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Monday, April 1, 2013
The remaining Mexicans on the beach
are pulling out this morning.
Grandfather Juan and his family are packing up. Juan put the stove with a little striped
canopy (like a little carnival stall) onto the back of his pickup, and drove into
Ligui, with the canopy still up. He must
have left it there, for he soon returned.
I exchanged addresses with his daughter, and I took pictures of the
whole family.
His granddaughter,
Michelle, loved posing as a model, and she was rather creative with her
poses. She held up a dead mouse that
their old poodle Kitty had caught, and she explained that it was a "raton" (mouse), but went on to explain that it was a certain type, because it had a
tufted tail. So we talked a little about
biology, and I told her about the luminescent water.
I also waved to another family who
was leaving, the ones who had given me oranges.
I was planning to paddle again south
along the coast, to see more of the area.
In case I might want to camp or couldn’t get back, I took all my gear
and extra water. I shoved off relatively
early, around 10:00, but already it was getting hot. To make matters worse, the wind had shifted
to the N or NW, and I was heading directly away from it at about the same
speed, so for me, the air was still.
It’s not that the air is hot—the cool waters of the Sea of Cortez keep the
air comfortable. But the sun is very
hot, so without moving air, you cook—and I did.
To make matters worse, I couldn’t find my sunscreen (it later turned up
floating around the bilge in my kayak—after I had looked everywhere else).
After an hour, I was south of my
paddle the night before, exploring new territory. Here the Sierra la Giganta comes right down
to the sea. The highway turns inland,
scaling the cliffs, just north of here, so quickly you’re into wilderness. I didn’t see any other boats for several
hours, except for a distant sailboat paralleling my course several miles out.
The lava cliffs and mountains here
are just huge. They are riddled with
caves and veins of lava (dikes) of different color. The geography of this part of the word is unique. Baja is a part of North America that’s being
ripped away from the rest of the continent by an unusual feature—a fault (the
southward continuation of the San Andreas fault) separating two tectonic plates
that crosses land. Usually, the boundaries between tectonic
plates are on the ocean floor. As Baja
was torn away from the rest of the continent and pushed south, the Sea of
Cortez opened up.
These cliffs are the crumbling edge
of a continent. You can imagine that if
you take something brittle like concrete, and apply an immense force to it,
pushing one half of it north and the other half south, it’s going to grind and
break into great chunks which are going to crumble and fall away in
pieces—that’s the miniature version of what’s happening here. The mountains, cliffs, and islands are those
chunks and pieces. And it’s all
half-drowned by the Sea of Cortez, which is opening up as a great gash—filling
with water--right in front of our eyes.
The cold water, paired with the hot
desert, seems like something of a contradiction—but it’s not. That’s because it’s desert here partly because of the cold water. The cold means less moisture evaporates, and
cold keeps thunderclouds from forming, which would spawn storms. Anyway, I find the coolness appealing. Without it, I couldn’t enjoy the desert as I
do, because I hate the heat. Kayaking is
an especially good way to see the desert, since you are close to the cooling
breezes, and you can always take a swim when you are tired of looking at
cactus.
I stopped to stretch and rest in a
little cove, and started to walk along the shore to a beach, but discovered
that I was on a little island, and the beach was across a narrow channel to the
mainland. But later, this discovery of
the island would come in handy. I
decided to push on, rather than get back into the kayak just to cross to the beach.
I had been passing a series of
small beaches in coves, separated by little points. But after the second hour, I passed two large
beaches, each a mile or more long. The view
south along the coast was spectacular.
On my left, I had cleared Danzante and Del Carmen islands, and had a
large new island several miles offshore.
The tailwind was picking up, so I
decided to set my little sail shaped like a parachute. It worked quite well, and I ate lunch and had
a beer as I scooted along to the south.
I still didn’t have my skirt on, though the waves were building. I decided to put on the skirt as soon as I
finished my beer. But suddenly, and
large wave breaking to my rear splashed a lot of water into the cockpit, and
then it happened again. So I had to
forget my now salty beer, put away the sail as fast as I could, bail, and put
on my skirt. It reminded me of how
quickly things can get out of hand when you’re kayaking in the wilderness.
At the south end of the second
large beach was a little knoll, with a thatched sun shelter on top. It looked like an excellent place to stop and
rest—since I’m always trying to solve the sun problem. Also, I didn’t see much point in continuing
further south, since to the south, the scenery looked much the same—and unless
I had the good luck for the wind to change directions, I’d have to return
against a strong headwind. But with such
a delectable and deserted cabana, and no one around, it seemed like a good
place to read and while away the afternoon.
It was early afternoon, and I figured it was only three hours back, much
of which I could do in the dark, if necessary.
The sunshade left much to be
desired. It was as big as a house,
constructed with concrete pillars and even an iron horizontal spine, then
thatched with palm leaves. But no floor,
no chairs, tables, or benches. Just a
dirt floor, strewn with dried manure from cattle that had been using it for
shade, plus construction debris. Still,
it was shade, with a cool breeze, and a fabulous view.
I listened to music, took photos,
did some beach combing, then took a stroll up the broad dry wash that came down
from the mountains. It’s a substantial
valley that opens up on the sea here.
The wash made an excellent route into the interior, and the vegetation
was interesting. Several trees and shrubs
were flowering. But it was hot, and
after perhaps ¾ of a mile, I wasn’t seeing anything new, so I followed a trail
made by cattle onto a sloping plain and foothills behind the beach. In places undiscovered by cattle, the golden
cover of dry grass and other dried forbs was spectacular. But other places were trampled and eaten bare
by the cattle. The vegetation was a mix
of the grassy cover, shrubs, cactus, small trees, and dried vines (a sort of
beach burr) that in places covered and strangled everything.
