In this story, Jenny and I are Paddling and Sailing our "Sea Tub" (a highly-modified collapsible double kayak) from San Felipe to La Paz, in 34 days along the coast of Baja. This trip took place the Year Following our 3,300 mile kayak trip to the Arctic, and immediately following our 10-day hike of the John Muir Trail and our 12-day float trip down the Yellowstone River."
Preparation
Baja Norte, Mexico
Nov 3, 1989
From Salt Lake City we drove our van to El Centro, then leaving the van at a mini-storage, we hired a taxi for the ride to Calexico ($12), and another taxi that took us across the border to the bus station in Mexicali ($15). ABC (Autotransportes de Baja California) then conveyed us to San Felipe in 2-3/4 hours at a cost of only $2.25 each, with no additional charge levied for our 9 ponderous bags.
Arriving San Felipe at 10:45 am, we found the day had already grown torrid. Having had our fill of bus and taxi rides, we were now determined to move our gear to a suitable beach-front location by our own efforts. So we began portaging the lot. This undertaking took an hour-and-a-half, and led us on an unprecedented excursion directly through the center of downtown.
Initially we felt rather foolish lugging the oversized bags through town, making a spectacle of ourselves. But no one - browned indigenous or gaudy tourist - took the slightest notice. We weren't gawked at, or even given a single strange look.
Once at the beach, we retreated 50 feet to a sidewalk where a stone wall offered protection from a strong northerly wind. Nearby was a make-shift taco stand, and since the business was closed we used its tables for sorting equipment. Soon we were busy with the construction of the folding kayak. We had paddled this boat literally thousands of miles in the past few years, and had modified it extensively just prior to each excursion. Now we were finding some of our most recent ideas were very good, while others weren't so laudable. The boat went together well, until we began lashing frames to longerons using artificial sinew. The task of binding those 42 joints proved unexpectedly time consuming.
We endured the brunt of much curiosity by passersbys. But largely they left us to our work, save for one muchacho who sat inordinately close at hand for a couple of hours. The kid studied the assembly while from the corners of our eyes we watched him with a certain mistrust. Eventually he grew bored and wandered off.
A fellow parked his car surprisingly close to our outfit and began scrutinizing our operation. Intrigued, he asked a number of questions and in general made conversation, and finally asked if we'd like some coffee. With that, I realized that he might be the owner of the taqueria, the property on which we were working. He admitted the place indeed belonged to him, and kindly granted us permission to continue with what we were doing. However he allowed that in the morning, Saturday, he would reopen for business.
The sun set and we continued to work beneath a street light in the darkness of night. We had hoped for an early departure the following morning, but we had not yet completed our work - still lashing interminable junctures. But fatigue was starting to saturate our bodies and minds. We were unaccustomed to the enervating heat, the strong winds and the radios blaring Mexican polkas close at every hand. In addition we had experienced headaches throughout most of the day from dehydration and the usual "beginning-of-the-trip-itis". So conceding temporary defeat we lugged our outfit down to the beach and bedded down on the warm, compliant sand at the far end of a line of Mexican fishing pangas.
Lying in our sleeping bags we were hoping for seclusion, but instead were treated to a firework show as one small skyrocket after another blazed into the sky and exploded directly overhead. It was a party of Americans camped in the nearby RV park pursuing their callow amusements.
Quiet returned and waves lapping gently at the beach finally lulled us to asleep, with one major awakening by a girl apologizing profusely for thinking we were her friends, and by a few minor awakenings throughout the remainder of the night by assorted packs of dogs: yapping, howling, or gnarling.
Day 1
Nov 4, 1989
We awoke at dawn and sat upright in the luxurious warmth to watch the spectacle of a beautiful pre-sunrise painting the horizon in flamboyant crimsons and golds. Some 30 feet distant, the girl of the night rose and came and introduced herself. A German, Colene was taking a few days' vacation time from her social work in Tijuana. She had arranged to meet her friends here, but had been unable to find them, and it wasn't until several hours later that she discovered they had slept only a couple hundred yards further along the beach. Colene and her boyfriend were quite friendly, reminding us once again that a very good way to meet nice people is to leave the big cities.
