November 4, 2004 - Day Four
This morning the wind was down to a manageable 10 to 15 knots, and the
sea was calming rapidly. But after breakfast we were in no rush to get
going. Werner called a meeting at the kitchen to discuss options.
With little dissent (Andreas wanted to keep going north) we quickly
agreed to go back the way we came. The circumnavigation would have to
wait for another trip. It was just too far to go in the time we had
left, even if we could paddle a couple of extra long days. Any further
delays would make us overdue. And even if we returned the way we came,
we might again have to wait for good weather before attempting the
crossing to the mainland.

We would return to our put-in on the western side of the island and
camp. The next day we would paddle north to a little bay on the west
side roughly east-northeast from Isla Coronado (Smith). A crossing
from that point to Isla Coronado would be about 15 miles, almost twice
as far as the one we had planned from near the north end of the island,
but well within our abilities, assuming good weather. A mild two meter
net change between the high and low tide would help us as well.

We carefully made our way out through the surf and turned our beams to
the three-foot swells and occasional white caps to head back to
Estanque. In about 30 minutes we had all glided into the flat water of
Estanque's little bay. We left our boats and hiked a few hundred
feet up the steep volcanic debris of the cinder cone to get a view to
the south. The north wind blasted us here as we glassed the water
between us and the southern tip of the big island. It was calm
compared to the whitecaps and big swells to the north. West of the
southern tip of the island the sea appeared to be riled up though, so
making the turn back up the west side might be a challenge.

Leaving Estanque we could see waves were breaking in the shallow water
between the two islands. Werner went through first and waited to make
sure that the novice paddlers made it across upright. With the wind at
our back we made good time paddling south. Along the way we saw a seal
on the surface shaking a fish to death.

High bluffs at the southern tip of the island blocked the wind and
provided us with flat water. We took a break in our boats to drink and
refuel. Around the corner to the west we could see rougher water. The
tide was against us too. So when we were underway again, most of us
hugged the shore to take advantage of back eddies, and to get some
shelter from the wind. After an hour or so, my left groin and lower
back began to ache insistently, making the paddle seem longer. I was
the last to land at the rocky beach at Los Corralitos where we had
first put in after the panga ride on November 1.

This turned out to be a very nice place to camp, with just enough wind
most of the time to keep the bugs from alighting. It is about as long
as a city block, and wider, and there is plenty of driftwood for a
fire. The diving was poor, and Andreas was able to hook only a couple
of fish, so we had the beef stew tonight. Unloading the boat, siting
the camp, fishing, preparing a meal, gathering wood, building a fire,
and reveling in the simplicity and independence, seems second nature
now. I don't look at my watch much. We know a president has been
elected, but most were unconcerned and gave it little attention in
conversation.

"One thing had impressed us deeply on this little voyage: the
great world dropped away very quickly. We lost the fear and fierceness
and contagion of war and economic uncertainty. The matters of great
importance we had left were not important. There must be an
ineffective quality in these things. We had lost the virus, or it had
been eaten by the antibodies of quiet. Our pace had slowed greatly;
the hundred thousand small reactions of our daily world were reduced to
very few. When the boat was moving we sat by the hour watching the
pale, burned mountains slip by."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez, John Steinbeck

Around the fire we discussed the game plan for the next day. We would
leave early for Estacion Caleta, marked Caleta ("small cove")
Station on the map, one of the only sheltered bays on the west side, to
take advantage of the tide and the calm air. There was some talk of
going for the crossing that day if the weather was good. But the
veterans were a bit pessimistic about the weather: None of them had
ever been pinned down in one place for three days and forced to reverse
direction. Still, leaving from Estacion Caleta, over 12 miles north
and a half mile further west, would save us several miles of paddling
over a start from this far south.

November 5, 2004 - Day Five
We left at dawn this morning and had the incoming tide with us for a
while before it stalled and started out again. Conditions were
perfect: glassy for most of the morning, and little tidal action. Each
point we rounded opened another spectacular view of the rugged and
gaudily colored volcanic cliffs and mountains, reflected by the dark,
glassy water. From off shore the arroyos and alluvial fans that form
cobble beaches at the water's edge appeared forested with cardon,
palo adan, creosote and other greenery. At the base of a huge
cream-colored cliff we passed a huge, bleached whale skull resting on a
cobble shore.

