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Chapter 5 - On down the Coast toward Nopolo

As you leave Puerto Agua Verde you have a few miles to make to the East before you turn the single most prominent corner in these parts and head due South toward La Paz. On the morning of February 26th, having listened to a fine N'ly breeze much of the night, I got the anchor aboard in a near calm and drifted and ghosted out of the anchorage. Given the nearly complete calm and our corresponding lack of speed I let the boat drift really close to the reef at the entrance to the anchorage, trying to see clearly how far off it extends from the beach. I'll be returning here someday and may as well know the door posts. An hour later I gave up and started the engine for a while. Running straight offshore I soon found a little breeze and put the sails back to work. Last night's wind had raised a sea farther North that rolled down now as long easy swells that bothered the sails no end, shaking the light breeze right out of them from time to time. No matter. We finally rounded the corner and made the big course change, which brought the wind and swell both astern. As the day warmed the breeze built up and pushed us along at a grand rate, easy on the helm but putting the miles behind at up to 5.5 knots, even surfing a bit now and again on the steeper swells. Great fun and just pleasantly cool in shorts and a shirt. I noticed later that my feet and the tops of my thighs were burning even, so out came the sun block and I slathered. The last time we passed this way I stood well offshore and gave the cliffs a wide berth, though the wall of mountains here falls directly into the water for many miles and the grandeur is hardly diminished by a little distance off shore. This trip we sailed closer to the cliffs all day, watching the details shift as the point gradually diminished into the distance astern. It was interesting to see how the sea was still gnawing at the mountains, perhaps more so this year since the hurricane had passed right up this shoreline in September. One way or another there were many new massive rock falls from the mountains above. Some amounted to huge tracts of land crumpled into rubble at the base of the cliff. Here and there you could see the remnants of a beach at either end of a collapsed mountainside. I would take it as a clear lesson never to camp under cliffs on this coast, especially in bad weather. I suppose, on the other hand, it would be a quicker death than drowning and the expense of burial would be avoided. Our goal for this day was the anchorage in Puerto Gato and it looked for a while like an easy sail for the day, though it's a good run of nearly 20 miles. However, actually at a rather awkward moment when I'd closed within a few hundred feet of some cliffs, the wind simply stopped. We literally coasted ahead with the sails limp for a minute or so, just on momentum. The swell and chop continued and urged the boat inch by inch inshore. The motor would have been worthless with the water so rough, so I simply kept strict attention to the sails and every time there was a minute of air moving we edged our way offshore again. Bit by bit we gained an offing and after an hour or so the chop had died. The motor took over and quietly pushed us the last few miles round Punta Prieta (where we went close again to look at the anchorage under it's lee) and thence on the next mile to Puerto Gato. On my first trip through these waters I had fallen completely under the spell of the weirdly sculpted red sandstone cliffs at the North end of this little bay and I was eager to turn my new camera loose in the sunset light. Sadly, the day had turned cold and overcast in the late afternoon and there was no magical glow in the rocks as evening approached. I walked on the beach with my whole bag of lenses hoping and finally, quite late, got a few minutes of low angle sunshine to bring some of the rocks to life. Truly there is no place I have ever seen such wind and water carved rocks. Somehow the desert sun bakes the exposed upper surface harder than the underlying sand stone, then wind and rain and time carve gargoyles and birds and grottoes out of the stone and ever so slowly, the hardened crust above, now over hanging, bends with gravity and arches over nothing in unthinkable curves. Photos imply the possibilities, but only your eyes in person can give you the full impact. It is significant I think that in the year 2004, when every boulder alongside the road ashore has some fool's name and comments spray painted on it. . .these rocks at Puerto Gato are unstained. No pieces are knocked off to carry away. No name or tag mars them. They must inspire a profound respect in all who pass this way.

There was a dead whale's last remains on the beach at the South end of the bay, spotless vertebrae of unbelievable size, many still joined in the sand as they had been for years at sea. The great skull was half buried in the sand and three of the biggest vertebrae lay nearby. There was still an unidentifiable mound of unidentifiable flesh, perhaps the last of the internal organs, floating awash just off the beach, and a persistent audience of "pilotes" (vultures) and seagulls made occasional efforts to pick something from the mass for a late supper. I returned aboard after the sun was well gone and, supper made and cleaned up after, made everything ready for departure in the morning.

