Seven Days in the Sea of Cortez

November 1, 2004 - End of Day One
It's 8:30 p.m. on Sunday night, now that we've moved the clocks
back an hour. But Werner ignores the new time with disdain. It's not
right that it gets dark by 5 this far south, so he continues to operate
on Daylight Savings Time. Everyone else bedded down an hour ago, still
long after dark. My tent is the only one with a light on. We have a
long day ahead tomorrow, but I'm not ready to sleep even after the
exertions of the day and such a long, uncomfortable night at the
trailer at Bahia de Los Angeles. I lie on my stomach writing by
headlamp about the last 36 hours.

We are camped on the eastern shore of Isla Angel de la Guarda, a
43-mile long island 20 miles east of the tiny town of Bahia de los
Angeles across the Canal las Ballenas (Whale's Channel). The little
bay where we are camped is a mile and a half or so west of Isla
Estanque, and about seven miles north of the southern tip of the
island. There are no other boats, no structures, no fire pits, no
lights on the horizon. Aside from a few bits of litter washed up, we've
seen no sign of man here at all. The sense of isolation is exquisite.

I take a break from writing and roll over, and feel my back and
shoulder muscles stiffening already. I sit up and fish out some
ibuprofen from my kit bag. I take four and force myself to wash them
down with a pint of water to help rehydrate. Tiny gnats circle my head.
I lay on my back to seek and destroy the no-see-ums that entered the
tent with me. In the headlamp's beam and trapped at the apex of the
tent they are easy prey. I extract revenge for what they and their
comrades have done to my exposed skin: dozens of raised, red, itching
little bumps. What good are these things anyway? What could possibly
depend on these tiny pests for food? And why are they only here and not
on the mainland?

Outside the waves lap gently on the shore of the sheltered bay. We set
up our tents on white sand just a few yards from the boats. The
temperature is a balmy 69 degrees, perfect for my equipment. We had a
fantastic fish dinner tonight: firm, white cabrilla, speared and caught
just offshore, filleted and fried within two hours of being caught.
This was followed by a half gallon of margaritas and various other
potent beverages.

Our group consists of a registered geologist, a soils engineer, a
microelectronics engineer, a couple of research scientists, a lawyer, a
couple of building contractors, and a marketing director. Paddling
abilities range from expert to . . . what comes after novice and before
intermediate? There is a lot of good natured ribbing going on and not a
hint of a personality conflict. It's a good group. Our goal is to
paddle the hundred or so miles around this island and cross the channel
at its most narrow point, about 8 miles, near the north end of the
island. From there it will take two long days to paddle south back to
our starting point at Bahia de los Angeles.

While I may paddle slowly, I am smaller than almost everyone else on
this trip, and my boat is very heavily loaded and rides low in the
water. I know little about the forward stroke, except it is as
important to push as to pull, and that I must turn from the waist
through the shoulders to employ the muscles in my trunk, and not just
my arms and shoulders. Still I am not that far behind the others, and
the weight increases the boat's stability, which is comforting.

The fear that built up in me over the past few weeks has diminished to
a cautious respect, though I am anxious to improve my rudimentary
bracing skills. I can edge this boat (a borrowed Necky Tesla)
confidently on flat water, but I have little confidence I will react
correctly to a sudden threat of capsize. I can right and reenter the
boat quickly without a paddle float after a wet exit. The long crossing
to the mainland, where we will be at greatest risk, is a week away and
we gain strength and experience with every stroke. There are also some
intangibles gained from my 33 years as a rock climber and mountaineer.
Those experiences fostered a tolerance for continuous toil and
perseverance through adversity and discomfort that give me a fair
measure of survivability.

After writing about the first two days, fatigue overtakes me. I switch
off the headlamp, roll onto my back, and pull up the blanket to the
sound of the water lapping on the shore.

"Nights at anchor in the Gulf are quiet and strange. The water is
smooth, almost solid, and the dew is so heavy that the decks are
soaked. The little waves rasp on the shell beaches with a hissing
sound, and all about in the darkness the fishes jump and splash.
Sometimes a great ray leaps clear and falls back on the water with a
sharp report. And again, a school of tiny fishes whisper along the
surface, each one, as it breaks clear, making the tiniest whisking
sound. And there is no feeling, no smell, no vibration of people in the
Gulf. Whatever it is that makes one aware that men are about is not
there. Thus, in spite of the noises of waves and fishes, one has a
feeling of deadness and of quietness."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez, John Steinbeck

October 31, 2004 - Saturday
The day began at 3 am. Dave picked me up at 4 and helped me load my
boat onto his truck rack. We were at Steve G.'s by 4:30. Here I
learned we would stop at the border for a travel permit. Werner
notified us by email that we would need our passports, in addition to
the Mexican fishing license. Somehow this escaped my attention. It
wouldn't have mattered because I don't have a passport anyway. But
when Werner reminded us I began to worry, so at ten to five at
Starbuck's, where we met Mark R., Jim W., and Andy P., Dave and I
decided to go back home to get some more identification.

At the border I filled out my application with the others, but didn't
call attention to my lack of a passport. I had with me my original
50-year-old hospital birth certificate with my infant foot prints on
the back. Not legal proof of birth, but novel and with some potential
for comic relief. I imagined the scene: leg crossed over knee, one shoe
and sock off, holding up the ancient brown certificate next to my bare
foot and pointing out the similarities of my cracked and timeworn sole
to the tiny ink imprint. Fortunately, it never came to that and the
authorities, bored after a long night shift, happily stamped all of our
permits one after the other in rapid succession without reading them or
asking to see our passports.

On the drive south we saw evidence of much recent rain: lots of new
growth on the hills, and mud puddles along the road. It was overcast
and a little chilly when we stopped for lunch in Catavina, a tiny
tourist town in the midst of a giant jumble of granite boulders. I was
expecting warmer weather. Over lunch we talked briefly to a couple of
retirees who were towing a large sailboat to Bahia de los Angeles, and
who also planned to circumnavigate Isla Angel de la Guarda. They were
going up to Bahia del Rufugio at the north end first. We were going the
opposite way. We agreed to look for each other somewhere on the east
coast of the island.

"Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to re-create a dream. This
is by no means a sentimental thing, it has little to do with beauty or
even conscious liking. But the Gulf does draw one, and we have talked
to rich men who own boats, who can go where they will. Regularly they
find themselves sucked into the Gulf. And since we have returned, there
is always in the backs of our minds the positive drive to go back
again. If it were lush and rich, one could understand the pull, but it
is fierce and hostile and sullen, The stone mountains pile up to the
sky and there is little fresh water. But we know we must go back if we
live, and we don't know why."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez

The road south of Catavina takes you into the heart of the Vizcaino
Region of the Sonoran Desert. Weird Cirio trees, named after the
slender wax tapers (candles) of the missions, like pale 50-foot carrots
growing root first out of the ground, make their first appearance here.
They grow only in an area bounded on the north by the southern end of
the Sierra San Pedro Martir, and on the south by the Tres Virgenes
Peaks across to Isla Angel de la Guarda. We also saw the first elephant
trees squat with heavy, bulging branches, and tiny round, compound
leaves.

At the first sight of Bahia de los Angeles, we stopped at a viewpoint
just beyond a military checkpoint to take a look. It was blowing hard
and although we were about two miles from the water, we could see white
caps and heavy surf pounding all the north facing shores. A sobering
sight. But the weather would
be better tomorrow, right? Anyway, we planned to do all of our paddling
early in the day before the wind came up. Knock wood.

In town we got gas at a little shed, and stopped at the Sammy's where
Werner had reserved three pangas for early the next morning. The pangas
would carry us, our boats and our gear across the channel in less than
two hours. After he verified that the boats were ready for us, we went
to Guillermo's for beer and margaritas. We sat outside on the porch
but pulled the table and chairs into an alcove sheltered from the cold
north wind and ordered beer and margaritas. Pelicans bobbed near shore
in the lee of a stone and concrete pier. The margaritas were good and
strong, unlike the limp imitations served in San Diego.

Over the drinks we talked about the crossing (on the return trip), and
the need to stick together as a group. This was viewed sarcastically as
a novel and perhaps unattainable ideal. It was more characteristic of
our group to leave the laggards behind to fend for themselves, at least
on land. But the risks are higher here. Afterwards, we drove the two or
so miles south to the trailers near Camp Gecko.

