A Wild Kingdom on Calm Waters: Isla Danzante to Bahía Agua Verde

We were prepping Cilantro for departure from Honeymoon Cove on Isla Danzante on the morning of Tuesday, 16 February, planning to head south along the Baja California Sur coast to Bahía Agua Verde. As we worked on stowing and securing the cabin and cockpit, we heard blowing sounds in the direction of the channel between us and the mainland. It turned out to be a small pod of whales passing southward, about a mile offshore.

Calm waters as we left Honeymoon Cove.

“Let’s go look for them!” said Curtis. Sue laughed and pointed out that we were nowhere near ready to go, with many items strewn about on deck, in the cockpit, and on countertops below. It looked like we had lots of small children on board and no responsible adults. So instead, we grabbed the binoculars and watched the distant bodies surfacing and submerging. There were two or three small whales plus a large one that we estimated at 30–40 feet long. They were dark gray or black and had a hooked (falcate) dorsal fin. We couldn’t see the shape and size of the spout, which can be a helpful characteristic for identification. In fact, we couldn’t see any spout at all.  

Eventually we had tidied up and battened down—we were now “looking yar” as our friend Bob in Maine likes to say—so we weighed anchor and motored out of Honeymoon Cove, heading west into the channel, our immediate destination being the aptly named Puerto Escondido (“hidden port”), the entrance to which was tucked and camouflaged behind a rocky headland on the BCS mainland due west of our anchorage.

Puerto Escondido is concealed behind the low, brown hills in front, while the Sierra La Giganta looms in the background.

Distant unidentified whale. We had many such sightings! 

Before we got there, however, we spotted a ruckus on the surface to the north. More whales! We headed the boat in that direction and Sue started snapping photos. Dark gray to blackish bodies with falcate dorsal fins again. These whales seemed smaller than the first group, but it might be that the pod we spotted earlier had reversed course and come north. Body size is very difficult to gauge at a distance, we are finding, and many other identifying features are impossible to see unless you are right next to them. The small whales in this group showed a very arched profile as they dove, making them appear dolphin-like, and even the larger one seemed to have a more rounded back than we saw in the earlier pod. Reviewing the photos later (which were rather terrible), we could see some callosities or rough bumps on the larger whale. Again, we could hear them blowing but never saw a spout. Perhaps they were Minke whales, which grow to 35 feet and rarely have a noticeable blow? So far we are 1 for 3 on identifying dark whales. We did see (and identify!) a solitary humpback whale back on February 11 as we neared Isla Danzante.

Cilantro at the Puerto Escondido fuel dock.

We motored into Puerto Escondido without further excitement and tied up at the fuel dock. In 1940, John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts stopped here during their biological expedition through the Gulf of California collecting marine invertebrates and other intertidal creatures. They scooped up unfamiliar three-foot-long sea cucumbers from the outer harbor and accepted an invitation to join a bighorn sheep hunt in the nearby Sierra La Giganta, which forms a dramatic backdrop for Puerto Escondido. (We will do some bighorn hunting of our own a few weeks from now. More about this in a later post.) Here's how Steinbeck described Puerto Escondido in The Log from the Sea of Cortez:

If one wished to design a secret personal bay, one would probably build something very like this little harbor. A point swings about, making a small semicircular bay fringed with bright-green mangroves, and only when one has turned inside this outer bay can one see that there is a second, secret bay beyond—a long narrow bay with an entrance not more than fifty feet wide at flood....On the stone-bordered sandspit which is the southern block to the true inner Puerto Escondido there was a new stone building not quite finished, with no one about it.

Parking lot at Puerto Escondido.

In 2016, the stone building was still standing, although it looked weathered in comparison with the sharp-edged, modern structures built nearby by FONATUR, the tourism arm of the Mexican government. In the inner harbor, the mangroves competed for space with concrete docks, a palm tree–lined parking lot, and the fuel station, which was our reason for stopping here. Curtis brought out two diesel jugs and a gas can to be filled while Sue disposed of our nonsinkable, nonburnable garbage (mainly plastics) in a dumpster.

