On the Sea of Cortez

Tuesday 9th April - Monday 15th April

Somehow, we made it through the night. I can't say I helped all that much, except perhaps providing somnolent moral support from the bench in the cockpit. I find this support role is often undervalued. In any case, as glad as I was that we had survived the night, I realised we still had the crossing of the Sea of Cortez to contend with at some point.

One of many isolated, luxurious, and under-used resorts in Baja. I'm told they exist mainly to launder money.

Sunset in Puerto Ballandra

After sailing through some of the early morning, we anchored in a tranquil little bay, Ensenada Blanca, and ended up spending two nights there to rest up. The first night we were buffetted by more strong winds, but the next night was quiet as. When we got going again on Wednesday, we headed for one of Jay's favourite little anchorages, Puerto Ballandra, with its pristine white sandy beaches. We anchored for the night, and spent the next day cleaning the propellor and the hull of the boat of all the barnacles and muck that had developed over 4 months in the La Paz harbour.

I was rewarded that night with one of the most beautiful things I have seen in a long time. After dark, I heard a splash and went outside to look with my headlamp. I didn't need any light though, as all around the boat, I saw these faint flashes of green light in the water. As my eyes became accustomed to it, it looked like flashes of lightning within a cloud, but dim and faint and ghostly and green. It was fish swimming around the boat, playing with each other, and causing activation of the beautiful phosphorescence in the water I had seen a couple of nights ago. Some left sharp tracks of green, like shooting stars, others echoed ghostly fish shapes, and some were just a blur. It so beautiful. I can't remember how long I was mesmerised by this underwater firework display.

Sunrise over Isla Carmen

Back in Loreto... what the hell?? I was there on my bike a month or two ago.

The next day we motored over to Loreto to get supplies, and enjoyed going at 5-6kts rather than the 2-3kts we had been getting, thanks to our work in cleaning the boat. We headed up to a nearby anchorage, San Juanica, for the night. The next morning, Saturday, we heard a good weather forecast for the crossing. We had been sticking to the Baja coast, and waiting to get a good weather window to cross over to the other side. Today was the day. It was time to cross the Sea of Cortez.

We set off, and had a good wind to start with. It was 10-15kts and we went along at a good 5-7kts purely under sail. It was a postcard for sailing. At one point some dolphins even swam towards the boat, and when we made some noise by yelling at slapping the side of the boat, they reacted joyfully by leaping high into the air one at a time. It so cool to see them react to us like that!

Some rock formations at San Juanico

Like a boss.

Night fell, and as I watched the crescent moon sink towards the horizon, not long after the sun, I felt much better prepared for this all-night crossing. We took turns at the helm again, and I managed to take a much larger share of the watches than before. There was even a moment, when, steering the boat through the dark ocean using stars near the horizon as landmarks, I actually felt like a sailor.

We arrived in San Carlos the next day, and spent a night there in the beautiful harbour before heading south to Guaymas where Jay intended to haul the boat out. We had done it! We had made the crossing, which had turned out to be much easier than we thought, with none of the crazy winds we had had the first night, and I was finally on the mainland. It was a truly incredible week spent learning to sail, visiting pristine beaches, and experiencing life on the ocean. I was super stoked, and couldn't have predicted how great this 'hitching a ride' would turn out to be!

The 'face' in the rocks at San Carlos.

Not a bad sight at the end of a long journey.

Winds of fortune

Sunday 7th April - Monday 8th April

I have had this romantic notion of being on the sea, which I think is probably the vague product of various stories from books, friends, and strangers. The picture in my head is one of a world removed from the everyday, where there is a deep and necessary connection to the ocean, born of an an immersion in it and dependence on it for success and survival. Weather and fortune determine which of the two will be your goal for the day, and it can vary wildly and quickly from one to the other. The experience of life at sea also sounded so different from what the life I knew. Time slows down, progress is measured in days, rather than hours, and the sky, the sea, and the life that inhabit them - from the bizarre to the magical to the downright dull - become your reality. The next 7 days at sea were to fulfill some of these romantic notions, and dispel others.

