1999 Kayak Trip To Baja

Outta Here ...

I was also caught in the seasonal slump of the software contracting industry, which seems to happen between Thanksgiving and New Years. It had already been a month since I finished my last contract, and I was not optimistic about picking up another contract any time soon, especially with the y2k paranoia popping up in the news on a daily basis. Besides, contract hunting any time of year is a drag. There were so many misleading statements. "I read your resume" translates to "I read one or two lines of your resume". And the phrase "we have some great opportunities for you" translates to "tell me what you can do and I'll see if we have anything that comes close". And if all that is not demoralizing enough, "I'll get back to you in a few days" translates to silence.

About the only fun I had in my job hunt was Scott's call. Scott told me he had seen my resume, and asked me if I was looking for an opportunity. Of course I said yes, foolishly assuming that he was looking for a programmer. Scott then proceeded to tell me all about his past programming experience, which was certainly not how the standard job-hunting phone call evolves, but I listened anyway. Then, he started tossing out hints about the job opportunity he was calling about. Scott told me he was looking for people ready to break out of the mold. "Wow" I thought, "was he offering a telecommuting job?" Then he started talking about how much money he and I would be making in the future (Scott was obviously going to be very generous spreading the wealth). He described how I could just start doing the work (whatever the work was...) for 10 hours a week at first. He talked about the long term success that was imminent as this enterprise (the definition of which was still a mystery) became more of a full time occupation. He talked about the two of us sitting on the beach in the Caribbean 10 years from now, sipping our Margaritas, and even then the money would keep on rolling in. At this point, words like snake-oil-salesman and Amway started to filter through my brain. He was telling me just about everything except what the job was all about. I finally started to get bored with his description of the beach scene, and in a desperate attempt to get some crumb of useful information, I asked him what language I would be programming in. Scott said this was not a programming job. This was e-commerce! I told Scott I liked programming, and Scott said that I would soon be making enough money that I could program just for the joy of it in my spare time. I didn't tell Scott I was already doing that. I did tell him that the job description was vague, to say the least. He said he would answer all my questions when we got together at lunch. I asked him again what the job was. His reply, again, was e-commerce. I finally had to tell Scott that we were not going to be meeting for lunch...

Not only was the job hunting headed for an all time low ( e-commerce ??? ) but my life had been less than exciting lately. I had either been working or job hunting for a year now. For a contractor like me, this was just entirely too long. Shermalayne asked me at lunch if I had been doing any writing lately. I mumbled something about needing to be inspired before I could write, and it occurred to me that even with a little comic relief from e-commerce phone calls, life had been pretty un-inspirational lately. I thought about what it would be like to talk to contract agencies for another month while the rain grew steadily colder. My salvation gradually boiled down to 2 words: road trip.

It was now Tuesday, and I decided that blast off would be Saturday unless I accepted a job offer prior to blast off. There were now 2 major parameters that needed defining before the road trip could begin: flavor and destination. There were 2 flavors that I was interested in. One was windsurfing, and the other was flat water kayaking. Since the kayaking required less gear and did not depend on the wind, it seemed to be the flavor of choice. The other parameter, destination, also seemed to have 2 options: the desert southwest USA, or Baja in Mexico. I used the internet to check out places like Lake Powell. I also posted a message in rec.boats.paddle asking for guidance. Everything in the desert SW USA either looked too cold or required a car shuttle or required that I take overnight camping gear with me in the kayak, and none of those options were very interesting. So, I began to research kayaking in Baja.

My passport had expired, but from what I read, it sounded like you could still get into the country with a certified birth certificate, which I had. At least I thought I had it. When I looked where I thought I had put it, the certificate came up missing. I toyed with the idea of trying to get into Mexico with just the expired passport, but my brother told me to not even THINK about such a foolish idea. We then brainstormed about how to circumvent the passport problem. Plan "A" was to call my Dad in Iowa, have him get another certified birth certificate for me, and then overnight mail it to a hotel in San Diego where I would pick it up before crossing into Mexico. There was also a plan "B" that would be faster but more difficult. With plan "B", I would go to the Seattle passport office the next morning with my old passport and all the necessary paperwork and cash in hand. Normally, this required at least 3 working days to process, and you had to show proof that it was extremely important that you got the passport right away (I guess right-away was the same thing as 3 days if you were a passport bureaucrat). My brother's idea was to combine groveling and playing-the-fool to get the passport THAT DAY (which is more like what right-away meant to me). If you played the part well enough, you would generate enough sympathy and pity from the bureaucrat that they would just give you the silly passport in hopes of helping this poor schmuck through his obviously ignorant, miserable life. My brother assured me that this could been done by the right person, but I wasn't sure I was a good enough actor. I did more looking, and finally found the certified birth certificate.

I also learned that Mexico was requiring cars driving from the USA to mainland Mexico to pay a several hundred dollar bond, but this did not apply to people driving to Baja. I would need Mexican car insurance, but I could pick that up at the border. I visited Pacific Water Sports (a Seattle kayaking store) and bought some Baja books and a map and talked to the staff about kayaking in Baja. It was all starting to sound like something I just might be able to pull off.

By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, I still had no hot job prospects, so trip preparations shifted into high gear. I had just taken my car into the Subaru dealer for a checkup, so it was time to start packing and making my lists and checking them twice. I made my first pass at loading up the car with kayak and camping gear, then headed over to Tim and Janet's house for food and advice. I was a little concerned about going to Mexico without being able to speak Spanish. My brother said I could communicate down there, since there were lots of Mexicans in Baja that knew at least a few words of English. Tim and Janet also tried to help me out with their knowledge of Spanish, since phrases like "can I launch my kayak here?" are not generally included in the Spanish-for-tourists books. After talking with Tim and Janet for a while, I was at least able to figure out what kind of Spanish-for-tourists book I wanted. I mentally added buy-language-book to an ever lengthening list of things to do on Friday.

Like most trips, the day before the start of the trip was a blur of activity. I knew snow was a possibility in southern Oregon, so I got out the chains for my car's tires to see if they really fit. They did. Then I made sure my camping stove was still working after years of being in storage. It did. I put extra mooring lines on my sailboat to keep it safe while I was gone. I also winterized the engine in my sailboat in the unlikely event that Seattle was hit with subfreezing temperatures while I was away. I went to the grocery store for food and ice, and transferred the back of my car into Doug's Deli. I drove into Seattle to grab some snorkeling gear. I ended up with a nice new mask, an old fashioned snorkel, and the world's coolest pair of swim fins. The fins were a little smaller than most, and the end of each fin curved up and split into a v shape like ... well, like the tail of a fish. They were spendy, though; even more spendy than the mask. But, I found a used pair in the shop, so instead of spending a zillion dollars on a new pair of fins, I only spent three quarters of a zillion dollars on the used pair.

