Sailing north along the Baja peninsula is aptly termed by boaters The Baja Bash: the winds are almost constant, always from the north or northwest; the seas continuously roll south and during the infrequent storms they can be monstrous. By all reports we were acquainted with, the only thing that seems to break up the south-streaming weather is a hurricane.
Just to the west of Cabo San Lucas stands a black mountain on the brink of treacherous Cabo Falso. Rounding that western point, Faith and her crew left the protection of the dark headland. Immediately the conniving seas congealed into slobbering, frothy masses slicking us head to toe with windborne brine. We were ready � but we were also hoping fervently that the harshness would abate somewhat after we rounded Cabo Falso. The cape effect is a well documented phenomenon, and the southern spit of Baja has been compared to Point Conception, California � known to lash the unwary with powerful windstorms and violent wave action. We simply hoped the drudgery of slogging into the gale wouldn't last the next 460 miles as we aimed for Turtle Bay, two thirds of the way up the Mexican coast.
For the first three hours of it there seemed no end in sight. Eight to ten foot waves buffeted our little vessel and forty knot winds strained to make rags of our storm jib and double reefed main. The unaccustomed chill of the water startled our senses with each flogging of the saline switch. Yet we pressed on, leaning up as high into the breeze as we could, making mile after punishing mile as we cut the half-circle around the cape. Evening approached, the sun abandoning the sky in a blazing orange cascade, and we were coming up on the course that would draw us north if only we and our ship could hold out, if the fickle gods of oceanic weather decided we had passed the test. Down came the wind, down came the waves. Up went the full mainsail, bellying proudly as we cut our northern course blessed with a favorable breeze.
By nightfall the sails were luffing, the sea nearly flat. Still we made headway, now crawling, now swifting along for a wonderful hour, then crawling again. Occasionally we fell back on the engine when the air went quiet and the tranquil water reflected the myriad sparkling stars. Breaking a bow wave under power, the hull cast a living reflection of the galaxies revolving above in the swirling phosphoresce of disturbed dinoflagellates. Dawn broke, the wind returned for a time, and Eric prepared a happy breakfast of instant oatmeal with raisins and dried cherries. It was as delicious as the magical night had been.
Throughout the second day we encountered more of the same: variable winds, always from north northwest, relatively calm sea state. Tacking looked to be the order of the week; we projected a four to six day cruise, depending on cooperation from the weather.
And so we tacked.
First out to sea on a dead west course, then slicing a diagonal northeast as far into shore as we dared (about a mile off), after which we'd cut back out again. Every now and then the wind would change up a little as we neared a jut of land or passed a tall range of mountains, allowing us a brief period of on-course navigation. Our Baja Bash would not be contesting with heavy weather but rather scratching our way north while the wind and water tried to convince our boat to do otherwise.
The situation was made infinitely more tolerable by the company we kept: the bounteous marine life burgeoning along the unsullied shores. All hands were on deck as I prepared to give up the helm to Eric and Brian came up from below. Behind us, off the starboard sternquarter about two hundred yards, a whale spouted.
The geyser shot twenty feet in the air with an audible woosh! that alerted the three of us. We caught a glimpse of shiny back, quickly hidden in the chop that had kicked up. Brian grabbed for the camera, tried to anticipate where our pal might surface again, missed the next spout as the whale passed us on the beam. Eric and I tried to assist by pointing and yelling � in different directions unfortunately � and the whale slipped away with no more sign. A pod of porpoises flashed past in the whale's wake, but these, too, we failed to capture. There seems to be a code among the denizens of the deep that if a camera makes an appearance on the deck of a ship everyone has to hide until it goes back away.
Or so we synopsized. Until we stood off Magdelana Bay on the evening of the third day.
Our approach, for approach to land it was (winds being what they were), was heralded by a pair of peaks the like of which I have seen only in cinematographers' dreams. Two pinnacles pierced the dunning sky: one rigid, spoked and impervious to the nuances of the atmosphere, a monarch stolid and unsullied by mere passage of time and turmoil; the other raking talonously at the air, exuberant in the conflict of wind and rock, laughing scour and erosion to scorn. This second ripped the virgin skin of astral theater asunder scattering contrails of sanguine silver mist to twist aside of her behemoth brother.
Yeah, it was really that cool.
But what was pulsing beneath the amphitheatric Gemini was better � especially with such a drama developing before them. If it were a stage you could dismiss it as theatric, if on screen a special effect, because, of course this doesn't REALLY happen.....but it was.
I've been asked by my aquatic-loving biology friends, "So, do you see any marine life, dude?" Up until this point I've responded with a resounding "Hell yes! All the time! We've got dolphins jumping off the bow, seals skirting the beams, pelicans splashing down left and right, snakes bouncing off the waterline, turtles we have to get out of the way of!" Ahh, but each was a separate story. No more. Maybe before the bounty of Baja we'd wait hours between sighting one or the other of these guys. No more. Mmmm, with the sun slanting to shimmer the golds and greens and browns of the desert shore, slanting to make our sails glow like burnished leather, slanting to spice the waves with preternatural fire, we were initiated. "Dude! Have you seen whales?" He. Hehe. Hehehehe. "Yeah. Ones that worried us."
It began with a flutter on the calming sea ahead � "Fish ahoy!" Eric called, a predatory sort of expression lighting his face. Son of a fisherman....what can I say? The stirring of a galaxy of fish excited areas off all quarters. Circles of turbulent water effervesced all about us. Immediately the surface was cut by the knifing fins of a squad of porpoises � then another. Then another, off the port beam this time. Shortly the entire sea teamed with gray and white bodies skimming, leaping, crashing, plowing, boiling the water. Everywhere. Porpoises were in the air, IN THE AIR, in every direction. One would streak free of the liquid medium as if prompted by dynamite! Swing, twist, flip, spiral, WHAM!!!! Back to the folds of Her Majesty Ocean's domain to an applause of raining spray!! Ok, happens all the time....but then the seals got into the act. Shyly in the beginning. "Seal head!" my voice following my outstretched finger to a point fifty yards off where a Labrador-shaped cranium had poked out, quickly to duck back down. Then more aggressively. Three seals clearing the undulating plane in fluid synchronicity, a quintuplet barking in the wings, "Arrrhuuug! Arrrhuuug! Arrrhuuug!" Then ten more, not all at once, but sporadically here, here, there, there, way out there! A fin, a menacing fin, cutting along just off the bow � shark?! No, it rakes back too sharply � what?.... Whack! Whack! Whack! Pelicans. Pelicans hit the water unceremoniously � some have described them as mailsacks dropped by low flying planes. I disagree with this ignominious evaluation. Consider: pelicans don't "hit" the water � they plunge their necks three feet deep at the end of a steep, perfectly timed dive to fill their bilious, vacuuming submandibular membranes with unsuspecting prey, sometimes capturing enough to feed a small family, then hoist the catch in a seeming salute to the sky that hosts their kin while they toss the squirming, finny tribesmen down their gullets. One must offer the conjecture that a better method of fishing has never been evolved, but: No time to wonder � "Thar she blows!!!!" Brian leaned out over Faith's combing to ascertain the fact of his claim.