November 6, 2004 - Day Six
At 3:00 a.m. (4:00 on Werner's watch), we gathered off shore in the
dark. Werner was directly behind me. He told me to look for a dark
shape on the western horizon for a heading. I told him I wasn't sure
I could pick out what he was looking at, so he suggested I just head
for Orion's belt. So I cocked the brim of my Tilley's up (a hat
that had collected dust in my closet since the 1980's), and fixed my
gaze on the three stars of the belt.

I had taken four 200mg Ibuprofen to head off any problems with my groin
and lower back, but apparently did not take them soon enough. I think
the tension of being up front with all the other boats nipping at our
sterns tended to make Dave and I strain at our paddles. In fact,
Werner told us to back off a bit on our pace because we wouldn't be
able to maintain it for the whole crossing. Whatever the reason, my
left groin began to gnaw at me.

Paddling in the dark is comforting. All your comrades are within
earshot, and your body seems to know how to react to the ups and downs,
and tilts and leans that your eyes have no way of anticipating. It's
a little like paddling with your eyes closed. But there were things to
see besides the stars. Whatever was phosphorescing along the shore at
Estacion Caleta was out there too. Little sparkles of light clung to
the bow and rails of the kayaks, and dripped from the paddles.

Dave was on my port side and kept edging up too close. I was heading
for Orion's Belt and he seemed to be heading for something off my
starboard bow. At one point our paddles got tangled; later he bumped
me. When he got ahead of me and started to cross my bow I barked at
him to get behind me and relax. He later revealed to Werner that he
had no idea what Orion was. That must have made it difficult to keep a
heading in the dark.

The pain in my groin grew worse and spread horizontally into my left
lower back. I grimaced and groaned in the dark, leaning and squirming
in my seat to try to get some relief. I kept thinking that any minute
the ibuprofen would kick in. But after an hour of increasing
discomfort, I began to think it wasn't going to help, and this made
me feel quite grim.

Around 5:30 the sun was coming up and I used it as an excuse to stop
paddling and take a picture. It was a relief to relax, and the scene
made me forget my discomfort momentarily. The island behind and south
of us was silhouetted by red, yellow and orange clouds and blue sky
reflected by the water. Seven or so miles out, halfway between the two
islands, the sense of commitment was exhilarating. As the sun climbed
above the horizon we stopped for water and to refuel.

As soon as we were again underway, the pain returned. I soldiered on
and, mercifully, the pain began to ebb and finally disappear around
6:30. I made good time from there on. Over the last two miles I
pulled ahead of a couple of paddlers, and did my best to catch up with
Steve, Andreas and Werner who went out in front when the sun came up.
My boat was at last light enough to perform well, and I finished strong
into the little bay near the south end of Smith Island. After beaching
the boats, we all took a dip in the glassy, warm water. It was 7:30
a.m.

With the crossing behind us, a great weight was lifted, and we now had
another full day to relax and play. We set up our tents in the black
sand, and laid out gear to dry in the morning sun. Werner made a
pancake breakfast for everyone. Jim had an early cigar. After
breakfast John, Steve, Dave and I went diving off a point just south of
the bay. The three of them got enough cabrilla to feed the whole
group. Mark, Werner and Andreas hiked to the summit of the cinder cone
at the north end of the island, and got some tremendous panoramic shots
of the big island, and the smaller islands to the west and south of
Smith. The hike was strenuous and took many hours, and they were more
than usually tired when they returned.

We camped on the isthmus of Isla Coronado, a.k.a. Smith Island. Just a
few yards of land separates the bay on the east side from a small
lagoon and channel on the west. This short portage provides an easy
way to the channel between Smith Island and the mainland. Eight miles
south is Bahia de los Angeles. This camp is a popular spot with
kayakers, but we had it to ourselves on this day.

After dinner we retired to our folding chairs near the water to drink
and smoke and gaze east across the Canal las Ballenas to the western
shore of Isla Angel de la Guarda, a rich, glowing orange in the evening
light. Dark clouds overhead turned pink, then fuschia, as the sun set.
This was the last night and we pulled out all the stops.

"The pattern of a book, or of a day, of a trip, becomes a
characteristic design. The factors in a trip by boat, the many-formed
personality phases all shuffled together, changing a little to fit into
the box and yet bringing their own lumps and corners, make the trip.
And from all these factors your expedition has a character of its own,
so that one may say of it, "That was a good, kind trip." Or, "That
was a mean one." The character of the whole becomes defined and
definite. We ran from collecting station to new collecting station,
and when the night came and the anchor was dropped, a quiet came over
the boat and the trip slept. And then we talked and speculated, talked
and drank beer. And our discussions ranged from the loveliness of
remembered women to the complexities of relationships in every other
field."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez

One of the hallmarks of a good trip is not to run out of booze
before-and to have consumed every drop of what you brought by the end
of-the last night. This was a good trip. There was a bottle of
Commemorativo tequila, and what was left of two or three bottles of
scotch that Jim had brought. One was a blended scotch reminiscent of
Chivas, but a better value according to Jim. Another, the smoky
flavored alcohol we'd tried a few nights before, was so unique we
weren't even sure it was scotch. When his guard was down Jim
revealed that it was Laphroaig, a spendy single malt.