After dinner, Dave, Andreas and I set up our sleeping gear on the porch
of the big trailer just a few yards from the shore of LA Bay. Andreas,
perhaps overly concerned about going light, brought a bivvy sack, no
sleeping bag, and only a yoga mat to sleep on. Werner had promised warm
or hot weather and Andreas took him at his word. But overnight the
temperature dropped and in the gusty wind he got quite cold.

November 1, 2004 - Day One (Sunday)
Andreas was so uncomfortable that he gave up trying to sleep around 3
a.m., and went into the trailer. Due to his massive size, Andreas cools
at a slower rate (like the ocean), so you know it was really cold. Even
with our fleece blanket bags, rated to 50 degrees (on a mattress, well
above the floor, in a closed room - maybe), Dave and I also got cold.
I stuffed some spare items of clothing between the fleece and my bivvy
sack at my cold spots to allow me to doze a little longer in relative
comfort. This was troubling because lacking real sleeping bags raised
the unpleasant prospect of being cold every night on the island. But it
was too late to do anything about it. Werner rose around 4 to make
eggs, bacon and coffee for everyone. We packed up and left at quarter
to 6 to be at Sammy's on time.

It was still dark and no one was stirring at Sammy's when we arrived.
Someone showed up a few minutes later to show us which pangas to load.
It took about two hours to load all eight kayaks (two Necky Teslas and
a Looksha IV, an Eddyline Sea Star, and an old Trisiutl double
(fiberglass); two Prijon Kodiaks and a Necky Looksha IV (plastic); all
boats with rudders) and gear into three pangas and launch from the
concrete ramp south of Guillermo's. Once underway, we enjoyed
sunshine, warm air, and little spray. Along the way dolphins appeared
and diving birds attacked roils of water stirred up by schools of fish.

Andreas, Dave and I were in the last boat to leave, and the boatman was
running flat out to catch up to the other two. When we were well out
into the Canal las Ballenas, our engine died. He got it going only to
have it die again a few minutes later. I feared the worst. A day's
delay might put us so seriously behind schedule that we would be unable
to catch up. We had only one layover day planned (at the north end of
the island to climb the highest peak), and we had to make good time
every day if we were to return to San Diego by Monday night, nine days
later. After finding no kinked or leaking fuel lines or other obvious
causes, our boatman discovered that if he kept his speed down a little,
the engine ran fine.

It took only about an hour to cover the 20 miles to the island. The
western slope of the island rises dramatically from the shoreline, a
jumble of volcanic rock ridges and twisted strata in black, brown,
ochre, red, orange, pink and purple. Ridges and cliffs make up about 90
percent of the western shore, the rest being rocky arroyos and alluvial
fans suitable for camping. The three pangas cruised south along cliffs
and steep ridges for a good mile before Werner signaled to put in at a
wide cobble beach at the mouths of two arroyos.

"The long snake-like coast of Guardian Angel lay to the east of us; a
desolate and fascinating coast. It is forty-two miles long, ten miles
wide in some places, waterless and uninhabited. It is said to be
crawling with rattlesnakes and iguanas, and a persistent rumor of gold
comes from it. Few people have explored it or even gone more than a few
steps from the shore . . . ."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez, John Steinbeck

We quickly off loaded from the pangas and scrambled to load our boats.
I had way too much stuff and had difficulty cramming it all in. It
wasn't just the 10 gallons of water, which each of us carried: I had
too much canned and processed food, too much clothing, and too many
amenities. Though I had packed and unpacked the boat three times in my
garage, and pared down the load each time, I still had too much. For
example, my first aid kit was, at first, made up of three large bags. I
consolidated this into two bags by eliminating some bulky items like
splints and knee braces. Still, the two bags took up as much space as a
regular sleeping bag, which I left behind in favor of the smaller
fleece blanket because it was going to be so warm.

While loading the boats, we noticed tiny, swarming gnats on our legs
and other unprotected skin: the dreaded no-see-ums. I could not find my
bug juice, but they were easy to ignore. I wondered what all the fuss
was about. We shoved off and paddled south in small waves. As soon as
we were in the water, the bugs left us alone.

We headed south along the shore using a couple of prominent cardon
cacti on a ridge for a heading. It took an hour or two to get to the
south end of the island, but seemed like four in my heavily loaded
boat. I tried to keep up with Werner, but could not. I was riding over
an inch lower in the water than Werner's identical boat, and he
outweighs me by 40 or 50 pounds. I soon discovered there was no one I
could keep up with. But I was never that far behind, so I began to
relax and found that this was one of the keys to making good time. The
harder I strained, the more difficult it was to paddle efficiently.

We regrouped before rounding the end of the island. With the rest of us
singles following like hatchlings, Werner gave the rocky shallows at
the south end of the island a wide berth. Waves were breaking on a reef
far outside of us, too far away to be of immediate concern. We glided
over big rocks, weeds, sandy and rocky bottom on our way around the
point.

On the other side, we could see the cinder cone of Isla Estanque about
seven miles north. Far to the east rose the mountains of Isla Tiburon.
Some made straight for Estanque, taking them far offshore. Andreas
hugged the shore, picking up some assist from eddies caused by the
outgoing tide, and avoiding the brunt of the head wind. Mark and Jim in
their big red-orange Trisiutl put up a sail which could be seen for
miles as they tacked far from shore.

At Estanque a few paddlers waited for Andy, Andreas and I to show us
where they had crossed the shallows between the big island and
Estanque. Waves were breaking here but we paddled through them with
ease. We turned west along the shore line. The east side of the island
presented a grand view of about 15 miles of coastline up to Punta Roca.
The orange mountains forming the spine of the island stood out against
a robin's egg sky.

The water here was so calm that Andreas landed on the steep cobble
beach to stretch and adjust some things in his cockpit. I waited just
offshore, pulled off my spray skirt and put both feet on deck, arching
and stretching my lower back and left groin, which had been giving me
trouble for a couple of weeks. About half an hour of paddling took us a
beautiful cove with a white sand beach sheltered by rocky hills on
either side.

We unloaded and set up tents near the boats in the sand. A mild breeze
kept the no-see-ums off. We went diving off the east point just outside
the bay and Werner, Steve and Dave all speared cabrilla, the excellent
sea bass-like fish plentiful just offshore in water from 10 to 30 feet
wherever there are rocks. Werner said it was the only fish he speared
here because it was so good to eat. It was also the only fish that
would not hold still for a shot, which made it a challenge to hunt.

Werner came to me with a cabrilla he had speared and asked me to take
it back to camp so he could continue to hunt. He showed me how to grasp
the fish through the gill slits, making a ring with my thumb and index
fingers, so that it could not escape. I kicked back to shore and found
a plastic milk crate that had washed up, and placed the fish in it in
about five inches of water.

I swam back out into the warm shallows to look around. Floating above
the bottom in the warm clear water with fish darting about underneath
was like a dream. There were some brilliant purple fish with a powder
blue head and tail, and a yellow band just behind the head; some silver
and yellow fish with black tiger stripes in schools (convict majors?);
and a few larger chocolate brown fish with a creamy white stripe
dividing head from body, with a bright yellow tail. Most others were
larger and colored to blend in with the brown rocks, or the sand:
pargo, trigger fish, and the shy cabrilla.

Mark and Jim paddled and sailed their double over toward Estanque and
fished from the boat. They brought back several fish also. While Werner
cleaned the fish and prepared filets for dinner, I packed my kayak with
the numerous items of non-essential gear I had brought along. I hoped
this would save time in the morning.

After dinner we sat in our fold-up chairs and passed around the
margarita bottle. Among other things, we discussed the tides and next
day's target destination. I had tide tables and maps with me, and
shared them with the others. The next day's paddle was to take us
about 15 miles north to a beach just south of Punta Roca. The paddle
north around Punta Roca in the afternoon, when the wind was usually at
its worst, might be too difficult. So Werner planned to put in at the
beach to camp, or at least to rest well before attempting to round the
point where there were few, if any, places to put in. If we spent the
night there, the next day would be a short three or four mile hop
around Punta Roca during the calm early morning to the little bay at
Candeleros, a good dive spot.

JKVawter

Very nice trip report - Keep it coming.

