Espiritu Sancto - Day 4

DAY FOUR
[Feb. 5, 2015]

We all slept in, and woke to a cloudless blue day.  Every shade of blue – dazzling, penetrating blue of the sky overhead; white, washed-out blue at the horizon; brilliant aqua and turquoise blue of the shallow waters near shore; midnight blues of the water deeper in the gulf.  This blue was broken only by a strip of bright white sandy beach along the big island to the north and the russet reds and oranges of the headlands stretching to the southwest.  We were at Isla Espiritu Sancto (Holy Spirit Island), anchored in the beautiful Bahia San Gabriel (Bay of St. Gabriel).  Along the edge of a mangrove lagoon tucked in along the shore, clouds of large, dark birds soared and squawked and swooped, silhouetted against the sky.  This is a protected Magnificent Frigatebird nesting colony.  Frigate birds are typically silent at sea, but sound like a loud party of blue jays during breeding season, which it is. 

After breakfast, Ran lowered the skiff and took me out for a closer look at these magnificent birds.  They cover every square inch of a man-made breakwater enclosing a small lagoon that was built for oyster farming in the late 1800s.   Apparently the French created many such oyster operations among these islands, using slave labor to farm and harvest mother-of-pearl.  The breakwater and stone foundation ruins, clearly visible on the low hillside, are all that remain. 

And the oysters.  Last week, exploring this bay with a boatload of guests, the naturalist brought back a large, luminescent oyster shell with two baby pearls attached.  It sits on the coffee service counter, next to the big bowl of always-available colorful fresh fruit, for guests to marvel and enjoy.

Anyway, Frigatebirds.  

From the skiff, I was able to dangle my toes into the crystal clear turquoise water, sure I could touch the white sand I could see clearly below, but Ran said the water was 4-5 feet deep.  Plus, there could be sting-rays buried in the sand – best to keep my toes out of it.  I was content to dangle.  The magnificent scissor-tailed birds were in the air by the hundreds, and still every possible perch was crowded.  These are land-based birds who are unable to take off from the surface of the water, and thus need a nearby spot of land to perch and rest.  They may snatch up their prey if a fish is swimming too near the surface, but generally subsist on piracy – stealing fish from other hunters, such as osprey, herons, pelicans, etc. – with an aerial attack, even going so far as to force their victims to disgorge their catch and then snapping it up in mid-air.  I think frigate ships were the type of vessel often used by pirates of the Caribbean – wonder if that’s how these birds got their name.  Or, perhaps the proud red throat that billows out from the males during mating season resembles a frigate’s sail.  Or both.

The young adolescents seemed to be practicing nest building, as they fly back and forth with bits of twig in their beaks.  The adult males are very obviously courting.  We set a little anchor and drifted, watching one couple in their courtship dance.  The male, puffing out his magnificent red throat sac, stretching up and down; and one close-by female, clearly interested, chattering her beak and swaying invitingly from one foot to the other.  There are several twig-top nests with one or two fluffy white chicks poking their heads out.  These all-white chicks will slowly gain their dark feathers, juveniles keeping a white head until the second year.

While Ran and I were bird watching, the chef and captain went for a swim and snorkel off the boat in the clear 72 degree water.  When we got back, they were both stretched out on the bow in the sunshine, getting warm and dry.

Heading northward, we sailed along the coast of Isla Espiritu Sancto, dotted with smaller outlying islands.  It is fascinating geography.  The island rock formations here are all ancient compressed ash from Miocene volcanic activity.  The resulting tuff resembles burnt umber sandstone, eroded into smooth, undulating waves that look like melted orange sherbet.  These are topped with low growing desert scrub creosote and an occasional cardon cactus, part of the surrounding Sonoran desert of the Baja.

The Baja peninsula itself was once attached to the mainland of Mexico but the western side of the San Andreas Fault began shifting, causing the peninsula to split off and drift north and west, away from the continent, sometime during the Pliocene era (3 million years ago, more or less).  The Pacific Ocean slowly filled in the resulting gulf, and the San Andreas Fault still runs down the center of the Sea of Cortez.