There were two other boats in the harbor by then, both on passage Southbound for points on the mainland and beyond, perhaps Central America and the Caribbean. One was very workmanlike, almost like a semi truck in its utilitarian solidity, with a retired couple aboard from far inland. The other was a ketch, at least 40 or 45 feet long, long rounded bows and finely shaped quarters, she was graceful as a young woman, her name "Tea Leaves" from Portland. . .she saw her own way through the water with winking eyes painted on her bows. There was an uncounted horde aboard. . .mom and dad and I think three kids, a Dalmatian and a very lively kitten that ran the course from bow to stern along all the highest pieces of canvas. . .sail covers, dodger and bimini, trying to keep track of kids, dogs and whatever was going on over side. We visited a short while, discussed the weather outlook (ordinary) for a while and in the morning they made only a quick Dalmatian stop on the beach and motored off to the South.

In fact, next morning, ready as I thought we were for sea, we were last boat under way by 20 minutes at least, and since we were sailing in light breezes, the other two, running purposefully under power, were soon hull down below the Southern horizon, then gone entirely.

It was plumb cold early before sunrise. I put on just about everything I'd brought, sweat shirt, sweat pants, paddle jacket and pulled my hat down hard over my bald head. Warmth of a sort came back with the sun and the day passed pleasantly if slowly with light breezes teasing us along toward the South. The passage in these parts lay offshore a mile or so as the shoreline dodged away to the West in a broad bay. There was a possible anchorage at Moreno Rock that we passed about 1400, but somehow I convinced myself that there was time to continue on to Nopolo, still miles away, before dark and we carried on though the wind was fitful at best and the calm seas invited the motor into service at times. It was a great day for whales. We saw at least four or perhaps even six individuals (it really is hard to tell sometimes, though if they are far enough apart you can be reasonably sure even if they're not all in sight at once). Some of them were far away and only the brief darkness of their backs showed on the horizon with their spouts above. One however passed within 80 or 100 feet, a grand creature and a wonderful visit. So very large they are, especially compared to Gaviota's 18 feet. When this one came alongside I could tell where he would surface several seconds before I could see his gleaming body in the water. The waves would suddenly show the unmistakable look of waves breaking in shallow water, confused and tumbling as the moving island approached the surface. Then you would make out whale, shining in the light, silvery gray, still below the surface, then the water, no longer marking a shoal, began breaking wavelets on the smooth beach of his back, the great back and breakwater before the nostrils coming free and well up into the sunshine, then the sharp exhalation, the spout and the long long arch of body, the passage of the small sharp fin near the tail flukes, and then he was gone again into the depths. Twice in the middle distance I saw the proud tail flukes waving high in the air, but never close enough for a photo. Sigh.

Any other day the visit of ten or fifteen dolphins would have seemed a great deal of itself, but with the wealth of whales I hardly mentioned the dolphins in the log at all. Nonetheless, they too brightened my day, keeping us company for quite a ways off to one side about 100 yards, though they never approached to play right around the boat, no matter how I wished it.

In the end I had to admit I had failed my planning for the day. The wind gave out and it was clear I'd waited too long to motor the rest of the distance to Nopolo in time to anchor in daylight. I could not imagine making that approach into that tiny bay in the dark, so I began making other plans. The anchorage off Rancho Dolores, a place I'd never been but really rather did want to see, is said to be secure enough to leave your boat long enough to go ashore to visit or buy produce or even to walk the three miles up the arroyo to the ancient Mission Dolores. It's not recommended for an overnight stay. Well, we were becalmed anyway, and there had been no mention of the onset of a Norther in the weather report the night before, so I altered course to the West and began glassing the shoreline for the telltale grove of palm trees that marks the ranch house itself. There were two apparent anchorages, both off of sandy beaches, one closer to the ranch, the other perhaps a bit better protected from the West. Both were simply open roadstead anchorages, exposed to 200 miles of fetch at least to the North and East, subject to whatever might wander in from probably 220 degrees of the compass. A trimaran that had been ahead of me all day suddenly realized he was in the same predicament I was and several miles ahead I could see him veer off to head for the more distant strand. I carried on closer to the ranch. Closing the beach, though there was little swell running, I thought I saw surf breaking on over to the Western end of the beach, so held nearer the cliffs that separated my beach from the trimaran's and closed to within a hundred yards or so. There was some sort of wreckage awash on the beach, a boiler perhaps and some stone work a few hundred yards closer to the ranch, and the splashes I'd taken for surf continued on over at the Western end of the beach. I anchored in 25 feet and set the anchor with every one of my six horsepower. We tugged at that anchor from three sides, making sure it was well set for the night. Then I tied one reef in the main, took the lapper off the forestay and hanked on the small jib and went over every item on deck and below to be ready for a desperate midnight departure if it came to blow anywhere from Northwest through North around to East of Southeast. In the growing dusk the splash of the surf moved closer to us and I tensed like a threatened cat. It was pelicans though, not surf. There were so many of them diving, often together, that they stirred up flashes of spray that looked for all the world like the feathers on the top of surf breaking on a beach. . .what it looks like from offshore that is. Sometimes you just have to giggle at yourself, nothing else serves.