Ken

wrote in message
ups.com...
Seven Days in the Sea of Cortez

November 1, 2004 - End of Day One
It's 8:30 p.m. on Sunday night, now that we've moved the clocks
back an hour. But Werner ignores the new time with disdain. It's not
right that it gets dark by 5 this far south, so he continues to operate
on Daylight Savings Time. Everyone else bedded down an hour ago, still
long after dark. My tent is the only one with a light on. We have a
long day ahead tomorrow, but I'm not ready to sleep even after the
exertions of the day and such a long, uncomfortable night at the
trailer at Bahia de Los Angeles. I lie on my stomach writing by
headlamp about the last 36 hours.

We are camped on the eastern shore of Isla Angel de la Guarda, a
43-mile long island 20 miles east of the tiny town of Bahia de los
Angeles across the Canal las Ballenas (Whale's Channel). The little
bay where we are camped is a mile and a half or so west of Isla
Estanque, and about seven miles north of the southern tip of the
island. There are no other boats, no structures, no fire pits, no
lights on the horizon. Aside from a few bits of litter washed up, we've
seen no sign of man here at all. The sense of isolation is exquisite.

I take a break from writing and roll over, and feel my back and
shoulder muscles stiffening already. I sit up and fish out some
ibuprofen from my kit bag. I take four and force myself to wash them
down with a pint of water to help rehydrate. Tiny gnats circle my head.
I lay on my back to seek and destroy the no-see-ums that entered the
tent with me. In the headlamp's beam and trapped at the apex of the
tent they are easy prey. I extract revenge for what they and their
comrades have done to my exposed skin: dozens of raised, red, itching
little bumps. What good are these things anyway? What could possibly
depend on these tiny pests for food? And why are they only here and not
on the mainland?

Outside the waves lap gently on the shore of the sheltered bay. We set
up our tents on white sand just a few yards from the boats. The
temperature is a balmy 69 degrees, perfect for my equipment. We had a
fantastic fish dinner tonight: firm, white cabrilla, speared and caught
just offshore, filleted and fried within two hours of being caught.
This was followed by a half gallon of margaritas and various other
potent beverages.

Our group consists of a registered geologist, a soils engineer, a
microelectronics engineer, a couple of research scientists, a lawyer, a
couple of building contractors, and a marketing director. Paddling
abilities range from expert to . . . what comes after novice and before
intermediate? There is a lot of good natured ribbing going on and not a
hint of a personality conflict. It's a good group. Our goal is to
paddle the hundred or so miles around this island and cross the channel
at its most narrow point, about 8 miles, near the north end of the
island. From there it will take two long days to paddle south back to
our starting point at Bahia de los Angeles.

While I may paddle slowly, I am smaller than almost everyone else on
this trip, and my boat is very heavily loaded and rides low in the
water. I know little about the forward stroke, except it is as
important to push as to pull, and that I must turn from the waist
through the shoulders to employ the muscles in my trunk, and not just
my arms and shoulders. Still I am not that far behind the others, and
the weight increases the boat's stability, which is comforting.

The fear that built up in me over the past few weeks has diminished to
a cautious respect, though I am anxious to improve my rudimentary
bracing skills. I can edge this boat (a borrowed Necky Tesla)
confidently on flat water, but I have little confidence I will react
correctly to a sudden threat of capsize. I can right and reenter the
boat quickly without a paddle float after a wet exit. The long crossing
to the mainland, where we will be at greatest risk, is a week away and
we gain strength and experience with every stroke. There are also some
intangibles gained from my 33 years as a rock climber and mountaineer.
Those experiences fostered a tolerance for continuous toil and
perseverance through adversity and discomfort that give me a fair
measure of survivability.

After writing about the first two days, fatigue overtakes me. I switch
off the headlamp, roll onto my back, and pull up the blanket to the
sound of the water lapping on the shore.

"Nights at anchor in the Gulf are quiet and strange. The water is
smooth, almost solid, and the dew is so heavy that the decks are
soaked. The little waves rasp on the shell beaches with a hissing
sound, and all about in the darkness the fishes jump and splash.
Sometimes a great ray leaps clear and falls back on the water with a
sharp report. And again, a school of tiny fishes whisper along the
surface, each one, as it breaks clear, making the tiniest whisking
sound. And there is no feeling, no smell, no vibration of people in the
Gulf. Whatever it is that makes one aware that men are about is not
there. Thus, in spite of the noises of waves and fishes, one has a
feeling of deadness and of quietness."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez, John Steinbeck

October 31, 2004 - Saturday
The day began at 3 am. Dave picked me up at 4 and helped me load my
boat onto his truck rack. We were at Steve G.'s by 4:30. Here I
learned we would stop at the border for a travel permit. Werner
notified us by email that we would need our passports, in addition to
the Mexican fishing license. Somehow this escaped my attention. It
wouldn't have mattered because I don't have a passport anyway. But
when Werner reminded us I began to worry, so at ten to five at
Starbuck's, where we met Mark R., Jim W., and Andy P., Dave and I
decided to go back home to get some more identification.

At the border I filled out my application with the others, but didn't
call attention to my lack of a passport. I had with me my original
50-year-old hospital birth certificate with my infant foot prints on
the back. Not legal proof of birth, but novel and with some potential
for comic relief. I imagined the scene: leg crossed over knee, one shoe
and sock off, holding up the ancient brown certificate next to my bare
foot and pointing out the similarities of my cracked and timeworn sole
to the tiny ink imprint. Fortunately, it never came to that and the
authorities, bored after a long night shift, happily stamped all of our
permits one after the other in rapid succession without reading them or
asking to see our passports.

On the drive south we saw evidence of much recent rain: lots of new
growth on the hills, and mud puddles along the road. It was overcast
and a little chilly when we stopped for lunch in Catavina, a tiny
tourist town in the midst of a giant jumble of granite boulders. I was
expecting warmer weather. Over lunch we talked briefly to a couple of
retirees who were towing a large sailboat to Bahia de los Angeles, and
who also planned to circumnavigate Isla Angel de la Guarda. They were
going up to Bahia del Rufugio at the north end first. We were going the
opposite way. We agreed to look for each other somewhere on the east
coast of the island.

"Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to re-create a dream. This
is by no means a sentimental thing, it has little to do with beauty or
even conscious liking. But the Gulf does draw one, and we have talked
to rich men who own boats, who can go where they will. Regularly they
find themselves sucked into the Gulf. And since we have returned, there
is always in the backs of our minds the positive drive to go back
again. If it were lush and rich, one could understand the pull, but it
is fierce and hostile and sullen, The stone mountains pile up to the
sky and there is little fresh water. But we know we must go back if we
live, and we don't know why."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez

The road south of Catavina takes you into the heart of the Vizcaino
Region of the Sonoran Desert. Weird Cirio trees, named after the
slender wax tapers (candles) of the missions, like pale 50-foot carrots
growing root first out of the ground, make their first appearance here.
They grow only in an area bounded on the north by the southern end of
the Sierra San Pedro Martir, and on the south by the Tres Virgenes
Peaks across to Isla Angel de la Guarda. We also saw the first elephant
trees squat with heavy, bulging branches, and tiny round, compound
leaves.

At the first sight of Bahia de los Angeles, we stopped at a viewpoint
just beyond a military checkpoint to take a look. It was blowing hard
and although we were about two miles from the water, we could see white
caps and heavy surf pounding all the north facing shores. A sobering
sight. But the weather would
be better tomorrow, right? Anyway, we planned to do all of our paddling
early in the day before the wind came up. Knock wood.

In town we got gas at a little shed, and stopped at the Sammy's where
Werner had reserved three pangas for early the next morning. The pangas
would carry us, our boats and our gear across the channel in less than
two hours. After he verified that the boats were ready for us, we went
to Guillermo's for beer and margaritas. We sat outside on the porch
but pulled the table and chairs into an alcove sheltered from the cold
north wind and ordered beer and margaritas. Pelicans bobbed near shore
in the lee of a stone and concrete pier. The margaritas were good and
strong, unlike the limp imitations served in San Diego.

Over the drinks we talked about the crossing (on the return trip), and
the need to stick together as a group. This was viewed sarcastically as
a novel and perhaps unattainable ideal. It was more characteristic of
our group to leave the laggards behind to fend for themselves, at least
on land. But the risks are higher here. Afterwards, we drove the two or
so miles south to the trailers near Camp Gecko.

