(To read the entire story of our first Baja Adventure, please start at the BOTTOM, from Day One!)
My first impression of this world of the Sea of Cortez was a terrain of bare, red hills interrupting the sky. Blue sea, red hills, and they all looked the same. Not a very exciting place to be, really. The desert seemed dead, harsh, and forbidding. I was comparing it to the lush, majestic fiords of SouthEast Alaska, with its boreal rain forests, inviting waterfalls, towering mossy hemlocks, and the overpowering grandness of the animals and living glaciers.
But as I watch these bare red
hills, these islands we pass day after day, I begin to see that they are not
alike – not at all. Each meets the sea
in its unique way, with an uncountable variety of texture and color – not just
red, but green, purple, gray, orange, yellow, pink. The shapes and textures of the layers –
craggy, smooth, broken, strong, banded, eroded, crumling, pinnacled. And how the blue of the sea changes
color! From darkest, deepest midnight
blue where the big whales can dive deep, to the turquoise green that laps the
white sand beaches that are tucked into surprising nooks and crannies along the
island shores. Truly one could spend
many, many weeks exploring all the shelters, bays and harbors these islands offer.
The life here isn’t large and
mighty like the crashing glaciers, great eagles and lumbering grizzlies of
Alaska. Here, in Baja, is a languidness
that is evident in the pace, the peaceful landscape and the gentle fishermen
who go about their business with the fruits of the sea, quietly loving what
they do. Here, the graceful frigate
birds soar and swoop, blue-footed boobies glide on the soft winds, fun-loving
mobulas leap and play, and the dolphins splash and somersault at the bow. Day after day the sea stretches on, the
beaches beckon, and the sun sets ablaze in a soft western sky.
The days stay warm and
tropically bright, and the breeze delightfully cool. Night after night the brilliant flame of
sunset – blinding tangerine melting into lavender – silhouettes the cliffs and
headlands. Mooring late one night,
traveling to our anchorage after the sun had gone down and the stars were
already out, we saw the phosphorescence of the bow wave against the dark water
-- like someone had turned on a neon light below the surface. Where the waves broke, the curl glowed with a
soft luminous green, and out beyond the bow leapt green sparkles in the water
to match the brilliance of the million vivid stars glittering overhead.
-----
Here I am. What I mean is: I am HERE.
I puzzle that it takes so long to sink in – so many days of
unconsciousness before I wake up and realize I. Am. Here.
We are off the boat, kayaking in to one of so many brilliant coral and shell beaches splayed at the foot of
one of oh so many arroyos that cleave through the lumpy desert islands,
creating small bahias and harbors sheltered from the seasonal northeast
winds. Behind this short, white beach is
a patch of red mangrove, rooting in a brackish pool. Two snowy egrets are wading at the far end.
Beyond the mangroves, the
arroyo opens ahead of us, a narrow valley leading up to the low ridge of the
island. We are walking through an
old-growth Sonoran desert. Along the valley
floor, the massive caldones (cacti of the saguaro family) are hundreds of years
old, their giant arms make me think of a welcoming, sheltering grandfather. This red-rock valley is rich with flowering
ochatillo, chollas, agave and rambling pickleweed. Higher on the exposed slopes we can see
prickly-pear cactus.
There are the scattered
remains of a black jack-rabbit, indigenous to this island, maybe prey of a
small gray fox whose tracks we noticed earlier.
And I see a very alive jack rabbit dart ahead of us up the slope, and a
trio of vultures overhead. A small,
delicate rock squirrel, like a finely chiseled chipmunk with one black stripe
down its back, scampers across the rocks and stops to examine us before
disappearing behind an outcrop.
Our half-mile long trail
climbs gently among the cacti and rocks.
Suddenly I emerge at the top, at the edge of the bluff, and the Sea of
Cortez is crashing hundreds of feet below me; midnight blue water curling into
brilliant white fists, slamming against the huge boulders along the water’s
edge. Standing high on the headland, the
powerful wind barreling down from the northeast nearly knocks me off my
feet. I am facing the vigorous Sea of
Cortez, sparkling blue on blue in the warm liquid air, with all of the life of
the desert at my back, and I realize – I am Here. I am alive.
And I am glad.
----
I am learning to feel very at home on this small, moving island, this boat, where the floor rolls and falls away, and one sways and absorbs the movement without even thinking about it.
I remember traveling by train
back and forth to college, changing stations in Chicago, where I could board
the aerodome and sit in the upper level, high above the traveling car, with
vistas all around. At dusk, the porter
would come through with gray wool blankets and I would scrunch my bag up for a
pillow and curl up in my seat and look at the stars until I fell asleep. But always, the first hours aboard the train,
maneuvering the aisles to the dining car and back, or to the restrooms, I would
knock against the seats and falter back and forth trying to make my way from
one end of the swaying car to the other.
It didn’t take me long,
though, before I could travel the entire length of the train without needing to
steady myself at all. I’m beginning to
feel that way now, as one with the boat, the constant puttapah-puttapah-puttapah of the engine becomes my rhythm
too. And when we turn out of the
sheltered lee of an island and head into the smooth north breeze, I love to
stand at the bow and take in the warm wind and sun; I become part of this
sparkling blue world, and maybe I’ll see the spout of a whale misting up on the
horizon.
-------
So far, I’ve met three local
fishermen, and dearly wish I were able to converse with them in their
language. You’ve heard of Pablo at El
Pardito, his tiny fishing village clinging to the side of the rock island, when
he came out to get water.
One evening, several of us
were beach-combing at sunset along the sandy shore of a narrow cove where we’d
been forced to lay over for a day due to high winds. The cove was otherwise deserted, but out of
nowhere we were approached by a sturdy, barefooted individual in shorts and a
tee-shirt, walking up the beach toward us.