The forecast had predicted light to moderate northwest winds, so we hoped for an easy downwind sail. The winds never materialized, however, so we motored southward all day on mostly glassy seas. This turned out to be a boon for wildlife viewing. When you have sails up and spot something interesting on the water, it’s difficult and messy to stop or turn and head over to it. In addition, windy days make for a choppy water surface, and anything smaller than a breaching whale is less obvious.

As we plotted our passage between Los Candeleros (the “candlesticks”), a series of 3 tiny islets, and the mainland, Chief Spotter Curtis went to work. Big messy splashes in the distance turned out to be large rays, probably manta rays, doing spectacular backflips and belly smacks as they came back down. It was impossible to get a photo because you never knew where and when one might come hurtling out of the water. Mantas and other rays are famous for leaping, but none of the books we consulted have an answer for why they do it.

Los Candeleros ("the candlesticks"): Isla La Primera, Isla Las Tijeras
("the scissors"), and Isla Pardo.

As we passed between Isla Pardo (one of the “candlesticks”) and Punta Candeleros on the mainland, a commotion at the surface drew our attention. Small silvery fish leapt out of the water, followed, amazingly, by the “sword” and gaping mouth of a marlin! The marlin thrashed about, trying to club and slash at the small fish with its bill. We have no idea if this one was successful, as prey and predator disappeared quickly back into the sea. Over the course of the day, we spotted several more marlins swimming or basking at the surface, now recognizable to us by their spiny dorsal fin far ahead of the narrow, curving, top tail fin. They were extremely wary creatures, never letting us get close for a photo or better view.

Blue whale spouting!

A couple of miles southeast of our course, Curtis spotted a leftover whale spout drifting like a cloud of mist against the backdrop of Isla Montserrate. We peered and stared through our binoculars, seeing more drifting spray, and Sue thought she saw a big gray shape at one point, but we were unable to make out anything with certainty. Some minutes passed, and we spotted another big vertical spout, now east of our position and about a mile away. Tall columnar spouts are characteristic of some of the largest whales in the Gulf of California, including blue whale, fin whale, and Sei whale. The whale spouted a couple more times and then sounded, giving us a good look at its long, light gray back and tiny dorsal fin set very far back on the body, as well as a sidelong look at its flukes as it dove. Blue whale! The largest mammal on the planet. WOW. 

We saw more manta rays leaping and belly-flopping, and even motored past a few that were swimming quietly at the surface with their wingtips held out of the water and their odd white pectoral fins projected forward on either side of their mouths. As soon as we pulled out a camera, however, they slid quickly away! It was a thrill to glimpse these creatures with their 6-foot or greater wingspans, formerly feared and known as “devil fishes,” before it was widely acknowledged that they eat only zooplankton and tiny fishes. We are frequently surprised—and dismayed—when we encounter people who think of nature and its critters as dangerous. We aren't naïve about the threat posed by a great white shark or a cornered mountain lion, but our first response to a new creature is more likely to be curiosity, or amazement.

The next and best sighting of the day came about an hour after the blue whale. Curtis noticed a small, slightly rounded fin sliding back and forth in the water, and he glimpsed a sizable body ahead of the fin. Not a marlin, then, whose spiny dorsal fin sits right behind its head. We motored cautiously toward it and then drifted in neutral, hoping not to scare off whatever the fin was attached to. A 12-foot long fish loomed into view right next to Cilantro, dark gray with big white spots and a wide, blunt snout. Whale shark! A first for both of us, and one of our most wanted creatures. This must have been a young one, as our books give the length as 20–45 feet, with a maximum of about 60. The world’s largest fish on the same day as the world’s largest mammal! Double WOW.

The giant fish just hung in the water next to us, moving very little except to dive under Cilantro’s keel as we drifted too close. Whale sharks are filter feeders, sieving plankton, phytoplankton, krill, and other small food bits through specialized membranes in their gills as they swim slowly along. Maximum speed is 5 kilometers per hour. They hardly live up to the name of “shark”! 

