I got up shortly after dawn, to find the sea and winds calm. I was headed for the island today, but first, I had a long list of preparations. Things to find, and drybags to pack. Sandwiches to make… water bottles to fill… prepping the trailer and car for my absence.
So I didn’t get off till noon. The wind had come up a bit and shifted to a headwind, with some whitecaps. But it wasn’t stiff enough to make paddling especially hard. I crossed an hour and forty minutes, indicating the distance of about 3.5 miles. The crossing was to the north—and I had decided to paddle on the west side of the island, where there were more sheltered bays. I thought the terrain would be more varied and interesting.
The first bay had a fish camp near the point—two low huts made mostly of scraps. They appeared unoccupied. Beyond was a long beach with a shore sloping quickly upward to a low row of dunes. This was already occupied by two kayaks, so I paddled on.
I explored the next larger bay. It had a small patch of dwarf mangroves, a long, sandy beach, and was very shallow.
I headed on to the next bay larger still. It was very grand, surrounded on the north side by an amphitheater of impressive bluffs and low mountains, all shades of buff, pink, or dark lava.
By now, the tide was quite low, and I paddled a long ways in towards shore, over water only half a foot deep. Nearing shore, I grounded and dragged the kayak the rest of the way to the beach. By now it was mid-afternoon. By now it was time to find a campsite. There was one near where I came ashore, a flat place among some scrubby trees and cactus. I could tie a line between two trees, using it to hold up the roof of my sunshade.
The first problem of survival was how to anchor my kayak—rule number one. I had a line about a hundred feet long—but it was further than that to anything I could tie it to. So I had to drag the kayak closer to may camp, then drag it up above the high water mark—and finally the line just reached to a small tree. Now most people wouldn’t describe these as trees. Maybe on Mars they would rate as trees. They looked like a cross between a bonsai and a tumbleweed, although somewhat larger.
There was still some wind, so I was wrestling with my sunshade tarp. It won’t stay put in the wind until you get enough guy lines rigged. Once it was up, I discovered the high side was facing towards the lowering sun, so the hot sun penetrated far inside. Next, I found that although the tarp blocked the sun, the shady side of the tarp radiated heat. So I had to open up the sunshade to admit enough air. All this took a while, but at last I had it all set up, and got out my chair and had a rest in the shade. But just as I had settled in for a while, a dust devil made a direct hit on the shade, and pulled out one of the stakes, collapsing the while contraption and showering me with dust. As if to make a point, the dust devil made another pass and dumped more dust
As the sun crept toward the horizon, I explored my nook of the bay, taking photos. I was close to a little forest of mangroves, standing in the mud, since the tide was low. I walked up and down the shore, looking for critters. A few crabs about 5 inches wide would make vicious jabbing motions at me, and then melt into the sand until they disappeared within seconds.
I sat in my chair as the night grew deeper. A few bats darted around in the dusk, but later, there was no sign of them. Most remarkable was an amazing display of the thin crescent moon, Venus, and Jupiter, all in a row above where the sun had set. With no city lights and clear air, they were shockingly bright. With no roof, and nothing to distract me, I looked at the spectacle for more than an hour as night came on. It was as if I was in another solar system, with three moons. And Baja could just as well be another planet. The three, drawing ever closer to the horizon, made a silver path on the water.
Tired of arranging camp, and tired of paddling, I decided not to bother with cooking, and ate another ham and cheese sandwich for supper—it did quite nicely, no hard feelings.
I took a walk down the beach with my flashlight. A few crabs were scavenging along the water line.
A puffer fish was swimming a few feet out, ignoring my presence and light. I could see his intelligent eyes, looking this way and that. I saw another fish (pipefish)¸one of those extremely long and skinny things common in tropical seas and reefs. This one was about two feet long.
Once everything was arranged and I had enough stargazing, and listened to music on my Ipod, I decided to go to sleep. I was glad Baja is so dry that it has no annoying insects, as my guidebook says. That’s when I discovered there were no-see-ums on the prowl. I had this crawling feeling, and every now and then, a little pinprick feeling. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but finally I caught one in the act. And, I was camped next to the mangrove mudflat, probably where they lived. Time to adapt and to survive.
Saturday, Feb . 25--Return to comfort on the mainland
I arose before dawn to find everything drenched in dew. My sleeping bag was wet. Now I understand how these plants can survive when it doesn’t rain sometimes for a year or more. If I hadn’t camped overnight, I wouldn’t have realized how important the dew is.
Luckily, the tide was nearly high, so I didn’t have to haul my kayak a long ways out to find enough water to float it. I paddled over shallow, luminous golden water, into deeper blue water, and around a headland to the next bay. It was another large bay like the one I had just left, so I paddled in to explore.
