Errant:
1. deviating from the regular or proper course.
2. journeying or traveling, as a medieval knight in quest of adventure; roving adventurously.
"So many things I would have done
but clouds got in my way"
In the fall of 1977, John (my rock climbing partner at the time) and I had spent three weeks floating down the Yellowstone River, hunting for agates - which at the time were quite valuable - if you knew were to look, and if you could find the right ones. John had grown up in that part of Montana and was among the elite at finding the best agates. I was broke and John was so fugal it wasn't even funny, and we had gone to the river in order to find these valuable rocks. With the money earned from selling them, we were then able to grubstake our Baja trip.
If our river trip had one theme in common during those starry campfire discussions, it was the upcoming Baja kayak trip. I had twice paddled from San Felipe to Bahia de Los Angeles, about a third of the way down the Baja peninsula. And and this year wanted to make the journey from there to La Paz, an additional 500 costal miles, perhaps. John had never paddled a kayak before but was eager to experience such a trip.
To me, a group of three seemed the best size, as a compromise between having enough manpower to deal with an injury or illness, and yet small enough so that things would be kept relatively uncomplicated and efficient, allowing good progress.
My first choice for our third was one of my Outward Bound students of the past summer named Allen. A red-headed Canadian, Al had proven as strong as a proverbial bull, and based on his outstanding performance on that 3-week program I imagine he might make an agreeable companion for this trip. I wrote him a letter stating our intentions and inviting him to join us. He wrote an enthusiastic reply, saying that he would be delighted.
October 25
So John, Al and I find ourselves in California, driving to San Diego. Along the way we make occasional stops to hurriedly lay up another paddle blade. The paddle is a very personal thing to most sea-kayakers, and I wanted Al and John to have the satisfaction of having completed the trip using a paddle they had made themselves.
To make a sea-kayaking paddle, we start with a wooden (fir) closet rod, 1-1/4 inches in diameter and 6-1/2 feet long. After carving the shaft's end to fit the contours of the mold (made by me), we cut several layers of fiberglass cloth to the appropriate size, mix a pot of resin with catalyst, and finally put it all together with a throw-away paintbrush. The sultry heat of the day accelerates the setting process, and in no time the new blade is popped off the mold, trimmed to shape with a pocketknife, and we are off on another stint of driving.
Reaching San Diego, we provision with several bags of groceries, and while I am placing my Rambler in a storage yard, John is at the movies watching Star Wars. He has heard much about the movie from me, and has caught my enthusiasm. He leaves the theater star eyed, and we begin our journey south of the border in his old VW van - onto which we had securely tied, although quite precarious in appearance, three kayaks purchased as factory seconds from a small firm in Utah.
We manage to transverse Tijuana and extricate ourselves from this unbelievable maze, and get on "Mexico 1," the Transpeninsular Highway running the length of the Baja peninsula. With renewed hope we drive far into the night, then stop for impromptu camping near the beach north of San Quintin.
October 26
At dawn the next day we got back on the the Baja "highway" which is only a narrow strip of pavement winding up over, down and around while generally working its way in a southwesterly direction. Because of the intense heat of the desert sun, the pavement is prone to deterioration, so we find large, bombed-out potholes reminiscent of a B-29 supply line attack. Each pothole, or nearly so, has a circle of white paint around it. So the rule here seems simple enough: avoid the circles.
We also encounter the occasional 6-mile long pile of sand covering one lane, leaving only a single lane with no turn-outs. Fortunately the traffic is light.
The Baja environment is primarily desert, but it does experience tremendous flash floods once in a while, and these can be so strong that they obliterate most anything in their paths. However, such occurrences are so rare that they don't necessary warrant the construction of bridges along the highway. Instead, we find depth markers in the arroyos.
Another interesting aspect of this road is the thin strip of soil flanking both sides. Here we see feeble greenery growing in the otherwise parched desert. We also find large, scrawny cattle grazing on the side of the highway, sometimes with at least one foot on the pavement. However. they appear to be no problem in obstructing the normal flow of traffic, we imagine due to the ongoing process of natural selection. Those that flinched were flattened by the mammoth trucks that ply the highway. Might is right.
Successfully negotiating most of the hazards, and nearing our destination, our VW climbs the last high plateau and suddenly the mighty Sea of Cortez lies sprawled before us. The view is stunning, with the great expanse of emerald blue aquamarine ocean ornamented with interesting islands lying just off shore. To our desert-weary eyes the view fully justifies the long, hot journey. And oh, that water looks inviting!
The narrow road descends sharply into a canyon, and we come to a place where the road had been completely washed away, terminating in a yawning pit. A sign reads "DESVIACION," the word being upside-down but the arrow pointing in the correct direction for the detour. With that hazard circumvented we follow a gravel road winding its way down into the secluded fishing village of Bahia de Los Angeles.