The night before we set off, Jay and I had a nervous dinghy ride in choppy water with my bike balanced precariously on the prow. The image of my bike falling off and sinking to the bottom, and the idea of what I would do if that were to occur, were not pleasant to contemplate. However we made it to the boat without incident, and soon Derek was strapped to safely to the deck of Wind Raven, an Islander 44'.

Derek, on the deck of Wind Raven, and holding on tight.

Home for the next week.

I wasn't the only Australian on board!

Jay, and La Paz in the distance

The next morning Sunday, we set off under beautiful but windless weather, so we ended up motoring a lot of the way. It turned out the propeller was fouled for some reason, and we went much slower than planned. As a result, we didn't get to a good anchorage by night, and Jay decided to sail through the night, as he had done many times before. Before night fell, I enjoyed a beautiful sunset, watching the manta rays jumping out of the water. They jump up, sometimes metres into the air, flip, and land with a slap. This amazing sight, described by some as like watching popcorn, is apparently to rid themselves of parasites. So cool. As dark fell I was excited to see some of the phosphorescence in the water I had heard so much about. There was faint green glow to the water where it is churned up by the boat, and it it has this supernatural quality that made me just keep staring at it.

Wind Raven's big sail

Derek getting splashed with seawater. Hm. Beginning to wonder about the wisdom of taking my bike to sea for a week.

You will have to imagine the manta rays and phosphorescence. They are really hard to photograph.

That night we took turns at the helm, with Jay taking a much greater part than I. In the early hours of the next morning, the winds really picked up. It got up to around 30kts at times, and I didn't feel confident sailing through the San Jose channel, at night, with those winds, and with my experience. So I left much of the sailing to Jay. I was amazed at how little any of that seemed to bother him. I particularly remember one moment several hours before dawn, when, with my life-jacket and safety harness on, strapped to the deck with a safety line, I was woken up by yet another large wave crashing onto the boat. I remember looking up and seeing Jay, sailing as if it were still a sunny calm afternoon, as if he hadn't missed a wink of sleep. Respect dude, I thought, I could definitely not do that. 

As fatigue began to overtake me again, I wondered how wise this whole gambit had been. I was here, in the middle of the night, strapped to the deck of a boat in a windstorm, with a fibreglass hull and this guy who I hardly know as the only things standing between me and the bottom of the ocean.

Somehow, I fell asleep.

The La Paz Waltz

Monday 1st April - Saturday 6th April

I was back in La Paz it was time to continue my journey. It took a little while, for a few reasons, I suppose. Leaving is never easy, and leaving has been getting harder and harder for me, after more than a year on the road. Perhaps that's why, when I try to think of that week, I can't help but think of the La Paz Waltz. The local sailors use this to describe how in the La Paz harbour, the current pulls the boats one way, and the prevailing winds pull the boats the other, so they end up doing this back and forth thing. Amongst other things, it ends up twisting the anchor chains.

To get to the mainland, I was determined to hitch a ride. The ferry is certainly the easiest way out, but handing over $90 to get on a big old ferry just didn't appeal to me much. I love sailing and wanted to crew or hitch on a boat across. The problem was, the season was over for that crossing. I decided I would give myself a week, and if I couldn't find anything, I would take the ferry. I couldn't wait forever.

The sea calls!

So I spent the week amongst the salties at the wharf, asking around, getting on the VHF radio every morning for announcements, hoping for a response. When I wasn't doing that, I had time to do some more ambassador work. I had the great pleasure of meeting Barbara Spencer, who runs Care For Kids La Paz. Her organisation is geared towards giving children access to a good education. I knew of some of the troubles kids have getting access to education, but she revealed some novel aspects to me. Like how some families have such limited resources, all they can provide some children for a some meals is some sugared water. Imagine going to school and trying to concentrate on that! Add to that unmotivated teachers, and poorly equipped classrooms, and it's a wonder kids stay in school at all. Care for Kids organises wholesome breakfasts three times per week, scholarship programs for education costs, and other types of support. Barbara also runs the organisation pretty much single-handedly! She's a saint and it was cool to see what she does.

