[Paddlewise] Float Log BAJA - - - Long

This trip follows one from Punta Baja to Santa Rosalillita.  Sid Taylor

Float Log
Santa Rosalillita to Gone Awry
August 17 - 20, 2002

Prologue

It was a mistake of inexplicable ignorance. His careful plan; taught as
cable, was unraveled into strands of shallow streams that crisscrossed the
vast estuary. From aloft a vulture, as it was surveying the flats in search
of coyote carrion, saw a man-creature clad in neoprene and anorak laying in
the lee of his boat amid umbrage and baked mud.

Ed (Gillet) had said to camp at Puerto Viejo and follow the pangas out. That
morning he had left, noting that the pangas stayed put. But it was coming up
on low high tide and he figured he could find the channel. He was drunk on
the surreal beauty of the place. The omniscient sun lighted low rises of
sand where pelicans, terns, shearwaters and cormorants shared their wild
seclusion with oystercatchers, sanderlings and sandpipers.

He knew he had to hug the dunes to the northwest where a channel flows from
Laguna Guerrero Negro to Laguna Ojo de Liebre. The Pacific coast of Baja
California is an estuarian one. Vast shallow lagoons, featureless and remote
may be found from north to south along a thousand miles.

He had been leery of entering the lagoons from the beginning. With big
swell, the shoals at the mouths throw up lines of surf a half mile out. From
the diminutive vantage of a kayaker the entrance channel might be difficult
to find. But it was a thrill to enter Laguna Guerrero Negro. He surfed in
and was on top of the world. He stopped to photograph Puerto Viejo, the old
port.  He marveled at the abandoned lighthouse and concrete bodegas that
stood on a rise above its rusted dock, extant archeology still ringing with
the sound of hammers and lugging of engines.

The channel meanders sinuously, resulting in a heading that constantly
changes so he wasn't concerned when he faced the wrong direction at times.
To the south a mountain of pure white salt, lovely enough to worship, made a
positive landmark miles away at Mitsubishi ESSA Corporation's Salina (salt
works). Salt barges are pushed by tugs through a dredged channel out the
mouth of the lagoon and to Isla Cedros where it is loaded onto a 139,000-ton
ship. The salt is produced through evaporation and recharge in ponds.

Somehow he missed the entrance into the channel. He thought later that it
must have been on the other side of the island he had passed. The truth of
it came down like the hammer of the sun. He had dragged his kayak through
the torturous braids of six-inch deep streamlets and then finally found
himself high and dry.

The vulture took another pass. With its keen sight he detected a movement in
the man-creature and, loosing interest, veered-off.

It was coming on to a full moon and high high tide would be 2 feet above low
high tide. He dug into the sandy muck to guess when it had last been
flooded. Then he marked the tidal stage and went to sleep, exhausted from
man-hauling his boat.

Hours later, when he awoke; when the implications of his carelessness
flooded his consciousness, he would yell his desperate refrain "No, please
god no" and it would resound unheard across the pitiless plain.

Log

081702 I left Santa Rosalillita (N 28o 40.033' W 1140 14.224')at 06:30.
There is a mild breeze and it is overcast. There are 2-4 swell. I landed at
Playa Esmeralda at 11:30.

It has been only a week since I paddled south from Punta Baja to Santa
Rosalillita. I went home for provisions and to get building supplies and
other "regalos" (gifts) for my Mexican friends, the Peralta family. Their
relatives live along at least 400 miles of the Pacific coast of Baja
California.

It was fascinating to hear Eulalio's description of life in Baja California
before the highway was completed. He tells me it took 10 days to travel from
El Rosario to Ensenada! There were only self-sufficient ranchos in those
days. Along with gato monte (mountain cat), cahwama (sea turtle) and an
occasional antelope they ate fish and other mariscos, as they do today. He
spoke of the many armadillos and tortoises in the Desierto Vizcaino. He is
building a commercial abalone farm on the coast to the north at Lovera.
Francisco has loaned me a history of the area, which I will copy in Guerrero
Negro.

There are dozens of dowitchers probing the saturated sand at the waters
edge. Their are myriad sea birds here, drawn to the bait fish in the nursery
of the estuaries. Each exploits its own unique food supply and occupies a
unique niche in the ecosystem.

In the bay formed by Punta Rosarito, I was entertained by some Pacific
Whitesided dolphins. They swam deliberately toward me, curious and
unconcerned. In their investigations they displayed an impressive repertoire
of aquabatic skill, first broaching and then passing directly under my hull.
A seal threw itself skyward in their wake, as they corralled a ball of fish.

I left my car at Mario's house. He wasn't at home when I arrived so I drove
to el Marron to find him. I left his son with a Nintendo 64 from my son.
While there I met Ramon Smith. Just as Mario MacLish is descended from
Scots, Ramon is related to the English. Isla Smith, in the Bahia de los
Angeles, is named after his grandfather's brother. I had an informative
discussion with him regarding Isla Angel de la Guarda (Mexico's second
largest island). He answered my long-held question of whether there is water
on the island with a shrug and a "no", though he affirmed the existence of
tinajas. He worked on the island for thirty years. We spoke of the
long-abandoned clam processing plant near Estanque on the SE end.

Here at Playa Esmeralda (N 28o 30.874' W 114o 04.179'), 11.83 miles north of
Santa Rosalillita) I have just met Samuel Maciel, a fisherman. He owns this
place and is familiar with the coast.  He said I should have no problem
leaving Laguna Ojo de Liebre and advised me to paddle within the lagoons at
high tide. He agreed that the currents at Punta are strong and meet from
opposing directions at the point. In January and February, Samuel takes
people whale watching in Laguna Ojo de Liebre.

A panga is being dragged above high water by a rusty and battered pickup. A
dog runs at its bow snapping as if herding it forward. There are only
several casitas here. On a flat above there is a large, brown unoccupied
trailer. Eight people are here. As I squat, tending to my boat, I notice the
shadow of two girls, ten or so years of age, approach from behind. They
present me a plate upon which are tortillas, broiled fish and salad. The
fish is whole, has been scored and seasoned and is "muy sabrosa!"

Thousands of gulls congregate to gorge on the entrails and other fish
"waste" discarded by the fisherman. The unrelenting sun has bleaches the
scene in washed-out pastels. The dog now lays in the lee of my boat while
another Samoyed-looking thing named "Don King" skulks about. I am on
"Mexican time" and move slowly about my business.

The overcast clouds of early morning had burned-off and now (16:30) return.
I watch dreamily as grandpa casts his piece of sardine from the beach. He,
grandma, daughter and the girls are visiting Samuel. In a moment he reels-in
a corvina (white sea-bass) of about six pounds and proudly displays it to
me. He speaks excellent English but I speak only Spanish.

As I peruse my chart I reflect on the virtues of paddling solo. Usually I
have no choice. And I have come to believe it is no more than marginally
safer to paddle in a group, especially one more than four in number. Often
the logistics of coordinating actions work against efficiency. Timing "is
everything" and the solo-paddler is neither rushed nor waiting. When one
lands, hospitality is more forthcoming. When there is only one mouth to feed
he is invited to dinner. If he is imprudently low on water, the fisherman
will help him, where a group would deplete his supply. Conversations with
fisherman are easily initiated when you land "lonely". My Spanish improves
more quickly.

081802 Left 06:40, arrived at Punta Morro Domingo at 12:10 and landed at the
estuary Laguna Manuela at 13:00. No wind today, swell from the northwest at
2-4 ft. Overcast until 15:00. Now the sun is just beginning to burn through.
During the transition from overcast to clear is when the wind begins.

The dolphins were at their antics again today. From a half-mile away they
espied my approach and came to me straight-away. Their fins cut the surface
with a zipping sound. The hissing spray spun like rooster tails from their
bodies until, nearing my boat, they dove under it. I watched them pass under
and burst through the surface just to port, their spray anointing me.

Punta Morro Domingo is a fat one, with rocky promontories interspersed by
six or seven secluded beaches. The cliffs between are as imposing as a
fortress. They tower overhead with impassive dignity as my boat sways in the
reflected waves. A great arch, framing a road-less beach, greeted me
unexpectedly as I followed the broad curve of the point. A lighthouse stands
just to the north of the arch. Occasionally I see a tent. This point is near
the highway (such as it is) and is a popular attraction.

Inside the point, at the entrance to Laguna Manuela
(N 28o 14.843' W 114o 05.463'), there are several small warehouses
buttoned-up and unoccupied. The pangas are drawn ashore close within the
estuary. A few ex-patriots hide in the shade of a semi-permanent camp. I met
Steve out on the water where he is fishing from his SOT. Later I join him
for hot cocoa and ask him to call my family when he gets stateside.

081902 Left at 06:30 arrived at the entrance to Laguna Guerrero Negro
(N 28o 06.000' W 114o 07.012') at 09:30. I had kept a bearing of 210 MN and
figured I would arrive just as I did, based on typical distance made good.
The opening is barely perceptible because the shoreline is low and
featureless. The mouth is less than 5 feet in depth except in a narrow
channel. I worked my way along the break lines. Today these are spillers of
only three or four feet height. In winter they would be much larger and
begin breaking further out in the shoal. My apprehension at entering the
lagoons gave way to frolic in the waves as I surfed from the open sea into
the placid sanctuary of the estuary.

Thousands upon thousand of sea birds congregate here. Countless terns
explode upon the horizon, their scissors-like frames slice the air as they
drift like confetti in the ocean breeze. This is not just any place. It is
captivating, a tonic for the harried soul.

A panga heads from afar straight toward me. This is uncharacteristic of a
fisherman, who is preoccupied with his catch. Two guys in Helly Hansen's
greet me and are told I am paddling the coast. I ask them if they are from
Mitsubishi, a wild guess, to which they reply yes. I give them a copy of my
notice to fisherman and proceed. Although I am mesmerized by the serenity of
the lagoon, it would have been possible to land on the outer shore. Now, as
I transcribe this, I wish ruefully, that I had.

I pass the old port Puerto Viejo (N 28o 02.0 W 114o 07.50')now decrepit and
monumentally nostalgic on its rise, presiding no more over a life of
commerce. The dunes are covered with verbena, alkali heath, salt grass and
other verdure only in hummocks near shore. From there they stretch
limitlessly over the horizon. At the fish camp they were unloading their
catch under a bank on which sat several casitas. The gulls swirled
eratically above while a half dozen children bathed under the watchful eyes
of their mothers. I spoke briefly with the fisherman concerning the channel.
They said it wind and sinds to the right. I paddled over to a group of
hummocks and made camp.

082002 In the morning I arose and embarked (06:35) on the last of a tide
rising to low high. Ed had told me to follow the pangas out, that they would
know the channel. But the pangas stayed on shore. I stayed to the right
hugging the sandy shoreline. After several dead ends, I decided to go where
I thought there was deep, continuous water. But alas, I got lost. When I
could no longer paddle I towed the boat. When it would no longer float, I
dragged it. Finally I stopped, looked at my chart and realized that I was
several miles from the channel
(N 27o 56.311' W 114o 07.737'). I marked the tidal stage and took a nap,
exhausted from the ordeal. In eight or so hours the tide should be near high
high and I should have two feet to float on: to make my great escape.

But hours later I have awakened to the sound of a thousand tiny crabs
crawling about and the tide has not risen. I am landlocked. High and dry,
plans gone awry. "No, please god no".

I shuttle gear and boat toward the dunes to the east (N 27o 56.119' W 114o
07.430'). The night before I had seen the lights of Guerrero Negro. My only
choice is to drag things to the road and seek help. But scouting to the east
I find only more dunes and black pan. The dunes are immense with patterns
that make me dizzy. Deep crevasses had been sculptured by the wind. I shy
away beause one reminds me of those sand traps that ants build and I am
afraid the sand will collapse about me if I fall in. The simple beauty of
them is astonishing and momentarily distracts me from the drudgery at hand.

I decide to seek help at the Mitsubishi ESSA Salina.
First I take the GPS position of my boat. I am helped by a couple of
employees. We drag the gel coat off my boat, load it onto a truck, driven by
Simon Fuertes, and head into town to report to the Harbor Master, Capitan
Armando Peralta. All vessels entering the port must see the captain.

We are invited to sit down. The captain asks why we are here. Simon informs
him that a vessel has entered port and we are reporting as required.

"Very well, is the vessel moored in port?"
"No capitan, it is on a truck outside."

"Oh, so it is a yacht?"
"No sir."

"It has a motor then?"
"No sir, it is a kayak."

At hearing this there is a long pause.

"How many passengers?"
"One."

I ask, "Capitan, esta una Problema?"

He replies, "No, it's just that I would need to notify your family should
you succumb to danger".

"But I am experienced and well equipped."

Another long pause. He seems perplexed that I considered this a vacation and
admonished me that I should have a float plan and safety equipment. I showed
him my float plan with an inventory of signaling devices (rockets, flares,
smoke, dye-marker), radio, GPS etc.

Finally he let us leave. I am sure it is not often that a kayaker enters his
port. Having experience as a captain, I guess he couldn't understand why I
would take such chances in a toy boat.

I had intended to round Punta Eugenia. I could put in again, after
requesting permission from the Captain. But between intestinal rebellion, a
lost hatch-cover, lost days and the prospect of obtaining permission from
"el capitan", I have decided to wheel homeward, my tail tucked between my
legs. Manana!











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