Before noon, David and I pulled into an inviting little cove with a
rocky peninsula dividing the upper and lower lobes of the bay. We
paddled into the northern lobe and around the corner of the peninsula
to a hidden landing on a gray sand beach where the other boats were.
We got out and sat on the beach with the others for lunch. It was
several minutes before I learned that this was not a lunch stop, but
Estacion Caleta. We had made excellent time on the smooth water and
had the rest of the day to play.

We got the dive gear together and paddled across to the northern side
of the lagoon, carried the boats well above the water and walked over
the spit to the western shore. I followed Werner into the water, and
stayed close behind him as he hunted, hoping to pick up some pointers.
Underwater, the rocks dropped steeply from the shoreline and were
covered with a fuzzy algae. But we had excellent visibility. There
were lots of attractive brightly colored fish, sea stars, and anemones,
but no cabrilla. Steve and Dave also hunted this area with no luck.

Back at camp, I borrowed Dave's spear gun and went out into the
southern lobe of the bay, and out to the rocks just off the peninsula
protecting the northern lobe. After a few dives to about 15 feet, I
began to pick out the cabrilla. Along the south shore of this bay I
saw a large orange fish I did not
recognize. I hesitated to shoot at it because I wasn't sure it was a
good eating fish. I later learned it was a golden cabrilla, and that
the locals don't take them for superstitious reasons. I took this to
mean they were somewhat rare, and so I was glad I didn't shoot him.


I found the cabrilla hard to stalk. They seemed to notice my interest
right away and quickly headed for the rocks. I was warned not to shoot
any rocks, and because the fish always seemed to be in front of one, I
didn't get off many shots. Even with the good shots (good = in the
vicinity of what I aimed at), I never hit a fish (that I know of). But
the tip of Dave's spear was bent a bit and had its own unique
trajectory, which I could not discern. So my failure to kill a fish
may not have been completely due to my lack of skill, which was in
almost all respects, uh, complete.

At one point, I dove toward sandy bottom about 20 feet down and as I
approached, I saw a very large silver white cabrilla, or maybe a sea
bass, hovering over the sand. I cleared my ears and waited for my legs
to drift down below my waist. I steadied myself and lined up a shot on
the now slowly moving fish. I squeezed the shot off, and missed. The
fish darted about ten feet away from his spot, then furned and stared
at me as if to say, "Is that all you got?" At the surface I gasped
for air and shouted to the guys on sho "Hey! There's lots of
cabrilla over here! We need a straight shooter." Steve yelled to
Dave: "Let's go kill some fish!" Within an hour they had speared
enough cabrilla for the whole group.

We decided a soup would be a nice change of pace from the usual fried
fish fillets, and gathered all of the canned salsa, tomatoes, green
chiles and spices we could find. Out of this olio Werner created the
best cioppino I've ever had. I contributed a loaf of sour dough
bread baked with rosemary and kalamata olives to the feast, one of the
amenities I wasn't sorry to have brought along.

Around the fire we discussed the crossing. Werner told us that David
and I, the slowest paddlers, would lead the group. This is a common
tactic to keep stragglers from getting lost or swept out to sea on long
crossings. But it was also necessary because Bill D. (our mutual
father-in-law and veteran of several Guardian Angel circumnavigations
himself) told Werner not to come back without me. Werner announced it
was imperative that I be brought back alive, regardless of the cost to
the others in life or limb. It's comforting to know that everyone is
looking out for you.

Dave and I wandered over to the short bit of sandy shore where the
boats were pulled up and noticed a heavy concentration of
bioluminescence along the water line. As we walked closer, the wet
sand erupted in sparkles of light under the weight of our footsteps.
We stomped around like kids until we discovered that splashing water or
throwing sand in the water made an even more spectacular display.
Splashed water appeared like lava blowing out of a vent. We howled at
the special effects until we grew tired, and went off to our respective
tents to sleep.

The plan was to rise at 2:30 a.m., and be paddling by 4:00. Even if we
made only three knots, we'd make Smith Island before 9:00 a.m.
JKVawter