Next stop was the University of Washington bookstore, where I found just the Spanish-for-tourists book I wanted. It was a combination phrase book and a couple cassette tapes that I could listen to in the car if I wished. I wanted to look the book over, so I asked a saleswoman if I could break into the plastic wrapping to check the book out. "Sure" she said, "no problem." I looked everything over and decided that it was exactly what I was looking for. When I got ready to head toward the checkout stand, the saleswoman asked me if I wanted one with the plastic still on the package. I said no thanks, and was struck with the fact that Americans are really paranoid about not buying anything that has not been sealed in plastic. This seems to apply equally to Spanish language books, medication, CDs, boxes of software, and screwdrivers. If it doesn't have the plastic wrapping, it may have either been tampered with, poisoned, vandalized, or containing the cooties from some unknown and highly undesirable low-life who got to it first. Then, there is a similar paranoia about the need to have a plastic sack to carry away your purchase, despite the fact that the sack is not only unnecessary in many cases, but generally goes directly into the trash as soon as you reach home. The plastic salesmen have done an incredible sales job on the American public, and if you don't believe me, just check out your local landfill.

I finished up the day by doing a few loads of laundry and trying to organize the pile of gear I had decided to take south. In the middle of all this, I was contacted by a consulting agency about a job interview. It sounded like an interesting position, but when they said that no decision would be made until Wednesday of next week, I told them I was not interested. I was outta-here; it was Baja or bust.

day 1, Saturday, December 4th, 1999

day 2, Sunday

day 3, Monday

• get through customs
• get a Mexican tourist card
• get Mexican car insurance
• exchange US money for Mexican money

"Where are you going, senor?"

"La Paz", I answered. I figured the next question would be "your passport, please", then he would see that it was expired, then I would save the day by producing my certified birth certificate.

"You are alone?"

"Yes."

After each question he glanced at all the the camping gear in the back of my car, a collection of backpacks, kayak paddles, life jackets, bottled water, and plastic grocery sacks. "Ah, but maybe you will be joining friends down there?"

"No. I'm traveling alone."

"But where is your wife?"

My wife? Hey, when was he going to get to the passport stuff? "No, I'm not married."

"You are not married? Why not?"

What on earth was this fascination with my marital status? When did we get to the part where he asked for my passport? When did we get to the part where he asked if I was bringing any fruits or vegetables into the country? When did we get to the part when he asked me to open up some of the bags inside my car? I tried to quickly think up some witty comeback to his last question. It was a question I did not dwell on very much. Why the hell wasn't I married? I finally just smiled and shrugged. Maybe the guy was just having a slow morning. Maybe the guy was just trying to be friendly. The teenager with the rifle said nothing.

The customs guy took one more look at the back of my car, then smiled hopelessly at this latest gringo tourist and waved me through. Maybe the next car would be more interesting.

In spite of failing the marital status question, I was now in Mexico. I knew that the car insurance stuff and tourist card stuff was near the border station, so I immediately started looking for a parking spot as I passed the last group of rifle toting teenagers. I saw a place that advertised car insurance, but they had obviously not opened up yet. That seemed a little strange to me, since people entering Mexico in the middle of the night would need insurance just as much as someone entering during the day ... maybe more so! I decided to park the car and go forage for insurance. Tim and Janet had warned me about Tijuana. They felt it was not a good place to linger, so when I saw the sign about secure parking, I figured that would be a good place to stash the car for an hour without having to worry about my kayak and/or car disappearing before I got back. I pulled up to the little building at the entrance to the parking lot. The gate was already up. This looked pretty simple.

"Good morning! Do you speak english?"

I got a blank stare. Then he said "Blah blah blah blah blah." I wondered if my Spanish book had a translation for "Yo, Dude, can I leave my car here for an hour or so?" Hmmm, probably not. The guy smiled and lowered the gate to the parking area. End of conversation. Time for plan B, whatever that was.

By some lucky twist of fate, as soon as I backed out into the street, an empty curb side parking space appeared right in front of me. I'm a big believer in the Hand Of Fate, and it was obviously waving me over to this parking space. I hoped I was not parking in a tow-away zone. Mission accomplished! I gathered up my passport and car registration and travelers checks, said good-bye to my car and kayak (hopefully not for the last time), and set out in search of the place that had the tourist cards. I didn't understand most of the signs on most of the buildings, but there were obviously a lot of drugstores. My brother had told me about the low drug prices in Mexico, and he had obviously been right. I wondered around near the border crossing, and noticed a trailer that seemed to be advertising something about immigration forms. There were 2 or 3 people inside the trailer typing away on electric typewriters, and a line of young women standing in line, each holding some official looking paperwork, which they gave to the electric typewriter people when they got to the front of the line. I got in line. It was not a fast moving line.

After a while, I gave up on reaching the electric typewriters in any kind of timely manner, and wandered over to an area where there were a lot of taxi cabs. I asked the question "tourist card?" to a couple drivers, and was eventually directed back to the customs entry point. I spotted a one room office with the sign "Insurance" above the door, and there was actually someone inside. I walked in and found an english speaking man who would sell me insurance for my car. All that was required for 2 weeks of car insurance was the value of my car, the name of my insurance agent in the USA, the Washington State registration for my car, and $140 (US funds). I don't recall if they asked for my passport, but I do recall that I was able to pay the bill in US dollars. That would have to do. I think you might be able to get a better rate by checking the internet and making some calls before you leave home, but I didn't have time for that. I also stopped by a place on the USA side of the border that advertised Mexican car insurance, but they were not open early on Monday morning. I guess if you are in a hurry and you wait until the last minute, you probably pay a premium price.