We had to keep an eye on Andreas. We at first thought it was his
youthful energy and high metabolic rate that compelled him to hop
around like a Mexican jumping bean, taking photos, going hither and
yon, fetching this or that, and always alighting in a different place
in the circle. Then we noticed that as the bottles made their way
around, Andreas was positioning himself to wet his whistle more than
once per circuit. Thought he could put one over on the old guys after
they'd had a few.

Though the scotch and tequila were good, from my point of view the
piece de resistance was Andy's contribution: Slivovice, from
Czechoslovakia, 90 proof and made from plums. Later I was told by a
couple of ex-pat Canadians that this stuff is pretty common back east,
but I'd never had it or heard of it before. For those who have not
had the pleasure, you can taste the fruit. Really! And the potency of
this stuff is breathtaking. Andy passed out shots, which the others
suspiciously but dutifully downed in a gulp. Me? I rolled it around
in my mouth to get the full effect of the alcohol. I prefer my tequila
straight too. Call me a peasant, but I think Slivovice is the bee's
knees. Where can I get a bottle in California?

As the mixture of exertion, success, food, alcohol and smoke took
effect, the conversation grew scintillating. We were on fire with
ideas and magnificently erudite. Several weighty social and political
problems were solved in the space of an hour. Unfortunately for
posterity, it was all lost. No notes were taken, no record was made,
and none of us could remember a thing in the morning. But I was left
with a feeling of comradeship and satisfaction that we had shared not
just time together, but something of ourselves. It had been a good,
kind trip.

November 7, 2004 - Day Seven
There were no fatalities from last night's festivities, and early in
the morning under gray and black clouds we crept out of the little
inlet on the west side and into the inner channel. The black water had
a pencil-lead sheen, and was calm and still enough to carry the ripples
from the occasional rain drops. As we assembled off shore before
moving south, a whale spouted nearby. Everyone stopped paddling and
waited. He broke the surface nearby and a few of us paddled closer.
Another surfaced and spouted north of us. A moment later another came
up within a few feet of our boats.

Then, within a few feet of Werner's boat, a whale came up and rolled
on his side well out of the water with his eye above water to take a
look. The white underside and the numerous, parallel lengthwise
ventral grooves made us guess he was a fin back. We'd all seen gray
whales before, and this was not a gray. We hooted in appreciation as he
sounded and disappeared. Then we got underway.

After 45 minutes we took a break in our boats at the first little
island. A cabin cruiser trolled nearby. The sky was black above us
but bright at the horizon. The contrast was blinding. We were pelted
by random drops, but the wind and water were calm. We paddled on in
small groups and headed south for the last five mile stretch to L.A.
Bay. A half an hour later a freshening wind raised a vigorous chop,
making things interesting. I was in third position among the singles,
well behind Werner and Andreas, but well ahead of the rest. I felt
good enough to stay ahead all the way in, but Dave was my partner and I
didn't want to abandon him with the weather changing. I paused and
Steve and John went by. Andy and Dave caught up with me and the three
of us pushed each other to cover the last couple of miles at a fast
pace, trading the lead often.

The sun peeked out and the clouds cleared a bit as we loaded the boats
on to the trucks. On the spur of the moment, Werner hired a panga for
a tour. After an unsuccessful and anticlimactic tour of LA Bay looking
for but not finding whale sharks, we all had lunch at Guillermo's.
Afterward, Mark, Jim and Andy decided they could make it home that day.
The rest of us bought some ice and provisions in town for dinner at
the trailer. We had showers at the trailer, a meal, and left early the
next morning for an uneventful drive home.

I've paddled several times since the trip, working on bracing skills
and my forward stroke, and increasing my distance each outing. I have
the use of the boat until April, and I am looking at used boats for
sale. I'm looking for something faster, but not too narrow. I will
return to Guardian Angel Island someday, and perhaps I will complete
the circumnavigation. If not, I'll have no regrets. Far from it. I
had an incredible experience I'll never forget, and I would jump at
the chance to do it again, whether we made it all the way around or
not. Any experience of this place touches something primal within us,
and calls us to return again and again.

"We want very much to go back to Guardian Angel with time and
supplies. We wish to go over the burned hills and snake-ridden
valleys, exposed to heat and insects, venom and thirst, and we are
willing to believe almost anything we hear about it, we believe that
great gold nuggets are found there, that unearthly animals make their
homes there, that the mountain sheep, which is said never to drink
water, abounds there. And if we were told of a race of troglodytes in
possession, we should think twice before disbelieving."
From The Log of the Sea of Cortez