After dinner, Dave, Andreas and I set up our sleeping gear on the porch
of the big trailer just a few yards from the shore of LA Bay. Andreas,
perhaps overly concerned about going light, brought a bivvy sack, no
sleeping bag, and only a yoga mat to sleep on. Werner had promised warm
or hot weather and Andreas took him at his word. But overnight the
temperature dropped and in the gusty wind he got quite cold.

November 1, 2004 - Day One (Sunday)
Andreas was so uncomfortable that he gave up trying to sleep around 3
a.m., and went into the trailer. Due to his massive size, Andreas cools
at a slower rate (like the ocean), so you know it was really cold. Even
with our fleece blanket bags, rated to 50 degrees (on a mattress, well
above the floor, in a closed room - maybe), Dave and I also got cold.
I stuffed some spare items of clothing between the fleece and my bivvy
sack at my cold spots to allow me to doze a little longer in relative
comfort. This was troubling because lacking real sleeping bags raised
the unpleasant prospect of being cold every night on the island. But it
was too late to do anything about it. Werner rose around 4 to make
eggs, bacon and coffee for everyone. We packed up and left at quarter
to 6 to be at Sammy's on time.

It was still dark and no one was stirring at Sammy's when we arrived.
Someone showed up a few minutes later to show us which pangas to load.
It took about two hours to load all eight kayaks (two Necky Teslas and
a Looksha IV, an Eddyline Sea Star, and an old Trisiutl double
(fiberglass); two Prijon Kodiaks and a Necky Looksha IV (plastic); all
boats with rudders) and gear into three pangas and launch from the
concrete ramp south of Guillermo's. Once underway, we enjoyed
sunshine, warm air, and little spray. Along the way dolphins appeared
and diving birds attacked roils of water stirred up by schools of fish.

Andreas, Dave and I were in the last boat to leave, and the boatman was
running flat out to catch up to the other two. When we were well out
into the Canal las Ballenas, our engine died. He got it going only to
have it die again a few minutes later. I feared the worst. A day's
delay might put us so seriously behind schedule that we would be unable
to catch up. We had only one layover day planned (at the north end of
the island to climb the highest peak), and we had to make good time
every day if we were to return to San Diego by Monday night, nine days
later. After finding no kinked or leaking fuel lines or other obvious
causes, our boatman discovered that if he kept his speed down a little,
the engine ran fine.

It took only about an hour to cover the 20 miles to the island. The
western slope of the island rises dramatically from the shoreline, a
jumble of volcanic rock ridges and twisted strata in black, brown,
ochre, red, orange, pink and purple. Ridges and cliffs make up about 90
percent of the western shore, the rest being rocky arroyos and alluvial
fans suitable for camping. The three pangas cruised south along cliffs
and steep ridges for a good mile before Werner signaled to put in at a
wide cobble beach at the mouths of two arroyos.

"The long snake-like coast of Guardian Angel lay to the east of us; a
desolate and fascinating coast. It is forty-two miles long, ten miles
wide in some places, waterless and uninhabited. It is said to be
crawling with rattlesnakes and iguanas, and a persistent rumor of gold
comes from it. Few people have explored it or even gone more than a few
steps from the shore . . . ."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez, John Steinbeck

We quickly off loaded from the pangas and scrambled to load our boats.
I had way too much stuff and had difficulty cramming it all in. It
wasn't just the 10 gallons of water, which each of us carried: I had
too much canned and processed food, too much clothing, and too many
amenities. Though I had packed and unpacked the boat three times in my
garage, and pared down the load each time, I still had too much. For
example, my first aid kit was, at first, made up of three large bags. I
consolidated this into two bags by eliminating some bulky items like
splints and knee braces. Still, the two bags took up as much space as a
regular sleeping bag, which I left behind in favor of the smaller
fleece blanket because it was going to be so warm.

While loading the boats, we noticed tiny, swarming gnats on our legs
and other unprotected skin: the dreaded no-see-ums. I could not find my
bug juice, but they were easy to ignore. I wondered what all the fuss
was about. We shoved off and paddled south in small waves. As soon as
we were in the water, the bugs left us alone.

We headed south along the shore using a couple of prominent cardon
cacti on a ridge for a heading. It took an hour or two to get to the
south end of the island, but seemed like four in my heavily loaded
boat. I tried to keep up with Werner, but could not. I was riding over
an inch lower in the water than Werner's identical boat, and he
outweighs me by 40 or 50 pounds. I soon discovered there was no one I
could keep up with. But I was never that far behind, so I began to
relax and found that this was one of the keys to making good time. The
harder I strained, the more difficult it was to paddle efficiently.

We regrouped before rounding the end of the island. With the rest of us
singles following like hatchlings, Werner gave the rocky shallows at
the south end of the island a wide berth. Waves were breaking on a reef
far outside of us, too far away to be of immediate concern. We glided
over big rocks, weeds, sandy and rocky bottom on our way around the
point.

On the other side, we could see the cinder cone of Isla Estanque about
seven miles north. Far to the east rose the mountains of Isla Tiburon.
Some made straight for Estanque, taking them far offshore. Andreas
hugged the shore, picking up some assist from eddies caused by the
outgoing tide, and avoiding the brunt of the head wind. Mark and Jim in
their big red-orange Trisiutl put up a sail which could be seen for
miles as they tacked far from shore.

At Estanque a few paddlers waited for Andy, Andreas and I to show us
where they had crossed the shallows between the big island and
Estanque. Waves were breaking here but we paddled through them with
ease. We turned west along the shore line. The east side of the island
presented a grand view of about 15 miles of coastline up to Punta Roca.
The orange mountains forming the spine of the island stood out against
a robin's egg sky.

The water here was so calm that Andreas landed on the steep cobble
beach to stretch and adjust some things in his cockpit. I waited just
offshore, pulled off my spray skirt and put both feet on deck, arching
and stretching my lower back and left groin, which had been giving me
trouble for a couple of weeks. About half an hour of paddling took us a
beautiful cove with a white sand beach sheltered by rocky hills on
either side.

We unloaded and set up tents near the boats in the sand. A mild breeze
kept the no-see-ums off. We went diving off the east point just outside
the bay and Werner, Steve and Dave all speared cabrilla, the excellent
sea bass-like fish plentiful just offshore in water from 10 to 30 feet
wherever there are rocks. Werner said it was the only fish he speared
here because it was so good to eat. It was also the only fish that
would not hold still for a shot, which made it a challenge to hunt.

Werner came to me with a cabrilla he had speared and asked me to take
it back to camp so he could continue to hunt. He showed me how to grasp
the fish through the gill slits, making a ring with my thumb and index
fingers, so that it could not escape. I kicked back to shore and found
a plastic milk crate that had washed up, and placed the fish in it in
about five inches of water.

I swam back out into the warm shallows to look around. Floating above
the bottom in the warm clear water with fish darting about underneath
was like a dream. There were some brilliant purple fish with a powder
blue head and tail, and a yellow band just behind the head; some silver
and yellow fish with black tiger stripes in schools (convict majors?);
and a few larger chocolate brown fish with a creamy white stripe
dividing head from body, with a bright yellow tail. Most others were
larger and colored to blend in with the brown rocks, or the sand:
pargo, trigger fish, and the shy cabrilla.

Mark and Jim paddled and sailed their double over toward Estanque and
fished from the boat. They brought back several fish also. While Werner
cleaned the fish and prepared filets for dinner, I packed my kayak with
the numerous items of non-essential gear I had brought along. I hoped
this would save time in the morning.

After dinner we sat in our fold-up chairs and passed around the
margarita bottle. Among other things, we discussed the tides and next
day's target destination. I had tide tables and maps with me, and
shared them with the others. The next day's paddle was to take us
about 15 miles north to a beach just south of Punta Roca. The paddle
north around Punta Roca in the afternoon, when the wind was usually at
its worst, might be too difficult. So Werner planned to put in at the
beach to camp, or at least to rest well before attempting to round the
point where there were few, if any, places to put in. If we spent the
night there, the next day would be a short three or four mile hop
around Punta Roca during the calm early morning to the little bay at
Candeleros, a good dive spot.

