, and bobs gently in the oncoming swells, as we progress slowly south.

The Day waxes on and the miles slip by, and the swell increases. The boat flexes disconcertingly with each dollop that sloshes over the deck. Still not trusting the integrity of our seemingly flimsy craft, we hug the shoreline even closer.

After several more hours, we are weary from the unaccustomed rigors of paddling and the confines of the boat. So we decide to turn into the beach for a late lunch stop. But in the process we catch the surf wrong and green water pours into the hold. Stepping onto the beach we strain against the unbelievable weight of gear combined with a bathtub-full of water, and finally manage to drag the boat free of an untimely pounding in the surf.

As we unload the sodden gear, the wind increases to a mild gale. We are both tired and have headaches from the glaring sun and dehydration. We feel clumsy and unorganized, and dismayed that the increasing seas have prevented us from paddling further today.

My light meter is separate from my old and battered Nikonos II waterproof camera, and it suffered the most from the dunking. It quit working in fact. So there in the sand and stinging wind we unscrew the tiny fasteners and dismantle the parts for drying. We get it working again, but only just. Then after drying the remainder of our gear we venture along the desolate beach in search of firewood. Soon we have hot beverages to ward away the chill of encroaching darkness.

Around midnight the tide rises much higher than expected, and we awake to the sound of sloshing water lapping fairly at our feet. Begrudgingly, we arise and carry our gear farther up the slope and establish an impromptu camp on the steeply inclined sand. Looking back, we see the last dry spot of our lower camp run awash in phosphorescent froth.

Day 2

December 21, 1976

By morning the wind is howling and the sleeping bag is thrashing us with a vengeance. We snug deeper down and sleep a few more hours. I awake again and peer out to see four people striding past with clam buckets in hand, heading for the great tidal flats now sprawled before us. Where they came from we haven't a clue.

Terrific winds are whipping the sea into great combers. There will be no paddling today. The morning is chilly, and we need to find some kind of shelter from the strong wind. We have no tent, but after a short exploration we find a small, hopefully abandoned shack on the bluffs above. After lugging the gear and boat to the three-walled structure we spend the rest of the morning inside, re-packing things into what we had thought were "waterproof" resealable bags. Our vantage high on the cliffs provides a grand vista of the frothy emerald green and white sea in all its uninviting, glorious turmoil. Directly below, the surf smashes the beach in powerful explosions.

We strike a small fire on the dirt floor within the hut, and are thankful for its warmth and measure of consolation. For after all, here we are on a great adventure with hundreds of miles to go, but detained on our second Day a mere twelve miles out of town. Patience rides low in the hearts of a man and woman on a Day such as this.

Later that afternoon we hike along the beach to investigate a dead porpoise. On the way I find an old beach-thong sandal, from which I later cut a pair of drip rings for a paddle. That night we sleep just outside the hut while an occasional scuffling from within suggests that the rodent-in-residence is checking out our provisions.

Day 3

December 22, 1976

In the fading darkness of early dawn we hustle the gear down to water's edge. The sea has fallen fairly calm but the tide is receding at an alarming rate. Only a small pool in the tidal flats remains before us, with only a shallow connecting waterway from that to the open sea. Soon the falling tide will cut off our escape, leaving us pondering the great expanse of intervening tidal flat. Hurriedly we pack the boat. And as an afterthought we assemble the sail rigging, which we have not yet tried.

Shoving off, we deploy the billowing orange sail, sewn from our camping groundsheet. Suddenly the boat responds to what seems like a primitive instinct. She comes to life as a sailing vessel. Her motion is much different, almost to the point of nobility. Responding to the helm, she makes her way through the shallow outlet and heads for open water.

The coast begins sliding by, slowly but effortlessly. Riding on the wind is exhilarating, but soon the lack of effort robs us of metabolic warmth. My bare and wet feet are fitted into the rudder straps and they soon loose sensation. We cover ourselves with anything within reach to help ward off the chill of dawn. Having grown accustomed to the steady pace of paddling, we find that the boat's speed undulates undesirably at the whims of the unsteady breeze. Sometimes we move faster than we could paddle, but more often we move much slower. Yet compelled by the novelty of sailing, we keep it up.

As we navigate through shallow channels of the ever broadening tidal flat, which by now reaches out half a mile, a large sand bar begins to take form seaward of us, to our left. We sail on, but eventually we see someone walking on what must be dry ground in the distance far ahead. That means we are heading into a blind alley! We swing the boat around, douse the sail, and paddle furiously back along the sandbar, which now threatens to trap us. The water becomes so shallow that our paddle blades begin scraping bottom. We step out, and with a length of cord I pull the sluggish craft as fast as I can drag it through the water, with Linda hurrying at my side. Being trapped here would leave us stranded in the mud a long ways from shore.

Forty-five minutes of effort brings us to the northern end of the spit. We are glad to have gained access to the open sea, even though the wind driven waves have risen. We stow the sailing rig and snap on the spray deck, which streamlines the boat and helps keep the waves out of the cockpit.

The sea is rough but the shore is inaccessible. We can't fathom the prospects of lugging the boat and the gear all the way across the vast tidal flat, while keeping ahead of the advancing surf. So we have little choice but to press on.

Further along we paddle into shoal water and suddenly find ourselves embroiled in frightful surf. I jam the rudder to seaward and the kayak stabs into a wall of water. Cold brine crashes into our faces, but we manage to remain upright and afloat. Composure regained, we power seaward. Another wave rises for the attack, and the boat shudders as it takes on more water. By the time the third wave hits we are somewhat less distraught, and soon we reach deeper water where the swells, though still intimidating, are not breaking.

Clear of the surf, we turn southward again and after wrestling heavy seas for another hour we get past the tidal zone where we now can land ashore. But still we are far out at sea, and between us and land is a zone of frothing surf. Linda's uncanny eyes for quieter water guides us in toward shore. "Left... left... now straight... " I can't see that much difference, but the waves crashing on either side suggest that Linda can. Landing ashore feels like returning to earth after a long space voyage.

Searching for a wind protected campsite, we finally locate a suitable place among a few sand dunes a ways farther south. I return to the kayak and drag it through shoal water along the shore. In the deeper sections I sit on the bow and straddle it with my legs, and paddle for shallow water.

Pulling the boat free of sea, we are wet, cold, and deeply fatigued. But the sheltering dunes deflect the wind very suitably. So after lugging the gear and boat to the dune camp, we change into dry clothes, eat a few handfuls of gorp, and go to sleep in the wonderful warmth of the sun.

Awakening a few hours later, we find that we had been discovered. An old bedraggled pelican, apparently no longer able to fly, had adopted us as its bodyguards. It keeps fairly close to us, we imagine for safety against prowling coyotes.

That evening around the campfire we reflect on the trip. At the end of our fourth Day, we are now just south of Nuevo Mazatlan. Two years ago on a similar trip in single kayaks, my friends and I had arrived at nearly this same spot after the first Day's paddling from San Felipe. For Linda and me now, the tides are exposing the mud flats during the quieter morning hours, and we are experiencing heavy winds and seas which are reducing our progress greatly. But we've had a warm, restful afternoon; the evening is beautiful and we're looking forward to a good Day tomorrow.