One of my last sunsets in La Paz

I had farewelled Elsa on Friday, as she had managed to hitch a ride north with someone from the marina, but I was getting desperate as I had had no offers, and my alotted week was nearly up. I had however seen a notice from someone called Jay, who was heading across the Sea of Cortez, but a long way north - to San Carlos. This was out of the way, and north instead of south... but it was a ride. And on a sailboat. And I could easily hitch or bus south from there to Mazatlan, where the ferry from La Paz goes. Well, easier than getting over the gulf anyway!

Sometimes the adventure takes you where it will, I figured, and sometimes adventure is letting something else choose the next direction, be it the toss of a coin, or the way the wind blows. It seemed as though the wind was blowing north. I told Jay yes, he said we leave in the morning, and I packed my things.

Last night in La Paz! Saying goodbye to, from right to left: Joel, Julia, the author, Greg (fellow bike tourist), and Pastora (Joel's friend).

Loop the loop

Saturday 23rd March - Sunday 31st March

My five day mini-tour south was so much fun, I was really looking forward to doing it again - this time in a car, and with friends. Elsa arrived on Saturday, and as Joel had lent us his car, our plan was to drive from La Paz to Cabo via Todos Santos, to meet with Elsa's friends, and then back up to La Paz via Cabo Pulmo. This was pretty much the same trip as I had done on a bicycle, but in reverse.

We planned to camp most of the time, and we kicked off by doing just that at the nearby beach Tecolote. The next day we headed south, and our first stop was a beer at the Hotel California in Todos Santos. THE Hotel California! Afterwards, I wanted to check out a place that locals and travellers alike had told me about, usually in hushed tones, a beautiful secluded beach not far from TS. I had come across a place where I thought it might be while I was cycling, and wanted to check it out a little more. It turned out to be the right place, and when we got there we had the place to ourselves. There was a natural freshwater spring bubbling up from behind the beach, running across it before it met the ocean. It was literally an oasis, exactly as you might dream it. I kid you not, wild horses actually roam the beach and the huge grove of palm trees just behind it. Rugged hills hemmed it in north and south, making the dirt road in the only access. It was amazing!

You can check in any time you like

The hidden beach

Horses. For realz.

Not bad.

We continued on, had delicious pizza in a strangely authentic Italian place in Pescadero, and ended up camping on a beach in Cerritos. It turned out we camped for free right next to a hacienda perched on a hill where guests were paying $500/night! Ah the serenity. The next day we continued on to Cabo San Lucas and stayed with my friend Lisa there, before meeting up with Elsa's friends Camila and Anna in San Jose del Cabo.

Camila and Elsa. Such tourists.

We all spent the next few days shuttling from the hotel to various beaches and bars in Los Cabos. We did the obligatory boat tour to Los Arcos, hung out on La Playa del Amor, but eschewed the rest of the Cabo extravangance (parasailing, partying, diving, sailing, etc, etc, etc) and enjoyed doing very little except lying on the beach, and checking out all the crazy rock formations around the cape.

Elsa on the Playa del Amor and some Cabo craziness in the background: cruise ships, sailboats, tours, etc.

h00t!

Half alien head thing.

Rock Ghost watching people below.

Frieeeeends?

I have this strangely emotive memory of standing in the 'window to the Pacific', a cool little cave portal with a sandy bottom, which connects the Pacific Ocean and Sea of Cortez, through the headland. After swimming to it, I was standing with one foot in either sea, acutely aware that the powerful and unpredictable surge into the cave, particularly from the Pacific side, could drag me out or dash me against the rocks. I edged closer through the portal towards the Pacific side, feeling the force of the waves through that narrow portal increasing with every step. I was compelled, drawn to get a view of Los Arcos through there, a view of the swell of the Pacific, and this compulsion was so strangely strong, I just had to keep going. Inch by inch I moved along, until I just caught a glimpse of the base of the arches, and the fierce swell guarding it. In that brief moment, that brief contact, I had this sensation of not just looking through to the other side, but almost to another world. It was like being close enough to almost touch this vast, powerful, and mysterious entity, which was more like the centre of something, or the nature of it, than a physical thing, something as clearly beautiful to be close to you, to behold, as it was clearly fatal to touch, to know. So strange... I did not reach out to touch it. I swam back.