We pull the bus to a stop near the beach and make a dash for the water. "Be careful wading through the water," I caution my friends. "There could be stingrays."
The water is perfectly flat, reasonably warm and seemingly effervescent to our parched hides. It feels wonderful for me to have returned. And I think Allan and John are equally impressed with the beauty, judging by their ebullience. The place is like no other, especially on such a calm day.
October 27
We spend the remainder of the day - and all the next one - working on our gear. John and Al sand their paddle blades and varnish the shafts. We sort our provisions and place them into waterproof plastic bags. And we carry out a final scrutinizing of our gear to determine what is actually needed and what could remain behind. Obviously we must keep the weight to a minimum. Excess weight is the bane of those traveling by personal propulsion, and we were already stretched by the necessity to carry all our drinking water. Each man would carry 6 gallons.
In addition to these tasks, it fell to my responsibly - being the only one with any kayaking experience - whatsoever - to school the remainder of our small group on the dangers of a capsize at sea, and what to do to help prevent it. Standing in water waist deep, we launch a kayaker and have him practice nearly tipping over and recovering with a brace stroke.
At one point John shoves his new paddle end-wise against the seabed and bends the blade through an obtuse angle. The fiberglass blade is still green, and as yet too soft. So we bend it back, and all seems well. (But much later in the journey, far from civilization, that blade would break at the bend.)
I attempt to teach the Eskimo roll, but with little success. It would be understandably difficult to grasp the rolling technique in so short a time, especially when the instructor can hardly perform the maneuver himself. Failing that, I emphasize the time honored philosophy of "don't capsize," which based on my experience seems to work better the more one is frightened.
We also discuss a few techniques for rescue at sea, in which the capsized person is aided by the other two. In waters this warm, the person in the water might be able to swim to shore with his flooded boat. Or if too far from shore, that person could grab on to the back of another kayak, and that kayaker could tow him to shore.
We are ready to install our home-made rudder assembles to our boats. But I am horrified to discover that I had neglected to bring a very important part: the bolt that would connect my rudder assembly to the boat's stern. I shudder at the dismal prospects of finding an 8-inch by 5/16th-inch bolt anywhere around here. With no other options that I can think of, I wander off to find the local dump with thoughts of finding something to improvise with.
By and by, I find - of all things - an old airplane that apparently had crashed out here in the desert long ago. It has been divested of anything even remotely of use or interest to the locals, but it's framework is still intact and it isn't long before my pliers have extracted a suitable bolt. Not only had I found the needed size, but it was a grade 8 cadmium plated aircraft bolt, far superior to the one I had forgotten in California. Beaming, I return to camp.
We pay a small fee to leave John's van safely parked under a palapa belonging to one of the residents. Then with our gear in order we are at last ready to depart, come early the next morning. So we top off the day with a sumptuous dinner of turtle steaks at the well-known Casa Diez.
Day 1
October 28, 1977
We rise at 4:00 am, and by the light of a full moon carry our boats to water's edge. There in semi-darkness we find a mere 3/4-inch surf lapping quietly onto the soft sand. It was one of those stone-quiet Baja early mornings when the sea becomes as flat as the proverbial pancake. Perfect!
The first few times the intrepid kayaker loads his or her boat during a trip of this magnitude is rather like trying to solve a complex puzzle. One straightway discovers the lack of sufficient stowage down in the hold, compared to the load of gear. So packing becomes a trial and error ordeal. The pile of gear is inevitably much too large, but it consists of things that one simply cannot leave behind and venture forth into the unknown without.
Once we have everything loaded, our legs find themselves sharing their private quarters with proofed nylon bags, plastic water bottles and what have you. It feels rather like sitting in a small can of tightly packed mackerel.
Because of the tipsy nature of the kayaks, we find it all but impossible to get into one's boat while it is floating. So we always begin with the boat's stern on the beach and the bow in the water. Then once settled into position, with one's feet in the rudder straps, the ethafoam backrest adjusted comfortably, and the pads under the knees in place, the person can launch his boat by simply pushing with the hands against the sand. And too, proper etiquette says that if someone is ready to launch, and you are not, then you politely give him a little helping shove...Haarrgh!
And so we begin our adventure by heading directly out into open water, heading for the distant point of land. John and Al had done well in our day-and-a-half of practicing, so I think they are now sufficiently competent to safely cut this bay, 4 miles across. I hate to think how far it would be to hug the shoreline, going all the way around.
|
When they get too far away from my boat, I call them back. Then they head in for the attack like errant torpedoes, leaving me fearing for the structural integrity of my own boat. |
For the first few minutes all goes well. Then suddenly the ghostly serenity is shattered by a tumultuous racket that sends our hearts reeling. It is only a group of playful porpoise. The encounter amuses me but makes my apprehensive companions all the more nervous; they begin tracking erratic and unpredictable patterns about the face of the ocean. When they get too far away from my boat, I call them back. Then they head in for the attack like errant torpedoes, leaving me fearing for the structural integrity of my own boat.