Day 4

December 23, 1976

Arising at dawn's first inkling, we see that only a mild breeze wafts gently across a quiet sea. We start a hasty coffee-boiling fire, and using a flaming bush as a torchlight we check our campsite for any items that we might have left behind. After loading the boat, we sail for two hours of relatively slow going. Gradually our limbs stiffen in the chill. The sun is up but the sail blocks its warmth. Eventually the breeze begins to die, leaving us debating whether to lower the sail or to wait for the wind to pick up again. The absurdity of sitting completely motionless soon resolves our dilemma. We drop the sail and begin paddling across a glassy, warm sea. Here the seabed is so gradually sloped that we are nearly a mile offshore in only two feet of water. The sea bottom gliding silently underneath is covered everywhere in fuzzy purple sand dollars. We take rests from the paddling and lean over the gunwales to stare in awe at the wonder and beauty of this strange underwater world.

A few hours later a gentle downwind breeze allows us to sail on a broad reach. We extend the boom nearly 90 degrees to one side, with Linda at the sheet and me sitting aft manning a paddle for a little extra speed. The disadvantage of this configuration becomes immediately clear. Namely that the sail completely blocks my view forward. No cause for anxiety, as Linda is carefully watching, she assures me, and occasionally she gives me steering directions designed to keep us off the threatening reef.

"Linda... are you still awake?"

After six hours of ocean travel the wind and seas pipe up once again, so we beat a hasty retreat to shore. Tired from my paddling exertions I nap in a hollow among the sand dunes, absorbing the delicious warmth of the sun. Linda, the sole possessor of our entire supply of energy, busies herself at making pancakes over a small campfire. Reluctant to waken me, she eats them all.

Toward evening Linda decides to go fishing in the surf. I wrap a length of line around a plastic water bottle, and attach a small rock as a casting weight, and a little lure.

"Now you cast like this." I demonstrate by swinging the line around and around overhead, and letting fly. The lure hurls out over the surf and the line hums off the bottle. This is a great technique in lieu of a rod and reel. "But you don't really expect to catch anything here do you? Hey, wait a minute!" I rewind the tugging line and haul in a fish.

Linda tries the technique and after a few vigorous casts into the sand, and a few ker-plunks into the shallows close by, she manages a fine cast and hauls in another grouper. You know, we confirm to each-other, this is one fine trip!

Day 5

December 24, 1976

Last night the receding tide exposed a stretch of rocks surrounding our beach. So in order to float out over these rocks as we had floated in, the tide would have to be relatively high once again. We had figured that the very latest we could depart would be 4:30 am. Rising early, then, we make a small fire, and while the coffee water heats we lug our gear through the darkness down to water's edge. And as we load the boat, we slurp at our mugs of brew for warmth.

We set out once again on a flat, pre-dawn sea, sailing before a gentle breeze. It is absolutely beautiful. The sun rises over the shimmering water, its red light diffused by distant cloud and mist. But the breeze only wafts us along, and the hours seem to drag on. Linda is tossing pieces of orange peel into the water. This gives me the idea of computing our speed by dead reckoning. I time how long it takes a peel to reach the stern, and come up with 1.75 miles per hour. We could walk twice that fast.

Mid morning the wind dies completely, and after paddling a while we reach an inviting sand bar which offers respite for our stiffened bodies. Here, we investigate the tide pools, inspecting multitudes of fascinating creatures. Overturning a rock surprises a dozen or so baby crabs, some as small as 1/4 inch across. There are tiny fish, brittle stars and other types of star fish, and small sea cucumbers. Under some there are baby octopus, clams, muscles, hermit crabs, olive snails, and shrimp. Linda has taken a marine biology class, and she points out sponge corals, tube worms, nudibranchs, anenomes, and parapodium, which are quite fascinating little creatures. Life is teeming, in blatant contrast to the apparent desolation of the nearby desert.

The breeze picks up and I have an idea. Leaving Linda on the shore with the camera, I deploy the sail. The idea is to obtain some comparison of the boat's speed with that of someone walking along the shore. Unfortunately, a strong wind catches my sail and sends me tearing across the water. Glancing hastily over my shoulder I can see Linda running at a desperate pace over the rocky shoreline. The look on her face says "he's leaving me...!" I swing the boat into the wind, drop the sail, and paddle near shore, and Linda wades eagerly out in hip-deep water for her rescue.

The wind picks up even further and we sail open faced at breakneck speed. The sail billows forward like a spinnaker and the mast bends forward until it seems about to collapse. I regret not having fitted a backstay, but this is one of those learn-as-you-go adventures. After riding sluggishly over each swell, the kayak's bow plows into the water, driven by the down pressure in the sail. It is rather terrifying, but we press on because for once we are making fantastic progress. The waves are striking us off the center from the rear, swinging us seaward and putting us in danger of a broach. The rudder now seems grossly undersized, having little effect on realigning the craft each time we are struck aft by a wave. Spray flies in all directions and we are nearly out of control, but what exhilaration to be madly rushing over the water in such careless abandon!

We eventually land on the beach just north of the small village of Puertecitos. Hoping to conceal the boat, we select a site on a small rock embankment, but find it very difficult to carry the kayak up the steep rock escarpment. And in the process I find a small hole in the boat, so we have to break out the repair kit and glue on a patch. After stuffing the boat into a cranny, and re-loading it and fitting its spray deck, we hoof it into the little pueblo.

Tacos! Cerveza! Ah, the debasing pleasures of civilization. But while sitting at a table inside a cantina, we both begin to experience a strange case of vertigo. The room seems to be reeling back and forth. We go out for a walk to try to regain equilibrium, and come upon another cantina called Speedy's Camp. Our ravenous appetites compel us to investigate. Speedy tells us he is out of food, but we say we are not picky and he says his wife can cook us some pig's ankles - with rice and beans of course. He ushers us into the back room, his living quarters, and invites us to be seated at the kitchen table. The meal tastes wonderful.

Swaggering back to our windy camp, we unpack the boat in search of sleeping gear and discover that some of the wooden framework has been torn apart, apparently in our mad sailing spree. After a hasty but effective repair with pliers and bailing wire, we hit the sack at 4:30 PM.

Day 6

December 25, 1976

Howling winds keep us bedded down until 9:30 AM. After a 17 hour sleeping marathon we can no longer endure the thrashing sleeping bag, so we rise, stow the gear in the boat, lash it securely to the rocks, and walk back toward town. On the wet and spume covered beach a large flock of sea gulls hunker down, almost clutching at the sand for purchase against the gale. An occasional bird launches into the wind, but makes little headway.

We climb the back side of the cliffs for a better look at the sea, and see an enormous group of pelicans diving on what must be a vast school of fish far out over the white capped water. In the flurry of action the word is out, and every pelican within sight is making a bee line for the scene. Below us the surf pounds the rocks with incredible ferocity. Each explosion hurls a magnificent plume of white water high into the air. It is not what one would classify as a favorable Day for ocean kayaking, but that is the beauty of the kayak over a larger boat. It can be withdrawn from the sea on Days like this.

We eventually find our way to the cantina again, and enjoy a wonderful round of huevos rancheros. Suddenly realizing that the date is December 25, we decide that this is our Christmas meal. Thoughts turn to relatives back home, gathering for the lavish turkey dinner. We both silently feel a little saddened at the prospects of missing the occasion, but neither of us would trade the experience of being here.

We hang around town awhile, talking with a few locals and gaining a bit of insight into the character of the little fishing village. The residents are predominately Americans who rent the land and own the house or trailer that sits on it.

Returning to camp, we lean into the pressure of the wind at a ridiculous angle, searching the area for a more sheltered spot. We find a small pocketed embankment in an arroyo. After deliberating on the possibility of a flash flood, we decide to move in against all odds. We portage the short distance over volcanic slag and soon have a new and better camp established.

