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Crossing the Sea of Cortez
There was no mistaking what I just heard. I turned and instantly saw it. It was chilling to be so close, the sheer size; the shape of the fin; the water glistening on its smooth, rounded, grey back. But mainly, it was the sound of the air escaping its huge lungs that was so startling. How can a living breathing creature be so massive? Then it was gone. The encounter lasted barely fifteen seconds but the images of that Finback whale were playing in my memory as vividly as an IMAX movie. Its incredible mass gave the illusion that it was moving in slow motion. That, coupled with the intensity of the experience made me feel like time had been warped and stretched. When I looked over my other shoulder at long-time friend and kayaking partner Dan Heidenreich, I could instantly tell he just had the same kind of experience.
The Finback is the second largest species of whale. Only the Blue is larger. Adult Finbacks commonly reach eighty feet in length and weigh one hundred twenty thousand pounds. When they surface and spout-off, a twenty five foot tall mushroom cloud of spray quickly rises up then slowly dissipates. I was only forty feet away from this one in a sixteen foot, sixty pound kayak.
Soon we realized the encounter was not over. This one was only the first in a pod of whales. We were all traveling in the same general direction as the Finbacks surfaced one by one. I felt surrounded, my eyes darting back and forth in an effort to keep track of them. Just as it seemed they had moved on, I spotted one last whale. This maverick was coming straight at us off the port bow! At a distance of sixty feet it gently dove, but continued on its course, fully visible through the clear water of the Sea of Cortez. By the time it passed under my kayak it had transformed into a massive school bus sized silhouette about twenty feet below. I sat motionless for several minutes trying to fully absorb what had just happened. Moments before, we were quietly paddling along, miles from shore, just specks on the vast surface. Was it coincidence that in this expansive sea a group of whales surfaced right next to us? I’m convinced these massive animals have a keen awareness of their surroundings, and a good bit of curiosity!
Our journey started four days earlier in the small coastal village of San Carlos, Mexico. It is a stunningly beautiful place situated midway down the mainland shore of the Sea of Cortez. Oscar Berven, a former climbing partner who had washed down out of the mountains of Colorado several years ago, agreed to assist Dan and me in a kayak crossing of the sea along the Midriff Islands. Oscar, now living in San Carlos, had become an accomplished sailor and was willing to deliver us to our starting point aboard Bombay, his thirty four foot sloop. Not only that, he would periodically check-in along the way and pick us up at our finishing point on the Baja coast. Dan and I felt much better about our chances for success with Oscar on-board. We loaded up our kayaks, strapped them to the foredeck of the boat, and set sail for Bahia Kino sixty miles up the coast. An overnight voyage brought us to this picturesque beach town and the starting point for the crossing.
The remote central section of the Sea of Cortez contains the Midriff Island group. A chain of three uninhabited islands; Tiburon, San Esteban, and San Lorenzo are fairly evenly spaced and provided a logical crossing route. Each day we traversed a wide channel to the next landmass. It felt like we had the whole region to ourselves. In the four days of paddling we saw no other kayaks and only a handful of pangas, the small open boats used by local fishermen.
This path to the Baja Peninsula covers seventy four miles if measured point to point. The reality is that the combined effects of wind and current can easily add another twenty miles of paddling to the total. Tidal information for this region is very unreliable. The huge eddies created by the islands result in tide flows that are sometimes just the opposite of what is expected. In fact, the Spanish explorers named one of the nearby channels Salsipuedes (leave if you can) because of its difficult and powerful tides. Weather information is sparse in the Midriff region. There is a morning broadcast on short-wave radio but it’s only good for general weather trends. Our route’s daily channel crossings, which ranged from fourteen to twenty two miles, left us vulnerable to the region’s unpredictable conditions.