Next, I had to find the place that handed out the Mexican tourist cards. These cards are theoretically required by anyone that penetrates Mexico more that "x" miles south of the border. If you just want to pop over the border a few miles and do some business and go back to the USA, then no tourist card is required. But I was not in that category, so I went over to an office window by the customs checkpoint. I again encountered a lack of english speaking natives, but one gal who did speak english did some translating for me and eventually figured out that I needed to go in back of the building, take a right turn, and that would take me toward the place with the tourist cards. I followed the directions and they took me back in the direction of the USA side of the border. But, before I got that far, I encountered another doorway filled with rifle toting teenagers. I wasn't keen on the idea of just walking past them toward the USA side, so I said "tourist card?". They gave me the blank stare I deserved, then took me inside to their boss. I don't know if he was a sergeant or a lieutenant or what, but he did not look at all amused. "Tourist card?" He looked at me with one of those what-did-I-ever-do-to-deserve-this looks, and then escorted me back to the office window by the customs checkpoint where I had started from. In kayaking terms, I was caught in a recirculating bureaucracy eddy.

After a while, I was rescued by yet another english speaking woman. She found out where I was suppose to go, and gave me the directions ... again. I told her that the guards did not like it when I walked by their door, and then told her about the eddy. She then grabbed one of the rifle toting teenagers and talked to him in Spanish for a while. God, this was great. I had my own private translator, and all I had to do was stand around looking helpless. Soon, I was told to follow the teenager (and his rifle) through the room filled with rifle toting teenagers, past Lieutenant What-did-I-ever-do-to-deserve-this, and then outside in the back of the buildings. He pointed to a small building that said "Mexico" and motioned to me that is where I needed to go. I thanked him and peeled out of the eddy toward the building.

It was, indeed, the House Of Tourist Cards (Casa del Loco Gringo???). I walked inside and hit the guy with my now well polished "tourist card?" and was rewarded with instant gratification. He asked me for my passport, so I gave him my expired passport. The next thing I expected him to say was "I'm sorry Senor, the passport has expired", at which time I would save the day with my certified birth certificate. However, what he actually did was to give me back my expired passport and a form to fill out. I duly recorded my name, address, the expired passport number, and the date of expiration of the expired passport. Okay, they HAD to notice the expiration date this time. I had spent hours worrying about this expired passport thing. I wanted satisfaction. I wanted my concerns validated. I returned to the main desk with my forms in one hand, and my certified birth certificate ready for quick access in my shirt pocket. The guy just glanced at the forms, changed the length-of-stay entry from the "14 days" I had filled in to the "180 days" that he liked better, then stamped everything with his official seal and said I need to go to the bank and pay them 153 pesos. The only thing stranger than the guy accepting my expired passport was that I was suppose to pay the customs fee to the bank instead of the customs man. I walked back past the room full of rifle toting teenagers and headed off in the general direction of the bank, wondering if my car was still where I left it.

The bank was a popular place, and it was not open yet. I joined an ever lengthening line of people outside the door, and eventually the doors opened and we all streamed in. This was a take-a-number-and-wait-your-turn sort of place, so I picked up my number (#37) and found a spot to wait (they were now serving #5). They had signs for this and posters for that, but of course I didn't have a clue what anything said since all the signs were in Spanish. Eventually they got to #9, and it became clear that I had plenty of time to go grab the Spanish book out of my car. There was a line of taxis out on the street, and every one of the drivers were anxious to give me a ride to where ever I was going, which happened to be about one block from where the taxis were parked.

"Taxi?"

"No, thank you."

"Taxi, senor?"

"No, gracious."

All the taxis were right next to each other, and despite the fact that I had turned down all the drivers behind me, this did not deter in the least the drivers ahead of me. Hope springs eternal if you drive a cab in Mexico. "You want taxi? I'll give you good deal."

"No thanks."

"Taxi?"

"No. Thank you."

I went back to the car and found everything just as I had left it. I grabbed the Spanish book and walked back past the taxi gauntlet ("Taxi, senor?") and into the bank. It turned out that all the signs made perfect sense, assuming you understood Spanish. When my turn came, I stepped up to the window. I asked the gal if she spoke English, but she said no. Oh well. I handed over the customs form that said 153 pesos and paid the bill. I also indicated that I wanted to exchange my dollars for pesos, which she understood. Things were going so well that I decided to try a phrase from my language book. I asked, in Spanish, if I could receive both small and large bills. She replied "Blah blah blah blah blah". I had no idea what she just said, so I tried the phrase again. This time, she responded in English "No small bills." Oh well, it was worth a shot. I smiled and nodded my head that I understood and it was no big deal. I left the bank, with all my chores now done, and headed back toward the car. I managed to get some vague directions on how to get to Highway 1D, then made one more pass through the taxi gauntlet ("Taxi senor?" "No thanks." "Taxi?" "No, thank you." "Taxi?") and climbed back into the Subaru.

When I left Mexico about 10 days later, I had never been asked to show my Mexican car insurance, I had never been asked to show my tourist card, and I had never been asked to show evidence that I paid the 153 peso fee for the tourist card. I never was asked by anyone to see my certified birth certificate. However, I was asked on a couple occasions to include the number on my (expired) passport when I was cashing travelers checks. I think that all this stuff was, in a way, insurance. If someone ran into trouble in Mexico, this stuff could have assumed a heightened importance.

I managed to find my way to "Mex 1D", which was a high speed toll road that followed the coastline south for a while. I think there were 3 or 4 tool booths that charged about $2 US each (or about 20 pesos), and they accepted either US or Mexican money. After passing through these tolls, it occurred to me that the toll booths would have been a good opportunity to break some of my larger peso bills into smaller bills, which I assumed would be easier to deal with in some of the smaller towns I was heading for. After about an hour on the 70 mph tollway, the road changed to more of a 40 mph 2 lane road, sometimes faster, sometimes slower. The towns I passed through were a little curious. They had the 2 lane paved road, and then on either side of that was a (roughly) 2 lane dirt road, and next to that was a parking area, and next to that were the town buildings. I guess one advantage to that approach is that they can add more and more lanes to the paved road in the future, and it would be a long time before they ever ran out of room.