After a few rounds of this, I holler, "Ok guys, let's stop for a discussion."
"Now listen," I begin, "we've got to stick close together. It's a matter of safety. If anyone flips out here, I want to be nice and close. So as I head straight for that point of land, let's have one of you exactly 10 feet off my starboard beam, and the other 10 feet to port. Ok?"
The reference to the inherent dangers of drowning only seem to make my companions all the more nervous. The two neophytes resume their wildly gyrating courses, ignoring my pleas to remain close. By and by, the futility of our heading across deep water - at such an early stage - begins to dawn on me. For after all, John and Al have very little kayaking experience. Neither of them has ever paddled a fully loaded boat, or paddled in the open sea, far from land. Or paddled in the half-light of a new day, which this still is.
There is nothing for it but to turn around, and return to shore. That done, we begin to hug the shoreline all the way around. Now a capsize this close to shore would be far less serious; the rescue procedure being reduced to the mere act of standing up.
It takes us a whopping six hours to circle the bay and reach that first point on the far side. But I have been giving them a few pointers along the way, and with the hours of practice their technique is improving by leaps and bounds. Paddling efficiently is important and not as easy as it may seem. With hundreds of miles of blue water ahead, one doesn't just go out there and hack at the water. The main difficulty with efficient paddling is that the paddle applies its force markedly off center. Each stroke tends to swivel the boat in the opposite direction, even though the boats and their rudders are designed to minimize this. And brute force only tends to exacerbate the problem. The basic idea is to achieve the maximum forward travel with the minimum waste of energy. This is why the technique must be given a lot of practice.
We are feeling tired from the six hours in the kayaks, and also from the driving, working on gear, and the general mental strain of logistics. So we decide to continue only another few miles around the point, and then to paddle into a large bay where I know of an excellent beach for camping. Along the way I throw out my trolling line and land a nice cabrilla, a sea bass very good for eating.
Ashore, I am sewing some adjustments to my spray skirt, while Al, donning mask and fins, commences to wreak havoc with the underwater marine life. He seems to have a piercing aim with his spear gun, and returns to camp with a menagerie of lifeless fish. Unfortunately only one is good to eat. He is saddened by his wasteful massacre of inedible fish, but John and I think it is funny! And anyway we reason, the waste will be food for other hungry creatures: coyotes & etc.
Just after dark, we are relaxing each with a cup of steaming hot coffee embellished with a few heaping spoonfuls of powdered milk and a splash of Kahlua from a small plastic bottle. The embers of our campfire occasionally flash brightly as the sizzling cabrilla drips hot oil. The fish smells wonderful and adds to the heady aroma of the burning campfire wood. The night air is warm and still, as we watch an enormous golden moon slowly rising over the empty sea.
With the day's paddling concluded, our evenings around the campfire are a time of relaxation and reflection. Having left all our worldly cares behind, our lives have been reduced to the basics. We are living in the present moment with no thoughts for the days ahead or behind. So we are free to enjoy life. Granted, the labors of padding these frail craft for endless hours can create a sense of struggle against the whims of the wind and sea; but also - in a general sense - a profound spirit of adventure. And we know that in the days to come the physical effort will hone our bodies, and we will become even more capable.
It is this sense of adventure that I live for. It pulls me out of the ordinary and steers me towards the realm of the extraordinary. And I find that much more fun.
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This is my fourth Sea-kayaking trip to the Sea of Cortez in as many years. I fell in love with the region on my first trip in 1974, and have been coming down here every year since.
My trip the previous year with a girlfriend was the best so far. We paddled 24 days in very trying conditions of mid winter, from San Felipe to Bahia Animas. Linda had studied marine biology, and we spent hours fossicking through the tide pools, turning over rocks and looking at the rich and fascinating sea life. It was a real eye opener for me. That trip was also the most difficult kayaking trip I have been on - owing to the strong winds and cold temperatures; and was a real tribute to the girlfriend for just hanging in there throughout those many ordeals.
Now this year I am trying to cover new ground, paddling all the way to La Paz. Not for the challenge so much, but simply because I have grown to like doing this so very much. I like the sense of adventure and freedom. I like being around the ocean - in its many moods for better or worse, and paddling a kayak to the distant horizon. I like these evenings around the campfire sitting under the stars. I like the early mornings when I can get up in the dark and pack the boat comfortably in shorts and a t-shirt. And always the new day promising adventures.
Day 2
October 29, 1977
The sea has risen somewhat during the night, so we sleep until daybreak. Then we have a leisurely breakfast consisting of a mug of granola, and for myself the same mug refilled with a mixture of powdered milk and brewer's yeast. I believed [back then] that the yeast provides go-power and it was my habit [back then] to consume it daily when on a strenuous journey.