JKVawter

November 2, 2004 - Day Two (Monday)
But it was not to be. During the night the sound of lapping waves
increased steadily and grew into rolling surf, while our tents bent and
shuddered in the rising wind. By morning the wind was scouring the sand
off the beach at 25 to 30 knots. Outside and above our sheltered area,
the wind was 10 knots higher. North beyond the mouth of the bay was a
panorama of whitecaps extending to the horizon.

In blowing sand we loaded the boats hurriedly because Werner was
loading his. But we were all anxious about having to paddle into the
maelstrom outside the mouth of the bay. Over the wind Andreas said to
me: "I'm going to sit here and watch the more experienced paddlers
go out into this before I try it. This doesn't look paddleable to
me." Andreas had developed excellent kayak skills in a short time
and, unlike me, could reliably roll his boat. So I took him seriously.

When the boats were loaded Werner hiked to the top of the hill to the
west of the bay. He did not hurry back and his body language
telegraphed his decision. "We can't go out there," he told us.
"Outside of this bay it's crankin' 40 knots. Even if we could
paddle it, it's 15 miles to the next decent landing, and I don't
think we could make it." So we waited. At first, we stayed near camp
not far from the boats, hoping the wind would die, or at least diminish
so that we could launch and try to make up the lost time. But
eventually small parties began to wander off when it became clear we
would spend another night at this camp.

Mark and I set out east on the cobble spit toward Isla Estanque, just
for something to do. Others followed. The cobbles formed a high berm 75
yards wide. Although our bay was mostly free of signs of man, this berm
was not. In addition to driftwood, fish skeletons, dolphin and pelican
carcasses, we passed shoes, bottles, beams, cans, rigging, and all
other manner of sea litter. The loose, smooth rounded stones shifted
under our weight making each step a chore.

"Here the beach was piled with debris: the huge vertebrae of whales
scattered about and piles of broken weed and skeletons of fishes and
birds. On top of some low bushes which edged the beach there were great
nests three to four feet in diameter, pelican nests perhaps, for there
were pieces of fish bone in them, but all the nests were
deserted-whether they were old or it was out of season we do not
know."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez, by John Steinbeck

The wind made it difficult to talk without shouting, so we dropped down
the south side to a large, shallow pond about a half mile long and 300
yards wide. The pond is below sea level and protected by the berm.
Occasionally the wind would carry a sheet of spray from the crashing
surf all the way over the berm. Mark noted that the calm shallow water
of the pond looked suitable for wind surfing. All around the edge in a
few inches of water was a three or four foot wide mat of blue-green
algae. At the pond's west end is a large expanse of Yerba Reuma of
the Frankenia family, one of the few plants able to tolerate such
extreme salinity of the soil. We walked along the shore and were
careful not to disturb the ancient algal mat.

Near the eastern shore of the island, and just short of the summit of a
rocky ridge above the eastern shore, we found two large signs
describing the wildlife and pleading with visitors in Spanish and
English to be careful with the fragile ecosystem, to minimize impact
and litter, and warning against importing non-native species like rats
and cockroaches.

We were surprised to learn from these signs that the island has no
native rodents, but our experience bore this out. No food we left out
was ever disturbed, except by the ravens. We never saw any evidence of
mice or rats, or any other terrestrial mammals for that matter. There
were lots of shore birds, a few ravens and ospreys, rattlesnakes, small
lizards, chuckwallas, and of course, spiders, ants, no-see-ums and
scorpions. But every mammal we saw had fins.

Later Andreas, Mark, and Jim set off on a long hike to the west side of
the island to fish. They hoped the water would be calmer there on the
lee side while El Norte (what the fisherman called the malevolent north
wind) bore down on the east. Werner went with them for three or four
miles to a point about 800 vertical feet above the western shore, then
returned to camp alone. Andreas, Mark and Jim went down to the water
and caught and brought back fish, a tremendous expenditure of energy
for which the entire group was grateful. Their efforts spared us from
having to eat the canned stew, the only non-fish meal Werner planned.

On his way back, Werner saw a large Isla Angel de la Guarda Rattlesnake
resting in a crevice above the sandy floor of a wash. Like the Cedros
Island Rattlesnake, this species was isolated from its relatives on the
mainland by continental drift. Faults separated the islands from the
mainland and marooned the island snakes for so long that they are now
genetically distinct.

"The general correspondence of flora and fauna confirms the fact that
they were a part of the peninsula not so very long ago. On the other
hand, there is known to be a sub-species of snake found on one island
but on no other . . . . All this must mean, of course, that recent as
the isolation of the islands may be, it is not so recent that variation
has not begun and that what you have is a very minor parallel to the
case of the Galapagos where the presence of a unique species presented
the puzzle which Darwin was to solve."
From The Forgotten Peninsula, by Joseph Wood Krutch

With no mammal predators to compete with, and a good supply of fat
chuckwallas to eat, Crotalus angelenis has done exceedingly well on its
island in the Gulf. It commonly grows to a length of seven feet, over
twice as long as its mainland progenitor, Crotalus mitchelli, the
Speckled Rattlesnake. Another distinctive difference is that the rattle
of the angelenis is much smaller than the mitchelli. It may be that
without coyotes, goats, burros, horses, cattle, and other potentially
dangerous mammals stalking and stomping the island, the warning
function of the rattle is now superfluous.

In the afternoon I looked for another tent site. The sites near the
boats had become undesirable by the blasting wind and blowing sand. The
knoll on the east side of the bay provided some shelter, but even in
the dirt I could not get my tent stakes to bite well enough to resist
the strong wind. I decided to sleep in the open in my bivvy sack on the
shoulder of a sandy hill near the kitchen we set up at the base of the
hill.

Tonight when everyone else was going to bed, I walked along the shore
of the bay. The tide was very low. The water's edge was twinkling
with bioluminescence. Moments later the moon popped up over the eastern
bluff and lit the western part of the bay. I thought about
Steinbeck's log, and Ed Ricketts collecting specimens decades ago
when this place was truly no man's land, and about the eons over
which this island ecosystem developed, and countless transits of the
moon over the dome of the sky, its pull on the earth, the rhythm of the
tides, and its influence on every living thing.

"We have often thought of this mass of sea-memory, or sea-thought,
which lives deep in the mind. If one ask for a description of the
unconscious, even the answer-symbol will usually be in terms of a dark
water into which the light descends only a short distance. And we have
thought how the human fetus has, at one stage of its development,
vestigial gill-slits. If the gills are a component of the developing
human, it is not unreasonable to suppose a parallel or concurrent mind
or psyche development. If there be a life-memory strong enough to leave
its symbol in vestigial gills, the preponderantly aquatic symbols in
the individual unconscious might well be indications of a group
psyche-memory which is the foundation of the whole unconscious. And
what things must be there, what monsters, what enemies, what fear of
dark and pressure, and of prey! . . . . Perhaps, next to that of the
sea, the strongest memory in us is that of the moon."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez

November 3, 2004 - Day Three
Day Three. We dubbed this place Scorpion Bay after a critter who lived
under a rock in our kitchen. On the first full day we had set up our
folding chairs in the sand at the base of the rocky, volcanic bluff
east of the bay to escape the blasting wind. In the hill's southern
lee we had good shelter and some rocks to put the stove and other items
upon. John H. sat for a good part of the day within inches of a rock
that Werner later moved to make a platform for cooking. A five-inch
scorpion the color of fresh cut lime scurried for cover in a crevice
where we could get a good look. We made it the camp mascot.

This morning we didn't even go through the ritual of loading the
boats. The wind continued unabated, or stronger, driving the rollers
and whitecaps down the 200 mile fetch to the north. Dumping waves
hammered the steep cobble beach to the east. From my seat in the
kitchen I had a view to the east down the spine of the cobble berm all
the way to Estanque. Backlit by the rising sun, the spray from the
thundering surf billowed over the berm like smoke.

After breakfast Andreas unloaded his boat and paddled out into the surf
of Scorpion Bay while some of us watched from shore. He made good
progress, slowing and accelerating to avoid the closely spaced breaking
waves, keeping his boat aligned perpendicularly to the swells. As he
approached the mouth of the bay, he slowed to a stop. We wondered aloud
if he could turn without capsizing, but he did not try. Instead, he
maintained his perpendicular alignment, and let the oncoming water push
him back into the bay. He spent over an hour maneuvering around the
inside of the bay, playing with the waves and eddies, and eventually
working up to turning around and paddling in with the waves.