It wasn't long after hitting the 2 lane road portion of my journey that I ran into my first military checkpoint. These checkpoints were just a very brief interruption of my road trip. But, its a little intimidating to be surrounded by rifle toting teenagers. The drill went something like this... I would be driving along when I would encounter a sign (in Spanish of course) that contained a word that sounded something like "inspection", in big orange letters. Then I would see some orange cones in the road (the kind they use for road construction) and a group of rifle toting teenagers. I would drive up to the checkpoint, roll down my window, and say "hello". I always thought it was a good idea to let them know right away about my lack of Spanish speaking skills. The soldier or inspector or whatever would typically say "Blah blah blah blah blah", and I would smile, shake my head, and say "no Spanish". If they did speak English, I was seldom asked more than "where are you going?", to which I would always say "La Paz", despite the fact I had no idea where I was going. They would then glance at all the camping gear in the back of my car and motion that I should drive on. There were a few inspection areas that seemed to be run on more of an honor system, and I think these were either for inspecting fruit or maybe the Mexican equivalent of a trucking weigh station on an American interstate. It was a little scary to drive past these, though, because in the back of my mind I was always a little afraid that the back of my car might be peppered with rifle bullets from those teenagers in the green uniforms. The policy I adopted was to always stop if there were traffic cones and people standing on the highway (once, this turned out to be nothing more that a couple girls looking for donations for the town's ambulance service) and to otherwise just keep on driving. It turned out to be a pretty good policy. I can honestly say that I never had any trouble with the authorities. And, I can honestly say that I never saw a rifle toting teenager that looked like he was enjoying his job.

As the 2 lane highway snaked southward over the cactus studded desert hills, it was not uncommon to get stuck behind a slower vehicle. This was typically a truck or bus or military convoy laboring its way up a steep grade. In Mexico, the vehicle in front of you will often turn on his left turn signal when its safe for you to pass. I have even seen them put on their right turn signal when it was not safe for me to pass. This turned out to be pretty handy, except for the times when they were actually getting ready to turn left, which would obviously be an unfortunate time for you to be passing them.

Just about everything I read indicated that it was not a good idea to drive after dark in Baja. The reason for this was not the quality of the roads, but rather the occasional cow that you would suddenly find in your headlights as you cruised along at 60 mph. On one occasion, I had to brake with enthusiasm to avoid hitting a cow in the road in broad daylight. Needless to say, the incident made a believer out of me for the no-driving-after-dark rule of thumb. I am also told that if you accidentally kill some poultry or livestock, the legal implications can be at least as messy as the bloody carnage that decorates the highway. When daylight started to fade Monday evening, I extended my driving time by following a bus, using the bus as a "cow catcher" of sorts. But just before it got dark, I pulled off the highway a little ways onto a side road and called it quits for the day. It was no KOA, but it was quiet (except for the occasional bus on the highway) and the price was right.

It got cool right away, and if the wind found you it was downright cold. I had dinner at Doug's deli, then spent some time admiring the unrestricted view of stars in the night sky. My only problem was that I could not find the big dipper. Its usually pretty easy to look up and see the dipper, but I just could not locate it that night. I thought maybe there were so many stars that it was too well camouflaged. Eventually I gave up, crawled into the back of my car, and went to bed. I briefly heard a coyote in the distance, which was a first for me, but never heard him again. In the middle of the night I woke up, looked out the window, and there in the eastern sky was the big dipper. I guess at this latitude, the big dipper only makes an appearance for a portion of the night. With the universe now restored to order, I rolled over and went back to sleep. The desert is a pretty amazing place after dark, in that there is no sound, unless the wind is blowing. I'm use to hearing at least something at night; cars in the distance, airplanes in the distance ... something. But not here. On my return trip north, I spent a night in the desert, parked next to the highway, and there was no wind that night. I spent a long time just sitting out in the dark listening for something, anything, but it was absolutely, positively, quiet.

day 4, Tuesday

It was an hour or so until the Subaru delivered me to the turn off to Bahia de Los Angeles. The gas station I expected to find there was closed, but 2 men in a truck were selling gas out of a 55 gallon drum in front of the station. I parked next to them, and then discovered I had forgotten the word for the Mexican equivalent of unleaded gas. They were all ready to fill up my car, but I motioned for them to wait a minute while I started paging through my Baja books looking for the word I wanted. They must have been amused watching the gringo paging through his tourist books looking for god knows what, but they patiently waited until I found the magic words "MagnaSin". I asked them if this was magnasin gas, and they indicated that it was. Then I got out one of my bigger Mexican peso notes, and asked if they could make change. They indicated they could, so I indicated that they could fill up my tank. While one of them used 5 gallon containers to fill up my tank, I raised the hood and indicated that I was interested in getting more coolant for the engine. The man responded by saying "augwax?" which I knew meant "water", and I said "no, antifreeze ... coolant". He seemed to understand that, and shook his head no. I said "antifreeze, coolant, Bahia de Los Angeles?" He indicated yes, I could buy some coolant for my car in town. I paid them, then headed east on the side road that lead toward the Gulf of California.

The side road was paved in most places, but there were sections that were a minefield of potholes. So, you couldn't go very fast. It took at least an hour to get to the town, even though it was not all that far. I stopped briefly on a hill that looked out on the bay, and it looked pretty damn nice to me. After 3 1/2 days of driving, it was now payback time. I was looking forward to getting out of my car and into my kayak. I drove into town and found it to be pretty typical; poor, dusty, quiet, and seemingly deserted. There were signs that indicated gasoline could be purchased here, although there was no gas station. Other signs indicated restaurants, although the restaurants looked just like the other poor little houses, except they had a sign out front that said restaurant. I saw a few motel-ish looking places, and a few little stores. Everything else appeared to be houses. I didn't see any place that looked like a good camping area south of town, so I turned around and headed north on a side road that paralleled the beach.

I ended up at a little beach front camp ground called "Daggett's". For $3 (USA money) per day, you could get a camp site with a wind/sun shelter. There were showers and flush toilets, but no drinking water. I was told to watch out for the wind while I was paddling. Mr Daggett said that the north wind usually only blew during the day, but a west wind would blow all day and all night. He suggested that I let him know where I would be kayaking each day, so he could be sure that I got back safely each night. It sounded like a pretty reasonable idea, although the light easterly wind that was blowing at that time looked pretty docile to me. I said that I would be staying for at least a couple days, and paid the fee. There were 13 camp sites, and since I was the only one at the camp ground that day, I grabbed the site closest to the water.

It was sooo nice as I plopped down in my lawn chair on the sand and gravel beach. The cold rain in Seattle was a distant memory, and it felt great to not be traveling down the highway. The islands were 2 or 3 miles to the east, and much further east were more hills and mountains. I initially thought these furthest hills and mountains were the Mexican mainland, but they turned out to be Isla Angel de la Guarda. The mainland was too far east across the Gulf of California to be seen. The desert hills I had just driven over to get here were behind me now. It was not too hot and not too cold, sort of on the border line between a long sleeved and short sleeved shirt. There were hardly any bugs. I was so hypnotized by the place that I sat in my chair as if glued to it. Someone was going to have to remind me tomorrow to feel guilty about being so unmotivated today. The wind picked up just enough to motivate me to move my chair back a little toward the protection of some bushes. I was startled by something that I initially though was the world's largest bee, but it turned out to just be a hummingbird. I thought that Spirit (my sailboat back in Seattle) might like it here, anchored peacefully off the shore in deeper water. I noticed there was no driftwood on the beach. There was desert and there was saltwater and there was very little in between. Pelicans gracefully floated by, and often plunged into the water head first in an attempt to grab some underwater snack.