We were adrift off Punta Ignacio at the north end of Kino Bay in rolling two foot swells when Dan and I lowered our kayaks off Bombay. We discussed the start of the journey as we settled into our boats. A decision was made to head to shore, tap our paddles on a rock outcrop, then turn and head-off toward Tiburon Island. This symbolic gesture marked the beginning of four incredible days of challenge and discovery. It also welled up strong feelings of anxiety and anticipation. We both knew there would be difficulties ahead, but just how bad could it get? I had visions of kayak swallowing tidal maelstroms, shark encounters, and gale-force Chubasco winds and their accompanying huge, breaking waves. This uneasiness slowly subsided as I settled in and began concentrating on my paddling rhythm and efficiency.
The eighteen mile crossing to Dog Bay on Tiburon Island started off well enough with gently rolling seas and light wind. The first thing I noticed was the increased stability that resulted from a fully loaded kayak. We both had food, water and equipment to survive independently for a week. All this cargo provided about sixty pounds of ballast. The second thing I noticed was the increased effort it took to move all this weight through the water. I knew it would require somewhere around one hundred thousand paddle strokes to reach our ultimate destination on the Baja coast. Efficiency had to be a key component in our strategy.
Paddling in the open sea was a new experience for us. Up to this point, we had kayaked mostly on rivers and lakes or along protected coasts. During the Midriff crossing we experienced a variety of conditions. We paddled everything from the smooth, silky, gently rolling surface along the protected north shore of San Esteban Island, to the six foot wind driven breaking waves on our way to Dog Bay. These are the “white horses” sailors talk about. The troughs were so deep that Dan and I would completely lose sight of each other when a swell came between us. With these random breaking waves all around, I knew it was just a matter of time before my number was up. Then it happened. A large wave approaching from the port side just seemed to stand up, the face getting wider and steeper. By the time it reached me it had become a vertical wall looming well above my head. I responded by quickly driving my paddle blade into the face of the wave and pulling through with a solid powerful stroke. This maneuver provided stability as the crest of the wave crashed down. I was wet, but very pleased with the overall outcome. I felt completely stable throughout the dousing. The earlier uneasiness of coping with these large waves evolved into shouts of joy as Dan and I rode up and down the swells. We had become completely comfortable in these seemingly inhospitable conditions. Much of the credit goes to the design of our Prijon kayaks. They were developed for these situations and were performing flawlessly.
The GPS informed us that, even in the rough seas, we were traveling at over two and one half knots. Sure, we were putting forth considerable effort, but we also carefully managed our energy levels. We stayed hydrated and munched on energy bars whenever our strength began to ebb. Steady progress was being made toward Dog Bay and our rendezvous with Bombay.
Communicating over the VHF radio required that we name our kayaks. Dan’s red Kodiak became “Redbeard” and my white Seayak I christened “Whitebeard”. As we approached Isla Tiburon the radio crackled to life. “Redbeard Redbeard this is Bombay, over.” Dan answered and found that Oscar was comfortably at anchor in the protected waters of Dog Bay. He was also preparing our dinner and had just cracked open a bottle of Cabernet. This level of service was way beyond our expectations! Later, aboard Bombay, we discussed the day’s events with Oscar as we sipped wine and re-fueled on carne asada. We had paddled just over eighteen miles in seven and one half hours. So far so good I thought. But I was secretly hoping for easier days ahead. I was just not sure I could keep up this pace for the rest of the crossing.
One of the most interesting aspects of our journey was the frequent interaction we had with marine life. Every day we were captivated by one or more encounters. Maybe the most poetic was when I crossed paths with a black shark. We had just left the shoreline of Tiburon Island and entered the San Esteban channel when I noticed a tail and dorsal fin wallowing back and forth in the water in front of my kayak. I was able to get a close up view as it slowly passed right in front of my boat. The shark was only about four feet long, but I could not help wondering how many relatives it had in the area. After all, we had just left the shore of Isla Tiburon (Shark Island). As it turned out, this was the only shark sighting we had during the entire crossing.