Earlier, we had noticed a small fishing camp rigged further up around
the bend, a white dory pulled up above the tide-line and a blue tarp held up
with rope tied to a piece of driftwood – or maybe the boat’s oar – stuck in the
sand. At any rate, Sarah, our naturalist-guide,
knows enough Spanish to learn that he had been out fishing with his two
compadres the day before, and had been forced into harbor by the strong winds,
as had we. They were expecting to make
their way out in the morning, as the winds were beginning to lay down with the
fading sun. Sarah learned that they had
enough water, and plenty of fish to eat, and introduced us as neighbors, lying
at anchor in this quiet place. With a
broad smile flashing his white teeth, he introduced himself as Antonio, and
made a friendly effort to shake everyone’s hand and repeat our names with his
heavy accent. “Soy Tony!” he declared with apparent pride to each of us in
turn.
“Muy frio, muy frio,” he went on to tell Sarah, rubbing his upper
arms and shivering in his tee shirt as the sun finally dipped down below the
western hills. This is cold winter
weather for him, who lives and fishes during the 120-degree summers in the
gulf. “Tiene usted las mantas? Estamos
muy frio…” “Si, si amigo!” Sarah
replied, after understanding that he was asking if we had any extra sleeping
bags they could borrow for the night.
They had spent the previous night trying to stay warm by sharing one old
flannel shirt between them. “Por quanto
persones?” “Tres, tres, muchas gracias!”
Tony responded. It was arranged that we
would all return to the boat in our skiff, (it was dinner time!) and that Bill would return to deliver three wool
blankets ashore; they would drop them off at the boat on their way out in the
morning, before dawn. That was how I met
Antonio.
We spent one long, lovely
afternoon anchored at Puerto Gato, a colorful broad harbor on the eastern side
of the Baja peninsula. Some of the
guests went snorkeling along a coral reef, some exploring the caves and ancient
tool middens of pre-historic Pericu people who had camped along this area
thousands of years ago. Randy and I
hiked the far cliff-edged beach, where the towering rock face was studded with
geodes. Later in the day, the rest of
the group went out kayaking – I elected to stay on the boat, and that’s when I
met Manuel.
I had watched him approach
from around the tip of the point, standing in the stern of his wooden panga
with his hand on the tiller of the small 10 horsepower outboard motor. Bill said he was coming to deliver lobster
for dinner, which had been bargained and paid for the week before. He was another tee-shirt clad fisherman,
nimbly leaping across the thwarts in bare feet as his boat bobbed and dipped
with each roll of the sea, deftly tossing Bill his bowline as he cut his
throttle. After the line was secure and
the panga alongside, Bill lowered a big, black bailing bucket on a rope. From under a tarp in the bottom of the boat,
Manuel pulled out three monstrous, wriggling, spiny lobsters, blue and orange
and speckled with brown, and piled them in the bucket. Tracie-the-chef drew them aboard, and
disappeared into the galley to go to work.
Manuel followed up the
ladder, clutching a small zippered bag.
He looked at me hopefully, and held out his satchel. I could understand his words “Mi espousa” but nothing else. “Lo
siento, yo no hablo espanol,” I was able to muster. He shrugged, and smiled. Bill had gone to the
pilot house, Tracie was in the galley dealing with lobsters, Sarah was out
kayaking with the guests and Randy was down in the engine room. I realized I was on my own with Manuel.
At the table, he opened his bag, and began to lay out colorfully crocheted and embroidered cloths,
bright with flowers in greens, reds and yellows. He seemed most eager that I should buy some
of the cloths his wife had embroidered.
My mind went blank and I couldn’t drum up anything but “No,
gracias. Muy bonito! No, gracias.”
I wished that I were in need of more linens, or that I could think of
someone who would enjoy them, but as much as I scrambled, nothing came to
mind. He just kept nodding and smiling,
not looking at me, really, but seeming sort of like a shy peddlar, with big earnest
brown eyes in a wrinkled face. Bill said
later, that he was 79 years old, and, besides fishing, had been peddling
everything he could find, for most of his life.
Standing there on the aft
deck in the glow of the lowering afternoon sun, I realized he had only his
dirty tee shirt for covering, and was facing a bumpy, windy 30 minute ride home
in the cooling dusk . Finally, I thought
to offer him something to drink. “Gusta usted café?” I asked.
“Si! Si!” he replied. “Con leche?” “Si!’ “azucar?”
“Si!” “Uno?
Dos?” “Dos!” he said with
great enthusiasm, nodding and smiling the whole time. I fixed him a coffee with cream and 2 spoons
of sugar, and he hugged the mug with both hands and sat down in one of the
wicker chairs, his broad bare feet planted firm and far apart on the deck.
About this time the kayakers
returned, and while Bill and Randy appeared from below to load the kayaks
aboard, the guests were introduced to Manuel and gathered around to inspect the
needlework laid out for sale on the table.
Nobody bought anything, Manuel finished his coffee, he and Bill
concluded their arrangement for more lobsters next week, and then he dropped
back down into his panga, bobbing in the waves, and was off for home, a small
fishing village several miles up the coast.
Meanwhile, after yet another
glorious sunset, we gathered in the warm twilight around the gleaming mahogany
table on the aft deck, sharing wine, laughter and stories of our various
adventures of the day. We were served a fresh
lobster bisque that was out of this world, followed by succulent lobster-stuffed
rellenos, and finally, chocolate fondant with rum-soaked bananas.
-----
I’ve been reading John
Steinbeck’s book, “The Log of the Sea of Cortez”, written in 1941 about a trip
he took to Baja with his friend Ed Ricketts, in an old fishing trawler. I find it’s a book to read slowly,
savoring. He says:
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