Eventually someone paddled by in an open kayak, which is basically just a glorified surfboard that is propelled with a 2 bladed paddle. But, it did serve as a reminder that I had a few toys of my own in the car, and it seemed like a good time to drag some of them out. I thought I would try out my snorkeling gear first. I discovered that the water was pretty damn cold, although I eventually got use to the water temperature enough to swim out a ways and back. There was nothing too remarkable down there, just a continuation of the sand and gravel on the rest of the beach. The water seemed reasonably clear, and I could see a pretty good collection of small fish, which were probably the target of the pelican's dive bomb attacks. Most of the fish were colored similar to the rocks around them, although I did see one brightly colored little fish that reminded me of the Caribbean. The world's coolest swim fins worked okay, except that it was hard to keep them in the water. I think the wetsuit booties I was wearing were making my feet a little too buoyant. I briefly removed the booties and tried the fins again. This worked a little better, but the water was too cold for any extended experimentation. Besides, I liked the booties because they protected my feet as I got into or out of the water. It wasn't too long before the booties were helping me OUT of the water.

As long as I was wet, I thought I would grab my kayak and see if I could roll it. I had only owned the kayak for a few months, and this was the first opportunity I had to do a little roll practice in anything even remotely resembling warm water. I found the boat easier to roll than what I had expected, although it did not roll as easily as my whitewater kayak. The boat would no doubt be even more difficult to roll if it was loaded down with a bunch of gear. I did a short paddle up the beach and back, then carried the boat back to my camp site. Next stop was the bathroom and showers maintained by the campground. The design of the hot and cold water systems seemed pretty straight forward. The hot water came from a large container on the roof of the building painted black, and the cold water came from a similar container painted white. A hose and small pump next to the building was used to refill the containers when the water truck came around. The bathroom had a sign that said to put all of the toilet paper (yes, ALL of it!) in a waste basket, since it would clog and back-up the sewage plumbing if flushed down the toilet. Although it seemed strange to not put the used paper in the toilet, I could understand the problem, since some sailboat owners require their crew to do exactly the same thing in order to avoid plumbing problems with the boat's toilet. But, this was just business as usual in Baja. I'm told some rural Mexicans continue this toilet paper practice even when they come to the USA. Anyone seeing such a thing in the USA would be shocked and appalled, but for Mexican, he is just using the bathroom the way he was taught to use it. I also discovered that my brother had known what he was talking about when he advised me to bring my own toilet paper (there was none in the restroom).

I had a relaxed dinner in Doug's Deli, then crawled into the car to do some reading in bed before lights out. I was reading one of Paul Theroux's books called The Old Patagonian Express. Theroux seems to specialize in describing just how miserable he is and how poverty stricken and miserable the world around him is. This was the second of his books I had read, and the first one was the same way. But, I had to admire the guy. He was a bit of a loner, which I could relate to, and his descriptions of all this misery were incredibly detailed. I'm amazed that anyone could generate such a detailed description of his travels. I had started my own trip journal earlier in the day, and I began my journal from the point in time where I had arrived here on the beach. But as I read Theroux's book, he described (in great detail) how important it was to describe a journey from the beginning of the journey. I eventually turned off the light and went to bed, but I resolved to rewrite my journal tomorrow ... from the beginning.

day 4, Wednesday

As the morning progressed, the wind gradually veered from west to north. Whitecaps marched south in front of the beach. There would be no kayaking today. The tides here were pretty significant; between 5 and 10 feet. The air was very hazy. I wondered if it was dust, or moist marine air off the Pacific, or maybe even pollution from L.A.. I wandered down to the beach with my chair, and set up shop in the sun, using a sandy hill filled with thorn bushes as a wind break. As the morning passed, I read more of my book, restarted my trip journal from the beginning, and made friends with a small while dog. The dog was very friendly and pretty well mannered. I think it belonged to the campground manager and his family. I named the dog Paublo, although "he" later turned out to be a "she". The dog didn't seem to mind the name, as long as it got lots of attention when it came around to visit. I discovered Paublo liked Wheat Thins. The north wind continued to blow with enthusiasm. I estimated 25 knots. Clearly, if Spirit had spent the night anchored off the beach, she would have to move now. The bay was shaped like a large capital 'C', and I would have taken her north to reanchor under the lee of the land near the top of the 'C'.

There was no pelican performance today because of the rough water. They had put on a pretty god show yesterday, though. These birds, which looked so comical and clumsy when they stood on land, were really beautiful fliers. They would float effortlessly through the air, their wing tips inches or even millimeters above the surface of the water. When fishing, they would cruise along the water at a height of 15 or 20 feet, and then suddenly dive into the water, head first. The first time I heard one of these splashes it startled me, but I got use to it after a while. However, it was not clear to me how they judged the depth of the water. Diving into shallow water head first seemed to me like a recipe for disaster.

In the afternoon I met Mike and Laura, a young couple from Canada in a VW Bus that had come down for several weeks of kayaking. Mike was paddling a magnificent, home made, cedar stripped kayak he had built. They planned to paddle out to the islands for a few days, then drive further south before beginning a 100 mile kayak trip. They said they lived so far north that it had taken them 18 hours just to get as far south as Seattle. They must have been even more motivated than I was to escape winter's grasp for a while. As the afternoon turned to evening, the wind gradually began to die down. It turned out to be a cool but pleasant evening, and I was looking forward to perhaps getting my kayak out on the water the next day.

day 5, Thursday

When I reached shore, I took a little break on a pebble beach to munch on a snack. It seemed a pretty quiet, remote spot, so I jumped when I heard a loud bark at close range. It looked like a big-ass seal, a huge mass of black matter that was swimming along the shoreline. Scott later told me it was probably a sea lion. Whatever it was, it could really move fast in the water when it wanted to, and its verbal editorials toward me sounded distinctly insulting. I was soon following in the sea lion's "footsteps". The north wind had not gotten out of hand yet, so I continued further north along the shoreline, knowing I could easily retreat southwards if the north wind became strong. I paddled a mile or two to the next "point" north of the 'C' shaped bay. Here, I stopped for lunch and a nap in the sun. The sun felt good, but in order to enjoy it, I had to find a spot that was out of the chilly north wind. The wind never got much stronger that day, so I had a pleasant afternoon paddle back to the campsite under blue skies that were beginning to fill with cirrus.