It did blow that night, but out of the West, along the beach, so there was not even any chop rolling in, just the whine of the wind in the rigging and the grunting now and then as the boat ran to the full radius of her anchor line and tugged hard at the tether before sailing back the other way. I stood in the hatchway for half an hour or so, twice during the night watching the wind, but there was no reason to flee. In the morning, I paddled early to the beach and walked a surprising distance up the beach to the ranch house and met Lucio and her four kids. Her husband was off in the country and the five of them were polite, but visibly nervous at my visit. I coaxed them into a posed family portrait, a strong ranch lady staring bravely back at me and her four beautiful kids, 7 through 12, glossy and bright eyed if uncomfortable with a stranger. They had neither fruit nor vegetables to sell at this season. . .a tree full of tiny mango starts shows promise for a feast in a few months. . .but they had several round fat white cheeses. I was all but finished with my half kilo of goats cheese so asked how long these would last in the heat. Lucio assured me they would last many days if I'd keep them in the open air. I hadn't understood that with the goat cheese and had kept it in a plastic bag. I bought the whole kilo of the smallest cheese she had and carried it away carefully in a frail plastic bag to the boat, but even so dropped it in the sand and cobbles when the bag split as I was dragging the canoe back down to the shore. Sigh. I looked at my brand new, newly sanded cheese and did the only possible thing. . .rinsed it quickly off in the sea water and took it aboard, patted it dry and wrapped it in a hand towel and hung it in the hammock. It was a near thing. . .years of training said I should have left it in the sand where it fell. . .but I wanted that cheese, and it was wonderfully sweet. Carefully rationed it lasted a full week and was as sweet then as when I bought it, if quite a bit drier.

Rancho Dolores, located at the mouth of the arroyo that holds the ancient Mission Dolores, has been in operation they say over 200 years. The ranch house is vastly larger and more solid than the recent ply wood or concrete block homes of the fishermen and goat herders in Agua Verde. Originally built in two wings with a cool breezeway between, I suspect it once served at least two generations of the same family, if not much more. The single family living in it now needs much less of its space and it is aging in quiet dignity. There is no road access to the outside world at all. It is said to be possible to take a horse through the mountains to the highway, but it is not an easy trip and with pangas available to run swiftly up and down the coast, there's no reason for it. A school teacher comes to stay with the family for a month at a time, month on, month off and there are (I think) a few other kids in a family group on "the other side of the arroyo", though I saw no sign of it.

I hated being off the boat with her in such an exposed position alone, so I didn't make the hike up the valley to the old Mission, though I'm told it's well worth the effort and there's much more of the ranch to see than just the ranch house and the old bleached whale's skeleton lying on the abandoned house footing down by the beach. I was aboard again and under way by 9:30 and it was just as well. The breeze came in Northerly and became a great sailing breeze, dead fair for Nopolo, now only half a day's sail on down the coast, but it would have been setting us directly onto the beach at the Rancho. Better to be gone.