Whale shark! World's largest fish.

Whale shark next to Cilantro.

With so much sea life on display, the prize for acrobatics goes to the group of smoothtail mobula rays leaping wildly just outside our destination of Bahía Agua Verde in the late afternoon. They are smaller than manta rays, with wingspans between 3 and 5 feet. Mobulas burst out of the water at a 45-degree angle and then slap back down on their white bellies with an audible smack. Sue thinks they look like flying overstuffed pillows. By the time we got close to them, the show had mostly stopped, but Curtis had managed to capture a few leaps with his ultra-zoom lens. Again, we don’t know why they leap, but it’s very fun to watch. 

Smoothtail mobula ray leaping near Bahia Agua Verde.

Next post: Date Palms, Goats, and Abarrotes: Exploring Ashore at Bahía Agua Verde

Little Crabs, Big Drag, and a Mystery Fish: Isla Danzante

From February 11 to 16, Cilantro was anchored in lovely Honeymoon Cove on Isla Danzante. We snorkeled, hiked, and explored parts of this rugged desert island about 4 nm (nautical miles) off the coast of Baja California Sur. We also made phone calls, retrieved 2 weeks’ worth of email, and submitted eBird lists from the top of a rocky ridge using a cell signal from the town of Loreto, about 14 nm north-northwest of us. (Disconnect? Only when we have no other option!)

Anchoring in Honeymoon Cove

Honeymoon Cove, with Cilantro at lower left, looking westward to the Sierra La Giganta on the Baja mainland.

Isla Danzante, looking south from the top of a ridge.

Palmer passionflower (Passiflora palmeri) overlooking Honeymoon Cove.

Sue had not snorkeled before this trip, so Honeymoon Cove was her first experience. The water was clear and we quickly encountered a fabulous variety of tropical fish, most of which were completely new to us. It is a fun challenge, trying and failing to memorize and keep separate all the different colors and patterns and body and tail shapes, long enough to get back to Cilantro and look them up in our fish books. We do a lot of post-snorkel head scratching: Did that silvery fish have vertical stripes or was that the one with the yellow tail? Or was it a blue tail with yellow edges....It's no wonder eyewitness testimony has been losing favor in the courts. Our visual memory isn't nearly as reliable as we thought.

Here are some favorite new fishes. King Angelfish were common but always gorgeous. They were very territorial, aggressively chasing off other fish that strayed near their "patch." Balloonfish, also called Porcupinefish, are a kind of puffer fish that hovers over the sand, waiting to ambush bite-size prey as it swims by. Puffers protect themselves by inflating their spine-covered bodies into a spiky round ball that no self-respecting predator would try to bite. Reef Cornetfish also hover over the sea floor, waiting stealthily to "vacuum" up smaller fish that swim too near. We had seen Reef Cornetfish before, usually in the talons of Ospreys, who can easily pluck them from shallow water and deliver them to a cliff-top nest. The photos below were taken from the kayak rather than underwater. We were reluctant to put Sue's new Olympus TG-4 camera to the waterproof test, since we depended on it for kayaking and hiking. Maybe next time!

King Angelfish

Balloonfish

Reef Cornetfish

Close-up of Reef Cornetfish waiting to ambush prey.

One morning we kayaked around to the north side of Isla Danzante to explore the tidepools. An amazing variety of lifeforms inhabited the rock crevices and pockets that covered and uncovered with the tide! We plan to do a post just on tidepool critters.

Some tidepools along the north shore of Isla Danzante.

Sue was gripped by the shallow underwater drama of a couple of hermit crabs tussling over a third shell. Red-legged hermit crabs, common in the Gulf waters, adopt any suitably sized spiral shell they come across. These two appeared to be struggling over a rather battered, algae-covered one; apparently there is no accounting for taste among hermit crabs! They were taking their time about it, poking a leg out here, a leg in there. When you carry your entire home on your back like a suit of armor, everything—including fighting—happens ponderously. After a minute or so (which might be the equivalent of an entire day in hermit-crab time) one crab moved off and the victor held tight to its new prize. Later, reviewing the photos, Sue noticed a bit of red inside the third shell and theorized there might have been a female crab inside it!