Back at camp I ran into Scott and Mike and Laura. Mike and Laura were getting ready for a multi-day kayak trip out to the islands. Scott told a story about a commercially guided kayak trip out to the islands that ran into high winds when too far from shore. Boats started tipping over in the wind and waves. People became separated. One of the clients apparently spent the night bobbing in the waves, and eventually washed up on the shore at the southern end of the bay and walked back to town. Another paddler just evaporated, never to be seen again. I could see how it could happen. If you waited around for ideal paddling conditions, you would not going to get very far. The guide had probably negotiated the afternoon winds time and time again with little or no problem. Then, one day, the wind comes up faster and stronger than ever before, and suddenly you are in a world of shit. Even after a couple days, it was becoming obvious to me that the wind in this part of Baja was a crap shoot. Ya pays yer money, and ya takes yer chances.

day 6, Friday

I took a short break as the wind began to veer toward the north. When I got back in the water to follow the shoreline back to camp, the wind was strong enough to push the kayak along for a while without the need for me to paddle. All I had to do is steer with the rudder. The rudder on my kayak was an amazing gizmo. I typically pulled it up out of the water if there was no wind, or if I was paddling directly upwind. But, if I was paddling crosswind or downwind, the kayak was a real pain in the ass to keep pointed in one direction. However, as soon as the rudder was dropped in the water (you can do this via a rope next to the cockpit) it suddenly became very directionally stable. And, since the foot rests in the kayak are attached to the rudder with small lines, you can steer with your feet. Try THAT in the old Subaru...

I was back in camp by 10:00, and decided to drive into town for a few supplies. There seemed to be a number of small stores in town, some with the sign "Mini Mart" over the doorway. I picked one at random, and managed to get most of the stuff I needed. There was certainly not the selection of merchandise that I had become accustomed to in the States, but these little stores had a little of this and a little of that and it was enough to meet my needs. I was amused when I saw the single container of Karo Maple Flavored Syrup on the shelf. I grew up in Iowa putting that stuff on my pancakes and waffles and french toast. But, I have discovered that its practically impossible to find the stuff in the Pacific Northwest. I have to stash a few bottles in my suitcase whenever I make a visit to Iowa. But here in sleepy dusty little Bahia de Los Angeles, in a sleepy dusty little store, was a container of Karo Maple Flavored Syrup. I was impressed! I learned that, in order to compensate for the limited selection in one store, you often had to visit some of the other little stores to find what you wanted. Every store owner seemed to have a little different idea about inventory. It made shopping a little more challenging, and a little more satisfying when you finally found what you were looking for.

After my shopping expedition and a lunch break, I returned to my chair on the beach for more reading and general goofing off. Scott and a woman walked by, and reported they had watched some little turtles hatching earlier in the day. Over the course of the afternoon the wind gradually shifted from northwest to southwest. There were a few clouds forming over the hills behind me, and I needed a long sleeved shirt and a fleece jacket to stay warm in the wind. The scattered cumulus in the west became broken cumulus, and I could actually see some rain showers in the hills behind me as the wind switched around again, now blowing from the west. With the wind now blowing offshore, the water next to shore became much smoother, and the dive bombing pelicans returned for some fishing, which was always entertaining. I also noticed some other birds had joined in the aerial attack on the local fish population. These birds were much smaller than the pelicans, but started their dive bomb runs from an altitude 2 to 4 times higher than the pelicans. I watched them through the binoculars in amazement as they dropped down out of the sky and disappeared into the water. Now that has GOT to hurt when you hit the water.

I could smell rain in the air now, and a few drops even made it to the windshield of my car. It took a week, but the Seattle rain had finally discovered my hiding place. However, the rain was no match for the hot dry land, and most of it evaporated before it ever reached the ground. I had a great dinner of salmon cakes and potatoes at Doug's Deli. After dark, I could see an occasional flash of lightning to the north, but not much. There just were not many lights in the night sky. There were 2 nautical navigation lights in the distance. And, there were Christmas lights on the manager's office. I think he used a generator for power, since I don't recall seeing any power lines or telephone poles. But, there were always the stars, which I enjoyed looking at from my bed in the car. Despite a few more raindrops on the car after dark, the storm was pretty well spent, although the west wind blew all night.

day 7, Saturday

After lunch and a little more reading, I decided to walk down the beach and try to make a phone call from town. It was a nice walk along the shoreline, and then a short cut across some tidal flats into the town of Bahia de Los Angeles. I crossed a recreation area with soccer fields, and I thought it would be more than enough room for a Piper Cub to use as an airport. I found an open store, dug out my Spanish book, and asked a gal if there was a telephone in the area. She replied "Blah blah quatro blah". I didn't understand, so I asked again. I eventually figured out that the phone would not be available until 4 o'clock. Maybe this was one of those siesta things. I asked if the phone was in this building, and she motioned that it was in a nearby building toward the south. I walked outside and, sure enough, there was a building with a sign painted on the side that said "long distance telephone". The door was locked, so I sat down to wait for 4 o'clock. I didn't have a watch, but I thought that it wouldn't be too long. It certainly seemed like a long time. I was bundled up in my coat, trying to position myself so that I stayed in the afternoon light but stayed out of the cold wind. A few cars drove by. A few dogs trotted by. A few people bicycled by. It was a pretty lazy Saturday afternoon. Occasionally I would hear the phone ring inside the building, and then I would hear the fax machine kick in with all those strange modem connect noises. Then, there would be more silence, except for the wind.