The window to the Pacific

The portal up close-up, at low tide

Los Arcos, The Arches

We farewelled Camila and Anna, and started the return trip to La Paz. It was a rough and rocky road there up the coast to Cabo Pulmo, and we had to go fairly slow the whole way. We saw many people camped on the remote beaches, clearly appreciating the solitude that the difficult access grants. We in turn were rewarded with a beautiful snorkel session at Cabo Pulmo, famous for being the northernmost extent of reef in the Americas. As close as 50m from the beach, and in a couple of metres of water we saw an impressive array of beautiful fish and marine life. Sunset hurried us back to the car, and to the road, and warmed our faces on the drive home to La Paz.

The road to Cabo Pulmo

Cabo Pulmo coast

It was strange, being able to compare a bike tour with a car tour so directly. It's amazing just how much you see on a bike, and how much a part of your surroundings you feel on a bike, compared to being in a vehicle. It's partly the lack of a barrier between you and the reality of the world around you. The surface of the road, the shape of the land, the wind, the heat, the grass, the trees, the dust... they are no longer things just to see, distant from them, but something to be felt, you are connected to them, and constantly - not just when you step out of the car for a moment. It's something you can only really experience if you are cycling, or perhaps walking. I guess this is why it's important to choose where you ride, and why I find riding through urban/industrial areas so miserable. It's also partly the time thing. Cycling can feel slow sometimes - largely because it is - but having that time to really take things in, really absorb, think about, and reflect on where you are... it changes the experience completely. Things that are an hour apart on a bike, fly by within minutes in a vehicle. It just can't be the same. In a very simple way, its like sipping a good wine, rather than downing it. Perhaps closer to the mark, it's like carefully hand-stitching something you could sew with a machine. The result may look the same, but it's the consciousness, the care, that makes the difference. It's a fundamental shift. Particularly when what you're sewing may be memory, or experience itself.

Two seas (Seeing stars)

Thursday 21th - Friday 22th March

The next day on the road it feels as though I had just kept riding from the previous day. The wind is still hot and pushing me back. The hills still roll before me. I am still tired. It's like I haven't slept, or haven't rested at all. It's like you're jumping on a trampoline, and you come down through the air, feel the fabric under your feet stretch down with your momentum as far as it will go, to its nadir, and you expect to be shot back upwards... and nothing happens, you just stay down there.

I ride along in my nadir, where it is hotter than it is, where the hills are bigger than they are, where the landscape is more hostile than it is. So it is no surprise that it finds me again. That black thing, that creature shape, that darkness... It only ever finds you when it's dark, as if it is afraid to come out in the light, cowardly, waiting until you are alone. I wonder what I am doing out there on the road, alone. My spirit falters a little. What is the point of all this? Why am I bothering? Why don't I just go home? Gloomy thoughts gather, and thicken, and darken, weighing me down. Pedalling is becoming more of an effort, as my strength wears thin. I am going to have to stop. I wonder why it's so hard today?

I stop. I lean my bike against a pole in a turnout beside the road. I sit in the shade of my bike. I eat raisins. A banana. Water. I rest. And then I feel a cool breeze. It feels different from the hot wind I have been feeling all morning. I look up. I realise I have come around a hill and I am looking out over the Pacific again. I have passed the point where the warmer Sea of Cortez meets the cooler Pacific, on the southern point of Baja. The wind blows again and it's cold now beautifully cold. I look up. I stand up. I fill my lungs with the cool air from over that vast sea. The moment turns, like the others have before, and I am ready to go on. The shadow begins to slip away, as if unable to resist that cool, gentle breeze. Slowly at first, and then faster, and faster, with my wheels, until I am clear again of that heaviness, and I can see again, straight ahead, and there are pictures in my memories again.

The Pacific, seen from the shade of my bike.