Two red-legged hermit crabs face off over a third shell.

Claw-to-claw combat, hermit crab–style.

Can you see a smidgen of red inside the third shell?

The victor holds tight to his prize; the vanquished moves off.

In the afternoon we kayaked back to Honeymoon Cove, rounding the point at 1:00 p.m. only to see Cilantro about 200 feet downwind of where we had left her! Yikes is an understatement. She had dragged anchor! The wind had really picked up from the north while we were out, and it must have been strong enough to pull the anchor free from its holding. We had tucked up into the north end of this cove, where we knew the bottom was rockier and had a significant slope. In addition, we had taken up scope (shortened our anchor chain) when another boat anchored close to us a few days before. This hadn’t been a problem, until now. All these thoughts and others were running through our heads as we paddled faster: Is she still dragging? Has she run aground? Or has the anchor reset in the new spot?

Very fortunately, it appeared the anchor had reset on its own and Cilantro was blithely swinging about in her new neighborhood, although unnervingly close to a tiny mangrove patch and rocky shore at the south end of the bay. Also fortunately, the two other boats that had been anchored south of us by the mangrove patch that morning were gone. Lucky again!

As we neared the stern and swim ladder where we climb aboard from the kayaks, Curtis spotted a pair of big fins in the shallows by the mangroves. Dolphin? Shark? Sue paddled over to take a look—a mystery fish definitely takes priority over re-anchoring! A spiny, blue-black dorsal fin and pointy tail fin slid through the water about 4 feet apart. “Sailfish?” Curtis suggested from the cockpit. “Dorado?” Sue was thinking. The big fish was dark and fast and very bendy as it swept back and forth, apparently undisturbed by the yellow kayak drifting in. Sue got a few photos with her point-and-shoot before the creature slid away, then she headed back to Cilantro to help Curtis.

First look at the big fish in Honeymoon Cove.

Re-anchoring went smoothly, and we ended up in a better spot than our previous one, but the experience was a reminder that our portable home could quickly become a bit too portable. It was also a good lesson not to shorten scope even if other boats drop anchor close by. Anchoring etiquette says that they (later arrivals) are the ones who should move. For the record, our primary anchor is a 45-pound CQR, which performed well in the Maine coastal mud and the clean sand of the Gulf of California but hasn't been quite as foolproof in a mix of sand and shell or sand over rock.

Later, poring over our favorite fish book, Reef Fish Identification: Baja to Panama (a most welcome gift from Bob Steneck, our marine biologist friend from Maine), we came to the consensus that the mystery fish was a marlin, probably a striped marlin. If you look closely at the second photo, you can just make out a narrow dark shape extending forward of the dorsal fin and head. This would be the marlin’s sword-like bill. Marlins are pelagic, but they are reported to hunt inshore occasionally, especially when there is deep water nearby. Between Isla Danzante and mainland Baja California Sur, the sea floor drops quickly to 200–300 feet deep. We would see marlins several more times during the trip.

Marlin near the beach at Honeymoon Cove, Isla Danzante.

Next up: A bonanza of whale and big fish sightings as we make our way south.

Remote but Not Solitary: Styles of Traveling

"Travel is at its best a solitary enterprise: to see, to examine, to assess, you have to be alone and unencumbered. Other people can mislead you; they crowd your meandering impressions with their own; if they are companionable they obstruct your view, and if they are boring they corrupt the silence with non sequiturs, shattering your concentration with 'Oh, look, it's raining' and 'You see a lot of trees here.'" —Paul Theroux, The Old Patagonian Express (quoted in Theroux's The Tao of Travel)

We like The Tao of Travel for its menage of travel literature excerpts, but we don't subscribe to Theroux's philosophy of solo traveling. He seems to seek out life-changing cultural contrasts, experiences of strangeness and at times discomfort that perhaps jolt him out of everyday complacency. That is certainly one way to travel, and probably one that is best accomplished alone. 