I was about ready to give up and try again some other day, when a gal drove up and opened the store. I indicated that I was interested in using the phone, and she indicated that was not a problem. I saw the phone on her desk, and I was tempted to just reach over and start dialing, but I resisted the temptation. I needed to call my Dad in Iowa, and I had 2 phone numbers from my long distance phone company that I could dial in Mexico to talk to a long distance operator from my phone company. When the gal had finished opening the store, she sat down behind the desk and asked for the number I wanted to dial. I showed her one of the numbers for the long distance operator, and she said she could not dial that number. I showed her the other long distance operator number, and she said she could not dial that one, either. This was not looking good. With nothing to loose, I showed her my Dad's phone number in Iowa, and she dialed the number. Amazing. I expected her to hand me the phone when she had established the connection, but when I heard her say into the phone "just a moment, please", she indicated that I should move toward the back of the store. I looked around on the tables for an extension phone, but didn't see any. All the time, the gal was saying "just a moment, please" into the phone. I figured that my Dad would not stay on the phone very long with some strange woman telling him "just a moment, please", so I was very anxious to find the hiding place of the extension phone. I indicated to the just-a-moment-please woman that I did not see the phone I was looking for, and she pointed again towards the back of the store. Then, I saw it. There were 2 wooden enclosed phone booths at the back of the store. I ran into one, frantically grabbed the receiver, and found myself talking to my Dad. We had a nice chat, but there seemed to be something strange about the connection. I noticed that whenever I started talking, my Dad would suddenly stop talking. At first, I thought he was just being very polite, but it later occurred to me that it was similar to a VHF radio connection. You could either talk or listen but you couldn't do both at the same time like you can do with MOST telephones. I guess Bahia de Los Angeles didn't have enough wires or something.

I finished the call, paid the bill, and walked outside to check out the telephone poles. They didn't seem to run very far in any direction. I came to the conclusion that the phone might be cellular or it might be satellite, but it was not very likely that there was a wire connection between Bahia del Los Angeles and the outside world. I walked down the road back towards the campground, which was quicker than a return trip along the beach. There was a lot of haze today. Maybe blowing dust. I watched a small airplane fly over town, and then turn and descend for a landing. I could not see exactly where he landed, but apparently Bahia de Los Angeles had no need of using its soccer field as an airport. The wind gradually tapered off, and it turned out to be a nice evening.

day 8, Sunday

I stopped on Piojo Island only long enough to drink some water and take a few pictures. The distant shoreline, where the campground was located, looked a long way off. I hopped back into the kayak and headed northwest towards the southern tip of Smith Island. I could hear the sea lions on Calavera Island to my left. My paranoia level was directly proportional to the wind velocity, and when the breeze began to shift around to the north, I gave up on any plans for an extended tour of Smith Island. I reached the south tip of the island, pulled the boat ashore, and scouted the water ahead. Directly to the east of my position was the top of the 'C' that formed the bay of Bahia de Los Angeles. This worked in my favor, since the top of the 'C' jutted eastward a ways, reducing the distance I needed to paddle to reach the mainland from my current position. There were a few whitecaps out on the water, but nothing too bad yet. I estimated the wind at 15 knots, which was something I could handle pretty easily. I decided to postpone the feast with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and hopped back in the kayak for my crossing to Punta la Gringa, which was the name of the headland at the top of the 'C'. The wind increased a little as I neared the headland, but the wind seems to always increase a little when you near a headland. I reached Big Ass Seal beach with no trouble, and had a nice downwind paddle home along the shoreline after an extended peanut butter and jelly break.

Mike and Laura returned to the campground with stories of their latest adventure, and the adventure seemed to center around the word "wind". It had battered their tent through one of the nights, and generally limited their ability to explore the islands during the day. But, they were able to do at least some touring, and they appeared to have enjoyed themselves. They talked about finding a huge osprey's nest. They also told a sad story about seeing sea lions on shore being slowly suffocated by plastic fishing nets that had become tangled in their necks. Laura turned out to be quite the world traveler, having done quite a bit of touring in Central America and Asia. She also talked about dog sledding during the Canadian winter, which she was able to do with the help of her neighbor, who had some dogs and a sled.

There were a couple new vehicles in the campground. One was a small car with a rolled up hang glider tied to the roof. The other vehicle gave every indication of being the campers from hell as they rolled 2 dirt bikes out of the back of a truck that was roughly the size of a midsize U-Haul truck. It was true that they rode the dirt bikes a little, and played their music tapes a little, but in general they were pretty well mannered and not the problem I had initially feared. I grabbed some chili at Doug's Deli that evening, then crawled into the back of my car for some reading before lights-out. The wind died out as the light faded from the western sky.

day 9, Monday

I got back to camp about mid afternoon. The sky was filling with cirrus, so I had to wonder if we were in for another little storm tomorrow afternoon. The local fishermen had strung a fishing net just offshore, and birds were getting caught in it. I watched Mike and Laura sit out there in their kayaks untangling one bird. The bird's mate watched anxiously a short distance away. It would occasionally call out to its tangled mate, and it sounded like the cry of a loon, although I'm not sure exactly what kind of bird it was. When they finally came back to shore, their mission accomplished, they told me the story Scott had told them earlier. Scott had watched the fishermen from shore, and saw them pull 6 fish and 6 birds from their fishing net. Either the birds were already drowned, or the fishermen broke their necks so they could be quickly extracted from the necks. The nets were obviously a bad deal when it came to birds and sea lions, and they were obviously a good deal if you were trying to make enough money to feed your family.

Mike said he had spent the day paddling around Smith Island, which looked like one hell of a long trip to me. He said that a commercial kayak trip had set up their base camp on the island. I thought it was cool that there were so many kayakers paddling around the islands, yet the islands were spread out enough that I didn't see anyone all day out there. They also mentioned that there was a good museum in town, and that it had a book-swap if you ran out of reading material, which I was rapidly doing. Mike and Laura would be leaving tomorrow for a different part of Baja, where they would begin their 100 mile paddle. I gave them a book I had just finished called "Back Of The Pack", which was a book about the Iditarod dog sled race that I thought Laura would enjoy. There were a few new faces in the campground, including 2 guys who had just driven down from Canada. I had some chili at Doug's Deli for a late dinner. I always used sea water for washing my dishes, but tonight I had am amazing experience. It was after dark, and when I disturbed the bucket of sea water, the circular edge of the surface of the water lit up with phosphorescence. And, when I poured the water over the soapy dishes, little spots of light fell down to the sand below. It was as if my dishwater was full of stars.

day 10, Tuesday

As I paddled into the light southerly breeze, I thought about how much my friend Gregg would enjoy it here. He was recovering from back surgery. I figured that if I could somehow instantly transport him from Oregon to the campground, then plop him down in a beach chair with a dozen sailing magazines next to him, he would probably be one happy guy. My younger sister would like it here, too. I think she, like myself, could spend a lot of time just soaking up the sun and watching the pelicans glide by. My Dad and bother would both like it here for at least 10 minutes. Then, they would be looking for something ELSE to do (go into town, fix some food, take a drive, walk up the beach). They would probably go stir crazy here after a couple days; not enough diversion. As for my older sister, she would probably have either found a teaching position in the local school by now, or she would have started her own school on the beach.