We pack the boats and set off into inauspicious seas, paddling for three hours then landing on a beach that is familiar to me. On last year's trip this was my first camp from Bahia de Los Angeles. Meaning that this year we are three hours behind my former self.
John, Al and I set off once again, and paddle another two and half hours. I would like my companions to see an estuary hidden from view, so we stop there to explore the shoal backwaters and search for moon shells and oysters. But our wading barefoot proves a mistake; for Al steps on a stingray. It measures just a few inches across, by his reckoning, but has a magnum stinger. And for being stepped on, it responded with an incapacitating puncture wound.
The excruciating pain in Al's foot eventually subsides enough that we can resume our travels, so we put in one more session at the blades, and round the back of Bahia Animas.
Bahia Animas was something of my nemesis, because it was here, in the year previous, that I had to turn back. So from this point the coast is new to me.
We land ashore and make the evening's camp. John cleans the afternoon's catch of fish while I pursue a bit of diving. The warm waters are sunlit and clear, and the rocky reefs are laden with an astounding variety of brilliantly colored tropical fish. Taking a gulp of air, I plunge into deep water and become engulfed in an enormous school of moon-silver fingerlings. Each of the thousands of members is indistinguishable from the others, and the school itself moves as though a single living creature. I swim within it, sweeping my hand into the multitudes, watching the cosmic brilliance flashing out across the arc of my view. And the next moment they are gone.
Some of the bigger reef fish are curious and unafraid. bodacious colored angel fish with their long dorsal filaments make close inspections as I crush open a few spiny urchins using the point of my spear. Angels, blueheads, and sargent majors home in for the feast in a frenzy of commotion. Now I have many friends following close behind, en masse. It is a game - the hunter feeding the hungry prey. But to their advantage these colorful species aren't so palatable to we humans, and I sense that they know this. Meanwhile I remain fairly close to shore and maintain a wary eye for sharks, which are rarely seen in these waters, thanks to the ongoing efforts of the local Mexican fishermen. The best tasting fish of all, according to many locals.
Gliding slowly, I swim with deliberate undulations of rubber fins while being careful not to break the surface, because that would create a threatening mood that all sea creatures - large and small - seem to understand. A splash signals danger.
Looking ahead, I catch a glimpse of a cabrilla darting into the safety of a rocky crevice. If I were spear fishing, I might approach the crevice and fire point blank into its unseen interior, knowing that that fish is in there. I would then retrieve the spear with its line very cautiously, as occasionally the spear will impale instead a vicious moray eel, which is also good eating but dangerous.
Day 3
October 30, 1977
We eat a hasty breakfast, quickly pack the boats, and are soon out paddling in the very early morning. Today the sea is perfectly flat, like a millpond, and also warm and crystal clear - the heady quintessence of Baja dreams. Such conditions allow us to cruise close to the shoreline. Since we are paddling quietly with no loud motors to disturb the sea life, we can see more of the fascinating underwater creatures. Also the country is rugged and largely inaccessible to the 4WD, and we can pull out onto the occasional rocky promontory where the landing of a conventional power boat would be out of the question.
A long string of brown pelicans, each one behind the other, gracefully descends to within a foot of the water's surface, and skims along in ground effect for a great distance, wings motionless. Following the leader, each individual passes an imaginary point and begins to flap.
At one point we are paddling close to shore and see five or six wild donkeys. They hurry away at the sight of us.
We paddle the day in three sessions, interspersed with two shore breaks. Then arrive at camp late afternoon.
My companions are learning quickly - out of necessity - and are beginning to make excellent progress. They have progressed from rank beginners to quite good paddlers in these past few days, today cranking out 22 miles, which is a fair distance and a good beginning.
The coffee pot can be considered a key element for a truly cozy wilderness campsite. I love to sit by the fire after a long day, and write in my journal while enjoying a hot brew. I carry the grimy old coffee pot in a nylon bag and pack it in the forward hold of the kayak, next to a large plastic bottle of drinking water, where both are readily accessible. Packed for transport, the coffee pot contains a leather glove for working with the fire - also used for gathering scallops - a large, plastic drinking cup, a spoon, a small waterproofed plastic container of matches, a pouch of powdered milk, and a pouch of medium grind coffee. I also carry a small plastic bottle of Mexican Kahlua, for adding to the coffee in the evenings.
On arriving at a new camp, the coffee bag and water are produced and firewood gathered - taking the great caution to avoid any scorpions that might be clinging to the pieces of wood. The campfire is built below or close to the high tide waterline; so the next storm, with its big powerfill waves, will erase the fire-site and leave the area in a pristine-like condition.
For the igniting the fire, wooden-stemmed kitchen matches of the strike-anywhere variety are carried in a small but stout waterproof plastic container. Squeeze the bottle hard and listen for a hiss, and if so, then make a lid gasket out of an old bicycle inner tube. A little butane lighter just doesn't have the oomph of a good stick match. The match is ignited and placed head down into the tender.