Jenny and I resumed our work of completing our Lilliputian yacht assembly, and it wasn't until 10:30 am that all was ready for embarkation. Unlike the day previous, today's wind was light and from the west, but it seemed to be gradually piping, and we wanted to put to sea before the surf rose to disquieting proportions. Our anxieties proved in vain, though, for we launched into mere 6-inch seas, and the conditions remained benign throughout the remainder of the day.
We had stowed 15 gallons of drinking water on board. This included four gallons of store-bought bottled water, and 11 gallons of self-filtered water obtained at the RV trailer park in San Felipe.
We paddle for quite a distance before finally reaching the man-made harbor, then held fairly close to shore all the way to Point Estrella.
As a matter of note, we had timed our arrival at San Felipe to coincide with the moon's first quarter, as this (or the 3rd quarter) is when the mildest tides occur. [Search the internet for "Tide Calendar for Sea of Cortez".] On previous trips I had learned that this tactic would greatly minimize what can be monstrous problems with San Felipe's expansive tidal flats and adverse currents.
After paddling 4-1/2 hours, as the wind slowly veered to SE, we land ashore at Playa Estrella, an aptly named beach where we would celebrate our first night away from civilization. The beach is flanked with a long line of palisades and these we climb in search of firewood, but we find very little. Back at camp we strike a meager fire, and on it cooked dinner. Darkness fell at about 5:30 pm, and we enjoy the evening sitting on rocks composed of consolidated, fossilized sea shells, and watching the offshore lights of shrimp trawlers with their droning diesels.
Day's mileage: 15 in 4-1/2 hours.
Day 2
Nov 5, 1989
We rose at 4:15 am and re-ignited our campfire. The surf was again only 6 inches, the wind was calm, and the early morning temperature was comfortably warm enough for our wearing only shorts and t-shirts. The stars were out in all their resplendence; the Big Dipper's handle was just past straight down - our celestial clock.
This clock incidentally runs 4 minutes fast each day, but the constellation's positions in the sky are the same on any given night of the year, in any year. I have learned to rise several hours before dawn in order to take best advantage of the relatively calm sea conditions. And as I have made this journey in the month of November several times previously, in part or in whole, I've learned to tell time at night by the position of the stars.
While sipping the morning's brew and making Sourdough pancakes on the campfire, we admired a pre-dawn pillar of luminescence jutting from the eastern horizon (zodiacal light). Then after breakfast we carried the boat - at bow and stern - to the water's edge and loaded it with our gear.
Setting off at 5:45 am, in silence we paddled a benign ocean, holding fairly close to shore rather than cutting point to point, this as a matter of general mistrust for our rig with its untested modifications.
After the first few hours we became chilled, particularly the bare feet. So we fitted the spray cover to help block the chilling draft. However, once the sun had climbed above the haze, it began radiating unmercifully and soon had us sweltering from our paddling exertions. Within an hour after sunrise Jenny had gone by the board for a refreshing swim.
A light breeze began wafting from the ESE, so we stepped the mast, rigged the shrouds and backstay, and hoisted the genoa. Sailing close hauled with just the big headsail, the boat moved fairly well. So we handed the mainsail and sailed as close into the eye of the wind as possible for perhaps half an hour, sometimes moving faster than we could have paddled, and sometimes not. When the coast blocked further progress, rather than come about on what would have been a 90 degree tack - for we were not using a daggerboard - we doused the canvas and paddled into the increasing headwinds. Soon the vessel's windage dictated that we unship the mast altogether and chock it in its fore and aft deck tabs. For such an occasion we had designed the rig so that we could pull the mast down while at sea.
The morning was replete with a great variety of seabirds. Brown pelicans were represented in their hundreds, attesting not only to the good fishing hereabouts but also to their comeback from near demise due to DDT poisoning, which a decade ago had threatened the survival of the entire species. Sea gulls of many varieties congregated with the pelicans at the rocky points and in the air, and we saw a few osprey, one winging its way overhead clutching a fish in it's talons. We saw one frigate, and one tern, and ...of all things, several loons. Never before had I seen loons in the Sea of Cortez, but their cries were unmistakable.