Andreas's display of boat handling skill encouraged Werner to try it
too. Werner made it out a little further, but still not into the
violent water and unhindered wind outside the bay. He executed a turn,
and brought his boat back through the surf expertly to a soft landing
on the beach. He told us that it was still way too big to paddle
outside of the bay, and that we would not be leaving this camp for at
least another day. That left us free to plan other adventures.

Andy wanted to explore the interior and was interested in seeing the
other side of the island. I wanted to try to find the Isla Angel de la
Guarda rattlesnake Werner had spotted on his way back to camp
yesterday. Andy persuaded Steve, Dave, and John to come also, and we
set out for the abandoned fish camp a mile or two to the west.

The ruins of this failed enterprise are an enigma. A large concrete
slab lies just above the beach and near the concrete remnants of a
pier. It was suggested that this was once processing plant. But smaller
slabs lie scattered over a hundred acres, along with remnants of two
wheel track roads, and lots of litter. It looks like the builders had a
community in mind, with several small dwellings spaced several hundred
yards apart.

We followed a two wheel track for over a mile, wondering how they got a
motorized vehicle here. The road wound back through the smaller
outlying slabs, and climbed up the gentle incline of an alluvial fan.
The fan was cut by two arroyos filled with creosote, mesquite,
ironwood, cardon, elephant trees and palo adan. The plateau above the
arroyos was covered with low dry grass, and a few scattered creosote,
brittlebush and small cacti.

"The difficulties of exploration of the island might be very great, but
there is a drawing power about its very forbidding aspect-a Golden
Fleece, and the inevitable dragon, in this case rattlesnakes, to guard
it. The mountains which are the backbone of the island rise to more
than four thousand feet in some places, sullen and desolate at the tops
but with heavy brush on the skirts."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez

As we hiked further up the alluvial fan, I told the others about the
species of rattlesnake native to the island, and the need to be
extremely careful, especially on rocky south-facing slopes. The Isla
Angel de la Guarda Rattlesnake is one of the three largest in North
America. In the U.S. only the Western diamondback, which also grows to
seven feet, and the Eastern diamondback, which grows to eight feet,
grow so large. To be envenomated by a large rattlesnake on this island,
in weather conditions that would prohibit a rescue by panga for days
(we had a satellite phone), would almost certainly mean death, or if
you survived, severely debilitating injury to tissue and organs, and
months of painful recovery in a hospital.

We carefully clambered down a south facing slope picking our way around
the larger rocks that might provide a warm den for snakes, and eyeing
the ground before every step. We crossed the arroyo and stopped in the
shade of a big ironwood for a drink. The air was still and warm in the
arroyo bottom, and the sun was hot. We could hear flies and bees
buzzing, and bird songs. The shade was welcome, but even more a relief
was the quiet stillness in contrast to the relentless sensory assault
of the wind.

"The very air here is miraculous, and outlines of reality change with
the moment. The sky sucks up the land and disgorges it. A dream lays
over the whole region, a brooding kind of hallucination."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez

We followed the winding wash upstream for another three quarters of a
mile until the twists and turns became too tight and choked with
prickly acacia branches to efficiently follow. There we struck out
directly up slope toward a saddle we hoped would provide us with a view
of the mainland. Approaching the saddle summit, the wind buffeted us
more intensely with every upward step.

At the summit we found a huge flat area, and a view of distant
mountains on the Baja Peninsula, but no view yet of the water. We
walked south on the flat away from the exposed saddle, and stopped for
lunch by a large elephant tree where the wind was calm. Nearby was a
palo adan, similar to the ocotillo, but smaller, with green, yellow and
purple branches. We enjoyed the shade and the light breeze, a welcome
change from the barrage of blowing sand back at camp. Here we compared
the growing collection of red welts on each other's legs, and
discussed our predicament. Every hour spent not paddling made it more
unlikely we could continue north to complete the circumnavigation. We
had over eighty miles of paddling ahead of us, and had lost two days.

After lunch we headed further southwest to a view of the Canal las
Ballenas and the mainland 20+ miles away. We hiked to a cardon above a
steep slope. The channel looked calm from our vantage a half a mile
away and 800 feet above sea level. Even from that distance we could
tell it was much calmer on the west side than on the east. The skies
were hazier to the west than the east, but everywhere, cloudless. The
barometer had been hovering above 30 for two days. Rather than
continuing downslope toward the western shore, we turned around.

On the way back, I saw sign of the party from the day before. We
decided to follow their course more directly back to the camp. This
took us down a ridge line and then east into another arroyo, wider and
flatter than the one we had come up, which made for easy hiking. Little
whiptail lizards with alternating black and beige tail bands scampered
over sand and gravel for cover at our approach, and we found the dried
carcass of a chuckwalla about 18 inches long. We climbed a steep
embankment out of the broad wash bottom.

After crossing a broad, flat plain with scattered head-high brush and
towering cardon, we came to an area barren of vegetation and littered
with red and black volcanic rock with bizarre shapes, probably the
result of molten rock being blown into the air at high speed. Our path
took us over a few rocky low saddles and into another narrow arroyo
with high steep walls of loose red rock and filled with large, bushy
ironwoods and other lush, green vegetation. After only a few hundred
yards this opened up to the salt flat directly behind our camp at
Scorpion Bay.

In the afternoon Werner was motivated to find fish, but the heavy surf
along the north facing coast just outside the bay prohibited diving. He
tapped me to go with him to the east side, to the shore south of Isla
Estanque, where we hoped to find calmer, clearer water, and a few rocks
to provide good hunting. We reached the rocky beach and walked south to
a cliff. The water was turbulent, murky and not too promising. We
gathered up our gear and headed inland again briefly, then south around
a steep, high knoll. Andreas, Dave and Steve were a quarter of a mile
behind us and changed course to follow our lead.

South of the knoll were some crumbling cliffs above a black cobble
beach facing east-southeast. We found a spot to get down the cliff and
onto the cobble beach, and walked south a bit more to some large rocks.
Five minutes after going in, Werner speared his first cabrilla. Dave
and Steve hurried to get into the water. Andreas walked a bit further
south and with his pole casted from shore. Soon Dave speared a fish,
then Steve. Werner got a few more, the last one about five pounds. Each
time a diver speared a fish, he swam close to shore, got some purchase
on the slippery rocks, and heaved the fish above the waterline for me
to retrieve.

Out of the water the guys were shivering as they stripped off their
wetsuits. The storm had stirred up the deeper, colder water and dropped
the temperature several degrees from the balmy 70+ we had on the first
day. I took the bag of fish and walked north a few hundred yards to
where the sun was still flooding the rocky shore. The others followed,
and soon Werner and Andreas were cleaning fish in the afternoon sun.

We had another fine fish feast that night, and drank another half
gallon of margaritas, along with some private reserve tequila others
had brought along. Jim let us sample an unusual smoky flavored, high
proof alcohol. Werner whooped in appreciation. None of us could
identify it, and Jim decided to keep it a mystery for a while.

JKVawter

Trip photos available at this URL:
http://yakfishing.net/coppermine/index.php?cat=2

November 4, 2004 - Day Four
This morning the wind was down to a manageable 10 to 15 knots, and the
sea was calming rapidly. But after breakfast we were in no rush to get
going. Werner called a meeting at the kitchen to discuss options.
With little dissent (Andreas wanted to keep going north) we quickly
agreed to go back the way we came. The circumnavigation would have to
wait for another trip. It was just too far to go in the time we had
left, even if we could paddle a couple of extra long days. Any further
delays would make us overdue. And even if we returned the way we came,
we might again have to wait for good weather before attempting the
crossing to the mainland.

We would return to our put-in on the western side of the island and
camp. The next day we would paddle north to a little bay on the west
side roughly east-northeast from Isla Coronado (Smith). A crossing
from that point to Isla Coronado would be about 15 miles, almost twice
as far as the one we had planned from near the north end of the island,
but well within our abilities, assuming good weather. A mild two meter
net change between the high and low tide would help us as well.

We carefully made our way out through the surf and turned our beams to
the three-foot swells and occasional white caps to head back to
Estanque. In about 30 minutes we had all glided into the flat water of
Estanque's little bay. We left our boats and hiked a few hundred
feet up the steep volcanic debris of the cinder cone to get a view to
the south. The north wind blasted us here as we glassed the water
between us and the southern tip of the big island. It was calm
compared to the whitecaps and big swells to the north. West of the
southern tip of the island the sea appeared to be riled up though, so
making the turn back up the west side might be a challenge.

