The day dawned next morning (January 25th) with a nice NW’ly breeze over the land, a perfect breeze for my needs. Ate quickly, cleaned up, dressed the boat for sea and got the anchor aboard. As I ran up the main I heard the chain rumbling aboard over on the Grand Duc and the two boats left harbor together. I started with one reef and the working
jib and was immediately making fine time on the course for Isla Coyote, only a few miles across the channel. In mid channel I hove to for a few minutes and tucked in the second reef and began wondering if I shouldn’t have bought a 3rd as well. Isla Coyote is the smallest inhabited island in the Sea of Cortez. . .I doubt it’s 5 acres all told, but in any event it’s quite small and has a good number of houses and one larger building. It offers no anchorage for anything but pangas and kayaks and the area to the West is a very rocky reef with many stones sticking up above even high tide. The chop building up on top of yesterday’s storm swell was getting quite rough as I rounded the island as close as I felt safe (in the photos it looks quite small but the sea actually looks a little bumpy). At that point Isla San Francisco’s Northern shore was close at hand to port and I suddenly felt like I wanted more sea room to windward of that ragged cliffline, so hardened the boat up on the wind and gained a half mile offing before continuing down the Isla San Francisco shore toward the “Hook”. The wind was continuing to build and the boat was showing a steady 5.5 to 6 knots on the gps. She was under easy control and fun to sail, but I decided to stop at Isla San Francisco at least for a bit. Passing the other two smaller anchorages on my left, both of which looked quite nice, I held on for the Hook and entered like a train. Quickly though the mountain bulk of the island blocked my breeze and I drifted and ghosted in puffs for a time close hauled again toward the head of the bay. Finally, well up in the corner to the Northwest I let go the anchor in 25’ over shining white sand and put the sails away. Much is written about the anchorage inside the Hook in guidebooks for the Sea but none do the place justice. It’s an enormous arc of sand and stone anchored with a mountain and the bulk of the island at one end and a smaller hill of striking red and buff stone at the other. Shelter is available somewhere in the anchorage for almost any wind that can blow and the beach of sugar sand is a joy to walk on.
A trail is clearly visible at each end of the hill above the South end of the bay, so I paddled ashore for a walk, already surrendering to the place. I couldn’t pass by without stopping to explore at least the rest of the day. I tied the canoe to a driftwood snag up the beach above the tide and walked down the full length of the sand to the light tower on the South point of the harbor, thence across rocks covered with beautiful Sally Lightfoot crabs running and jumping on the tideline rocks. These incredible crabs look like they had been done in red enamel with highlights picked out in blue and white and they spend their whole time sizing each other up. He who thinks he looks bigger bluffs toward the smaller and there ensues a running, jumping chase over hill and dale, regardless of the breaking waves. A human shadow puts an end to the show though and they disappear into the cracks of the stones.
The climb up the hillside to the ridge over the harbor was steep but reasonably easy and lead at the top to gradually increasing difficulty as I worked among the boulders and rockfalls that make up the ridge itself. The wind had continued to build and here, at the crest, it was squeezed tight against the rocks and howled among them and off into the bright void on the far side. I eased at one point, very near the summit, over to the edge just below the top of a block of stone and stared out and down. It was several hundred feet to the water and very few places one would bounce before the bottom where the refracted sea still broke hard on large stones. Of a sudden, a much harder gust hit the ridge and either moved me or startled me so one foot slid ever so slightly on the gravel. I clutched the stone beside me tightly and backed away from edge, heart pounding. It became perfectly clear right then that, no matter the state of the world, I for one am not ready to die yet! The way along the crest was really quite ragged for perhaps a thousand feet, then turned back into a trail again and wandered its way all along the high ridges and points of this end of the island. I dropped back down to the water level and crossed a low isthmus to the rocky beach opposite the harbor and found tide pools among the boulders and more interesting cobble beaches to walk. There was, I think, no other person on the island that afternoon and the wind the birds and I blew freely across the place alone.
A shrimp boat anchored not far from us while I was ashore, so on my way back I paddled on over to them and asked if I could buy shrimp for my supper. Not just then it seemed. . .the captain was either asleep or ashore (rotten Spanish again) but if I’d come back before they were to sail at 5:00 I could probably buy some then. Then a really large charter yacht steamed into the anchorage. The captain stood at the controls probably 30 feet above the water in a crow’s nest above the flying bridge and the main cabin. Two beautifully dressed deckhands manned the anchor windlass and stood by the dinghy davits where the 16’ long 40 horse power dinghy waited. I hadn’t noticed the dark bottom but right behind me they came up twice with big tangles of weed on their anchor. I’d been considering moving closer to shore just for convenience, so, fearing their generator exhaust in any event, I waved once, went forward, brought the anchor on deck, motored ahead 2 or 3 hundred feet toward the beach and anchored again in 12’ of water on bright white sand. They pulled ahead into the space I’d left, dropped anchor on clean bottom and backed down 150’ or more. Soon the dinghy was ferrying guests to the beach in relays and the captain could be seen securing his engines. All but the generator. Oh well. It was well muffled and straight downwind.
The afternoon had become quite warm even though the wind still blew fiercely through the anchorage. I stared at the blue water and the bright sand below, took off my shirt and put the knife on the galley counter top. . .stood up on the deck edge and dove cleanly into the water. What a delicious rush of sudden cool water and a thrill as the bright sand bottom and the nearby green seaweed flowed by under me. I didn’t so much swim as just arc back to the surface and lie on my back floating under the sun. This was my first swim of the trip and I was in love. After a bit I rolled over and stroked back to the boat, swam around her, dragging my left hand along the waterline feeling the growth of slime there. . .she hadn’t been in the water two weeks yet, but she had no anti fouling at all. I scrubbed with my hand as I swam, reaching back under the chine to clean as well as I could. Clear around, then clear under, looking at the uncouth steel slab of centerboard below her sleek bottom. Cold. Back to the transom, un-snapped the ladder and realized I’d never tried to use it before. Hands on the upper ladder, lean way back, tuck the feet up and find the lowest rung, tense the tummy muscles, legs and arms all at once and you’re up! Into the sunshine, Instant heat on cool skin. Up dripping into the cockpit, I stand on the seat a while and realize I’m almost dry again. Sun still well above the horizon. Standing on the edge of the seat, simply fall backwards overboard, a great splash and all the blues and greens of sky and water overhead. Then water up the nose and reality again. On the surface, stroking hard away from the boat, best form, head down, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe again, kick hard, then stop and roll over on my back, face in the sun. . .the boat way over there. Enough. Roll over again, on my left side, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, side stroke, I can do that all day. . .up to the anchor line. Hold on to the thin nylon, look all around then, lungs full of new air, grab the line and haul so fast, hand over hand, down and down, to the thimble and the chain and sand and along the chain hand over hand over hand til I can see the anchor ahead, but I’m out of air. . .let go, kick hard for the surface. . .make bubbles coming up and in the sunshine again. Panting and kicking a little. Enough again, strong strokes to the boat, past the bow, along the side and to the ladder again. Quickly into the cockpit and stand there drying in the lowering sun and suddenly cool wind.
As five o’clock approached I put on dry shorts and shirt and brushed my hair and beard to go visiting the shrimper. The paddle across was quick in the evening breeze, dying with the lowering sun. The shrimper is steel, perhaps 90 feet long by 30 beam, very high bow with the characteristic Gulf of Mexico rig, outriggers either side with the otterboards and the head of the net outboard, the bunt of the net each side piled amidships where the shrimp will be dumped and sorted. Everything is old and rusty. There is no glass in any window and a tattered tarp swings across one pilot house window. Nonetheless, the engines are rumbling quietly below and have a believable healthy sound to them. “Son Mar 8” (“Sea Song #8) is her name. Alongside, I find a scupper with a grating I can grab, swing up and put a foot on the rub guard, thence over the bulwarks and aboard, the canoe’s painter in my teeth, the paddle firmly tucked into the bows. Introductions all around, “yes the captain is here now, certainly I can buy shrimp, how much do I want a kilo?” I don’t know. . .just enough for my supper and there’s only me and I only have a small kettle, just so much. . .and I make a shape like a grapefruit with my hands in the air. The captain arrives from the wheelhouse, rather a more serious man than the deckhands, not so sure about the visitor or selling shrimp like this, needing to be persuaded. Tall and skinny deckhand offers full details of my voyage, my family, the size of my kettle, how little shrimp it will take to make me happy, the possibility that I might have magazines to trade, many other things I’m surprised he knew about me. . .or guessed well. The captain agrees, “get him some shrimp”. . .short and round deckhand throws a tarp off a small man-hatch into the refrigerated hold, climbs down the ladder and rummages around in the ice with a large plastic bag. Shortly he’s on deck again with a bag of shrimp nearly as big as my pillow. I pull out my only pesos, a $20 peso bill and look sheepish. The captain looks at it and winces. I think it’s a bad deal. He’s giving me too much shrimp for the money. I hold out the bill, he shrugs, takes it and hands me the shrimp. I’m floored. I’ve never had so much shrimp in my life. I hesitate. He makes motions toward the pilothouse and the anchor windlass. The crew is busily picking garbage out of the nets. It’s almost time to get to sea and begin fishing for the night. I say many thanks and good byes and everybody smiles and waves. Goodness.
Well, with the evening off to such a good start, I paddled to the charter boat. “Felina” is her name and her captain was leaning on the rail astern as I paddled up. “Couldn’t find any sand at first” he said. . .I replied “Oh, I’d been thinking of moving closer to the beach anyway, get out of the wind you know. . .by the way (becoming obvious now), I don’t suppose you have any potatoes you could sell me do you? I’m going to run out of potatoes before I run out of trip this time.” He grinned. . .”well, I’m not sure, but I can ask. . .” and he turned and walked into the palace where a tall blond lady with a pony tail was setting the dinner table. After a few minutes he came back out with a large bag full of beautiful brown spuds and a smile. . .”looks like we have enough to spare” he said and passed them down to me, with a motion of his hand that said “they’re yours”. We complimented each other on our boats and our seamanship and discussed charters (his was 10 “young presidents” (a club) of corporations from Mexico City). They had had a rough crossing from La Paz this morning, so all ten had been sick. Now they were ashore with two bottles of tequila, ten glasses and a large sack of limes recovering. As I squared away the paddle and started to cast off the young blonde pony tail bounced out on deck with a large bag of bananas at the peak of perfect ripeness. . .”Only because we have a whole stalk going off at once”. . .and a big smile as I thanked her.
I cooked half the shrimp and barely managed to eat them all in the dusk (was finding shrimp feet and shells three days later around the cockpit), then climbed in the canoe and carried the rest over to the charter boat. The captain said they’d already gotten some themselves but I told him either he took them or I’d throw them overboard, so he graciously took them while his guests stood around catching foot-long fish of some sort eagerly on rods meant for marlin.