That evening we return to town for tacos, enchiladas, and a soda each. Nearly everyone we meet takes an immediate interest when they learn that we have no car, but that we are here by kayak. We meet one such couple, and talk at length about fishing these waters. They give us some helpful information on some of their favorite techniques, and we enjoy a very pleasant evening in their company.

Slogging back to camp, we find our beach engulfed in a ground blizzard of blowing sand.

Day 7

December 26, 1976

The wind blows just as forcefully, so today will be another one ashore. Making the best of our stay here, we eat a little breakfast and are soon befriended by a couple from California camped nearby on this otherwise desolate expanse of beach. They offer us a brew, and we later decide to try a little surf fishing. This turns out to be a poor idea because the lure is unable to penetrate the strong wind when cast out over the surf bashing at the rocks. Anyway, we reason that the fish would probably not be able to see a lure in such turbid waters.

The four of us pile into their pickup and head into town, and they take us to the local hot mineral bath. We soak up the wonderful heat in the company of a few other locals, young and old. In the strong winds we are reluctant to expose our bare skin to the icy blast, so we remain submerged for a couple of hours, soaking in the wonderful heat. Back at the cantina we enjoy another hearty round of Mexican food, spending only about a dollar each - which is a good thing because as always we are watching our pennies.

After lunch we pile back into their truck and tear off into the desert in search of firewood. Finding good wood near one of these 4WD accessible areas proves to be a major undertaking. After driving a great distance and finding very little in the way of burnable material, we eventually stumble upon a real jackpot in the form of the city dump, or one of them, anyway. Soon we have the truck loaded with an old cot, a refrigerator box, vegetable crates, and all sorts of burnable debris. Linda and I even find something for ourselves - a small sheet of Plexiglas which I later bolt to the rudder to add to its size.

Back at camp our friends build a rock lined incinerator and soon have it up to full production. That evening we all sit back from the blaze, sipping hot drinks and talking into the night.

Day 8

December 27, 1976

Arising before first light we find that the ocean has calmed. Eagerly, we begin the task of carting our gear down to the water. And before long, a great number of tracks in the sand between camp and our launching site is all that remains as a vestige of our stay here. We paddle away into a crimson sunrise to meet a beautiful Baja Day.

Gliding quietly along the rocky shoreline we often disturb small groups of pelicans squatting on the rocks. When so threatened, the birds become distraught, but they are so phlegmatic at this early hour that they are quite hesitant to exert themselves into flight. As we approach too closely they finally give great laborious heaves out over the water and clumsily flap and kick. And when finally they reach flight speed they suddenly transform into creatures of wonderful grace. As often as not this morning, though, they reevaluate their decision to continue, and glide into the ocean only a short distance away.

We paddle on. The Day is windless and the sea calm. It is a wonderful Day at last to be on the ocean. It is also a great time for our first real effort at fishing. For the occasion I attach our best, and at $3 our most expensive, jig to the trolling line. In a matter of minutes a horrendous strain comes onto the line, and in an instant it parts. I would like to think it was some great fish, but it could have been only a bottom snag. And because we have only a limited supply of lures, this time I attach our worst lure. The big fish don't find it so appealing, and before long we have three nice cabrilla and a trigger fish for dinner.

We spot a pod of some 30 porpoise and hope they will come closer. Sure enough, half a dozen gallop over to check us out. In their investigation they begin playing hide and seek. Submerging, they keep us in suspense as to where they will reappear. Whoosh... a few feet from the port bow an enormous shiny black creature surfaces for air. And there is that big, black, shiny eye looking right at us. It is totally uncanny. The eye seems to speak a thousand words of wisdom in the silence of but a fleeting moment. There is something unique about these wonderful creatures. They are obviously intelligent, and they seem very friendly. Whoosh.... whoosh... two more suddenly appear. Initially we are fearful of being capsized by one coming too near. But before long they instill us with confidence. They are enormously powerful, but they behave with gentleness and care. At a distance we see them leap out of the water, but as they draw near our unsteady boat they move slowly and take the greatest care not to disturb the water. Occasionally one swims under the kayak, and we look down through the clear water, and see it seemingly as large as the boat, rolled over on its side as if to get a better look at us.

The porpoise's sonar-like squeals reverberate through the kayak, which amplifies them like an acoustic guitar. We can hear them very clearly. They cavort around us for over an hour, and as Linda writes in the journal this evening: "It was just about the neatest thing that I've ever experienced... too much for words."

Sadly, these playful and wonderfully intelligent creatures are being slaughtered by their tens of thousands. It may seem odd, but the real culprit is not the fisherman but the supply and demand. One of the more important methods a tuna seiner uses to locate a school of bluefin, yellowfin, of skip jack is watching for a school of porpoise working at the surface. Nine times out of ten the porpoise will be feeding on tuna. The fishermen circle the porpoise with their the seiner net, and draw it closed at the bottom. In this way they catch not only tuna, but the hapless porpoise as well. They have no workable method of removing the porpoise alive.

Thinking of farther shores and a distant campsite, we decide to leave the cavorting band of porpoise at last and paddle on. Much to our surprise they remain with us, and follow us for 15 miles. Two of them even wait while we land ashore for a break. They resume following us again in the afternoon.

Along the way we encounter the occasional turtle basking on the calm surface. In curiosity we glide silently to within a few feet. Caught by surprise, it suddenly dives for safety. They measure perhaps 2.5 feet in diameter, and because they are so tasty and so easily harpooned or shot, they have been hunted nearly to extinction. All along the way we had found turtle shells on the beach. On the one hand we are glad to shoot the turtle only with our camera, leaving the creatures to live their quiet lives. But on the other we will soon grow quite fond of the turtle steaks at the Casa Dias.

We beach for a late lunch, and I scrounge the intertidal zone for clams while Linda cleans our four fish. In the vicinity we inspect a cave marked by an enormous pile of shells at its entrance. The mound was nearly eight feet high and told of native people who once lived here, eating clams, limpets, and scallops, and throwing the shells out the cave's doorway.

Normally we travel within a few hundred feet from land, away from the surf but within safe distance of the shore. Occasionally we will cut a bay and venture a mile or two out to sea. Paddling isn't easy; it is slow, hard, and monotonous work. But the mind isn't anchored to the physical labors. There is always something interesting: the beauty of the endless miles of coastline, or an occasional island to explore visually. Sometimes an entire school of fish leaps free of the water directly our path - much to our delight. Other times we glide over submerged reefs; admiring the infinite beauty in the emerald water below. A pelican plunges into the sea from a great height, or perhaps a flock of snowy egrets flies past. Or a solitary blue-footed booby gives us a close inspection. But mostly we enjoy the sensation of traveling on the ocean. We are exploring in a sense, but more like children in a world full of wonder. And we feel like adventurers.

To our delight the ocean remains calm throughout the Day, allowing us to paddle until nearly dark. We pull in to a nice beach only to discover a small lagoon hidden between it and higher ground. So we portage the gear and boat through the lagoon and establish camp. Tonight we dine on grilled fish, instant mashed potatoes, and coffee. It was a truly wonderful Day, our best thus far. Weary from the labors of pulling the blades, we fall quickly into well-deserved sleep.

Suddenly we are awakened by an explosion. I jerk upright and witness a second burst of orange firebrands - glowing rock fragments and wood coals hurled into the black of night. One of the rocks supporting the grill was apparently water saturated, and the heat created tremendous internal stress. Panic over, we quickly fall back to sleep.