Yesterday and today we saw numerous small jellyfish, most bluish-green in color, but some a lackluster brown. We also saw porpoise leaping free of the water, for frolic presumably, and uncountable small schools of fish doing the same, vaulting in height in accordance with their size, for survival from the maws of larger predators.
The afternoon proved an ongoing test of patience and fortitude. The wind piped up to 15 knots from the ESE, fine on our port bow, and as if adding non-aesthetics to adversity, the coast was lined practically eave to eave with houses. These were a new addition to the Baja landscape since my last trip 8 years previously.
As the seas roughened the boat began leaking in earnest. Time after time the incoming seawater compelled me to leave Jenny struggling against the headwinds and seas, so that I could sop the bilge using a pair of cellulose sponges. Jenny couldn't get at the bilge because of the combers sweeping the foredeck and necessitating a tight spray skirt. And I couldn't tighten my spray skirt, out of necessity to get at the bilge. We did not feel all that nautically adroit.
On we went, grinding our way doggedly along the coastline and keeping well offshore to avoid the seas breaking menacingly over the ubiquitous shoals. Had a suitable landing presented itself, we would have taken advantage of it; I knew the seas would increase throughout the afternoon, making a landing through the ever growing surf all the more precarious. Comfort and safety aside, though, reason suggested that if we landed in front of inhabited dwellings, the camping may not be so private, and the growing seas might force us to remain there for another day.
Eventually, on the distant horizon we discerned the end of the long row of houses and finally reached this point by mid-afternoon. The last hour we had paddled quite hard, so we were glad to close the coast. And just here we found a place to land where the surf was not so great. Nearing shore we emerged from our cockpits and straddled the deck as if riding a killer whale, then we closed the spray skirts beneath us and paddled hard ashore, landing safely and sustaining only a minor drenching in the surf.
Away to the southeast, as far as the eye could see, the coast was rocky. We had not quite reached the end of the houses; but from offshore these few dwellings had appeared uninhabited, and such proved the case. We did find a complete lack of firewood, so we dined on granola, bread and peanut butter, this after effecting a round of boat maintenance designed to reduce some of the leaks.
In the previous few months we had done a tremendous amount of work on the Tub, so much so that we had decided to re-christen it. But during the course of today's interminable bailing, the kayak had more than re-earned its former name. Along the coast of British Columbia, two years previously, this same kayak had shown a disturbing propensity for continually taking on ridiculous amounts of water, requiring our continual bailing and leaving us feeling as though indulging in frigid, protracted and decidedly untimely ablutions. For a time we considered suggesting to the manufacturer that he supply little rubber bilge ducks. The name "Seagoing Bathtub" was a bit windy, so we abbreviated it to "The Sea Tub," or more simply "The Tub." And not having the ability to test our newly made deck back in Salt Lake City, we were unaware of how badly it still leaked.
Just after sunset the wind slackened then switched to light offshore, bringing with it piquant aromas of the desert. Such fragrances seemed to stir something within, something that spoke of man's primeval dwelling upon a timeless and pristine earth.
We spread the old rubberized nylon poncho on the sand, and Jenny withdrew her sleeping bag from its the waterproof sack, only to make the disconcerting discovery that the sack had leaked at the closure. We were glad for the bag's synthetic fill insulation that would still provide sufficient warmth.
Day's mileage: 22 in 9 hours - without a shore break.
Day 3
Nov 6, 1989
With the lack of firewood, breakfast and hot coffee were out of the question, so we allowed ourselves some extra sleep. Rising at first light, we moved the equipage to the water's edge, carried the Tub out past the 18-inch surf, and while I steadied the boat to the oncoming rolling swell, Jenny carried the gear out, a few pieces at a time. We stowed things perfunctorily then set off at 5:45 am, eager to greet the new day.
Paddling across gentle seas we soon encountered a school of porpoise, then a short while later a solitary sea lion, who craned its neck as high as possible for a better look at us.