I was day dreaming about Vancouver Island and Beaver float planes, when something changed. I snapped back to reality, and realized that the south breeze had vanished. I was about an hour from shore and 2/3 of the way towards my destination. I looked over my shoulder, and the water north of me in the distance looked darker. Wind. But, from which direction? I continued to paddle southeast as the dark water came closer. When it finally reached me, I could feel a breeze from the north. I immediately aborted the trip, turned around, and headed back toward camp. The wind increased to a maximum of about 20 knots, and usually less. This generated a few whitecaps, but it was very manageable and I got back to my car in about 45 minutes. Yesterday's calm had definitely not been the beginning of a trend.

After I had cleaned up and put away my gear, I went over to talk to the camper with the hang glider. He was a German who was driving down to South America. While visiting southern California, he had come across the hang glider for sale, and it had been too good of a deal to pass up. He said he had been hang gliding for about 10 years, and I asked him how he had managed to stay alive so long. With a smile, he showed me the remains of a huge scar on his leg, which was part of the aftermath of a rather spectacular aborted takeoff some years ago. We talked about flying for a while, and I was surprised to learn that you could recover from a stall in a hang glider. He said that the newer gliders were all pretty good in this respect, though some of the earlier models definitely had problems.

I set up my chair on the beach and began reading. By noon, the wind was in excess of 20 knots with lots of whitecaps. It became too cold to read in the wind, and I sought shelter behind a little sand dune covered with thorny bushes. Just about everything that grew in Baja seemed to have thorns. It was long sleeved shirt weather, but it was sunny and certainly a damn site better than the rainy season I had fled in Seattle. Even from my protected spot I had a great view of the beach and water. I could spend hours just admiring the flight of the pelicans. The haze returned as I read into the afternoon. The last few nights I had noticed that the moon was making a comeback. I thought that a night paddle might be kind of cool with all the phosphorescence in the water. As the sun got lower in the western sky, the whitecaps started to thin out, and I began thinking about putting on a coat.

I met Mike in the late afternoon. He had just arrived at the campsite next to mine, and was enrollee back to his home in San Diego. Mike had worked for a big petroleum company for a number of years, then had been invited to leave the company after they merged with another company. They gave him a very nice severance package, and Mike had used the money to travel all over the world for the past year. He was not looking forward to going back to work again, with its business suits and its 3 weeks vacation per year. I could relate. Mike said he had finally torn himself away from Mulege, which was the next big town to the south along the Gulf of California coast, about a 6 hour drive. He said that he had a blast there, met lots of friends, did lots of fishing, and ate lots of food. He said that it was warmer and less windy there, and encouraged me to drive down there to check it out. I later looked at the map and was tempted, but not THAT tempted. I was nearing the end of my stay in Baja, and did not have a strong inclination to put another 6 hours of driving time between myself and Seattle. My guide book also seemed to suggest that Mulege might concentrate a few more people in a smaller area, and I kind of liked the isolation of the Bahia de Los Angeles area. However, it would be fun to explore a new area, and the lack of wind might make both the kayaking and snorkeling a lot more available. The conditions here seemed to limit kayaking to a morning activity on most days. But, all things considered, I liked my little wind tunnel on the beach, and I was still glad that I had come here.

As the sun ducked behind the western mountains, I took a walk down the beach. As I passed an area where a couple fishing boats had been pulled up on the beach, I noticed about 30 fish carcasses that had been skinned and discarded. It seemed to be a very popular spot with the local bird population. I wondered how anyone could make a living off of this kind of catch. As a matter of fact, I wondered how this town survived at all. There appeared to be no agriculture or industry. Fishing might support a few families, but not a lot. There were a few stores in town, but not many. And, the tourist industry was certainly not booming. Still, there were a lot of houses in town, and more along the beach. What did everybody do in order to stay alive another day is this dry, desolate place? I had no answer. I walked back to the car and fixed a spaghetti dinner as the sunset colored the cirrus above.

day 11, Wednesday

In the late afternoon I took another walk, this time along the road that led north along the beach. I thought I might get lucky and find the airport where the plane had landed a few days ago. I had originally planned to stay a few more days, but I decided to head north tomorrow after one last paddle. I was out of ice and out of reading material. It could be days before I got another day of light winds, and without light winds I could only explore the areas I had already explored. A huge rabbit the size of a small dog scampered away into the sand and cactus and thorn bushes. It had been one of the few animals I had encountered in the desert. But aside from that, it was pretty much the same story as the day I had arrived here. Nothing changed very much in Bahia de Los Angeles from one day to the next. The mountains and desert and wind and water had their own rhythms, probably developed over a few million years, and had no interest in my restless interests. Maybe I had more in common with my Dad and brother than I cared to admit. I stopped at a curve in the dirt road and looked for some sign of the airport, but didn't see even a trace. It must have been on another road. I turned around and headed back for one last beach front dinner at Doug's Deli.

day 12, Thursday, December 16th

I turned around after a little ways and paddled back to a protected spot for a rest break on the beach. By 10 o'clock the wind was up to a steady 15 knots, and I decided to head back to the car. It was a nice downwind paddle along the shoreline. As I crossed over the top of the 'C' I passed 2 fishing boats tending their nets, but I didn't see any fish in the nets. The wind increased a little, making my job easier. I liked to paddle just outside of the little waves that were breaking on the beach, and had to do an occasional low brace when one of the larger incoming waves broke a little ahead of schedule. The winds were climbing up towards 20 knots by the time I got back to the campsite, and I got to a few seconds of surfing as one of the breaking waves escorted my kayak and I to shore.

I was packing the car for the last time when some people wandered over to say hello. They had just arrived in the campground after a long drive from (where else) Canada, and planned to do some kayaking in the area for at least 10 days or so. They were sort of a re-creation of me 10 days ago. I cautioned them about the wind, as I had been cautioned when I first arrived. I tried to be honest about the limitations that the wind was likely to impose on their kayaking, but I also tried to be enthusiastic about all of the fun I had and all the fun they were going to have. They were lusting after my camp site since I was right next to the water, and I said that they should definitely grab it this afternoon after I had gone. We all wished each other well and then went our separate ways, as they prepared for 10 days in Bahia de Los Angeles, and I headed north in search of the rainy season.