But our interests are very different. We aren't looking for strangeness and discomfort (hence all the pounds of dark chocolate and portable electronics we bring along with us), and we find cultural contrasts interesting but not the main point of going somewhere. We are interested in learning about and documenting natural history: critters, plants, landscapes, and seascapes. Add to this the fact that we really like traveling with each other, if only for the opportunity to lob our own corrupting non sequiturs: "It's getting windy again" or "Hey, there's a barrel cactus!" 

Cilantro anchored in Caleta San Juanico between
Wendaway and Qué Linda.

We have said that we like remote anchorages better than busy marinas, but that doesn't mean we avoid people! Some of the highlights of our trip were the people we met and crossed wakes with along the way. The wind blew from the north for the better part of 9 days at Caleta San Juanico, and we anchored for that entire period in a small bight between two other boats: Qué Linda, winter home of Oregonians Doug and Linda, whom we met in San Carlos in 2012, and Wendaway, crewed by Mark and Wendy from British Columbia. 

Protected to the north by the blocky headland of Punta San Basilio, we didn’t have any swells or wind-driven waves at anchor, but on most afternoons 15 to 20 knots of wind whistled through a cut in the hills and out over the anchorage. We divided our time between "keeping house" on board and going ashore for bird and plant hikes, which often included a stop at the local organic farm for fresh produce. The link below (if it loads) shows a panoramic video of the north anchorage at Caleta San Juanico.

Caleta San Juanico video (Click to view)

Linda Reinthal on Qué Linda.

Mark Schneider on Wendaway.

On a headland trail overlooking the bay.

Linda and Sue scouting for plants, bugs, anything interesting.

Sand Verbena (Abronia maritima), a brilliant spot of color on the beach.

Linda and Sue in a sea cave we hiked to, about 4 miles north
of Caleta San Juanico.

Wild Cotton (Gossypium species), collected by Sue but not yet identified.

Tube-tongue species (probably Justicia insolita) that Sue collected
on a hike to Ramada Cove.

One of our favorite places to explore at San Juanico is a large brackish estero that harbors good birds and plants. We saw our first Xantus’s Hummingbirds here, a species endemic to Baja. The male is stunning with its iridescent green body, buffy belly, and bright red bill; the female has a strong white line behind the eye, buffy throat and belly, and the same red bill. Curtis tried hard to get a photo of a Xantus's here, but the birds weren’t particularly cooperative. Upstream of the estero, the channel dries out but eventually becomes a lovely lush canyon with 40-foot fig trees and dense undergrowth.

Xantus's Hummingbird, a Baja endemic and life bird for us. Curtis
photographed this female at Bahía Concepción later in the trip.

Rancho Escondido is an organic vegetable farm and small goat dairy established by Jose Manuel about a mile from the San Juanico beach. We bought fresh cilantro, Mexican green onions, radishes, carrots, and Roma tomatoes, all pulled or picked while we waited. What a treat, far from town!

Jose Manuel in his garden at Rancho Escondido.

Thatch roof over at Rancho Escondido made from palma de taco (fan palm) fronds.

The road from San Juanico to Loreto, the nearest town, is 7 miles of dirt, gravel, and sandy washes followed by 30 or 40 paved miles along Mexico Highway 1. Not an everyday excursion. Beach campers who come to San Juanico need 4-wheel-drive or high-clearance campers just to make it in from the highway. All the more surprising that Curtis’s brother Morgan “dropped in” during our stay, on his way from Bend, Oregon, to a surfing spot on the Pacific coast. We knew Morgan was headed down Baja around the same time that we were sailing across the Gulf, but it’s a big place, and we weren't sure we would meet up. Lo and behold, as we returned one afternoon from a long hike, there stood Morgan on the beach, catching up with Doug and Linda, who are also from Bend. Morgan has known them for years, whereas we had met them by chance in San Carlos in 2012! One of those small world things….

