Bride and groom at the beach; Paddling to Danzante

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April 5, 2013

Around noon, I looked out toward the lagoon’s entrance, and couldn’t believe my eyes.  There were a bride and groom out there, with two photographers, and a bunch of colorful balloons.  I grabbed my camera, and rushed out to join them.

They laughed when I approached.  I explained to the two photographers that I was a professional wedding photographer, and they said the equivalent of: “No kidding?” They asked me if I had a windshield sunshade, like the one they were carrying. They needed it to reduce the shadows on the couple’s faces—a professional technique.  So I ran to get mine, and held it to fill in the shadows while the photographers worked.

The couple had been married two weeks earlier in Ciudad Insurgentes--2 hours away--and they were here for a playful photo session.  So, chalk up another use for the lagoon.

Paddling to Danzante again

About 5 pm, I left for Isla Danzante, and possibly my last visit there.  There was a stiff headwind, and a few whitecaps, but I didn’t use the skirt.

On the way, a single flying fish passed close by.  It was a brilliant polished silver all over, gleaming in the low light.  This one was only 5-6 inches long.  Again, I had the distinct impression that the wing fins were vibrating—but not beating in deep strokes like those of most birds. Perhaps the fins were just shimmering in the light.  But these fish do have some control.  As the horizontally moving fish was about to hit a wave, it pulled up to avoid the wave, and even increased its altitude an inch or two, until it stalled out, and disappeared into the water.

I reached the north end of the island about sundown, in a little more than an hour.  There was still a good breeze, which left me a little uneasy for nighttime paddling.  But I expected it to drop, and there were four yachts and two tours on the island.  I could always spend the night on the island, if the wind increased.

Instead of swimming, I decided to hike to a knoll overlooking the harbor, where I had seen people during my last trip here.  The trail was well-marked and easy, if a little slippery beause of many round stones on the trail.

I watched dusk fall from the top.  The view was incredible, and luckily, I could see the wind dropping.

Sitting in the dusk with a warm, gentle breeze, the environment felt so welcoming and gentle.  Wilderness does still exist, though nowadays it’s not easy to find or reach.  That’s why it’s still wilderness.

Here I was, at one of the most exotic harbors in the world, sharing it with four very expensive yachts.  Me and my 25-year-old kayak, worth $650, with maintenance and fuel averaging less than $100/year.  Not a bad deal.

I explored the shore, to see what critters were coming out with the oncoming night.  Soon, by accident because he was so well concealed, I found a crab about 3 inches long half buried in the dry sand.  Since he thought he was concealed, I could touch him.  When I touched near his eyes—which are on stalks—they would flip down into little protective grooves.

Later, I found several more crabs.  They are VERY fast.  One scampered away up into the succulents at the top of the beach.  I could hear a lot of cracking or popping sounds in the succulents—some critters were active there.

All the large crab holes, some 3” in diameter, had crabs visible only a few inches down, unlike when I had landed when it was still light.  Obviously, they were thinking about coming out for the day.  In their holes, they looked a lot like spiders.  Now to me, crabs aren’t very threatening—but if those really were all spiders, I’d have to think twice about spending the night on an island in the Sea of Cortez.  And I certainly wouldn’t want to sleep there without a tent to exclude the crabs.  I wouldn’t want one to wander into my sleeping bag.  There was no sign of small mammals.  Apparently the crabs fulfill that scavenging role here.  Their big competitive advantage is that they can drink salt water, and can also scavenge in the water, in case there isn’t enough on land.  But like the mice, they live in holes and come out at night.

I also found an inch-long relative of sow bugs (crustaceans)—looking much like a cockroach.  

I set out slowly for Ligui.  The stars were magnificent, and the phosphorescence was spectacular, as usual.  I saw more of the big, slowly-moving, luminous shapes that I think may be rays.  At one point, something lit up under the kayak so that it seemed as if I was sitting in the middle of a pool of dim, ghostly light.  I have no idea what it was—perhaps a large ray right under the kayak.

Crossing from the island to Ligui, I heard dolphins breathing again, roughly in the same place I had heard it on two previous nights.  I decided not to paddle towards the sounds, but soon they were close by.  Eventually, I could see several black backs and dorsal fins doing a semi-circle around the kayak.

For half an hour or more, I tried to stay near the dolphins.  They seemed aware of my presence.  For example, many times they headed straight toward the kayak.  I was thrilled to see three large, luminous shapes in formation streaking right under the kayak, sometimes at high speed.  Other times, they went more slowly, or even tarried briefly nearby.  They would then come up behind me for a breath.  If I then turned around and headed in their direction, they would do the same thing—streak under, and come up behind me again 100 feet away.  Except for the rather noisy breathing, I heard no squeaks or clicks from echolocation.  Except for once, when a dolphin surfaced, it made a loud squeak as it started to breathe.  The breaths sound ponderous, like you’d expect for a large animal.  Imagine a cow, after holding its breath for several minutes.  Though I can’t imagine a cow would be so graceful in the water.

There was a little luminosity when the dolphins surfaced, but not much. Once, when one surfaced and exhaled, there was a little flash of light at his blowhole

I tried making squeaking sounds, but the dolphins gave no response—probably because airborne sounds don’t get into the water well.  Next, I tried rapping gently on the kayak, a series of 5 raps.  This did seem to get a little response the first time, and they swam over.  Later, I changed to 8 raps, and they seemed to respond to the new signal at a distance with a splash.  Maybe it was a coincidence.

It’s a very eerie experience, playing cat and mouse with dolphins in the dark.  Had they been sleeping?  Was I disturbing their sleep?  When they first approached, I hoped they weren’t orcas, though I understand kayakers are safe with orcas around.  Nevertheless, they were aware of my presence, and obviously were intelligent.  They could have been aliens in a flying saucer—and the experience would have been much the same.  You just don’t know what they are going to do, or what they perceive, or what they are thinking.  You do your best to make sense of what’s going on, with the few clues you can perceive in the dark.

No doubt the dolphins have seen many kayaks before—but a kayak at night must be something new.  We both displayed a certain amount of cautious trust of the other.  I was never afraid for my life, and I don’t think they would have lingered if they had felt in danger.

I arrived back about 11:00  pm, and again had a little trouble finding the exact place to land in the dark.  In the shallows along the beach were lots of fish.  I found that when I pointed my flashlight towards the water about 10-20 feet away, it would scare small fish--and many would jump out of the water.  Some seemed to skip across the surface like stones thrown by children.