The afternoon flashes before me, the sun is flung across the sky like a discus, and lands with a splash and a thunk, and it is night-time, and I am camped on the beach. My tent is up and I have eaten. The Pacific thunders and crashes into the beach here. It's a thrilling sound. I look up and all I can see are stars.

A far flung sun

Seeing stars

Friday's morning light shows me a beach carved steeply by the thundering waves of the Pacific. I check my bike. It's the last day of my 5 day mini-tour, and I want to make sure it's going to be a smooth ride. I find a thick black rubber coated wire wrapped around my rear axle. I think it's part of a retread, which must have been on the side of the road. I wonder how long it has been there, and if it has been making my life difficult. Hm.

I start riding and the cycling is noticeably easier, but now I notice a squeak. I oil the crank axle and kill the squeak. Riding is easier again, so much easier. Hmmm. I feel there's something I am supposed to learn from all this. Definitely something about bicycle maintenance. Probably something about travelling, like what Dr Suess might say. For some reason, it makes me think of my life in general too.

La Paz lies at the end of the road that fifth day, or at least I hope it does. It looks as though the heat has melted the road in the distance, and the cars are just driving off into the air.

But it is easy. Heat and hills feel small and little. A strong wind takes me into La Paz.

Going south

Wednesday 20th March

I get up with the sun, get on my bike, and get gone. The road from Miraflores is drawn like the stroke of a coarse pencil over wrinkled parchment, over a landscape tan, dry, and broad. Dusty horizons, broken by austere mountain ridges, lie over weathered land pierced by wandering arroyos. I see myself from above, impossibly tiny, like an ant on the broad mark swept by the pencil. I know I'm moving, but the ant looks perfectly still, and there is a strange silence...

The silence is suddenly broken by more silence, but one that is more familiar. Earthly. I am me again. I can feel the grips of my handlebars through my gloves, and sweat on my forehead. A pressure in my right foot tells me I am leaning on it. I am breathing heavily. I have stopped. From nowhere, I feel a gentle wind on my face. I remember now. I have been cycling all morning, as the road dove down into and up out of the gullies of the arroyos. It has been hot and tiring. I came up onto the plain again, and felt the wind change, and I stopped.

There it is again - I am looking to the right, to the west, and I feel it on my right side. It is coming from behind me now. The quiet joy of small fortune tugs the corner of my mouth ever so slightly upward. I turn back to face my immediate future, standing up on the pedals and pushing and leaning down into them, knowing that with every push I am carried slightly further, I am slightly lighter. I fly with the wind, faster and faster on the flat, straight road. Each push of the pedal seems easier than the last, until I am going impossibly fast, and I feel that joyous feeling of flying, as if the rules of the earth have taken a little vacation. Physics has sent me a postcard from wherever it is, as I look at the bike computer and see the numbers spinning like a poker machine...

A huge roar follows the image of a jet plane flying across the sky in front of me, and tells me that physics didn't go that far after all. My eyes focus on the airport of San Jose del Cabo, sitting on the edge of a big arroyo not far away. The wind has left. I cycle into and out of the arroyo, and am enveloped by urbanisation. Sparse industrialisation gives way to city sprawl and a heavily trafficked transport route. Now it's as if each push of the pedal gives me less, and less. Stop lights stop me, and roadside debris glares at me, all sparkling broken glass and pointed metal. The zona hotelera rears up like a tidal wave of gringolandia, towering with shopping centres, Starbucks, and exclusive hotels, telling me I am near the water. I want to take photos of it all, because it is so strange after the calm of the nature of Baja.

The road arrives at the coast and turns west, towards Cabo San Lucas. I am almost swallowed up by the oppressive heat, the humidity of the coast, and the hills thrown up like someone flicking out a towel to get sand off it. The headwind stretches the road out to much more than the 30km it says on the signs. Ever so slowly, Cabo comes into view, comes closer, until finally, I am there.

I am drained, and strangely exhausted. Lisa, my host in Cabo, hands me a beer. It's cold. It's a light beer, a cycling beer. We talk. Lisa has to go. There are tacos. I sleep.