Morgan (left) and Curtis in the cockpit of Cilantro.

First Looks at Baja California Sur Plants: Caleta San Juanico

A map from 1650 showing California (including the Baja Peninsula) as
an island off the west coast of North America.

Baja California has been described as a “world apart” due to its unique flora, fauna, and landscapes. An 800-mile-long mountainous peninsula attached at its north end to the states of Sonora (Mexico) and California (U.S.A.), Baja has been physically separated from most of Mexico for at least the past 1 million years of geologic history. In addition, hundreds of islands large and small line Baja’s Gulf and Pacific coasts, adding yet more layers of isolation. These accidents of geography have given rise to amazing biodiversity and a remarkable number of endemics (species that are found nowhere else). Islands and near-islands are perfect Petri dishes for the development of endemics, because the species reproduce and evolve in isolation from their closest relatives. By some estimates, nearly one-quarter of Baja’s plants are endemic or near-endemic (restricted to Baja except for a handful of occurrences elsewhere, usually southern California or western Sonora). 

Satellite image of the Baja Peninsula, showing
its strongly NW-SE orientation.

We would be merely "sampling" the rich bird, plant, and marine life during our two months of travel along the Gulf Coast of Baja California Sur, but we were excited to get started. Sue has been working with botanist Richard Felger on a flora of the Guaymas–San Carlos region in coastal Sonora, and she was curious about overlaps and differences between the two floras. Endemic bird species we hoped to find included Grey Thrasher, which we had seen on previous car trips to northern Baja, and the lovely Xantus’s Hummingbird, which would be new for both of us. Belding’s Yellowthroat, a warbler found only in Baja California Sur, was also high on our wanted list.

From our anchorage at the south end of Caleta San Juanico, Curtis studied aerial maps of the bay on his phone and spied out a short but narrow canyon accessible from a nearby beach. We assembled and inflated our kayaks for the first time and loaded them with daypacks, snacks, hiking shoes, binoculars, cameras, and Sue’s plant press. We never travel light, it seems….

Before leaving the beach, Sue was already caught up photographing a couple of unfamiliar flowering plants. The endemic Peninsular Nicolletia (Nicolletia trifida) turned out to be common on dunes and sandy soils around Caleta San Juanico, but we came across it only rarely elsewhere. We saw Gulf Coast Odora (Bajacalia crassifolia), a small stinky shrub with yellow flowers and fleshy gland-tipped leaves, on rocky slopes and cliffs throughout our trip. It is a near-endemic, mostly restricted to Baja but also found on two islands off the Sonoran coast.

Peninsular Nicolletia (Nicolletia trifida), a Baja endemic.

Gulf Coast Odora (Bajacalia crassifolia), a near-endemic.

Interestingly, the Guaymas Region flora that Sue has been working on includes a number of tiny populations of near-endemic Baja species, suggesting that seeds or plants traveled eastward from Baja to Sonora on the wind or water or via animal or human movements. But the reverse—finding small outposts of Sonoran near-endemics on Baja—is a much rarer occurrence.

From the beach, we sidestepped a small estero (lagoon) and followed a gravelly arroyo that soon narrowed and began climbing among boulders. Stately, white-barked palo blanco trees (Lysiloma candidum) lined the arroyo as well as the upper canyon. These Lysilomas occur in only a few locations in Sonora but are apparently abundant in Baja California Sur. 

We encountered these lovely palo blanco trees (Lysiloma candidum) nearly
everywhere we traveled in BCS.

A bright orange flower in a rock cleft caught Sue’s eye—Showy Rock Nettle (Eucnide aurea), a life plant! Endemic to Baja, this rock nettle has a peculiar strategy for reproduction: after it goes to seed, the flower stem elongates and curves back toward the rock cleft the plant is growing in, eventually inserting the seedhead into the cleft and effectively replanting itself.