The morning was chilly, the katabatic offshore breeze telling of much colder temperatures in the nearby mountains. The sky was streaked with wispy, mackerel cirrus - possibly indicating foul weather to come. At 7:30 am the offshore breeze gave way to a light northerly. I had been awaiting the finish of the morning's offshore to determine the whim of the day's true wind. So at the first hint of the northerly we stepped the mast. Soon we were whisked away under press of the genoa, which served most admirably for the ensuing 3-1/2 hours. The seas were rolling in from the port quarter, an occasional slosh rolling over the afterdeck, and while romping merrily along we shared memories of uncountable hours sailing the trade winds during our round-the-world voyage aboard Suka. The sensation here was vaguely similar and we were remarkably at ease, even feeling somewhat at home. Jenny mentioned the urge to step into the galley and cook a meal, but as we had no stove she appeased her urge by feeding her Sourdough starter, intent on concocting a special dessert over the evening's campfire.
At one point we noticed a couple of coyotes scuttling along the beach, fossicking for something edible. They have a harsh existence.
At 11:00 am the wind died, then an ESE sprung forth, this about the time we began noticing a retrograde current. Paddling ahead mightily, we felt as though we were towing a sea anchor. The hills overlooking Puertecitos beckoned from three miles ahead, and we began looking from the corner of our eyes for a possible landing, not wanting to repeat yesterday's windward battle. The wind strengthened and the sea roughened some, so we unstepped the mast and stowed the rigging and aluminum mast tubes, and doggedly pressed on.
The coastline here sports an unending row of houses so extensive that secluded beaches on which to camp are practically non-existent. Eventually the wind began slackening, so with re-enlivened spirits we pressed on, and eventually rounded the cliffs protecting Puertecitos while trying to paddle with a pod of porpoise, which showed us no interest.
We paddled past the harbor entrance without stopping, and when a North wind began wafting again, we re-stepped the mast and handed the genoa. But the wind proved half-hearted, requiring us to paddle once again.
A few miles farther we entered a small bay, closed the shore and while I held the boat against the 18-inch surf, Jenny unloaded. At the early hour of 2:30 pm, beneath the blazing afternoon sun we set things out to dry, wandered about gathering bits of firewood, struck a campfire and made coffee, then spent a few restful and enjoyable hours working on odd jobs for the boat and gear, while beans and rice stewed for supper.
Day's mileage: 20 in 8-3/4 hours - with no shore break.
Day 4
Nov 7, 1989
We rose at 4:30 am, made coffee and filled the thermos. We stowed our gear in the floating Tub's hold, then shoved off at 5:30. The morning's offshore breeze was wafting favorably, so having left the mast upright during the night, ours was the simple task of bending on the genoa and sheeting in its clew. We were away. There is something ineffable about the early morning hours of a typically glorious Baja sea-kayaking day. Colors incandesce in the eastern sky, pelagic seabirds swirl en masse or sit in twos or threes upon the face of the gently undulating sea. The air is redolent with the pungency of desert shrubs and the day is made fairly chilly by a pervading breeze descending from the nearby mountains. Jenny kindly offered me a sweater, pants and socks to stave away the frigidity, but I was thinking that all too soon the sun would be scorching our reddened hides.
To our relief, though, the sunshine lost its power through a patch of cirrus to the east, and at 7 am the offshore breeze ceased. We paddled ahead, warming our bodies metabolically, as the headsail hung limp like a sheet hung out to dry. The morning's wind proved reluctant, the cirrus in the east dissipated, and for hours we paddled across a flat, shimmering ocean.
Now sweltering, Jenny volunteered to test the water, and soon eased over the port gunwale, showing no concern that we were some 3/4-miles offshore. As we travel south from the tidal flats of San Felipe, the water is becoming more clear, and as I watched the mermaid frolicking about I recollected numerous such occasions during our circumnavigation when we would abandon the helm and dive overboard for a refreshing swim. Indeed, the Tub is practically a self-sufficient vessel in its own right, and we've spent so much time aboard that during the day we feel little urge to land ashore for a rest. My relaxations consisted of sitting on the afterdeck, stretching my legs while paddling from a different position, or perhaps while paddling stooped on bended knees.
