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