Day 9

December 28, 1976

Rising well before first light, we find that one of the white-hot pieces of rock, last night, had landed at the foot of the nylon and goose down sleeping bag. The rock was so hot that it had seared through both layers of the sleeping bag and continued melting its way through the foam pad and down into the ground sheet. Our bedding was fused together at that spot, and not easy to tear apart.

We kindle a small fire and boil the billy pot. Then we carry the kayak to water's edge and load it. After erasing camp we set out and glide over a calm and windless sea, off on another perfect Day. Colors of gold begin to paint the eastern sky and we revel in a display of the Almighty's majesty in the Baja sunrise. For the next five hours we put elbow grease to the paddles, taking every advantage of the calm water. Along the way however I do monitor a trolling line, more as an excuse to take a break from the rigors of paddling than of necessity. It is good fun and I throw most fish back, but I do keep a sizable specimen for the evening meal.

Pulling ashore for lunch, we hike to the top of a hill to stretch our legs. Here we are rewarded with a spectacular view of the expansive ocean and coastline. Then back at the beach I find among the driftwood - of all things a wooden chair. So I sit at lunch like a king on his throne. Ah... such luxuries should pervade the sodden life of a weary soul. Linda finds an enormous chunk of ironwood. I forbid her to keep it, so she stashes it beneath a bush, as if intending to retrieve it later. She has a collecting instinct, as evidenced by her dormitory room in Yosemite which resembles a museum of natural history. And not to get ahead of my story, but after we had returned to Yosemite I discovered that she had ferreted a disconcertingly large seashell in the kayak's bow.

Off again into the still quiet ocean, we paddle ahead, longing for a little wind to drive our sail but finding none. Our efforts are interrupted every 10 or 15 minutes by a fish yanking at the line. I reel it in by winding the line round my plastic water bottle, then I lift the catch into the cockpit between my legs. Removing the hook with a pair of pliers, I flip the hapless creature back into the sea. Ultimately I name my faithful little jig "Old Joe." In its better Day it resembled a minnow, but the color has long since worn off, leaving it looking more like a badly chewed and scarred bit of plastic - with a disproportionately large treble hook attached to its after end. Humble as he was, Old Joe was catching fish one after another. Altogether he landed over 50 fish before attracting something much too large and with sharp teeth.

The afternoon swells increase, and toward quitting time we paddle past a particularly beautiful beach enclosed on either side by a band of cliffs. The coastline curves around at this point, blocking our view ahead. We both have the feeling that we are bypassing the last landing area for quite some distance. And indeed this proves to be the case.

The swells increase to 3 feet and the Daylight fades. We paddle along miles of endless cliffs, searching for a place to land, but in vain. Our situation begins to seem serious, and Linda insists that I quit fishing. We have come 28 arduous miles, and the bones of our hands seem to be ossifying to the paddle shafts. Darkness prevails, and the surf bashes with a mighty roar against the ever-present cliffs.

At last we think we might be approaching a beach, so we head closer in to investigate. It looks rather like a beach to me, but Linda protests, saying she sees only heavy surf and rocks. I decide to paddle cautiously in, and only 30 feet later the kayak's keel scrapes to a halt on the sand beach. In the darkness, neither of us had realized we were this close to shore. What a relief, though, to be safely on terra firma once again. Suddenly our tenseness turns to exhaustion and we can barely muster the strength to carry the boat to higher ground.

We soon have a small fire blazing and a much needed cup of steaming coffee laced rather heavily with Kaluah. Humorously, the light of the campfire solves at least one problem. Linda had been trying to break one particular stick for the campfire, without success. We laugh when we see that it was a feather! We grill up a mess of fish and eat a hasty dinner. Then just before we retire, the sky lets loose with rain. Rain, in Baja? We cover our sleeping bag with the sail, which is much too small for that task. Despite the rain we promptly fall into a deep sleep.

Day 10

December 29, 1976

Our aching bodies are not enthusiastic about squeezing back into the confines of that boat, so we allow ourselves a casual morning start. Last night we had unknowingly stopped less than a mile from Punta Willard, behind which lies the fish camp named for its founder, Papa Fernandez, who in fact still resides there. We arrive near the punta mid morning, and secure the boat well clear of high water. Then we hike over the hill and down into the fish camp. Papa Fernandez runs a cantina here and we enjoy a wonderful breakfast prepared by one of his wives. While we are here, a Mexican gentleman stops by for a cup of coffee and sits quietly to himself. But when he learns that we were the kayakers, he springs to life and begins talking excitedly but incomprehensibly in rapid-fire Spanish. It seems that we had camped close to his house the previous night, and that he is quite intrigued that we are traveling in such a small boat.

Virtually all the local people we meet, what few there are, react in much the same way. Initially we may be taken for just another couple of gringos, and we are left to lead our seemingly meaningless and incomprehensible lives. But when they discover our little boat, we are suddenly the main attraction. There are so few visitors who participate in the hardships and the magnificence of this sea like these humble but hearty fishermen.

Along the way we ask the locals if they have seen many kayakers plying the coastline. Usually they say "no," but sometimes they tell of how, years ago, someone came by in a canoe or perhaps a dinghy. One elderly fellow told me he had seen many "kayukos" pass by. "How many?" I queried. Oh...about 300. I think he was teasing.

For a modest fee Papa Fernandez fills our plastic water bottles with trucked-in water. And with best wishes for a successful journey he bids us a fond farewell.

We set out to cross Bahia Willard, hoping to complete the six mile open water crossing while the wind holds calm. It did for four of those miles.

After straining against the blades the last 45 minutes, we finally arrive somewhat ruffled at the far shore. Out of dire necessity to remove our frail craft from the heavy seas before being capsized, we make a rather forced landing onto the cobble stones. We have to unload the boat while still afloat, and it is here that we develop a special technique. Being the stronger of the two I hold onto the wildly gyrating boat and stabilize and dampen its motion in the surf, while Linda lugs the gear to shore, piece at a time. Once empty, we lift the craft out of the water and carry it to higher ground.

We establish a camp in a strange arroyo, which because of the nature of the beach had perhaps seen very few visitors. Here the ground is covered with a pumice-like slag, from the mill at Santa Roselia we later learn. Walking on the slag, we sink in sometimes nearly to the knees. We have to construct a driftwood walkway on which to carry our gear to a small parcel of firm earth.

We had not fished today, so with wetsuit, mask, snorkel, flippers and spear gun I take to the water to try and bag something for dinner. The water is cold and fish are nimble, and they manage to survive my most careful aims. Linda, standing watch from the shore, suddenly hollers "SHARK!" Racing back to shore I all but fly out of the water, only to find out that what she really said was "LOOK!" She was only pointing out a harmless 5-foot manta ray jumping clear of the water. We gather limpets from the intertidal zone, instead, and enjoy a fine stew made with them.

Later the wind increases to alarming levels, and rain begins to fall.

We are up before first light, hoping for an early start. But the awful wind delays our departure until Daylight. And alas, the first light confirms our worst fears. The sea is covered in menacing whitecaps. Still, I figure that we might be able to continue despite the adversity. Although the wind is strong, it is blowing offshore. The cliffs might protect us from the brunt of its force. I discuss this with Linda but see that she is not convinced.

Progress is slow and tiring. Because of the irregularities in the protective cliff band, the wind is inconsistent. Sometimes it is dead calm; sometimes it is violent. And when it blows, it does so from any direction.

We manage three miles along the coast, until reaching what appeared to be a very unusual cove. Out of curiosity we decide to investigate. The passageway is narrow and shallow, and leads into an inner sanctuary which might best be described as a dream world. The lagoon is calm and emerald green, more like a small lake surrounded by cliffs. My remark about the probable lack of fish here is suddenly countered by a violent jerk at the business end of the trolling line. I pull in a beautiful jack cravelle. That decides it, we will spend the Day here enjoying this delightful place. In a few minutes we have two more fish, so we land at the far beach, strike a fire, and grill our catch for breakfast. The fish are delicious.

Linda requests another round, so I take the empty kayak back out into the lagoon, coffee cup in hand. Within minutes I return with another cravelle, and Linda soon has it on the grill. She likes her fish fresh and she gets them fresh.

Partly for dinner but mostly for sport I continue trolling for another hour or so. Each time Old Joe goes out, I take a few strokes of the paddle to pay out the line, and Wham! another fish. After filling the dinner sack I start catching and releasing. Linda is intrigued, and decides to come out and give it a try. She tosses out the line, and Wham! Hey what is this? All those cravelles I caught and she hauls in a beautiful white sea bass. It is her special dinner.

We enjoy the Day immensely, basking in the warm sun and for once not thinking about the ever-present need to gain coastal mileage. And why not? The seas are rough out there. And anyway we now have little choice in the matter. It turns out that the lagoon's entrance is open to the sea only for a few hours each Day, at high tide. The receding tide has left the connecting channelway high and dry.

Later that evening we invent a fun game. I tie a fish head to a length of strong cord, and toss it into the water near an octopus hole. The creature emerges and grabs the bait, and the two of us have a jolly tug-of-war. Oddly, the octopus always wins. Its strength is astonishing. Eventually the fish head breaks, leaving me with only the cord, and the octopus withdraws triumphantly back into its cave with its well-earned prize. After a few more rounds of this fun I offer a fish head in a tightly clenched fist. The long, inquisitive tendrils fondle my hand ever so gently, and finds it not very tasty.

Just after dark a pair of coyotes come down into the ravine to check out the powerfully alluring aromas of our grilled fish. They are quite small and in the darkness we initially mistake them for kit foxes. We toss them a few fish steaks, and they approach with the utmost caution. These animals are very thin but strong, their physiques reflect the difficulty which must come with hacking out a meager existence in the desert. They are extremely wild, but the smell of our food offerings is overpowering. But only to one; the other keeps its distance.

Day 11

December 30, 1976

We have to wait until 9:00 AM for the high tide to flood the lagoon entrance. When it does, we paddle back out into the real world of heavy wind and swells, and spend most of the Day bouncing around in rough conditions. Progress is slow and strenuous. Finally we spot a large bay where we might find shelter from the storm, but on closer inspection we see that it is inhabited by a small group of fishermen and their families. It is the fish camp of Calamajue. We don't wish to intrude, so we paddle on across the windswept bay and turn the corner to the south.

In a few miles we meet with the appalling view of interminable miles of cliffs. We must return to the fish camp. But as we attempt to re-round the point from where we had just come, an unbelievable headwind lashes out and sends us reeling.

It is an odd thing about small boats that a strong wind from behind is quite manageable, moving in harmony with the wind and waves. But turning around and trying to make headway into it, is a different matter. Despite our best efforts, we are unable to move ahead. In fact, the wind is so furious that even hanging onto our paddles is a supreme effort. Each oncoming sea breaks high over the bow and inundates us. With the passing of each wave the stinging, piercing spray makes even breathing difficult.

Unable to control the boat we drift near some shoals and grind hard against a submerged and unseen jagged rock. It slashes the fabric and the kayak starts taking water. We make a supreme effort to penetrate the wind and seas, and my paddle shaft snaps with a sickening crack.

Forward progress is now out of the question. But we must do something - and do it quickly. I trade Linda's paddle for my two halves, and manage to work us laterally across the wind and around the corner. This is difficult because her paddle is feathered for a left-handed person, and I can hardly use it.

In the lee of the headwall we enter perfectly calm conditions, which was good because we needed to effect a landing among the large rocks.

We land and unload the kayak, and haul it up away from the sea. And turning the empty boat over we see that the gash is only a few inches long. I clean and dry the fabric as best as possible, then glue on a patch.

Having done about all that I can do, I am left feeling a bit low. And after all, loosing a kayak paddle in this remote region is no joke, and neither is our forced bivouac in such an exposed, rocky place. And add to that the impending storm. I settle the matter by retreating into a small alcove and burying my head in the sleeping bag like an ostrich. A person has to figure on having a few Days like this once in a while.

Linda gathers small bits of wood and builds a tiny fire. With this she manages a consoling brew, which was just what the doctor had ordered.

In a cold and steady drizzle beneath blackening skies we erect a make-shift lean-to by lashing the small triangular shaped sail hard against the cliff. Under this we place some of our gear. We are a scant few feet above the high tide, trapped from behind by a rock buttress surrounding us on three sides and rising 300 feet overhead. (And not to get ahead of the story again, but two years later I paddled by this place and discovered to my horror that the entire embankment had collapsed and our little refuge was completely buried in rubble.)

Back to now, this is a claustrophobic situation, and not without good reason. If a storm should develop in the night and begin to hurl breakers onto our enclave, as it obviously does with some frequency, we would need to climb out of here. With this in mind, I am determined to give it a try.

Picking the best line, I begin climbing. Slowly, cautiously I gain height, calling upon my many years of rock climbing experience. One slip would result in what climbers whimsically refer to as "the standard death fall." Half an hour of delicate work brings me at last to the summit. The wind is fierce. Far below, I can see our little orange tarp and blue boat, and I feel so removed from them now. Climbing that rock wall in the dead of night, in a storm, would be extremely difficult, but at least I now know the route, and am confident that our chances would be greatly enhanced.

I also want to investigate, as a second option, the feasibility of a lateral traverse around the buttress, just above the water. So I hike down the steep backside slopes covered in cactus. Eventually I gain the water's edge. Between me and our camp, a few hundred feet away, is a vertical section of rock thrusting its way skyward from the thrashing depths. I move across, grasping tiny finger and foot holds. The climbing is technical, but the price of error would be nothing more than a cold swim, and I am in my element. Then thirty feet from the end I reach an impasse. Linda can now see me, and she directs me to climb six feet higher to where I might find good holds. This proves to be the case, and I soon join her and our bivouac.

In the fading light Linda grapples under the dark confines of the primitive shelter, organizing our gear for an early morning departure. We sleep fitfully in the rain.

Day 13

January 1, 1977

I awake in the wee hours to the sound of an increasing surf booming and echoing within the caverns. Leaving our cozy shelter, I grope my way a few yards down to the shoreline to see whether the surf is as large as it sounds. The swell is only six inches, certainly nothing to cause concern.

Our entire supply of firewood consists of just a few twigs and sticks. We had carefully covered it, but the night's rain had dampened everything. Nevertheless after a great deal of fidgeting we manage a tiny flame. With the light of this I am able to read my watch. The time is 4:00 am.

The rain has stopped. I heat a brew and try to dry a few things in the scant heat of the feeble glow. We putter around nervously, awaiting Daylight and hoping to extricate ourselves from this loathsome place.

At the first hint of Daybreak we set out into uncertain seas. Progress is agonizingly slow, mainly because until I can find time to repair my broken paddle, I am using only one half of it. Even so, with persistence we manage to slowly gnaw away at the coastal mileage.

We traverse the long band of unbroken cliffs in very rough seas. The waves come at us from both sides because they are also rebounding off the rocks. We manage to get past the cliffs, but before long the seas become too violent for safe travel, so we pull back in toward the rocky shore.

Standing in thigh-deep water, I do my best to maintain the boat's position as the surf thrashes the boat it madly about, while Linda unloads the gear. Then together we lift the empty kayak and carry it to higher ground. We search the area for some sort of shelter from the fury, and discover a remarkable cave in an embankment. The interior is spacious and quite protected. We return for the boat, but find that the wind has changed direction and is now blowing our way. So we decide against the comforts of the cave in favor of the opportunity for some easy sailing.

Putting back to sea, we come upon a group of young sea lions sprawled out on a large, flat rock. As we pass them by they slide into the water and begin frolicking about as though happy to entertain us.

For another four hours we bounce through the white-capped turmoil, until the wind begins to head us. We ease the halyard and stow the sail along the starboard gunwale. Then with Linda's paddle I blaze us through the wind for another hour until finding another plausible landing.

Again the shore is rocky, requiring all my strength to steady the boat while Linda struggles with the heavy gear in waist-deep water. The underwater rocks are quite slippery, and Linda falls into the water while portaging a load of gear. We eat a rather cheerless dinner in the pouring rain. We are thankful to have our cold, canned spaghetti, although we are not too enthusiastic about the water dripping from the end of our noses into the spaghetti.

Day 14

January 2, 1977

Rain falls most of the night and soaks us through. The average yearly rainfall here is only a tenth of an inch, so we seem to be getting the next twenty year's supply.

The sky begins to clear and soon a blazing sun is upon us in all its glory and revitalizing warmth. Linda fries up a round of pancakes while I spread the gear out to dry. I also repair the broken paddle shaft. To do this I bore a pair of holes with our pocket knife, then coat the oblique fracture with acetone and then epoxy. I then fasten the two halves with a pair of stainless panhead wood screws. Except for the chemicals this is about how the doctors repaired my leg several years back, following a skiing accident. And while I am at it, I also epoxy the frames of Linda's glasses, which she had accidentally stepped on earlier this morning.

It is always amazing what a generous dose of sunshine can do to lift a person's spirits. We indulge in a trek into the hinterland, and marvel at the greenery which had quickly blossomed in response to the abundant life-giving rains. The air is full of the heady fragrance of greenery and flowers.

While the epoxy sets we have only one usable paddle. So we decide that the non-paddling person might walk along the shoreline. Even though Linda is a scant 95 pounds, I find that her weight removed from the boat makes a remarkable difference. I can easily paddle faster than she can walk.

After a few hours she reaches a coastal impasse in the form of a large cliff. I draw close and give her a lift around it, and we switch positions. Linda takes to the sea and I to the shoreline.

To circumvent a section of large hills, I follow an arroyo leading inland. Reaching the sea again several miles farther along, I see no sign of Linda. I wait 45 minutes, wondering where she could possibly have gone. Finally she paddles into view, and tells me of difficulties with a nasty section of tidal overfalls.

I take the boat once again and head seaward for quieter water. For an hour I watch Linda's dark form scurrying along the rocky shoreline trying to keep pace with the boat. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this scheme was asking too much of my little companion. So I turn toward shore and offer her a free ride, and a well deserved and much needed rest.

We are now bucking strong headwinds that slow our progress considerably. Linda crouches low in the forward hold in order to reduce wind drag, while I paddle onwards through stormy seas for another couple of hours. Eventually we land on a rocky shoreline, and as the waves buffet the boat I hold steady a few yards off, while Linda unloads. Then we carry the gear up to the base of a stone pinnacle which makes a wonderful windbreak.

While Linda strikes a campfire to make coffee I take a few compass bearings off the island Isla Angel de la Guarda. I compute our Day's run to be 12 miles. This seems quite satisfactory considering our very late start, the adverse conditions of the afternoon, and the single paddle handicap.

We each enjoy a mug of spaghetti noodles, then in darkness we climb the pinnacle with coffee mugs in hand to soak in some of the tremendous Baja night. If we had come here in a car or a yacht I am sure the spot would not have been anything special. But somehow the labors of our mode of travel are tuning us in to the wilderness environment. They are honing our lives so that we perceive so much more of nature and of ourselves. Ironically, in our modern world today, technology tends to rob us of such simple pleasures.

A short ways offshore a few whales are milling about. Each time one surfaces, its black form silhouettes against the sparkling moonlit water. The night is utterly still, save for the whale's tremendous breathing sounds, which are like blasts from a steam locomotive. The real thrill is when they begin calling out with an eerie, moaning resonance. It gives me goosebumps. For this timeless place, it is just another Baja night; but for us it is a night to long remember.

Whale sightings are common in the Sea of Cortez. Their plumes of exhalation rise in explosions of spray, and are visible from a distance of up to 20 miles. It's no wonder that man has so successfully hunted them, and we wonder about their future.

Day 15

January 3, 1977

At the first hint of light we pack the boat and put to sea. The waves are minimal but we are beleaguered with fierce squalls lashing out unrelentingly. We can see each one approaching from quite a distance, tearing water from the surface of the sea and hurling it toward us in a plume of spray. Just before the onslaught we duck low, and I hang onto the paddle for all it is worth - which is a great deal. These horrific bullets are coming from the arroyos, a fact which suggests strong offshore wind. Apparently the cliffs are blocking them most of the time.

After three hours of struggle we round one particularly sharp promontory and catch a headwind so strong that it stops us in our wake. Paddling frantically we inch our way to shore and give up in disgust.

We find a small cave which makes an excellent shelter for the remainder of the Day. Vagabundos had obviously frequented the place, as evidenced by various relics strewn about. There are turtle shells and cooking implements such as pot supporters and a campfire poker. Nearby is a small pile of empty tin cans.

We are still 30 miles from the town of Bahia de Los Angeles, and our provisions are nearly gone. Fishing has been out of the question in such stormy weather. Dinner this evening is a few pancakes embellished with our last tin of corn. Later and still hungry we each down a mug of noodles smothered in brewer's yeast. Sitting close to the fire for warmth, Linda readjusts the rocks she is using for a stool, and a large scorpion crawls out. "I've been sitting on this all afternoon!" she exclaims.

After dark we move the kayak down to high tide line and load it with everything except our double sleeping bag. High tide is due around midnight, and our plan is to sleep here until then, and to set off into hopefully calmer conditions.

I awake three hours later from a heavy sleep. The tide had risen higher and quicker expected, and the boat is nearly free. It is rocking in the motion of the water, as though impatient to be off. And indeed, had we slept much longer it surely would have gone without us. Quickly we stow the ground sheet and sleeping bag, grab the paddles, and shove away into the blackness of night.

The moon is nearly full but its light is diffused through a thick layer of high cirrus. The odd light imparts a bizarre aura to the landscape. We are not accustomed to paddling at night, and our situation is admittedly a bit disconcerting. Deprived of our usual visual reference we have to paddle by feel, and it is a constant struggle for equilibrium. We must have looked like a couple of kids going through the tunnel of horrors, faces gripped and eyes bulging out.

We paddle slowly and cautiously beneath towering cliffs that look more like dark Plato Forms than anything real. Always there is the danger of ramming a submerged or unseen rock. And occasionally a burst of wind strikes us squarely on the beam as it funnels out of some unseen arroyo in the dark.