When the blaze is going well enough to hold its own for at least few minutes, the coffee pot is filled with water, covered with its lid and tucked neatly into the fire.
Wood is selected according to grade and size, and added to the fire with discretion. Real wood should be used, not wood-like cactus fiber which generates a disconcerting amount of smoke. The objective is to produce a good bed of long lasting coals that have no real flame to them. Too much wood added too quickly tends to drive away the kitchen help.
When the water comes to a frenetic boil, the pot is removed with a gloved hand and a fistful of coffee grounds tossed in. With the lid replaced, the pot is placed very near the fire to steep for a few minutes. The brew is considered "done" when all grounds have sunk, the die-hard grounds being knocked down by ceremoniously banging a spoon against the pot. The steaming brew is poured into the cups, being careful not to disturb the sediment lying at the bottom of the pot.
The brew is then adulterated according to individual taste, perhaps adding a few heaps of powdered milk for protein and maybe in the evenings embellished with a splash of Kahlua for extravagance.
Neophytes readily distinguish themselves with their small cups. After all, each person receives only one cupfull, at least at the start. My cup holds 16-ounces. It is a strong and sturdy plastic measuring-cup with a stout handle, and cost me only 15 cents at a secondhand store.
For the sake of simplicity we usually gut and de-head the fish and flop them onto the grill, as is. The skin left intact helps retain the natural cooking juices. After broiling one side, we flip the fish over using a gloved hand. The skin is then easily separated with a fork, and seasonings of lime juice and seasoned salt, or marjoram and cumin, are added.
My grill is presumably a shelf from a small refrigerator, and was also bought at a secondhand store. When the fire is matured into a good bed of coals, the grill is placed down on three or four rocks, one or two on each side. After use, the grill is left in place overnight, such that the residual heat of the dying embers will ablate any carrion stuck to it, which might otherwise attract flies.
Any uneaten fish left overnight on the grill will be found in the morning as dehydrated jerky; and this makes a tasty and satisfying breakfast. Triggerfish, which are quite tasty but quite difficult to dissect, if not nearly impossible, are prepared with ease in this fashion. Then when breaking camp in the morning, the grill is placed in its plastic bag. The rocks are dispersed and placed black-face down, again close to the waterline, and any tin foil, cans or other unburnables are removed from the ashes. We take the foil away with us, but the tin cans, which have been fire burned, are weighted with a heavy "sinker rocks" and taken well offshore for burial at sea where they will readily succumb to the ravages of oxidization and hopefully return into oblivion from whence they came. (If the water is fresh, as in a lake of river, we would instead carry all of our trash, because the metal bits do not oxidize nearly as well as they do in sea brine.)
On these Baja trips I also like to make tortillas. They are simple to produce and taste especially nice with the fish. A small sack of masa harina is all that is required, and this keeps well in the damp environs within a kayak. The corn flour is mixed with water, and here the chef can prove him or herself by simply burrowing a small pocket in the flour as it comes in the sack, and pouring in a bit of water. After kneading the mixture hastily, one can then extract the sought after wad of dough. Otherwise the mixing can be done in a coffee cup. The ball of dough is then kneaded by hand for a few minutes. A smaller ball of dough is then torn off and pressed very thin by using an flat board carried especially for the purpose - this in leu of a proper tortilla press - and sandwiched between two sheets of waxed paper to keep the dough from sticking to the press and the rock that one is working on.
The frying pan is placed, not directly on the fire but on a few glowing coals which have been carefully scooped from under the sizzling cabrilla. The pan is then oiled with safflower oil carried in a stout plastic bottle. Some Mexicans use maseca, a type of lard, but we can't carry that because of spoilage.
While one person busily smashes the dough, another fries, and the third person guards the finished products making sure no one snitches any before dinner. The third also tends to the fire wood supply, and perhaps top-holes a can or two of vegetables for steam venting and tucks them back into the embers to stew.
Day 4
October 21, 1977
Having completed the early morning ritual of breaking camp and packing the boat, I sit quietly in the gentle swell 50 yards offshore waiting for my companions. They are new to this game and seem to be taking their time in getting going. I receive an occasional sharp glance, as though they are questioning my impatience. During the past three trips down here I have learned to take advantage of the better conditions during these more settled early hours. And even now the western sky is showing signs of deteriorating weather, and I sense that later today the sea might become rough. So we need to get moving.
We resume our paddling, reaching into new and interesting territory. Our paddle blades oscillate in endless series of repeated movements that propel us slowly against the resisting fluid over which we travel. The sun climbs higher into the morning sky, and begins baking us once again. Being so near the water's reflective surface we take the brunt of searing radiation from two directions, both from above and below. We are beginning to resemble overdone lobster thermidor.
We pass a small herd of sea lions sprawled on an isolated rock, and as we approach they begrudgingly stir themselves. Wallowing over the rocks, they dive headlong into the sea. And then, once in their proper aquatic element, they erupt into an excited frenzy of barking and cavorting around us. A fun time is had by all.