Leaving Estanque we could see waves were breaking in the shallow water
between the two islands. Werner went through first and waited to make
sure that the novice paddlers made it across upright. With the wind at
our back we made good time paddling south. Along the way we saw a seal
on the surface shaking a fish to death.

High bluffs at the southern tip of the island blocked the wind and
provided us with flat water. We took a break in our boats to drink and
refuel. Around the corner to the west we could see rougher water. The
tide was against us too. So when we were underway again, most of us
hugged the shore to take advantage of back eddies, and to get some
shelter from the wind. After an hour or so, my left groin and lower
back began to ache insistently, making the paddle seem longer. I was
the last to land at the rocky beach at Los Corralitos where we had
first put in after the panga ride on November 1.

This turned out to be a very nice place to camp, with just enough wind
most of the time to keep the bugs from alighting. It is about as long
as a city block, and wider, and there is plenty of driftwood for a
fire. The diving was poor, and Andreas was able to hook only a couple
of fish, so we had the beef stew tonight. Unloading the boat, siting
the camp, fishing, preparing a meal, gathering wood, building a fire,
and reveling in the simplicity and independence, seems second nature
now. I don't look at my watch much. We know a president has been
elected, but most were unconcerned and gave it little attention in
conversation.

"One thing had impressed us deeply on this little voyage: the
great world dropped away very quickly. We lost the fear and fierceness
and contagion of war and economic uncertainty. The matters of great
importance we had left were not important. There must be an
ineffective quality in these things. We had lost the virus, or it had
been eaten by the antibodies of quiet. Our pace had slowed greatly;
the hundred thousand small reactions of our daily world were reduced to
very few. When the boat was moving we sat by the hour watching the
pale, burned mountains slip by."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez, John Steinbeck

Around the fire we discussed the game plan for the next day. We would
leave early for Estacion Caleta, marked Caleta ("small cove")
Station on the map, one of the only sheltered bays on the west side, to
take advantage of the tide and the calm air. There was some talk of
going for the crossing that day if the weather was good. But the
veterans were a bit pessimistic about the weather: None of them had
ever been pinned down in one place for three days and forced to reverse
direction. Still, leaving from Estacion Caleta, over 12 miles north
and a half mile further west, would save us several miles of paddling
over a start from this far south.

November 5, 2004 - Day Five
We left at dawn this morning and had the incoming tide with us for a
while before it stalled and started out again. Conditions were
perfect: glassy for most of the morning, and little tidal action. Each
point we rounded opened another spectacular view of the rugged and
gaudily colored volcanic cliffs and mountains, reflected by the dark,
glassy water. From off shore the arroyos and alluvial fans that form
cobble beaches at the water's edge appeared forested with cardon,
palo adan, creosote and other greenery. At the base of a huge
cream-colored cliff we passed a huge, bleached whale skull resting on a
cobble shore.

Before noon, David and I pulled into an inviting little cove with a
rocky peninsula dividing the upper and lower lobes of the bay. We
paddled into the northern lobe and around the corner of the peninsula
to a hidden landing on a gray sand beach where the other boats were.
We got out and sat on the beach with the others for lunch. It was
several minutes before I learned that this was not a lunch stop, but
Estacion Caleta. We had made excellent time on the smooth water and
had the rest of the day to play.

We got the dive gear together and paddled across to the northern side
of the lagoon, carried the boats well above the water and walked over
the spit to the western shore. I followed Werner into the water, and
stayed close behind him as he hunted, hoping to pick up some pointers.
Underwater, the rocks dropped steeply from the shoreline and were
covered with a fuzzy algae. But we had excellent visibility. There
were lots of attractive brightly colored fish, sea stars, and anemones,
but no cabrilla. Steve and Dave also hunted this area with no luck.

Back at camp, I borrowed Dave's spear gun and went out into the
southern lobe of the bay, and out to the rocks just off the peninsula
protecting the northern lobe. After a few dives to about 15 feet, I
began to pick out the cabrilla. Along the south shore of this bay I
saw a large orange fish I did not
recognize. I hesitated to shoot at it because I wasn't sure it was a
good eating fish. I later learned it was a golden cabrilla, and that
the locals don't take them for superstitious reasons. I took this to
mean they were somewhat rare, and so I was glad I didn't shoot him.


I found the cabrilla hard to stalk. They seemed to notice my interest
right away and quickly headed for the rocks. I was warned not to shoot
any rocks, and because the fish always seemed to be in front of one, I
didn't get off many shots. Even with the good shots (good = in the
vicinity of what I aimed at), I never hit a fish (that I know of). But
the tip of Dave's spear was bent a bit and had its own unique
trajectory, which I could not discern. So my failure to kill a fish
may not have been completely due to my lack of skill, which was in
almost all respects, uh, complete.

At one point, I dove toward sandy bottom about 20 feet down and as I
approached, I saw a very large silver white cabrilla, or maybe a sea
bass, hovering over the sand. I cleared my ears and waited for my legs
to drift down below my waist. I steadied myself and lined up a shot on
the now slowly moving fish. I squeezed the shot off, and missed. The
fish darted about ten feet away from his spot, then furned and stared
at me as if to say, "Is that all you got?" At the surface I gasped
for air and shouted to the guys on sho "Hey! There's lots of
cabrilla over here! We need a straight shooter." Steve yelled to
Dave: "Let's go kill some fish!" Within an hour they had speared
enough cabrilla for the whole group.

We decided a soup would be a nice change of pace from the usual fried
fish fillets, and gathered all of the canned salsa, tomatoes, green
chiles and spices we could find. Out of this olio Werner created the
best cioppino I've ever had. I contributed a loaf of sour dough
bread baked with rosemary and kalamata olives to the feast, one of the
amenities I wasn't sorry to have brought along.

Around the fire we discussed the crossing. Werner told us that David
and I, the slowest paddlers, would lead the group. This is a common
tactic to keep stragglers from getting lost or swept out to sea on long
crossings. But it was also necessary because Bill D. (our mutual
father-in-law and veteran of several Guardian Angel circumnavigations
himself) told Werner not to come back without me. Werner announced it
was imperative that I be brought back alive, regardless of the cost to
the others in life or limb. It's comforting to know that everyone is
looking out for you.

Dave and I wandered over to the short bit of sandy shore where the
boats were pulled up and noticed a heavy concentration of
bioluminescence along the water line. As we walked closer, the wet
sand erupted in sparkles of light under the weight of our footsteps.
We stomped around like kids until we discovered that splashing water or
throwing sand in the water made an even more spectacular display.
Splashed water appeared like lava blowing out of a vent. We howled at
the special effects until we grew tired, and went off to our respective
tents to sleep.

The plan was to rise at 2:30 a.m., and be paddling by 4:00. Even if we
made only three knots, we'd make Smith Island before 9:00 a.m.
JKVawter

November 6, 2004 - Day Six
At 3:00 a.m. (4:00 on Werner's watch), we gathered off shore in the
dark. Werner was directly behind me. He told me to look for a dark
shape on the western horizon for a heading. I told him I wasn't sure
I could pick out what he was looking at, so he suggested I just head
for Orion's belt. So I cocked the brim of my Tilley's up (a hat
that had collected dust in my closet since the 1980's), and fixed my
gaze on the three stars of the belt.

I had taken four 200mg Ibuprofen to head off any problems with my groin
and lower back, but apparently did not take them soon enough. I think
the tension of being up front with all the other boats nipping at our
sterns tended to make Dave and I strain at our paddles. In fact,
Werner told us to back off a bit on our pace because we wouldn't be
able to maintain it for the whole crossing. Whatever the reason, my
left groin began to gnaw at me.

Paddling in the dark is comforting. All your comrades are within
earshot, and your body seems to know how to react to the ups and downs,
and tilts and leans that your eyes have no way of anticipating. It's
a little like paddling with your eyes closed. But there were things to
see besides the stars. Whatever was phosphorescing along the shore at
Estacion Caleta was out there too. Little sparkles of light clung to
the bow and rails of the kayaks, and dripped from the paddles.