Showy Rock Nettle (Eucnide aurea), a Baja endemic. Although it looks
prickly, it is not a true nettle.

The spent flower stems of Showy Rock Nettle elongate and curve back toward the roots to "plant" their own seeds.

Palmer Wild Fig (Ficus palmeri) occurs on rock slopes and in shaded canyons of Sonora as well as on Baja, so we were not surprised to find several large trees in this canyon. These fig trees usually get their start in a rock cleft, and the exposed whitish roots can literally crawl down the rock face toward water or soil. The ripe figs are reportedly edible, but we didn't find any to sample on this hike.

A 30-foot-tall Palmer Wild Fig (Ficus palmeri), with Curtis for scale.

Palmer Wild Fig with 30 feet of exposed roots cascading down a cliff. Curtis refused to climb this cliff,
so he is not in the photo for scale.

We both loved this tiny canyon, less than three-quarters of a mile hike from the beach to where we found ourselves "cliffed out," but we did not have an opportunity to revisit it. The next day, the wind shifted back strongly to the north, so we moved Cilantro to the other end of the anchorage, where we would stay for the next nine days in the shelter of Punta San Basilio, waiting out another norther. We learned later from our friends Doug and Linda, anchored nearby on their boat Qué Linda, that this fig canyon also contained a small set of petroglyphs that we missed entirely!

View east down canyon toward Cilantro at anchor. Her bow is facing right, indicating that the wind
is still blowing from the south.

Next up: Sitting out a norther at San Juanico, hiking to a sea cave, Curtis's brother stops by, a visit to Rancho Escondido.

Crossing to Baja (Almost) Uneventfully

We departed San Carlos, Sonora, on the afternoon of 29 January, with a forecast of light-to-moderate northwest winds for most of our due-south passage of 100 miles to Baja California Sur, the southern half of the Baja Peninsula. Our destination was Caleta San Juanico, a protected anchorage on the Gulf coast of Baja. San Juanico is just south of Punta San Basilio, roughly between Bahía Concepción to the north and the town of Loreto to the south. We expected the passage to take about 24 hours, so leaving in the afternoon allows you to arrive in daylight.

Sailing south from San Carlos toward Baja, on a beam reach, going 6.7 knots in 14 knots of wind.

This time of year, the Gulf of California is famous for “northers,” wind events that bring moderate to strong northwest winds (20 to 30 knots with higher gusts) sweeping down the length of the Gulf. These winds can build steep waves and heavy swells in a very short period of time, and wind speeds are often significantly higher out in the middle of the Gulf than on either the Sonoran or the Baja coast. We had monitored the forecasts for a week or more from San Carlos, waiting for our good "weather window" that would give us enough—but not too much—wind to sail on. January 29 marked the tail end of a norther, with diminishing northwest winds that we hoped would take us right across the Gulf without too many “lumps.”

For the first three hours, we were both in the cockpit, alert with anticipation and getting the feel of the wind, sea, and sails. Winds were out of the west-northwest at 14 knots, and we were moving at 6.7 knots, which is pretty fast for Cilantro! Around 6:00 p.m., Curtis went below for a nap while Sue kept watch. At 9:00, Curtis took over and sailed through the wee hours, letting Sue sleep until 3:00 a.m. (6 hours—luxury on a passage!), when the wind died and he started the engine. Sue stood the last watch while Curtis grabbed another 3 hours on a settee.

Chartplotter in night mode, showing our position halfway across the Gulf of California at 1:49 a.m. and 60 minutes of wind history at right. The wind speed had dropped to 6.9 knots, and we were sailing at 4.4 knots.

Just at sunrise, with Baja on the horizon ahead of us, 6:47 a.m.

