Our agenda is subject to whim. "Written in the
sand at low tide," as Sonny liked to say. We follow the general
Exodus of boats north from La Paz to Loretofest-- an annual cruiser
bash-- island hopping from Espiritu Santo to Partida, San Francisco
and San Jose. When we sail back to mainland Baja we tuck behind Punta
San Marte-- a stunning cove with nearby reef for snorkeling. A pod of
dolphins carouses in the anchorage when we arrive.
There is
a bonfire party on the beach our second night, and we row to shore at
dusk against a brisk wind. We're settling into cordial conversation
with a half-dozen couples when a woman motors to shore shouting,
"Gypsy is dragging! Gypsy is dragging!" We look out and sure enough:
slowly, perceptibly, our trusty craft slides towards the boat behind
us. I jump into a dinghy and we race through the anchorage. I climb
aboard Gypsy just as she reaches Bravura-- a beautifully maintained
48-footer-- and jam a fender between the boats as they collide. As we
drag past, I do what I can to fend the boats. Just as we part, the
second anchor on Gypsy's bow hooks Bravura's teak rail, gouging in
the wood with a sickening thud.
I raise the anchor, puzzling how, after anchoring every night for a year without incident, we
should drag tonight. The answer is stuck to the tip of my anchor-- a
large shell which kept it from holding. Aubrey motors to Bravura with
Bob, the owner, to inspect the damage. He is super understanding, and
the following day, after I sand and varnish the gouge and Aubrey
bakes him cookies I feel like we've left on good terms.
From San Marte we run north to Puerto Escondido,
arriving on the second morning of four-day LoretoFest. We've heard a
few particulars about the celebration, but nothing to prepare us for
the scene at Escondido. With over 100 boats anchored in the harbor,
it would more aptly called "CruiserFest," because: a) the festivities
are ten miles from the town of Loreto, b) there isn't Mexican
national to be found and c) the bulk of attendees fall into the
50-and-over retiree category which typifies Mexican Cruisers.
Hyped activities include horseshoes, beading
circles, line ball (played with whiffle bat and tennis ball), and
fishing-lure clinics. There is an abundance of cold beer and hot
dogs, a retinue of homespun live entertainment each night, and lots
of cliques conspiring in plastic chairs under the trees. Aubrey and I
make a few half-hearted attempts to mingle, and end up leaving after
two days to take advantage of the empty cruising grounds.
The highlight of our outing is a visit to Salinas, a wide bay on the east
side of Isla Carmen. We have the place to ourselves for five days,
with Aubrey's birthday falling in the middle of our stay. First we
anchor at the head of the bay, where we walk the vast, white-sand
beach-- collecting sea glass and exploring the deserted buildings of
an abandoned salt operation. Then we move to Perico point, a rocky
outcropping where we have some of the best fishing and diving of our
trip.
Hoping to round up a proper seafood feast for
Aubrey, I go SCUBA diving along the point with my spear gun. I shoot
one "bug" (cruiser-speak for lobster), and find another inside a
tight cave. I can't get inside with my tank on, and it taunts me,
shamelessly, just beyond reach. I can't stand it-- and, ignoring
better judgment, take a shot. Sure enough, the spear lodges deep in
the darkness. After suffering considerable "reef rash" trying to
extricate my weapon, I break off the spear and swim dejectedly back
to Gypsy. Chalk up a victory for the lobsters.
I wake early the following morning and fry some birthday
apple fritters-- a recipe handed down from our old best friends on
Hoptoad (who recently reached Seattle with Margarita!). Then we go
fishing, and Aubrey lands several big grouper and a 15-pound amber
jack after spirited battle (I do the casting and she reels them in).
Then we snorkel around Perico-- swimming hand-in-hand above jagged
rock formations and teeming fish. I show Aubrey Lost Spear Cave, the
lobster is still inside, gloating. Eventually I muster the courage to
squeeze through the opening, and the cave widens and continues into
the darkness. I enter several times, looking for the spear, but can't
find it in the dark gloom. When we get back to the dinghy we resolve
to mount a proper recovery.
Aubrey's birthday
afternoon is spent in typical Cortez fashion-- reading, swimming and
playing backgammon. We have sardines at sunset, and the local pod of
porpoises swings by for a visit. Then I fire up the grill for a
lobster and grouper extravaganza. We have yellow cake with chocolate
frosting (Aubrey's favorite) for dessert, and she opens her
gifts-mostly jewelry I found in Loreto. All in all a memorable day,
though I'm certain that the biggest surprise for Aubrey was my
concession, in writing, to her superior backgammon skills. (After
losing money to her consistently for weeks I can no longer blame it
on luck.)
The next morning we take the dinghy to the point for a
spear recovery mission. I bring the SCUBA tank and an underwater
flashlight. Aubrey agrees to supervise our command center as long as
there is no mission creep-- I will enter the cave, recover the spear,
and rendez vous at the dinghy-- no settling scores with
lobsters.
I carry the tank under water, squeezing it through the
cave opening ahead of me. I sweep the interior with my light-- our
brazen lobster is still there, standing sentry, but I do my best to
ignore him. A menacing moray protrudes from a crevice, and I set the
tank in front of him, discouraging any flank assault. Scores of fish
dart past the light, bumping and dodging in blind panic. Then I shine
towards the back of the cave and, spellbound, skip a breath. Perched
on a rock is the biggest lobster I've ever seen-- twitching nervously
like a plump poodle. Beside it is one of biggest eels I've ever
seen-- a green moray writhing like a cobra and baring ample teeth.
They seem an unlikely pair-- Bug and the Beast-- holding court over
this creepy submarinian lair. I thought eels ate lobster, but here in
Lost Spear Cave they live in peace. I consider a surgical strike,but
the message is clear-- if want dibs on this freak-show bug I'll do so
to the extreme displeasure of Mr. Green. No Mission Creep, I
remind myself, retrieving the spear and backing cautiously out of the
cave.
With days
running short we head south, one day encountering a caravan of over
400 porpoises. Their direction is random-- leaping and spinning, they
seem a celebration of just being. We saunter into their procession
and motor along, Gypsy the conductor of their perpetual parade. We
try joining them-- jumping in with our masks as they stream past--
but they'll have nothing to do with us. Human beings, slow and
awkward, don't seem engaging enough to hold their attention.
One thing Aubrey insists on seeing is dolphins in phosphorus
(I've described the experience as near religious), so one night we
motor until midnight, looking in vain for accommodating companions.
We spend another day at Los Islotes, swimming with sea lions, and
another night at El Candelero, our favorite anchorage, before
returning to La Paz for provisioning.
The Sea has not
disappointed, but, sadly, it is almost time to go. After a year of
wayward wandering, Gypsy and I need to find our way home. We are
joined in La Paz by Paul Rahilly, an old friend, for the ten-day
voyage to Cabo San Lucas. From there he and Aubrey will fly to the
States and I will set sail alone for San Francisco on the 'clipper
route'-- a 2,200-mile favorable-wind detour towards Hawaii. I am
terrified-- our longest passage to date was just 400 miles-- but it
seems a fitting finale to our travels. It will be a long and
uneventful passage-- weather gods permitting-- allowing plenty of
time to mull over my journey and consider our next path. Wish us
luck.
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