After a lunch break ashore, we press on into the afternoon. Our paddling becomes a rhythm, and an unthinking act that leaves the senses to observe all that surrounds us, as we glide slowly past. The mind soars but the derriere succumbs to a gangrene-like condition. To aid blood circulation, the legs can move about somewhat within the confines of the rudder straps which they must control. And the cockpit is large enough by design to allow the knees to be raised. But it is the posterior which suffers the most in a kayak, being sat on and immobilized.
The sea increases to three feet as we swagger along in earnest, making every effort to avoid the breaking whitecaps that threaten to give us a trouncing. Rounding the next punta (major headland) at the southern terminus of Bahia San Rafael, we come to a disconcerting sight of hostile seas smashing relentlessly against a long line of unbroken cliffs, extending south as far as the eye can see.
With no chance of a landing ahead, that I can see, I cast my vote for a retreat. The others consent, so we backtrack a wet and wild few hundred yards to windward, back around the punta, to a plausible landing. Here I give instructions to John and Al designed to improve their chances of crossing the seething line of surf and reaching the beach without mishap:
Spray skirt off the cowling, and legs out of the cockpit, we sit atop our kayaks and straddle them. In this position we will be able to stand up immediately the instant the boats reach shore, and quickly drag the boats away from the clutches of the pounding surf. I proceed first while leaving my companions hove to.
Ocean waves tend to come in sets. For the theoretically inclined these sets tend to follow a Poisson distribution. However when faced with imminent prospects of a dunking one does not ponder the mathematics for long. The secret of penetrating the surf, as long as it is not too enormous, is timing of the entry or exit to coincide with the lesser waves. The problem is that by the time one nears the beach, larger waves have rolled in. Therefore, paddling speed is of the essence.
I poise, waiting - carefully studying the wave cycles coming in from behind me. Then as things are beginning to look good I creep in close to the break-point. As the last of the large waves lifts my boat high into the air and passes harmlessly underneath - then bursts into white turmoil directly ahead - at that moment I start paddling furiously for shore.
With a bit of luck, the next wave will be nowhere as big, but while traveling over twice my speed its fearful maws will soon overwhelm the boat and I will be fighting to retain stability.
Surf kayaking is a sport with some, but paddling a fully loaded kayak so far from civilization is a different ball game and must be played by a different set rules. A surf kayak is essentially empty, so it tends to float higher on the water; so the waves can't get a hold of it nearly as well. And with greater rocker it is much more maneuverable. A fully loaded and lightweight kayak, on the other hand, rides lower in the water so is much more susceptible. Also a surf kayak is built that much stronger. So compared to the unimaginable power of the surf, the touring kayak is a mere eggshell, and a smashed boat might mean a long and grueling survival march along the rugged coastline.
This I learned first hand during my first trip to Baja. The fiberglass kayak of one of my padding buddies was split in half by a mere 18 inch surf. We were a long ways from any town, but fortunately the fellow had a tube of silicon sealant, with which we used to glue the boat back together. It was an unlikely patch job if ever their was one, but it worked. The mistake of my friend was dawdling in the surf. By and by, a big wave came in and swung his boat around, and the next wave caught the boat broadside and smashed it. The mistake we all made was not realizing the tremendous power of moving water, and not giving even an 18 inch surf the respect it deserves.
The wave behind me breaks and I hear the hissing wall of its foam onslaught. It suddenly engulfs me and hurls me violently forward. The wave has canted the kayak's bow nose-down, and the bow is now plowing deeply into the calmer water just ahead of the wave. I feel like I'm driving a turbo-charged John Deer full tilt down a steep hillside with no brakes. But no, I am back-paddling up the wave with all possible force, attempting to reverse up and over the wave and pull the bow out of the deeper water. As I paddle backward, the rudder is working contrary because the water is flowing around it backwards, and this creates havoc with the kayak's stability. Should the critical point be reached, the danger is the dreaded "flying broach" in which the kayak can cartwheel stern over bow. And yes, I have seen it happen.
I succeed at freeing the kayak from the grips of the wave, and it rushes ahead without me. So again I steam ahead, full tilt toward shore. In a scant few moments the next wave catches me, and buries me to the chest. I struggle to remain upright as this wave again surges the boat forward. This time the wave crashes into the shore and dissipates - and with a thud I am landed on the beach. The boat has taken on water, which is why I have stowed all the gear in waterproof bags. But with the enormous increase in mass, the boat now lies susceptible to destruction by the next wave. So these next moments are equally critical. Struggling, I drag the kayak up the beach, then turn and give a hearty thumbs up, all-is-well wave to my companions.
With all boats ashore, safe but sodden, Al and John are learning the value of sealing all gear carefully into waterproof bags, and I am learning the futility of doing so. As we each spread our things to dry in the warm sun, our campsite begins to take on a rather colorful appearance; and I privately hope not to be overflown by an aircraft which might misinterpret our disorganized array as a signal of SOS distress. Distress, perhaps; but in need of assistance, no thanks.
To stretch the legs, I take the opportunity to do a bit of beach combing or fossicking the shoreline for sea shells or other tidbits of interest. I think of beach combing like some people think of fishing, where the person hopes to catch or find something but mainly he or she is just pondering.
The afternoon sun beats down with intensity. The day would be very hot indeed were it not for the convective cooling of the strong winds coming off the sea. Looking south along the coast, I see mile upon endless mile of wave-tossed, frothy sea, stretching away to meet oblivion in the faintly perceptible distance. Turning back to the north, I take in the familiar view of the coastline where we have come from. Isla San Lorenzo squats far out at sea, and using the reading from a compass bearing to that landform, I establish our position, pinpointing it on a map. We have come 22 miles today in 5-1/2 hours.
Day 5
November 1, 1977
"I see myself in a brand new way..." -Boston
One of the changes a person seems to undergo during an endeavor of this magnitude, is a heightened sense of perception. The purity of the wilderness environment begins to purge the body and mind, leaving the senses free to slowly and imperceptibly arise from their ensluged civilized mentality and quicken. The person grows more in tune with the local ecology. Desert life might take a grip. So can that of the sea.
However, not so for us this morning. We experience only one overwhelming sensation screaming into our lives: a howling wind. My flapping sleeping bag is doing its best to flail its occupant, so I lay deeply ensconced, listening to the frenzied surf battering the nearby coastline, as if intent on clawing its way into our campsite. Clearly, there would be no paddling the Sea of Cortez for us today.
My journal reads: "The prospects of putting to sea today seem hardly conceivable. Oh well, the body could use a day's rest... or could it? Anyway, its going to get it."
We while away the sunny but tempestuous day in idle reverie - with reading, writing, nibbling on dehydrated tomatoes, and a long walk into the interior, each of us in a separate direction to think his own private thoughts. Our little group lacks a sense of cohesion at this point, probably due to the effects of the paddling endless miles and the resulting profound fatigue.
I had been feeling somewhat fatigued mentally from carrying the burden of organizing the equipment and logistics for the trip. But now that we are at long last underway I am anxious, perhaps overly so, to be moving along at a good clip. With a paddle in hands and a good stretch of water ahead beckoning me onward, I feel a wonderful sense of freedom, adventure, and the excitement of the unknown. For John and Al, strong as they are, this endless paddling is perhaps not so glorious. For them the body pains in the shoulders, arms, wrists, palms, the lower back, and the butt - everything is perhaps agonizing together in cadence with the paddle strokes. But as paddling technique is slowly gained, and the body is strengthened for the task, the torment will surly begin to dissipate - it is hoped - and the mind will be free.
We have camped on a prominent point of land that juts out into the ocean like a peninsula. A few hundred yards behind camp is the sea again, lying more quietly on the lee side of the punta. The coast is very rocky there, but the surf is greatly diminished. And so we decide to portage boats and gear, and establish a new, more protected camp.
That done, from the shore I toss out a fishing line, hoping for dinner. I catch only a puffer fish, which is toxic, a bright orange sculpin which looks dreadful, and of all things a sea gull which circles inquisitively then plunges down onto my lure from a height of about 30 feet. Generally, the fishing endeavor wasn't very productive, so with bird released I turn my attention to foraging a pot of periwinkles. These we boil alongside a pot of beans to go with the usual tortillas. We rather feel like a small band of prehistoric cavemen, sitting around the campfire stones in hand, cracking open our periwinkles. They were delicious.
Al seems to have a penchant for music, and that evening produces a Cat Stevens songbook; and soon has us all singing. I'm not much of a singer of campfire songs. For one thing, my vocals sound rather like Willie Nelson being strangled. For another, I'm not well versed in the lyrics. But with Al's book and his adept directorship we make quite a good time of it. We imagine, however, that our vociferous warbling is sending every coyote in the territory fleeing for the hills.
Day 6
November 2, 1977
I awaken at 4:30 in the half light of a waning moon. It has just set behind the towering peaks behind camp. The air is quite still but a small ocean swell, the vestige of yesterday's blow, is reverberating ominously into the grottos which are amplifying the effects tenfold. It is one of those mornings when one would sooner take refuge deeper into the confines of the sleeping bag than venture forth.
"Come on guys," I exclaim, trying to generate a little enthusiasm. "It's going to be a beautiful day! Let's go!"
"You gotta be kidding," I could hear them think.
We organize our gear and have a quick bowl of granola, then carry the boats down to water's edge for loading. There is no beach here, only slippery basketballs for rocks that make the departure not so easy.
Once away from the grottos we find the sea placid, and the morning profoundly beautiful. We paddle into an orange sunburst, and on across the open water of Bahia San Fransisquito, around the next point to the tiny villa of the same name. San Fran is truly an outpost of civilization. Seventy five miles by rough road from the highway, and needless to say the tourists aren't crawling all over the place when I pull up onto the desolate beach.
A couple of local youths come along and we have a very brief conversation. Feeling the culinary deprivations of journeying, I inquire "Hay comida?" pointing questioningly to the hacienda.
After giving this apparently philosophical question a few moments of deliberate consideration, one of them nods slightly. My expectations soar.
"Por tres persones?"
This takes them somewhat aback, as my two companions had not arrived yet.
"I have two more friends on the way," I inform them, and with that their understanding brightens and they hurry up the sandy beach toward a small group of rustic structures.
Al and John pull up so I help them drag their boats up onto the beautiful sandy beach.
"It's all arranged," I said. "Breakfast is in the making... I think."
We wander up the slope to the main building which turns out to be a little fishing resort, provisioned with the occasional guests by the dirt landing strip. There we meet a large, amiable American named Ed. Ed has lived here for five years, he says, except for the winters which were a little too windy for comfort, at which time he usually heads for the Mexican mainland. He is not the owner of this resort but is an integral part of it somehow by virtue of his mere presence here in this lonely outpost. He is interested mainly in a nearby turquoise mine. With his small rock shop equipment he makes some exquisite jewelry with the polished blue gem inlaid in silver. Another line of endeavor for Ed is the scorpion trade. He offers the few kids here a pittance of reward for the largest scorpions they can find, and they find some giants. These he casts in plastic resin and sells to tourists as novelty items.
We are sitting with Ed when the senora brings out an enormous tray of comida, and we are treated to a fabulous yet inexpensive breakfast. The place seems a tropical paradise at first glance, but living here must be a crusty existence for these people. The resort has been in operation for quite some time, judging by the array of photographs of beaming fishermen posing with their catch of large fish or giant lobster, and by the guest book which contains a collection of interesting comments. In spite of the few improvements such as a well to supplement the drinking water, which otherwise has to be trucked in, business doesn't seem to be much on the increase. We replenish our water bottles with much gratitude, and bidding our new friends adieu we set off once again.
Two miles further we happen on an irresistible diving spot where I manage to spear a nice fish. We also see a pair of locals out diving for lobster. One person sits in the boat tending the boat and watches over the huka pump while the other person is in the water searching the bottom, breathing from a long length of clear polyvinyl tubing. They seem to be doing pretty well, much to the dismay of the local lobster population; for their four-gallon pail is about half full.
We paddle another four-hour stint then camp on a very picturesque little beach. John and Al are busy with preparing the fire and I am cleaning our catch of cabrilla when a sting ray swims up, apparently to investigate the enticing odors. I had heard that properly prepared, these rays were good eating; so thinking of breakfast and rationalizing how abundant the fish are, I run it through with a spear. These particular creatures are unbelievably plentiful here. They seem to prefer the shallow, sandy bottom and we see them by the hundreds scurrying to and fro in groups of two or three as we pass along the many beaches.
The sting ray does not have a skeleton, as most creatures do, but a woven basket, and this foils even our best efforts at eating the thing. Especially as this lattice of fiber is covered with tough flesh. Then there is the powerful stinging barb midway along the tail. These rays are most shy, and will invariably scurry away at the slightest hint of danger. They are fond of lying on the sandy bottom, semi-covered in sand where they lie presumably in wait for their prey. But woe be to the unsuspecting human wader who happens to step on one, as Al has already discovered. When suddenly and unexpectedly trod upon, the tail strikes very much like a spring loaded mouse trap, and delivers an excruciatingly painful, piercing wound to the top of the trodding foot.
Today we have traveled 17 miles in 6 hours. The sea is once again placid, and we enjoy immensely yet another indescribable Baja evening.
Day 7
November 3, 1977
We get an early start and paddle for three hours before taking a rest on another beach.
We are sitting by our boats, relaxing, talking and eating gorp, when a large squid washes up onto the beach. It seems lifeless except its suction cups are working but perhaps only on the autonomic nervous impulses. We section it with a sharp knife and save a large fillet for dinner, and also take a few chunks for bait. The remainder we toss to the jubilant sea gulls.
We paddle for another three hours, catching a few cabrilla and one yellowtail with our trolling lines. That afternoon the sun gets to be too much, reflecting off the smooth, mirrored water. We pour sea water over our heads constantly in an attempt to cool down, but eventually we have to abandon further travel for want of some shade.
We make a wonderful and well earned dinner of Irish coffee for starters, then grilled fish and squid with corn tortillas on the side. Then we make a chocolate pudding to celebrate the completion of our first week. As they say up Montana way where John is from, "Not too shoddy."
Thus endeth our first week. Today's mileage was 16 or 17 in 6 hours.