Eventually we round Punta Remedios and here the conditions change dramatically. Where there had been cliffs, now the terrain is low lying and flat. And the formerly calm ocean grows heavy with long, bulbous swells. We parallel a mysterious sandy beach for mile after mile, never quite sure of its exact distance away in the Stygian blackness of night. Tossed about in the waves, we move closer to shore, and when we feel the surf begin to break we turn away.

Finally we land for a rest and for a look at the map. Then a minute later the piercing chill of the night wind urges us back into the boat.

An hour later we reach a large rock escarpment which looks like it might provide at least some shelter. The time is 2:00 am. Our down sleeping bag is so soggy that it offers very little in the way of insulation. But even though we are wet and cold we quickly fall asleep.

Day 16

January 4, 1977

At first light we scrounge the desert for what few tiny burnable sticks are to be found. We light a small fire - what Linda calls a "survival fire" - with which we heat a much needed brew. While I am facing away from the wee fire, warming my backside, I turn and find that my shirt, which had been hanging to dry on a rock above, had fallen into the fire. This is my favorite shirt, given to me by members of the Colorado University gymnastic team, with whom I used to work out. The shirt has a large "1" emblazoned on the chest, in remembrance of the 1,000 pull-ups I had managed in a single Day, there in the gym.

From Linda's journal: "Ray, in another attempt to dry his only long sleeve shirt, discovers it in the fire and rescues what's left. He refers to our existence as 'on the brink' and that sounds pretty amusing now."

Of necessity, I put my shirt back on, or what was left of it - for the back of it now has an enormous hole with a charred perimeter.

Back in the kayak we bravely cut across a large bay in fairly heavy wind. I am using my paddle again, and we both paddle earnestly through nasty whitecaps. Reaching the other side, we pass between the shore and a small island, and here we encounter a very strange phenomenon. A line of surf is breaking on an imaginary beach running from the island to the headland. Seaward of the phantom beach, the seas are rough. On the other side, the water is flat calm. The effect is caused by a strong current flowing contrary to the running seas and being accelerated by the shallowing bottom. We paddle through the surf and enter strangely calm water. Looking back, we can see and hear the surf pounding onto the non-existent beach.

The wind is now from astern, so we land in the calm, rocky shallows in the lee of another small island, and dress our ship in her sailing attire. I fasten the washboard to the forward portion of the cockpit combing, and attach the port and starboard swiveling lee boards. We step the mast through this and into a fitting on the cockpit sole. We attach shrouds from the outboard ends of the washboard to the masthead, and a forestay connecting the masthead to the bow. A backstay is largely unnecessary because the shrouds attach to the washboard sufficiently aft of the mast. The sail is lanteen rigged, so the gooseneck on the gaff spar attaches to the mast.

Ready to go, we stow the paddles and Linda hauls in the halyard, raising the gaff spar to the top of the mast. The sail billows free, and I adjust its trim with the main sheet. We're off on a broad reach, heeling well over and cutting a long straight furrow through the water.

After so many Days of toil and slow drudgery, the exhilaration of speed is genuinely novel. But as the wind increases it begins to overpower our frail craft. Reaching fantastic speeds, we begin overtaking the waves. With each one, we surf down its face. The bow plows into the still water ahead while the stern lifts, leaving the rudder partly free of the water. We are flying along, wildly out of control, and even though we are in danger of an imminent broach, we are having the most fun we've had in a long time.

"Hey," I holler to no one in particular, "where's the brakes on this thing?" By sculling the paddle mightily, I maintain at least some semblance of stability.

We slacken the halyard, drop the sail, and reef it to half its original size. Then we speed along toward town. Along the way we pass by some gringo campers who look at us with jaws fairly dropped.

At 2:00 pm we land on the beach at Bahia de Los Angeles. It has taken us 17 Days to cover the 200 sea miles from San Felipe to Bahia de L.A.

In the evening we splurge with a grand dinner of turtle steaks at the Casa Diez. The seating is family style with all the guests dining together at one large table. It feels a little too intimate for me, mainly because my burned-out shirt must smell a little bushy. But no one seems to take notice. The little resort is quite remote, the guests are hearty and fortunately things are quite relaxed.

The conversation gets around to how each person had arrived. One family came by large motor yacht, another by plane, a few others by car. When we admitted that we were traveling by kayak they chorused in unison. . . "You what?"

Linda and I debate about renting a bungalow, but decide we simply cannot afford the $20 a night for a room. So we set up "camp" between two bungalows fronting the beach at the Casa - mainly because there was nowhere else to escape the wind. One of the friendly guests invites us to camp on his front porch. He even invites us in for showers. So that night we sleep on a magnum-sized cot, and enjoy a good night's rest.

Our host, Dr. Tom Tuchseeher from San Diego, is one of the most remarkable individuals I have met in a long while. He enriches our brief stay here with a wealth of information and assistance. First he loads our medical kit to overflowing with first aid gear and medicines. Then he gives us fishing lures and line, and even a quantity of canned food.

Next morning we eat breakfast in the Casa with Dr. Tom. "Why aren't you out fishing this morning?" I asked him.

"Oh, no need to go out early here."

Lunchtime we meet him again. "Well, we did pretty good out there today," he says. "We got about 100 pounds of fish." Guess he was right about not needing to go out early.

The remarkable thing about Dr. Tom is that he doesn't seem to be preoccupied with his own priorities. When he isn't out fishing he is always helping someone. He attends the medical needs of the local Mexican people, gratis, and that particular afternoon he spends an hour lying on his back in the dirt working on someone's old VW. I lend a hand, and we trace one problem - at least - to the wiring inside the engine compartment. Opening the bonnet we find that most of the wiring has been burned out in a major fire. The woman had driven here on a whim, unaware of the condition of her vehicle.

Day 19

January 7, 1977

Linda and I spend two Days of R&R, relaxing and eating good food at the Bahia de L. A. Now on our third morning we rise well before first light and load the kayak.

We set off across the enormous bay, loaded heavily and wallowing with fresh supplies. Dawn finds us halfway across the bay with favorable winds. We stop on the opposite shore and set the rigging, then we set off again, and while paddle-sailing we just manage to keep abreast of a large trimaran for 45 minutes. But when we have to pull into Bahia Animas, the trimaran leaves us, and cuts across the enormous bay. The wind and seas increase and as we watch the little dot of the trimaran heading south, we are forced ashore, beaching in a small but protected lagoon.

Somehow I had managed to contract the flu, so we spend the remainder of the afternoon on the beach.

Day 20

January 8, 1977

My journal for the entire Day reads: "Sick, slept all Day."

Linda's reads: "We were rained on heavily last night and this morning. The sky cleared at 9:30 am and the rest of the Day was warm and nice. This is the second Day in a row that the sea has been fairly calm. Ray spent the Day sleeping. He's got the flu and can barely move. The sandy beach is very pretty and would be excellent for diving. Some of the best sea shells seen so far."

Day 21

January 9, 1977

We rise at first light and set sail. Soon we spot a herd of 30 sea lions on a reef. We want to visit them, but the wind picks up so fiercely that it bends the aluminum boom as we pull down the sail. The seas grow heavy and are dashing upon the shore as we land in the lee of a large rock buttress. Ashore, life is sunny and quite nice.

I stagger off in my flu-weakened condition to explore an estuary behind camp. Here I discover a wealth of rock oysters and mangrove trees. I return to camp to get Linda and a catch bag, and we pick some oysters for dinner. The estuary is home to a very interesting assortment of sea birds, including plovers, egrets, a blue heron, oyster catchers, killdeers, turnstones, sandpipers, willets, and a few others.