At one point we noticed some aquatic creature barely breaking the surface while scurrying in a direction away from land. I tromped the rudder peddle hard to port and we hove alongside a good-sized crab. We tried to capture it for dinner, but at the last moment it plunged deep into the obscuring depths.
The pelicans and gulls in the vicinity were not so inept as we at taking their morning victuals, deftly swooping down and seizing small fish. Pelicans signal accomplishment with an uplifted beak, a gesture necessary to swallow their chow. The gull's mouth is not so prodigious, making this bird's success obvious, in the form of a drooping minnow protruding from its beak. But this situation must be quickly remedied, for if the gull does not swallow the minnow post haste a greedy mate will try to snatch it away. As often as not the minnow will be too large to swallow, and this can make for a predicament. A game of minnow-chase ensues, but in the end, it is the plucky frigate birds that usually prevail.
In the distance ahead and a few miles offshore stands the Islas Encantadas, deftly luring the paddling wanderjar from the comparative safety of the Baja shoreline. The temptation was great to venture into their midst, but I reasoned that the Tub had yet to prove her seaworthiness, an act that the vicissitudes of the sea would undoubtedly confer upon us. When it does, in the first instance we wished to be within swimming distance of some beach. So we deferred, and paddled for Huerfanitos, cutting a large bay that provided more than ample elbow room.
At 11:00 am a light northerly ruffled the face of the ocean, prompting us to make sail. An hour later we were galumphing along on a broad reach, glissading across benign seas in a 15-knot freshet. This was wonderful sailing; admittedly, though, had the genoa been reefable we would have reefed it, what with the leeward shroud hanging slack and the pressure in the bulbous headsail at times threatening to transform the yacht into so much flotsam. But the kayak proved quite stable as long as we leaned harder windward during the more pronounced gusts. Such speed was remarkable for the likes of the Tub. Nevertheless, we held on. An hour later the greenies were rolling in over the port quarter.
Then at 1 pm the wind died, leaving us paddling ahead in an overgrown cork that pitched, rolled and heaved disconcertingly in the leftover slop. The sun was glaring and I felt absolutely parched, while Jenny sat in the shade of the sail wearing a sweater. But soon the sail had to be doused, putting us on even terms once again.
At 2:30 I let go the fishing line, handed it to Jenny and resumed paddling. In the next 35 minutes she caught seven fish and enjoyed another half dozen vigorous strikes. However, the lure we were using was a cheap plastic model with inadequately small treble hooks. The fish Jenny landed were too small to keep, so, one by one she released them. The ones worth keeping tore away from the hooks.
While heading to shore we fairly intercepted a coyote scrounging the beach front. It stopped and watched us at a range of perhaps 50 feet, somehow sensing that as long as we remained in the boat we were harmless. How these animals can eke out an existence in such an arid environment defies the imagination. It is not something I'd like to try.
By now we have become accustomed to the passage of the sun across the Baja sky. Dawn occurs at 5:45 am (local time, being Mountain Standard Time), with the sun reaching its zenith at about 10:30 am. Dusk is at about 5:45 pm, and at this time we retire to our sleeping bags, more than ready for a good night's sleep and knowing that we will begin the next day well before dawn.
Day's mileage: 31 in 9-3/4 hours paddling and sailing with no intervening shore stops.
Day 5
Nov 8, 1989
We rose at 4 am, made coffee, loaded the boat for once while it was aground but half afloat in a 6-inch surf, and paddled away at 5:15 am into the first light of dawn. The Tub lay a course S by E, paralleling the coastline, with its genoa drawing lazily in the morning's offshore wind.
We intercepted a dozing sea lion, flipper extended above water. When we approached to within 10 feet, it rolled over and sounded.
The offshore breeze, blowing at perhaps 12 to 15, began heading us so we sailed close hauled, actually pinching to weather so tight that the sail wasn't providing much drive. This occurred as we were crossing a large bay, and for perhaps 45 minutes we wielded the paddles with gusto. Then as we reached the face of an imposing sea wall, the wind and seas mitigated, allowing us to take a break.
