I started my morning-kayak a half hour later than other mornings. The Sea of Cortez is typically calm in the morning during this season. My kayak can glide over the silky surface of the water, my paddles making nigh a splash. It’s difficult to find quiet wide-open space in our overpopulated world, but here, far enough from shore, before the daily airplanes buzz over, I can enjoy the world as I imagine the whales, dolphins and fish experience it. Encompassing around 800 square miles in the Sea of Cortez, Loreto Bay National Park is one of Mexico’s greatest natural treasures. It’s home to five uninhabited islands and their surrounding islets, as well as submarine canyons, marine terraces, and an abundance of wildlife. This is my third visit to these treasured waters.
The wind blew all night, and hasn’t yet put its head down on a cloud pillow. So I kayak with chop. Heading south along the coast, I expect a smoother return trip. My paddles of the last few days are showing in my improved arm movement and increased strength, and it feels like I’m making headway. With my watch set on kayak, I measure the miles. Maybe I’ll do more than yesterday, despite the chop. I scan the horizon. Will there be dolphins today? Yesterday’s luck doesn’t hold, and it’s just me, the kayak, and the small waves against the wind. Not every day can hold a surprise encounter, I tell myself. I’ve already been close-up with blue whales and gray whales on this trip. I set my sights on a mountainous island in the distance. Will I reach it today? I paddle strong, but the island keeps receding despite the distance I cover. I remember from a year ago when I kayaked a 100 miles along this coast that distances on water are hard to estimate, orientation points elusive. The water looks uniform, wavelet after wavelet, moving in the same motion. You could call it boring. It’s like running on a treadmill, you run, the mile numbers stack up, but you’re not getting anywhere.
Life can feel monotonous: same routine, wake, eat, work, entertain, sleep. Every morning the women in this sleepy coastal town sweep the streets, the children’s treble voices bounce against the school’s playground pavement, the taxi drivers wash their cars waiting for clients, the bakery sells out of bread by 11:00 am. Nothing happening and yet so much. Nothing happening on my kayak journey. When will my muscles tire? Dip, push, turn, dip, push, turn, I move the paddles. Despite covering over 2 miles, the island still appears far off.
The wind is increasing. I decide I’d better turn around and kayak with a tail wind. Leave the island for another time. Turning my kayak, I pick a new distant point, Coronado island. Angling my kayak, I try to avoid rolling in the waves. I drink and rest, but the wind grows stronger and waves approach. No tailwind to push me. What happened? Did the wind turn? The tide is going out, the wind is from NE. If I knew more about tides, wind and water, I could have predicted this turn.
I paddle. My kayak keeps veering toward shore. Waves have reached a height of one and a half feet. Big enough that I have to pay attention to keep my direction or risk getting wet. This kayak lacks a skirt for a dry hull. It’s now just me, the wind and the water measuring each other up. I can do this, I tell myself. The paddling is no longer boring; it takes skill and attention. Last year I paddled in 4 foot waves and did okay. As I round the corner of the bay, I see a cluster of palm trees in the distance; the housing complex where I am staying is among those palms. The wind picks up even more.
Every four or five strokes, the waves are two feet high. A wave splashes over my boat and I am soaked! I have to avoid this; I have no bailing cup in the boat. Reading the wave pattern, I remember how smaller waves end up amplifying into a few big ones, then settle into smaller ones, then amplify, as if the sea is breathing. So I point my bow east away from shore every few strokes and into the bigger waves, then move over the smaller one to the north. This becomes my way of making headway. Another wave splashes into my boat. I think of my father who taught me about water and waves. I wish he could see me now. He never had such an easy to maneuver kayak, just a wooden open sea canoe. Images of people moving canoes across open seas arise. What drew them to venture out besides hunger and a thirst for adventure? I ponder migrants in small boats crossing seas. People will risk so much to leave a nasty home situation. As I wrestle with the waves, my DNA speaks to me. Water can be terrifying, but this water is clear. I can see to the bottom, so not so deep. If the sea gets too rough, I can get to shore. I am okay out here. My arms keep moving because they must. Just as my legs keep moving when I’m on a long hike. The body's potential exceeds the mind's awareness.
I am now parallel with the shore where I set out two hours ago. A flock of pelicans fly over in perfect V-formation. They know how because their DNA is telling them. I paddle past the docking beach and turn my kayak around so the waves can push me to shore. Rolling on top of the waves, I make a soft landing on the sandy bottom. One change in the elements and a nothing-happening morning turns into an adventure.
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Nothing like a bit of ‘fission’ to enhance an experience and lead to wonderful writing! Pleased you made it back OK.
Beautifully written, Dami! Your descriptions are captivating -- some wonderful experiences. Thank you for sharing them with us, your readers.