At sunrise the unfamiliar coast of Baja loomed large and mountainous ahead of us, although we were still several hours offshore. We saw very few birds out on the Gulf during the daylight hours of the crossing, and no whales or other sea life. This surprised us, because we were used to seeing many boobies, pelicans, gulls and other birds near San Carlos, along with occasional dolphins and sea lions. We use eBird (a citizen science project managed by Cornell University that stores and makes available user-submitted bird lists from all over the world) to record our bird sightings, and our eBird list for the crossing contains only 1 Blue-footed Booby and 1 Heermann's Gull!

Approaching the coast of Baja California Sur, 7:21 a.m.

By the time we were 5 miles from Caleta San Juanico, the sun was well up and we were motoring directly into a steady south wind. Curtis wanted to sail a bit more before arriving, so we put up sails, shut off the engine, and tacked east and west a few times, making incremental progress toward shore. It was a beautiful morning, and we congratulated ourselves on a successful first passage to Baja as we munched on pretzels and Clif bars and sipped hot coffee out of thermoses.

Breakfast at sea!

Suddenly a gust took Curtis’s favorite Narragansett ball cap and dropped it into the sea, brim upright in the waves. GEAR OVERBOARD! After a quick huddle, we agreed it was a good opportunity to practice our Crew Overboard rescue technique. So we ran through the Figure 8 method: put the boat on a beam reach (90 degrees to the wind), sail a couple of boat lengths past the hat, tack without changing sails, cross over our own wake, and jibe to come back upwind and approach the hat slowly. Sue executed the drill at the helm while Curtis kept the cap in sight and waited along the starboard side with the boathook.

Sue’s first pass was not quite close enough, so Curtis leaned out a bit farther over the lifelines with the boathook fully extended. The next thing Sue saw were Curtis’s shorts and shoes disappearing over the side of the boat. A perfect somersault. “Jesus Christ!” said Sue to no one. “Curtis!” She looked astern, expecting to see him floating away in the waves like a hat.

“I’m here,” came a voice over the starboard rail. Sue turned the boat into the wind and ran forward, where she found Curtis hanging on to the jib sheet (the line used to control the jib) and being dragged through the water as we sailed along. With luck—or something more difficult to explain—Curtis had grabbed this line as he tumbled over. He was completely soaked but still wearing his glasses, binoculars, and PFD, and gripping the boathook, which he handed up to Sue so he could hold on with both hands. Sue ran to the stern to let down the swim ladder (to which we had far too many things clipped and tied) and then used the boathook to lead Curtis to the ladder. Disconcertingly, his auto-inflating PFD did not inflate until he was almost at the ladder (at which point it was almost more of a hindrance than a help), although he could have deployed it manually at any time.

A hot cockpit shower was the next order of business, after which we started the engine, furled sails, and motored directly to our destination, the anchorage at beautiful Caleta San Juanico. With south winds gusting and rippling the north part of the bay, we anchored in the south arm, getting some protection from a long low reef extending out from shore and a set of jagged rock pinnacles known as Los Mercenarios. We ate an early dinner and turned in for some welcome rest!

Sunrise on 31 January in the south anchorage at Caleta San Juanico. You can see the low-lying (nearly water-level) reef at left and the jagged rocks known as Los Mercenarios in the center.

In all, our 100-mile passage had taken 23 hours, of which we sailed 17 and motored 6. Lost: 1 ball cap and 1 tube of chapstick.* Saved: glasses, binoculars, shoes and, of course, Curtis! Repair and maintenance items: Lifelines are thin cables that run down both sides of the boat as a line of defense against falling overboard. The one Curtis had leaned on gave way because a circlip near the bow had come out, releasing the cotter pin. Curtis had planned to wrap all the lifeline circlips with tape before departing but then decided to take care of it after we got to Baja. And the PFD that deployed as Curtis neared the ladder would need a new inflation cartridge installed.

*Curtis admits that, having failed at retrieving the hat, he briefly considered lunging for the chapstick as it floated away. Sue is glad he didn’t. Curtis is glad too.

Next post: First looks at Baja birds and plants in and around Caleta San Juanico, where we spent more than 10 days with good friends, a surprise guest, and yet another “norther.”