In the late 1980s, I helped my brother-in-law sail Drifters, his Cal 34, from Mission Bay, San Diego CA down the coast of Baja California to Cabo san Lucas.
He planned to explore the Sea of Cortez, then head down the western coast of Mexico and Central America to the Panama canal. Once through the canal, he planned to explore the Caribbean for a couple of years; and, perhaps, even spend the rest of his life there.
On an early December afternoon, we motored west out of Mission Bay. The weather was calm, almost windless. When we were clear of the south jetty, we headed down the coast toward Point Loma and on through the channel between the Guadalupe Islands and Baja coast. Once out of the lee of the islands, we raised the sails, shut down the diesel and sailed south.
The sailing was pretty uneventful as we headed down the coast of Mexico toward Ensenada and on to Punta Banda, where we would head out and across the first shallow bight between Punta Banda and Isla San Martin. However, as we got past the protection of the coastal islands off Southern California, the big Pacific Ocean swells started rolling in un-impeded, hitting the coast and apparently reflecting back to meet other swells approaching the coast. It was interesting, and a little frightening, kind of like The Wedge in Newport Beach, CA where the waves roll in, hit the north jetty at an angle, and bounce back at an oblique angle to form a huge wall of water just waiting to crunch an unwary body surfer...or, in this case off the coast of Baja, a 33' sailboat.
We had planned to sail non-stop by dead reckoning going from island to island and point to point across the large bights until we reached Land's End and the protected harbor just around the cape; but, the confusing array of big swells, contrary currents, and occasional rain squalls that hit us as we crossed the bight between Isla san Martin and Isla Cedros forced us to head for the calmer waters in the lee of Isla Cedros where we could anchor for the night and use the opportunity to rest, re-group, and formulate a new plan. As we approached the northern tip of Isla Cedros, we saw a small sailing yacht heading north under auxillary power. They were motoring straight into wind and waves that were now thankfully at our back. As they passed off our port side, I watched them plow into one big swell after another and was glad to be sailing the opposite direction into calmer water.
The weather forecasts coming via the marine radio were pessimistic, so we decided to head down the protected side of Isla Cedros, slip through the channel between the southern end of the island and the mainland, then head the short distance down the mainland coast and into the well protected waters of Bahia Tortugas.
After anchoring in the bay, we paid our respects to the local port authority and headed into the village to buy some fresh tortillas, eggs, chiles, and cerveza. We had scrambled eggs with sautéed chiles wrapped up in tortillas washed down with good Mexican beer for dinner that night...and, for the next morning's breakfast as well.
Later in the afternoon of our second day in the bay, as we sat on deck just starting in on a gallon jug of cheap red wine brought down from San Diego, the pongas started motoring back into the bay with their "catch of the day" destined for the co-op cannery on the waterfront. Some of the pongas would approach the yachts to offer fresh seafood for sale to the yachties, and one approached our boat as well.
The older guy of two in the ponga held up a lobster in each hand. My brother-in-law began speaking to the guy in what sounded to me like pretty good Spanish. My Spanish was a bit rusty (to say the least, even though I was born and raised in So. Calif., for some reason I took French and Latin in high school) so I didn't have the foggiest notion what they were saying. All of a sudden both guys in the ponga started tossing live lobsters into the cockpit of the sailboat. It startled the hell out of me and must have caught my brother-in-law off guard too. He started frantically waving his arms and yelling, "No mas! No mas! No mas!"
By the time everything settled down, we had over a dozen angry lobsters crawling around the bottom of the cockpit. After a few more exchanges in fatally fractured Spanish, my brother-in-law was able get out the necessary question, "Cuanto cuesta?"
The head ponga guy pointed at our partially consumed jug of wine. My brother-in-law looked over at me with a "...OK if we let 'em each take a swig or two from the jug before we negotiate the cost of the lobsters?" look on his face. I shrugged my shoulders in a "...'s OK with me." sorta gesture. Neither of us was ready for what happened next. The older guy took the jug of wine, set it down in the ponga, and with a friendly wave and a "Gracias," he pushed off and headed the ponga toward the pier jutting out from the cannery, leaving us standing there staring down at a bunch of bugs crawling all over each other trying to climb out of the cockpit. It was time to get down to serious business.
We put a big pot on the stove, dropped a bucket over the side to fetch some sea water, filled the pot, fired up the stove and started chasing lobsters around the cockpit to grab 'em and toss 'em into the boiling water. I've always understood the lobster dies instantly and painlessly when it hits the water and the sound one hears is only trapped air escaping. I don't know, it sounded a lot like a stuck pig "squealing" in pain to me; but, it only lasted for a second or two, so I put it out of mind.
For the next three days we ate lobster for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Huevos con lobster, lobster tacos, lobster enchiladas, just plain ol' naked lobster drizzled with chile butter. I wasn't able to look at, let alone eat, a lobster for the next couple of years.
I spent part of my last day in Turtle Bay sitting on the pier learning some Spanish from the younger guy in the lobster ponga while he learned some English from me. Before I left to continue my journey south, he was able to tell me in English I could understand far better than he could understand my Spanish that he was working his way north to "El Norte" to join his family in Southern California. I wished him a safe journey and good fortune.
After four days in Turtle Bay, the weather had cleared and we decided to continue our journey to Cabo. We motored out of the bay early next morning, raised the sails, and headed south once again down the coast of Baja and on to the next bight.
The bights of Baja Sur are much longer and wider than those of the northern coast, taking our course further off shore. On the northern bights, we shared the water mostly with Mexican fishing boats. Now, the only other boats we saw were the huge cruise ships that sail up and down the coast of Baja and Mexico between Los Angeles and Acapulco. They would sail straight toward our stern and, at what seemed the last moment, bear off to pass on our starboard side. It was a little worrisome each time one would approach, but through radio contact we knew they were aware of our presence.
The only other signs of life we saw, besides ourselves, were albatross and dolphin. We could see the birds circling high overhead and the dolphins would occasionally play off our bow and bob their heads out of the water in what seemed a friendly greeting from one fellow mammal to another. I had hoped we would see migrating whales as they headed south to their breeding grounds in Bahia Magdalena, but unfortunately we didn't see any.
On day eight, we rounded the rocks off Cabo san Lucas and headed the short distance to the harbor entrance and shelter from the sea. We anchored late in the afternoon, slept on the boat that night and made our way early the next day to, once again, pay our respects to the local port authorities. We spent the entire morning in the Port of Entry office...Mexican beaurocracy can be a very slow and tedious process.
After spending a few days in Cabo eating, drinking and spending the last of my pesos on souviners, my brother-in-law hired a taxi to drive us to the airport in San Jose del Cabo to catch my plane ride to Tiajuana. The flight back was on a small passenger jet with no first class area and an open view into the cockpit. The ride was pretty bumpy at times, but the pilot and co-pilot seemed to have things fairly well under control. Once we landed, I hitched a ride across the border with two fellow sailors who dropped me off at the Quivera Anchorage parking lot where my sailing venture had begun two weeks before. With some difficulty, I started up the balky engine on my old Ford van and headed back home to Poway, a little envious of my brother-in-law. My adventure was over, his was just beginning...
Postscript: While Ken did spend a couple of years exploring the Sea of Cortez and the western coast of Mexico, he never made it through the Panama Canal to the Caribbean. He lived in Guaymas, Mexico for awhile, sold his sailboat there, and moved to a small town somewhere along the Gulf Coast of Texas.
Copyright © 2008, by Rich McCormack
Send comments and questions to macknet@pacbell.net