Ahead I saw some clumps of low tees with hundreds of frigate birds circling overhead. As I drew closer, I was surprised to find it was a breeding colony of frigate birds.
Strange rattling sounds came from the trees. A number of male birds had their large scarlet air sacks inflated.
They were either clapping their bills, or making a sort of bleating sound with air. The sickly-sweet smell of fresh guano hit my nose, reminiscent of so many other bird colonies I’ve seen--boobies, cormorants, herons, gulls, and penguins. Each has its own variation on the theme.
The nests were in a row of low trees (no more than 15 feet high) growing on an old stone breakwater—the remains of some long-ago military base. Since the wind was behind me, I was able to drift along the breakwater only about 20 feet out from the birds—and they paid hardly any attention.
It was enjoyable trying to puzzle out what was going on, based on what I know about other colonial sea birds. Apparently, some of the males were still courting (or at least practicing). But many other nests had chicks of various ages. Some quite small, but others near fledging. Many of the adults were shielding their young from the hot sun with their long wings. I never saw any nests with more than one chick.
There were also 1 or two great blue heron nests, and a cormorant nest with 2-3 large young begging from a parent.
After watching and taking photos for perhaps an hour, I continued around the bay, eventually making for a point where I might find shade. Sure enough, at the point was an abandoned fish camp with a large cave. It was a good landing spot, with ample shade--so I hauled out, laid down my tarp in the shade, and very stiffly stretched myself out. After recovering for a while, I had a long drink and a snack.
As I had approached shore, thousands of what looked like cockroaches scuttled away among the rocks. With my energy restored and ready to do battle with an army of cockroaches, I went to find them. They turned out to be some kind of primitive crustacean—like the sand fleas we have on Cape Cod, only much larger—up to 1 or 1.5 inches long. They are amazingly fast, and can jump. But luckily, instead of attacking en masse, they just avoided me. They are probably scavengers. Whether they hang out just at fish camps, I don’t know—but this is the only place I’ve seen them.
I thought this might be a good place for some snorkeling, though I wasn’t feeling very energetic. I waded into the water, but found it surprisingly cold. I fished my wet suit (never before used) out of the kayak, and pulled it on. This helped considerably, but every now and then, a big pulse of cold water would find its way down my back as I swam, and make me gasp. I found a lot of coral lining the bottom and rocks, but few fish. And the water was cloudy, because of the large shallow bay nearby.
Having passed the hottest hours in the shade, I paddled another mile north along the coast. Finding nothing new, I decided to head back. I hadn’t fully made up my find whether to spend another night. But one of my shoulders was sore, so I decided not to continue around the island. To do that would have committed me to a total of about fifty miles.
The wind was light. Heading south towards the mainland, I realized that—with two hours of daylight left and perfect paddling conditions--I could get back to the trailer soon after sundown. So I decided to go home and spend a restful night in the trailer.
About a third of the way across the channel, the wind shifted from tailwind to a crosswind, and picked up substantially, to about 12-15 knots. Now it was blowing from the NE, from out in the Sea of Cortez. As soon as I took the first bit of water in the cockpit, I sealed up my kayak skirt-- I wasn’t taking any chances with swamping. The water was too cold to swim far. But I could handle the three-foot, choppy waves with no problem.
I returned shortly after sunset. The kayak was enormously heavy. With about 3.5 gallons of fresh water, all my gear (most of it wet), and some gallons of leaked salt water, it was a beached whale. Seeing me struggle, a German camper came out to help me carry the kayak to my trailer. I had to bail a bit before we even tried to carry it.
I haven’t camped out for about five years. I always relearn the lesson about—how comfortable civilization is, and how much better it is to camp in a trailer. I learned that you can get buried under gear, and spend all your time arranging it, packing, and unpacking. There has to be a happy medium—somewhere over the horizon--between too little comfort and too much gear. It’s a struggle to stay organized, and always have what you need not buried too deeply. But I do find something satisfying about just surviving and providing the basics for yourself, such as water and shade. Another is watching out for rattlesnakes. Making sure your kayak doesn’t drift away, or you gear doesn’t blow away. And don’t back into that cholla cactus on the edge of your campsite.
While Baja has its unique survival challenges, you don’t have to worry about bears getting your food, or mice ruining food in sealed packets. But you do have to lug a lot of water—more important here than food or shelter.
More photos of Espiritu Santu
While Baja has its unique survival challenges, you don’t have to worry about bears getting your food, or mice ruining food in sealed packets. But you do have to lug a lot of water—more important here than food or shelter.
More photos of Espiritu Santu
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