Back in my chair on the knoll, I
noticed the surf had increased a lot.
The wind direction was good to create a run of hundreds of miles for the
waves, and I was downwind from a gap between the sheltering islands. Packing my kayak, and looking at the big waves,
I wondered how I was going to launch the kayak without getting extremely
wet—maybe even swamping the kayak.
But the gravely beach was steep to
the water, so I decided I could slide in.
I laid a little runway of driftwood, pushed the kayak closer till the
bow just touched the waves, and climbed in.
I put on my skirt. So far, so
good.
Then I gave a shove with my paddle,
and slid down the beach towards the waves.
Now that I was like a baby tucked into bed, with my skirt on, I figured
the waves couldn’t affect me much. I
figured if I waited for a larger wave, it would float me, and pull me out.
That was a mistake, because the
average waves were sufficient. The big
wave I selected for launching was bigger than I thought, and rolled over
me. Even though my skirt was on, my body
above was completely drenched, and some water got in through a gap between my
skirt and torso. So I started out pretty
wet, but at least the cockpit wasn’t swamped, and I didn’t have to bail.
Out on the water, the waves were at
least 3’, and building. But the wind
wasn’t strong enough to slow me very much, and I made decent progress. After about half an hour, though, I noticed
that there was more water in the cockpit.
Sure enough, it was getting deeper.
Apparently, I had developed a leak in the hull. This was a serious concern, if the leak was
bad enough. I wasn’t sure I dared to
take the skirt off enough to bail—or I might ship more water than I could get
out. If the water inside got deep enough,
it would make the kayak unstable, and I might capsize in the increasing waves.
I was always close enough to the
shore to swim. Here, it was still
beach. But further north, there were
stretches of cliff where I couldn’t land safely while swimming. And, if I had to exit the kayak, depending of
where it happened, I could lose much of the gear I depended on for
survival. Carefully assessing the
situation, I decided the leak was fairly slow, and would’t affect my progress
that much. I decided I wasn’t in a
critical condition, although it did take some of the enjoyment off the paddle
back. My biggest concern was, that
because I didn’t know the cause of the leak, it might suddenly become worse.
I decided that the island close to
shore, where I had rested on my way south, would make a safe landing place to
bail and inspect the leak, and that helped to calm my concerns. Meanwhile, I carefully monitored the rise of
the water inside. Could I make it to the
island before I lost stability? I wasn’t
sure just how far it was. My progress to
the north against the wind and waves, and now current also, seemed agonizingly
slow, considering the race against the leak.
And I wasn’t sure I could land there, now that the waves were a lot
larger.
Eventually, I made it to the
island, and the water behind it was quite calm.
So I was able to bail the cockpit, using the pump, in only a few
minutes. Considering that I was able to
keep up with the leak by bailing, I decided that landing to inspect the kayak
wasn’t necessary.
And as I came out from behind the
island, to continue my paddle back, I discovered the wind was abating. Now things seemed much more under
control. The sun was low, so I could
paddle in the welcome shade of the cliffs.
Looking up, I saw a couple on the top of a cliff overlooking the sea,
looking down. They must have hiked there
from the hotel.
The sun set quickly before I
cleared the point—which indicates an hour back, past the hotel, to the trailer
at Playa Ligui. Paddling in the twilight
was beautiful, with the sea heaving with waves still of substantial size. But they weren’t any threat to me now.
Before it got dark, two small
critters, about the size of doves, flew very fast in tight formation just past
my kayak, a few feet above the water. I
had the impression—maybe wrong--that their wings were vibrating. They a strange tail for a bird. I didn’t get a very good view of them, but in
the blink of an eye, they were gone into the water. Thinking they might be the small grebes I had
been seeing a lot of, I waited for them
to come up again, but they didn’t. I was
forced to conclude that they were flying fish, because they were too small for
any marine bird I knew of in the area, and because any bird that approaches the
surface horizontally lands, folds their wings, and then dives. These just disappeared into the water in a
wink.
A bit later, two more in tight
formation flashed very low across my bow—and this time one collided with the
kayak, with a loud whack! Birds don’t
collide with kayaks, so I’m sure I saw four flying fish. Wow.
That’s a first for me.
Why do fish fly? Think about escape. You can go so much faster in air than the
much denser medium of water. Predators
that don’t fly can’t follow. So a flying
fish temporarily disappears from the world of a predator, and when they do
reappear, it’s in an unpredictable location far away. Several other kinds of fish escape by jumping
out of the water, or by essentially walking on the surface (although they can’t
fly exactly). So several fish use the same aerial disappearing trick, though in
different ways. Squid disappear by
making themselves invisible.
The luminescence started before it
was even fully dark. Suddenly, I noticed
that my wake was on fire.
I had to land in total darkness,
since the Mexicans were gone, and I didn’t want to bother to find my flashlight
in the swamped cockpit. But I found the
trailer, and figured from the sound of waves where to land in the shelter of a
little sandy spit. The kayak was really
heavy to drag onto the beach. Once there,
walking to the trailer, I found my boots were filled with water. My hands were full of gear, so I had to thud
ponderously along towards the trailer with 10 lbs of water in each boot.
The next day, on inspecting the
kayak, I discovered the leak wasn’t serious, or a structural problem. It was
easily patched with tape. Still, it was
a good experience, because it taught me to be cautious, carry repair materials,
and always have a backup plan.