Dave was on my port side and kept edging up too close. I was heading
for Orion's Belt and he seemed to be heading for something off my
starboard bow. At one point our paddles got tangled; later he bumped
me. When he got ahead of me and started to cross my bow I barked at
him to get behind me and relax. He later revealed to Werner that he
had no idea what Orion was. That must have made it difficult to keep a
heading in the dark.

The pain in my groin grew worse and spread horizontally into my left
lower back. I grimaced and groaned in the dark, leaning and squirming
in my seat to try to get some relief. I kept thinking that any minute
the ibuprofen would kick in. But after an hour of increasing
discomfort, I began to think it wasn't going to help, and this made
me feel quite grim.

Around 5:30 the sun was coming up and I used it as an excuse to stop
paddling and take a picture. It was a relief to relax, and the scene
made me forget my discomfort momentarily. The island behind and south
of us was silhouetted by red, yellow and orange clouds and blue sky
reflected by the water. Seven or so miles out, halfway between the two
islands, the sense of commitment was exhilarating. As the sun climbed
above the horizon we stopped for water and to refuel.

As soon as we were again underway, the pain returned. I soldiered on
and, mercifully, the pain began to ebb and finally disappear around
6:30. I made good time from there on. Over the last two miles I
pulled ahead of a couple of paddlers, and did my best to catch up with
Steve, Andreas and Werner who went out in front when the sun came up.
My boat was at last light enough to perform well, and I finished strong
into the little bay near the south end of Smith Island. After beaching
the boats, we all took a dip in the glassy, warm water. It was 7:30
a.m.

With the crossing behind us, a great weight was lifted, and we now had
another full day to relax and play. We set up our tents in the black
sand, and laid out gear to dry in the morning sun. Werner made a
pancake breakfast for everyone. Jim had an early cigar. After
breakfast John, Steve, Dave and I went diving off a point just south of
the bay. The three of them got enough cabrilla to feed the whole
group. Mark, Werner and Andreas hiked to the summit of the cinder cone
at the north end of the island, and got some tremendous panoramic shots
of the big island, and the smaller islands to the west and south of
Smith. The hike was strenuous and took many hours, and they were more
than usually tired when they returned.

We camped on the isthmus of Isla Coronado, a.k.a. Smith Island. Just a
few yards of land separates the bay on the east side from a small
lagoon and channel on the west. This short portage provides an easy
way to the channel between Smith Island and the mainland. Eight miles
south is Bahia de los Angeles. This camp is a popular spot with
kayakers, but we had it to ourselves on this day.

After dinner we retired to our folding chairs near the water to drink
and smoke and gaze east across the Canal las Ballenas to the western
shore of Isla Angel de la Guarda, a rich, glowing orange in the evening
light. Dark clouds overhead turned pink, then fuschia, as the sun set.
This was the last night and we pulled out all the stops.

"The pattern of a book, or of a day, of a trip, becomes a
characteristic design. The factors in a trip by boat, the many-formed
personality phases all shuffled together, changing a little to fit into
the box and yet bringing their own lumps and corners, make the trip.
And from all these factors your expedition has a character of its own,
so that one may say of it, "That was a good, kind trip." Or, "That
was a mean one." The character of the whole becomes defined and
definite. We ran from collecting station to new collecting station,
and when the night came and the anchor was dropped, a quiet came over
the boat and the trip slept. And then we talked and speculated, talked
and drank beer. And our discussions ranged from the loveliness of
remembered women to the complexities of relationships in every other
field."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez

One of the hallmarks of a good trip is not to run out of booze
before-and to have consumed every drop of what you brought by the end
of-the last night. This was a good trip. There was a bottle of
Commemorativo tequila, and what was left of two or three bottles of
scotch that Jim had brought. One was a blended scotch reminiscent of
Chivas, but a better value according to Jim. Another, the smoky
flavored alcohol we'd tried a few nights before, was so unique we
weren't even sure it was scotch. When his guard was down Jim
revealed that it was Laphroaig, a spendy single malt.

We had to keep an eye on Andreas. We at first thought it was his
youthful energy and high metabolic rate that compelled him to hop
around like a Mexican jumping bean, taking photos, going hither and
yon, fetching this or that, and always alighting in a different place
in the circle. Then we noticed that as the bottles made their way
around, Andreas was positioning himself to wet his whistle more than
once per circuit. Thought he could put one over on the old guys after
they'd had a few.

Though the scotch and tequila were good, from my point of view the
piece de resistance was Andy's contribution: Slivovice, from
Czechoslovakia, 90 proof and made from plums. Later I was told by a
couple of ex-pat Canadians that this stuff is pretty common back east,
but I'd never had it or heard of it before. For those who have not
had the pleasure, you can taste the fruit. Really! And the potency of
this stuff is breathtaking. Andy passed out shots, which the others
suspiciously but dutifully downed in a gulp. Me? I rolled it around
in my mouth to get the full effect of the alcohol. I prefer my tequila
straight too. Call me a peasant, but I think Slivovice is the bee's
knees. Where can I get a bottle in California?

As the mixture of exertion, success, food, alcohol and smoke took
effect, the conversation grew scintillating. We were on fire with
ideas and magnificently erudite. Several weighty social and political
problems were solved in the space of an hour. Unfortunately for
posterity, it was all lost. No notes were taken, no record was made,
and none of us could remember a thing in the morning. But I was left
with a feeling of comradeship and satisfaction that we had shared not
just time together, but something of ourselves. It had been a good,
kind trip.

November 7, 2004 - Day Seven
There were no fatalities from last night's festivities, and early in
the morning under gray and black clouds we crept out of the little
inlet on the west side and into the inner channel. The black water had
a pencil-lead sheen, and was calm and still enough to carry the ripples
from the occasional rain drops. As we assembled off shore before
moving south, a whale spouted nearby. Everyone stopped paddling and
waited. He broke the surface nearby and a few of us paddled closer.
Another surfaced and spouted north of us. A moment later another came
up within a few feet of our boats.

Then, within a few feet of Werner's boat, a whale came up and rolled
on his side well out of the water with his eye above water to take a
look. The white underside and the numerous, parallel lengthwise
ventral grooves made us guess he was a fin back. We'd all seen gray
whales before, and this was not a gray. We hooted in appreciation as he
sounded and disappeared. Then we got underway.

After 45 minutes we took a break in our boats at the first little
island. A cabin cruiser trolled nearby. The sky was black above us
but bright at the horizon. The contrast was blinding. We were pelted
by random drops, but the wind and water were calm. We paddled on in
small groups and headed south for the last five mile stretch to L.A.
Bay. A half an hour later a freshening wind raised a vigorous chop,
making things interesting. I was in third position among the singles,
well behind Werner and Andreas, but well ahead of the rest. I felt
good enough to stay ahead all the way in, but Dave was my partner and I
didn't want to abandon him with the weather changing. I paused and
Steve and John went by. Andy and Dave caught up with me and the three
of us pushed each other to cover the last couple of miles at a fast
pace, trading the lead often.

The sun peeked out and the clouds cleared a bit as we loaded the boats
on to the trucks. On the spur of the moment, Werner hired a panga for
a tour. After an unsuccessful and anticlimactic tour of LA Bay looking
for but not finding whale sharks, we all had lunch at Guillermo's.
Afterward, Mark, Jim and Andy decided they could make it home that day.
The rest of us bought some ice and provisions in town for dinner at
the trailer. We had showers at the trailer, a meal, and left early the
next morning for an uneventful drive home.

I've paddled several times since the trip, working on bracing skills
and my forward stroke, and increasing my distance each outing. I have
the use of the boat until April, and I am looking at used boats for
sale. I'm looking for something faster, but not too narrow. I will
return to Guardian Angel Island someday, and perhaps I will complete
the circumnavigation. If not, I'll have no regrets. Far from it. I
had an incredible experience I'll never forget, and I would jump at
the chance to do it again, whether we made it all the way around or
not. Any experience of this place touches something primal within us,
and calls us to return again and again.

"We want very much to go back to Guardian Angel with time and
supplies. We wish to go over the burned hills and snake-ridden
valleys, exposed to heat and insects, venom and thirst, and we are
willing to believe almost anything we hear about it, we believe that
great gold nuggets are found there, that unearthly animals make their
homes there, that the mountain sheep, which is said never to drink
water, abounds there. And if we were told of a race of troglodytes in
possession, we should think twice before disbelieving."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez