Imagine, if you will, a land where jagged red rock and twisted desert spires plunge headlong into clear turquoise waters teeming with tropical fish. A place where whales and porpoises are every day companions, and sea lions swim beside you, twirling and dodging in frenetic ballet. Where game fish-- tuna, whahoo, marlin and dorado-- swarm surface waters, and shellfish litter shallows, ripe for the taking. Where solitude and open spaces forever unfold, each islet and hidden cove a sanctuary of discovery. Now, open your eyes. If you are lucky, you'll find yourself in the Sea of Cortez.
At last, after our mad dash up the coast, we've reached the unexploited Mexico we dreamed of. My father joins us in Mazatlan for the passage to Baja, and we leave late in the afternoon, with favorable winds that never fail us on the 40-hour crossing. Dad is the consummate outdoorsman, and we fish continually while he is aboard. We land a big dorado in the middle of our crossing, and Aubrey makes a convincing plea for setting the flaming-gold fish free. Ultimately, it lands on our grill and she concedes gracefully with a second helping.
We rotate wheel watches, and Dad approaches this responsibility with the zeal of an Everest climber. He puts on several warm layers and tops them with Gore-tex jacket and pants. Then, for the duration of his three-hour stints he sits at the helm-- buffeted by winds and drenched by spray from waves breaking over the bow. No matter how often I encourage him to sit under the dodger, the canvas cover protecting the cockpit, he holds his ground . "I want to see what's coming." What we see, in the course of our two-day passage, is a grand total of three boats, passing in the distance.
We make landfall at Los Frailes, the easternmost anchorage on Baja, and rest for two nights before continuing. All three of us are transfixed by the dramatic landscape and ubiquitous wildlife. A whale breaches outside the anchorage, schools of fish mill around Gyspy, and on shore we see an octopus, clambering awkwardly towards the water. When the fisherman sees Aubrey watching, tears in her eyes, he offers, "want to set it free?" She carries it into the waves where it squirts us with ink before swimming away.
We are blown out of our next anchorage, Punta Arena de la Ventana, at two in the morning. With breaking waves slamming Gypsy and a rising wind, we run around the point, lightning flashing to the east, and drop anchor again just before dawn. Continuing north, Dad maintains his position at the helm--tweaking our course and asking for GPS updates on our speed. Running for the better part of two days, we never tire of watching the raw landscape-- mountains, mesas and sandy arrayos--changing color in the varying light. We reach La Paz after a five-day passage, and I leave Dad at the bus station, headed for the airport, with a warm hug and sincere thanks for a wonderful time together.
La Paz, a quaint fishing town clinging to a narrow inlet, is authentic Mexican, blissfully lacking the pre-packaged glitz and fawning barkers of main-stream tourist stops. It has the best selection of boat parts and marine services in Mexico, so during our visit we attend to some long-neglected repairs. I pull the transmission for a rebuild (it's been slipping since Z-town), change the fluids and filters on the engine, patch the sails and we give Gypsy a proper scrub down inside and out.
If you visit La Paz, but only have one hour to discover its essence, here's what you do: find one of Gonzalez's "super taco" street stands and treat yourself to three or four fish tacos smothered in fresh condiments from their self-serve smorgus board. Then find your way to La Fuente, the ice cream shop on the waterfront, and indulge in a double scoop on one of their homemade cones. From there, wander along the Malecon, the beachfront boulevard, lined with souvenir shops and open-air restaurants and bustling with an ecclectic mix of locals and tourists.
Actually, if you visit La Paz for a week (as we did) this isn't a bad way to anchor every day. Aubrey doesn't share my rabid enthusiasm for the tacos, but she more than compensated with her ice cream cravings. The polka-dot tree in front of La Fuente became base camp for our regular excursions downtown, and two cones a day never seemed extravagant. Suffice it to say that we didn't lose weight or go hungry.
After weeks of hard travel and boat work, Aubrey and I have our first down time together at Espiritu Santo, an island north of La Paz. Jutting from clear waters in angular relief, Santo is a study in desert geology. Sheer cliffs rise to crumbling mountains, with boulder- and cactus-covered flanks colored a pallet of rose, rust, copper and burnt orange accented with dark seams. The western shore is riddled with finger bays, steep at the entry, tapering to broad sand beaches. It is wild and beautiful, and we move from one bay to the next, sampling beaches and the canyons beyond. We spend time swimming, hiking, and exploring in the dinghy-- but mostly we lounge around the boat reading, playing backgammon, watching sunsets and enjoying each others company.
Aubrey suggests we start a Gypsy "book group," and together we read Stones from the River, by Ursula Hegi, carefully cutting out and exchanging chapters so we're never more than 50 pages apart. The book is wonderful-- about a dwarf coming of age in Germany before and during the second world war. For several days we tag team the lead, careful not to disclose impending plot twists as we discuss the holocaust, Hitler, and the limits of love under duress. We get in the habit of blurting "Zwerg!", German for dwarf, for no particular reason than it makes us smile. We read the last two chapters aloud--so we can share the ending. For the final pages we paddle to a secluded beach, then lay above lapping waves, letting the emotion of a well told story dissipate, slowly, into the silent cliffs surrounding us.
We make our way up the length of the island, stopping one or two nights at different anchorages along the way. It is an idyllic life-- no concerns but caring for eachother and planning our next meals. There is no lack of seafood to sweeten our pot-- I shoot a 15-pound snapper diving one day, we dig clams a few days later, and I we find a dozen huge scallops on another dive. We have become a tight-knit team, handling the boat and domestic chores with wordless cooperation. We huddle under a mound of blankets at night, warding off the inevitable chill. There hasn't been a time when life aboard Gypsy was so relaxed and effortless.
We explore Santo for eight days-- and on our last we motor to Los Islotes, just off its northern end. Islotes is home to a large colony of sea lions, famous for their human interaction. It's obvious why these two small islands draw these gregarious mammals: the scooped perches and rounded spires along the shores make ideal lounge chairs for slumbering seals. Also popular with sea birds, the upper reaches of the islets are coated with a thick layer of guano-- topping the red rock like white frosting. Aubrey and I spend a few hours paddling the shore and swimming with sea lions-- careful to back off when big males get agitated. Aubrey is in her element here-- laughing and splashing with these sleek, playful and insatiably curious critters.
Later in the day, motoring to La Paz, we overtake a pair of blue whales-- coasting to within 50 yards, where the sharp blast of their breath punctuates the afternoon. Then we hook a small tuna, which a pair of sea lions follow back to the boat. As I release the fish, they circle impatiently below, like hungry dogs. I drop the tuna in the water and the bull snatches it in his jaws. As we motor away, the pair is thrashing on the surface together, dining on their handout.
We make La Paz at sunset, and manage a visit to la Fuente for a couple choco chip cones before tumbling into our bunk, exhausted. It may qualify as a perfect day in the Sea, but we'll have ample opportunity to better it. After replenishing our supplies we'll head further north-- past Santo through more islands. Loreto is our next town, where they say the Cinco de Mayo celebrations are not to be missed. So much to see and so little time--it's the struggle of our simple existence here in the Sea of Cortez.
< < back to gypsy log
April 20 - Baja or Bust