The channel between Tiburon and San Esteban provided more entertainment from the locals. About half way across, almost ten miles from either shore, a feeling of isolation settled in. We stopped briefly to discuss how we would address a problematic tidal current when we heard splashing and saw a few dolphins coming toward us. They appeared to be on a mission. Swimming incredibly fast, they would jump completely out of the water flying through the air in a low arc. They all traveled the same direction and speed as they continued on their way. Incredibly, within a minute, we were surrounded by nearly a hundred. The huge group split as they approached us and rejoined after passing, keeping a distance of about twenty feet. Interestingly, they paid little or no attention to us. They never slowed to get a better look or showed any curiosity. It was like being in the middle of a stampede but instead of some exotic herd in the Serengeti kicking up dust, we had dolphins kicking up ocean spray.
Later that day, I hiked up from our camp on San Esteban Island to a ridge with an incredible view of the channel we had just crossed. We paddled over twenty two miles that day. The first four were along the south shore of Tiburon Island. The highest peaks on the distant island appeared on the horizon and the vast expanse of the channel was spread out before me. As I was retracing our path I noticed what seemed to be waves appearing and subsiding in a large portion of channel to the north of our route. The sight struck me as odd. The waves just didn’t look right. They were random like raindrops on the smooth surface of a pond, but strangely unlike anything I had ever seen. Then it all quickly made sense. I was able to make out the silhouette of one of the “waves” in the foreground. It was a dolphin, jumping completely out of the water, exactly like those we had seen up close earlier in the day! My gaze continued into the distance, as I tried to comprehend what I was seeing. There were hundreds and hundreds of dolphin migrating south, appearing and disappearing as they launched up and dove back into the sea.
I was astounded by the marine life this environment manages to support after many years of commercial fishing. Sea Watch, an organization dedicated to the protection of the Sea of Cortez, claims that this sea is “at least ninety percent depleted”. Imagine these waters four hundred years ago during the era of Spanish exploration. In the days before shrimp fleets, gill nets, long-line fishing and fish traps. Both the diversity and quantity of sea life must have been incredible. Even in a marine environment under assault, we had encounters with seals and sea lions, pelicans, manta rays, yellow fin tuna, and of course the dolphins and finback whales. All were unforgettable experiences.
The greatest challenge Dan and I faced during the Cortez crossing took place after witnessing the dolphins. Our GPS units were indicating a wide discrepancy between our heading and bearing. In other words, our boats were pointing toward our destination but we were tracking far to the north. We made regular adjustments to our heading in an effort to make landfall on the south east coast of San Esteban Island. Unfortunately, each incremental change we made was negated by increased current and wind. The closer we approached, the harder we paddled, and the more powerful the elements became. This situation continued for several miles until I began to doubt that we would be able to hit the small island at all. I became concerned that the tide flow and wind might carry us into the open sea north of the Midriffs!
The radio came to life again. Oscar informed us that he was in a tenuous anchorage on the south east coast of San Esteban. He was worried that if the winds continued to increase, he would need to bail out and sail to the nearest safe anchorage. The problem being, that anchorage was on the Baja coast over thirty miles away. We radioed back that we would be trying to make landfall on the north east shore about two miles from him. We would attempt to rendezvous later when conditions improved.
Paddling those last couple of miles to San Esteban took incredible effort. It was like being on a liquid treadmill. It took all my energy to get the GPS to read one and a half knots. I was paddling almost parallel to the shoreline, but I had to or face the prospect of being carried far north of the island. I put my head down and sprinted the last few hundred yards to a small protected cove on the north east shore. Totally exhausted, I looked back to see how Dan was doing. He was gone! I had told myself before we began this trip that above all, make sure we stay together. I looked again and finally spotted his paddle blades out on the horizon bobbing up and down in perfect rhythm. He appeared to be ok, but I had serious doubts that he could make landfall where I was. Without hesitation I left the sanctuary of the cove and paddled downwind to meet up with him.
