Baja’s eastern shoreline is the longest, bleakest, most beautiful and desolate graveyard I have ever seen. Every beach we approach is smothered in shells and bones, as though subject to deposition of the entire ocean’s contents. Pelicans are strewn like upturned beetles. Desiccated ligaments and tendons link the bones of sea lion flippers while cobblestones cradle massive skulls, sagittal crests jutting high above the brow. Squashed, sallow spine-covered pufferfish skins litter the shore. Occasionally we stumble upon fragmented dolphin and whale spines, half-buried in sand. Dead sticks, bleached cacti and dry palm fronds lie haphazardly along the tide line, washed down through arroyos in years absent of drought. Vultures mass, swooping low from the thermals to scour the coastline. The occasional shrimp troller fills the night with a low, deadly thrum as it rakes already-emptied seas and every so often, we find manta ray shells dumped across the moonscape of an untamed beach.
Yet, the shore flourishes with life: waves crash over reefs and onto shore, undulating and unrelenting, followed by the high crackle of thousands of stones pounding against each other in the undertow. Grebes dive furiously under the surf. Osprey flap overhead, pipefish grasped in their talons. Pelicans glide low over the water in flocks. Herons wade beneath overhangs. Beneath the waves, vibrant crimson and yellow coral thrives while sergeant majors school and stonefish slide their ungainly bodies into rocky cracks and crevices. Palm trees stand tall and proud, swaying but unyielding, fed by freshwater seepage leaking from the cliffs. Flowers and spiny shrubs sprout from the cliffs as cordón cacti shoot toward the sky.
And I? On calm days, I glide through water so smooth I believe I’m paddling through the sky alongside floating islands. As the sun rises, it turns the surrounding sea to a mesmerizing slick of undulating sea green, salmon, daffodil, blue-black and a deep purple gray. Occasionally dolphins accompany us, going so far as to pass beneath our boats and launch themselves high into the air, further motivating our paddle strokes in the last push of a 27-km move. As the Sonoran sun looks on, I learn to help others back into boats, to haul myself back into my own boat, to prevent myself from capsizing, and lots of nifty tricks to maneuver a long, skinny kayak through the water without using a rudder. I flip over a LOT, not necessarily on purpose. I learn to pee and to switch boats in the middle of the ocean.
On days when Norte winds build Armageddon-style waves and prompt our 5:00 AM risk assessment to declare a very decidedly RED flag, we hike arroyos– dry washes cutting canyons from deep in the mountains to the sea, omnipotent evidence of years when drought did not rule the land. We find skulls, flowers, vines, and the occasional shady tree among mazes of stubby cacti that jump onto our clothes and skin. Cordónes tower over us, slender spiny arms reaching skyward. On one particular day winded in, after our reration is delivered by a small panga, we venture into the waves for an hour to fish by hand line off a point. That night, we eat barracuda ceviche and fried grouper.
We spend nine days in San Nicolas, a tiny, tiny fishing community cradled in palm trees on the edge of a sweeping bay. We pass hours upon hours talking to Chico, a wise, sincere, humble, proud, good-hearted former fisherman who now oversees his small organic family farm. While his wife makes fish tacos, he presses dozens of oranges and grapefruits into our arms. He talks of drought, of hurricanes, of seas emptied of life, of traditional cure-alls (rattlesnake meat), of his family, of nearby fumaroles, scientists and changing culture. He leads us up an arroyo where we walk between cliff walls composed of millions upon millions of shells and concretions. One day we attempt a hike to an old volcano called Polpito on a point extending into the sea and instead strand ourselves in a maze of arroyos, returning along a sweeping white beach.
At night, I sleep under the stars: at first, the full moon rises so bright I can clearly gaze out miles across Conception Bay from my bed on a pointed rocky ledge. By the new moon, I’m surrounded by the darkest, most brilliant sprawling planetarium I’ve ever experienced as I stare skyward from my nylon cocoon, watching the Bear and the Queen twirl slowly around the North Star.