Several miles further on, after paddling past impressive cliffs and alluring campsites tucked away in various coastal indentations, and with Isla San Luis falling astern, we caught a favorable northerly and sailed a direct course across a bay. Eventually we landed on a sand beach directly over the rise from Papa Fernandez's establishment. We wished to make good our crossing of Willard Bay as early in the day as possible, so time was of the essence. We see-sawed the kayak a few feet up the sand and out of reach of the 1-1/2 foot surf, and Jenny traipsed over the hill to fetch 4 gallons of water.
For the record, we had set out from San Felipe with 16 gallons and had come 100 miles in 4 days, using 9-1/2 gallons. 6-1/2 gallons remained. With another 100 miles to Bahia de Los Angeles, the additional 4 gallons would serve our needs nicely.
Jenny returned carrying two gallons; the other two being delivered by an Americano riding his 4-wheeler. Jenny said she had obtained the water from one of Papa Fernandez's granddaughters, having paid $1.00 for the four gallons. This place is an outpost and all potable water must be trucked in, which explains the cost - which was not much. Jenny said that upon approaching the casa, a little white and grey mutt began yapping at her. The granddaughter ordered the dog in Spanish to "shut up, Gringo."
The Americano related that he was building a house here for his winter use, and in the summer lived in June Lake, California . We discussed the pros and cons of owning a "Survivor" desalinator, which uses either 12 v. DC or a hand pump.
Jenny and I set off into increasing seas, hoisted the sail hard on the wind and paddled out to the tip of the island. We then set out to cross Bahia Willard (Baha San luis Gonzaga). The wind was favorable, being from the north, so it complemented our arduous paddling. We made good the crossing in 1 hour, 21 minutes.
While rounding the far point, Punta la ballenita, we encountered a series of overfalls, a tidal race, which suddenly made us regret not having fitted the spray skirt, but in the exigency of the moment it seemed more prudent to reach safer water. Jenny reported that the water rolling in over the deck and onto her bare feet and legs felt refreshing. Just as we made it to safe water, we saw a sea turtle dive for safety at our approach.
We carried on paddling, having dropped the sail against the headwinds, and after rounding Punta Final, soon came to Lagoon Las Gatas at the far end of the double bay. The entrance looked high and dry, but as we paddled past it, looking back it appeared that the channel might be navigable. So we turned hard to starboard and paddled for shore. The current was flowing out of the lagoon strongly, like a tumbling Sierra creek in springtime. We negotiated the 2-foot surf and with a great deal of effort struggled up-river, and entered the placid lagoon.
Several years ago I had caught many jack cravelles in this lagoon, and today we tried trolling back and forth several times but to no avail. We knew that leaving might be infeasible if we remained very long within, but we had decided to stay for the afternoon. However, the poor fishing dissuaded us, and so we changed our minds and decided to return to sea. But as we approached the entrance we found the water flowing at some 10 knots over exposed rocks. There was no possibility of exiting now. We would have to camp inside the lagoon and leave on the morrow's high tide.
We established a make-shift camp at the back of the lagoon, finding plenty of driftwood and pieces of wood from the desert trees and shrubs for the fire.
Day's mileage: approximately 20 in 7-3/4 hours including a 1/2 hour shore break.
Day 6
Nov 9, 1989
The first half of the night was largely sleepless as we worried about how far the rising tide would climb toward our campsite, which was backed by the mountainsides. And the gnats were giving us some consternation. During the second half of the night we could hear the surf growing ever louder as it began pounding the outer breakwater.
We couldn't leave at first light because the tide was too low to allow passage out the entrance. So I walked around the side of the lagoon again to have a look at the sea, now quite boisterous, and was fairly aghast to see the coastline besieged with violent surf. We would not be able to depart today.
Taking advantage of the cool morning, we started up the nearby mountainside, intent on watching the sunrise. During midday such an undertaking would be too hot. Sunrise occurred before we had made it half-way up, finding us climbing ever steepening slopes. The rocks appeared to have come out of some fiery furnace, suffering solar decomposition, and it appeared that somehow the intense heat had compacted the slope, making it much easier and safer to scale than first appearance had suggested. At the summit we met with expansive views: a vast swathe of the Sea of Cortez whipped and churned by a stiff North wind, which, deflected by the terrain, was oddly not blowing in our vicinity.