Southern point (Rushing to sea)

Sunday 17th March - Tuesday 19th March

After the race, it was only a week until Elsa (who I met in Ensenada) and some of her friends were going to be in the nearby holiday destination of Los Cabos. There was a nice little 400-500km loop of highway that explored the rest of Baja, south of La Paz, and I figured I could knock that off in 5 or so days, then meet up with Elsa and her friends afterwards. So my mini-bike tour began!

I took Sunday after the race to prepare, and set off Monday morning. To my horror, I realised after 5 minutes that my bike computer is not working. This may not sound like much, but to me and a lot of bike tourists, it's terrifying. There is just something about seeing those numbers tick over, about knowing how fast you are going, how far you have gone that day and how far you have to go, that keeps you sane in a very important way. Your bike computer is as much a game and a distraction, as it is Prozac or a safety blanket.

So even though it took a couple of hours to find those damn CR2032s on a Sunday in La Paz, it was time gladly spent, and soon I was back on my bike watching the numbers tick over. Mid-anxiolytic bliss, I become concerned that the computer was still not working, as it was reading the temperature as 41 degrees celsius. Sure it was hot, but not that hot, right? It turned out that, unfortunately, it was exactly right.

It was hot and heavy work the rest of that day. Around 32 degrees in the shade, 36 in the sun, and up to 40 when caught in that vice made up of the sun high above and the black asphalt below. Hills, long and steep enough to tire, but not high enough to cool, give undulation to the eastern road south, which is dotted with little towns. The first I passed through, was the town of El Triunfo, an old mining town decorated with skeletons of its mining past. Around sunset, I ended up in the comparatively dull San Antonio. Where there is not much. I camped next to a dry, dusty dirt football field which doubles, oddly, as a running track.

Some ruins at El Triunfo

The tower, trees, and moon at El Triunfo.

I camped for the night just behind the track.

Tuesday again brought heat, and after rolling up and down more hills, and seeing the pretty San Bartolo, it became clear I had camped in the only uninteresting town on that route. I felt the temperature drop blissfully as the road plunged steeply down towards the coast, and the beautiful Los Barriles, whose beaches reminded me of the great beaches of the Gold Coast back home in Oz. It even has gold flecks in the sand, from the mica that washes down from the hills. After lunch and an idyllic two hours in Los Barriles, I got going again, and the road took me out away from the coast, towards the desert again.

The beach at Los Barriles

All of the day that remained, and into the next, I encountered and crossed these huge arroyos - floodwater gullies and dry riverbeds that flow rarely, and only when there is a huge storm or hurricane. These things can be immense, a kilometre or two wide, and I couldn't help but imagine how grand and exciting a spectacle it would be to see one of those in flood, full of tumultuous water, rushing and hurtling towards the ocean.

A smaller arroyo. The track on the right is a 4WD road.

A larger arroyo. You can see where the road crosses it, and some caves made by the rushing water.

While imagining such things, I almost ran over a snake on the side of the road! SNYKE! I thought, A reddlesnyke! (For some reason I felt it appropriate to think in a Steve Irwin voice.) A genuine rattlesnake, in the wild, on the side of the road. I was pretty excited. I managed to not run over it, just, and get a few photos, before shooing it off the road so it didn't get killed.

SNYKE!

Even the plants have fangs.

Later that day, perhaps not quite as exciting, though it still gave me a tickle, was passing over the Tropic of Cancer. Seeing that made me think of really long distances, big things, and it made me feel like I was doing something big too. It was a good feeling. Not as exciting as the snyke though.

The rest of the day was relatively humdrum in comparison, and towards sunset I found the turnoff to Miraflores, which I'd heard was nice. It is a town situated at the feet of some beautiful mountains, and it is indeed a pretty place. I rode around looking for somewhere to pitch my tent, until someone suggested the church. Padre Jorge said that I was welcome to stay, and that there was space in the parking lot. So there I cooked dinner, set up my tent, and slept, to the sound of a church service.

Laaaaaaaaa.....