It took no time to reach Dan with the push from wind and current. He was in good shape, making slow but steady progress. From this new perspective farther north in the channel we could see a fairly large protected bay on the north shore. We decided to abandon our planned landing and head straight west then turn south when we reached the calmer waters on the north side of the Island. This strategy worked perfectly. After less than thirty minutes of paddling we glided up to the beach, hauled out the kayaks, and picked out a comfortable camping spot in the shade of a giant cordon cactus. According to GPS we covered over twenty miles. I was feeling like I had paddled double that.
Once again the radio came to life. Oscar was calling as he rounded the point on the east side of the bay. He had been blown out of his anchorage and was being forced to head to the Baja. We let him know we were in good shape and wished him well on his evening sail to Bahia San Francisquito.
Long distance paddling like this has a lot in common with other activities that require a high level of endurance. It is paramount that a sustainable pace be set. Dan and I both have had experiences over the years that taught us to closely monitor our energy reserves. Eventually you learn there is a line that you must not cross because if you go beyond that point, your power and endurance decrease dramatically. In this situation it could have become a truly serious matter. I was not surprised that Dan was just fine when we reunited. He knew how hard to push and was setting a pace that he could maintain.
It turned out that my hope for easier paddling conditions was not to be realized until the second half of the trip. Our final two open water crossings of the San Lorenzo Channel and the Channel of the Ballenas were relatively easy. Distances were still substantial but calmer seas and slack tides made a huge difference. The steady rhythmic paddling, mile after mile, was almost a trance inducing experience. It was very peaceful, like a slow steady migration. By the fourth day, both mind and body had fully adapted to the routine. It felt like I had struck a chord with some nomadic experience deep rooted in my ancestry.
Oscar paid us a brief visit shortly after we made landfall on San Lorenzo Island. There were no anchorages on the island so the only option was a “drive-by”. He sailed up to within a hundred yards of shore and radioed in to ask if we needed anything. Dan and I looked at each other and smiled. We knew there were ample supplies in Bombay’s galley. “How about an ice cold six pack of Modelo Especial?” I asked. “No problem” was the reply. I paddled out and made what Dan called “a beer run for the ages”. The cerveza didn’t have a chance to get warm as we sat on the beach and watched Bombay glide silently away toward Bahia San Francisquito.
As broad as the crossing route was, it was also very deep in spots. The last channel we paddled, between San Lorenzo Island and Bahia San Francisquito on the Baja, was the deepest. About one third of the way across, near where we encountered the whales, the depth exceeded five thousand feet. I joked with Dan that “This would be a bad place to drop the car keys!” These depths, combined with the strong tidal currents provide the perfect habitat for the krill that whales feed on. Hence the area’s Spanish name Canal de las Ballenas (Channel of the Whales).
This final day of paddling presented us with the short fourteen mile crossing to the Baja coast and the end of our kayaking journey. It was a day that rewarded us with perfect weather, whales and slack tides. At the mouth of Bahia San Francisquito as we negotiated a short section of choppy water Dan and I heard a huge splash behind us. We quickly turned around and saw the last moments of a whale breaching one hundred yards behind us. How perfect that at the end of our journey, we were rewarded with a farewell gesture like this. The last mile brought us into the bay, past Oscar’s anchorage and finally to calm waters near a small cobblestone beach. We paddled up, hauled out our boats, and briefly celebrated our success. Afterward, I silently gazed back across the sea, replaying the trip in my mind. It was a sublime moment filled with deep satisfaction but it also had an underlying note of melancholy that I did not expect. This came from knowing that I would soon be returning to a life in Colorado far away from the marine environment that I had quickly become so intimate with. Away from the challenges and discoveries the sea offered. I felt so alive during those four days. The journey raised my level of awareness and sharpened my senses. I just wanted to keep paddling!
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3 years ago
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