We made the descent by a different and easier route, traipsing among elephant trees. The limbs of these trees were massive in appearance but amusingly flexible when one applied weight to them. The hills were festooned in several species of cacti, and we saw ironwood trees and other unknown-to-us species of trees.
The morning heat soon grew intense. Back at camp we moved the gear into the shade and sought refuge there ourselves. The day was so hot that about all we cared to do was avoid the sun. We did enjoy several short hikes though, and reaching the plateau overlooking the southern end of the lagoon and the ocean, we found half a dozen camping areas where someone had gone to no little trouble to make level sleeping platforms by removing the larger rocks and perhaps adding gravel. Around some of the platforms were stone walls, long since fallen into disarray. Littering the area were clam shells by the thousands. Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps this was the homesite of Indians of ancient times. I had seen clam shells scattering the ground in many other such unlikely places, high over the shoreline, and often wondered how the clam shells got there.
Late afternoon we launched the kayak into the lagoon for a round of fishing. For bait we used the innards of a pearl oyster, much to the delight of the nibblers. Not having come equipped with good treble hooks we were finding it difficult to snag a fish on a single barbed hook. Three pearl oysters later we landed a miniature cabrilla which we then filleted as bait. We hooked a few respectable sized fish which got away, and in the end we returned with 4 small cabrilla.
At the evening camp Jenny prepared, what we called "Baja biscuits" by kneading flour and water into a thick dough, then leaning the biscuit sized pieces at obtuse angles to the fire to bake. This proved a huge success, especially as we used small bits of ironwood in the campfire which burned with astounding longevity and made beautiful coals.
That night we pitched the tent to avoid the no-see-ums, this being the first night I've slept in a tent in my nine excursions in Baja.
Day 7
Nov 10, 1989
We rose at first light and I trod around the lagoon to view the state of the sea, and found it much diminished. Back at camp we idled away an hour consuming a leisurely breakfast and awaiting the tide to flood the entrance.
We carried the Tub into the lagoon, loaded it, and at 8 am paddled around the spit. To our delight we found an easy exit through a rush of incoming tide, and thence a much subdued two-foot surf. Gaining the open ocean brought tremendous relief borne of the freedom gained. Although a wonderful experience, the lagoon had imparted a certain claustrophobia in us both.
After stepping the mast we hoisted the genoa to an indifferent offshore breeze, and commenced to paddle. The morning's heat had already grown intense, and whenever the wind fell silent the temperature soared. In another hour we collected a light northerly, thus onward we paddle-sailed throughout the day, making way past mile after mile of craggy escarpments, high cliffs and eventually the occasional arroyo. This coastal terrain would not lend itself to easy backpacking, a thought which made the paddling somewhat formidable in light of the lack of possible pull-outs.
In the early afternoon I threw out the fishing line and landed a barracuda. Later we began looking for a place to land. The seas had grown to five or six feet and the surf was bashing the shoreline, making a safe landing not all that feasible. So on we went, noting that protecting headlands were non-existent. At 3:30 we rounded a convex beach studded with pumpkin sized rocks, and at its far end, where the surf struck more obliquely, we found a possible landing. Closing the coast and making our egress, we nearly capsized, humorously because the clear water proved deeper than it had appeared.
While I steadied the Tub in mid-thigh deep water, Jenny lugged the gear ashore, one bag at a time or water bottles by the pair. Occasionally a 1-1/2 or 2 foot breaker would smash into the kayak, beam on; but I would heel the boat far over to take the comber on the keel, keeping most of the water out of the hold. Then when the Tub was empty we lifted it bow and stern free of the water and carried it ashore.
Despite the lack of pull-outs, the entire stretch of coastline here would make for marvelous camping anywhere along its length, and here we found a nice site just behind the interminable line of high tide and storm deposited driftwood. We struck a campfire and while the coals were in the making, busied ourselves with camp chores. Then we set the fish upon the grill and Jenny baked a batch of cornmeal scones, and when all was ready we feasted on the fare as only famished sea kayakers can feast.
Day's mileage: 31 paddling for 9-1/2 hours with no shore breaks.