That night Linda prepares an oyster stew with fresh potato and onion, rivaling the turtle steaks of the Casa Diez. And not because of her cooking, but again I am up most of the night beating a path between camp and the bushes, with intestinal cramps.

Day 22

January 10, 1977

At 3:00 am an extra high tide pushes into our sound sleep and forces us to retreat with our camp a few yards up into rocky ground. We try to get a fire going for warmth, but the wind makes it difficult. Finally we each enjoy a cup of hot orange drink, and return to sleep.

And so we are beached for yet another Day. Our supply of drinking water is getting somewhat low, so I venture off in search of a spring or well and perhaps a more sheltered camping site. A short way along the beach I find an abandoned rancho. On the wall of the dilapidated structure is the words "Rancho Animas". On further investigation I see that the rancher did some fishing but also that he tended a small herd of Mexican cattle. Therefore, there had to be a well nearby. I search the entire area and find 3 pilot wells, all dry. And finally a wet hole located almost half a mile from the rancho.

I return to camp with the news, and Linda and I carry a couple of packs to the rancho, then set off to test the well water. Lowering our coffee pot on a long cord into the well, we draw a pot of disgusting, mildly saline, stagnant water. Definitely unfit. But at least we can use the rancho as a shelter.

We portage the equipment over to the little house, in all I had walked about 15 miles today, looking for water. We are not making the expected progress along the coast, and have used more of our precious drinking water than intended. So if we don't find water soon, we will have to come up with a new plan.

We force down an unappealing can of Mexican sardines for dinner, then make a batch of popcorn, complements of Dr. Tom. A terrific treat to warm the dank evening. I drag in an old rusty set of bed springs, but to quote from my journal, "It was much too reminiscent of a real bed to make for good sleep."

Day 23

January 11, 1977

We awake before first light and find the seas fairly calm. At least calm enough to make for what looks to be desperate but barely passable paddling. We load up and set off into the rising sun. The sea picks up with each stroke, and a scant 15 minutes later we are paddling in a frothy inferno. Powerfully breaking seas suggest the Day will be another stormy one. But we have reached our Waterloo. We no longer have enough water to dawdle. Either we continue ahead, paddling through the rough seas and making some real coastal mileage, or we retreat.

So we set our resolve and paddle desperately ahead through the flung spume. The heavy onshore wind dumps the seas over our freeboards, and breaking waves are turning and tossing us all over the chaotic face of the sea. Suddenly a rogue wave looms high overhead and turns white. Nearly capsized, we are swung into a nest of breakers. We no longer have a choice. If we do not power shoreward with all our might, then we might be quickly drowned.

The kayak skids into the sand and we haul ourselves soaked from the boat and into the cold wind. After pulling the craft free of the surf, we find shelter from the wind in the lee of some large dunes. We drag out some food and rest awhile, and discuss the fate of our journey. We are growing weary of the indescribable difficulties of living and working in this unnerving, incessant wind. No doubt the flu has weakened me enormously. So it is here that with the greatest reluctance we decide to repack our loads for a portage back across the immense tidal flat, and try to backtrack to the previous village before our water supply runs out.

I load the "white pig," my backpack, and Linda makes herself a pack out of a large duffel bag. We load nearly all our gear in one ponderous go, and carry it three miles back along the beach. Two hours later we have returned for the kayak. With a long cord attached to each end of the empty boat, we wade a foot or two of water, lining the boat through the water while the wind and waves yank and jerk at it constantly. Eventually we reach a rocky shoreline where it is no longer possible to tow the boat. I put to sea and Linda follows along the shore.

Although the swells are enormous they are not breaking, and the small craft rides easily over every one. Her bow merely slaps down after each wave. Granted, it is a major effort to gain headway in the wind, but the problems don't really get serious until I round one of the points and catch the brunt of the wind sideways instead of straight on. The swell is four, occasionally five feet, and the surf is absolutely hammering the nearby shore. It is all I can do to keep away from the surf, and this is by paddling on the left side only. I expend most of my energy just keeping off the shore, and in so doing I make agonizingly slow progress.

I reach a section of sand and call to Linda to come drag the boat out of the surf. Just as I quit paddling a wave picks up the boat and lurches it onto the beach. Wham! I am suddenly ashore.

We backtrack to retrieve the packs, then return to make a camp in the lee of a dune. The wind is so fierce that we are forced to construct a fireplace from rocks. We eat a luxurious dinner out of cans and soak up the heat of the campfire. Today has been the roughest 3.5 miles in my memory.

Day 24

January 12, 1977

I awake at dawn to a strange sound: Silence. Total silence. It is calm! We put together our fastest packing job ever and shove off into a light southeasterly. Heading back north, returning to Baja de los Angeles, we paddle for a ways but in the increasing wind we soon give up in favor of sailing. Life is a series of contrasts, and here we find ourselves gliding along effortlessly in contrast to the terrible struggles of the previous Day. We sail in the wonderful sun all morning.

Once, while passing close to a small island we startle a pelican which had apparently just caught a very large meal. It takes to flight, but the load in its bill is too heavy and it crashes shortly after take off, spilling an astounding number of fingerlings back into the sea. The loss is so sudden and unexpected that the bird just sits there with an incredulous look on its face and allows us to pass close by. At least we saved the fish, I reason.

On another occasion a blue footed boobie fails to move out of our way - unlike the many others that had scurried for safety. We keep coming down on the creature until Linda hollers "Ray! Ray!! Look out, we're going to run over it!!" I swerve just in time and the kayak misses the poor creature by a fraction.

We cruise across the large bay and land uneventfully back at Bahia de Los Angeles, at 1:30 PM.

Day 25

January 13, 1977

We spend a couple of Days in town doing some R & R - Rest and Repacking. After a final dinner at the Casa we portage our gear, including the dismantled kayak, in three carries out of town to the trailer court junction. Here, we hope to hitch a ride in the morning. It is not until well after dark that we find a place to camp.

The following morning we awake, surprised to find a small house very nearby and a few occupants standing outside gawking at us in obvious astonishment. I tell Linda to ignore their stares because we were here first, and we set ourselves to the task at hand: waiting for a car to drive by. Linda's journal entry reads: "Today's the day we try out our thumbs. With all this gear it can only lead to an epic event."

Cars pass us by at the rate of about one per hour. A gaggle of RVs go by, the occupants pretending not to notice us. Sitting on our mountain of gear as we are, we don't blame them.

At the five hour mark an old and already overloaded VW bus brakes to a halt. Sure, they will take us at least out to the highway, but first we must go on a side trip into the desert in search of Indian cave paintings. After driving around in the desert for a couple of hours without success, we head back to the road and soon arrive in Parador and the main highway. Our friends continue their travels southward.

We are told that the bus will fly by at 10:00 PM, which is in another eight hours, and that we might flag it down if we can catch the driver's attention.

A few more hours of thumbing, and a car stops for us. The driver and his companion invite us in, they're going to Los Angeles - whoopee! We load our gear and the driver blasts down the narrow, twisting highway at harrowing 75+ mph. These people are in a rush because they have the flu and are understandably desperate to get home as soon as possible.

Arriving back in San Diego late that night, back on go the shoes. We have returned from the no-man's land of bare feet and warm Baja sand, from the Sea of Cortez and its profusion of sea life, from the simple vagabundo life of campfires and grilled cabrilla. Now it is back to the shackles of the modern world. But already I am planning to return to Baja, and will no doubt utter those classic words once again.

© 1976 Ray Jardine