The run from Rancho Dolores around the corner to Nopolo is only 7 miles or so, soon done in that fine breeze. The navigation couldn't be easier. The last five miles or so into Nopolo is a solid wall of stone, with a prominent detached point, Punta Alta, clearly marking the site. All you do is keep Baja California on your right hand side, not too far off, and turn in as soon as you've passed the point. The incredibly tiny bay there tucks in right behind the rock and shelves quickly up to a sandy beach with a cluster of houses squeezed in between the mountain side and the bay. It's a delightful sight from the sea, though it's a busy few minutes suddenly tacking into a quite strong breeze, funneled into the bay by the gap between Punta Alta itself and the much taller mountains close to the West. I tacked in as far as the row of buoys that marked the offshore tail-hold anchors for the pangas on the beach, backed the jib and jumped forward to get the anchor out of her chock and overboard before we were blown back out of the harbor. Bottom was in about 35 feet, better than I'd been fearing, though maybe I was farther inshore than the author of the guide book had been with his larger boat when he reported a 60' depth too close to the beach to be comfortable.

What I think of as Nopolo, the way it's marked on the charts, is really three separate beaches, divided from each other by solid unpassable cliffs, each provided with its own family group of houses but none having any supply of fresh water. There's a well up the arroyo from one beach, but it's salty and only good for washing, if that. These days all the water comes from Rancho Dolores. A panga can carry 1000 liters in jugs, call it 250 gallons and a hose down to the beach near where I'd landed makes it relatively easy to load up. The jugs are all carried up the beach by hand at home though.

In the past this settlement was all called Nopolo, but now that name is reserved for the stony beach furthest South where we anchored on our first trip through here (and found how effective the West wind would be howling down the arroyo to keep you awake). The middle beach and its settlement is now called La Cueva. . .the Cave. . .though I didn't notice the cave in question. I'd visited there two years before and had a handful of 5x7 photos to deliver. . .an excellent calling card. Finally, the settlement behind Punta Alta is called. . .Punta Alta. On our first passage through I'd waited til the last moment to call in at Punta Alta and the wind had come up strong so I'd left without landing, so this approach and prompt landing finally filled in an important gap.

Usually when I arrive at a fishing village it's already late in the day and the fishermen are finished with their catch and there's not much activity down at the waterside, but today I've arrived just as the last few fish are being unloaded and cleaned and gotten on ice. I lingered over my chores aboard for half an hour, giving people time to get used to the idea of the boat in their front yard, but also checking that the anchor really had a good hold of the bottom in the gusty wind. All being well, I went ashore and made introductions. As often happens, my first contact on the beach, a gentleman with a razor sharp knife named Heraclio (pronounced without the H, so sounding a little like "Eric-lio") turned out to be my strongest contact for this visit. . .perhaps it's first-come first-served with visiting gringos. In any event I took several photos of the filleting of a large skate or "manta raya" though it's a completely different animal than the black and white beauties that fly in flocks through air and water. This sort of "manta raya" is a drab olive green on top, spends his life mostly shuffling along the bottom picking up odd bits of stuff and tastes just lovely when well filleted out. The cuts are very specific and depend on a knife with a very keen edge to first delineate the zone to be cut free of the carcass, then to slip gently between the cartilage skeleton of the wings and the fine white flesh and separate them for good. By the time the last of the fish were cleaned, photographed and iced down I had made myself at home and the kids were all around. I went house to house taking pictures and introducing myself, then slipped away in the canoe to the second beach, La Cueva, to deliver the old crop of pictures and try for more. I think it is not common for cruisers to return with two year old photos and it's a shame I had no more than I did (won't make that mistake again). But the dozen or so I brought were extremely welcome. One old lady who was in several was gone now, but her widower took them gladly. One tiny baby in her mother's arms two years before was now a doe eyed sweetheart who would not smile for the camera this time. . .One way or another, the handful of photos clearly established my bona fides in the village and it became a matter of organizing the posing groups, herding them into and out of sunlight and so forth. All the while we carried on a conversation on all sides, who I was, where I was from, where bound, what family, why alone (alone??? Gaviota would have been offended) and so forth. My Spanish is pretty well attuned to this sort of conversation and generally it goes quite well these days. Its only when we come to more complex issues (What do you think of the terrorists? Why is there so much tension between Mexican government and the United States? And so forth. . .) that I fall down miserably. Nevertheless, progress is apparent these days and the visiting is excellent. After a while I returned to the beach at Punta Alta where Heraclio invited me to come with him in the morning to set the huge pile of net he had in his panga just off shore. This is a different sort of thing than the tangle net soaking for days at a time for bottom fish, it is a "cincharro" (that spelling is approximate and phonetic, don't hold me to it) what we would have called a purse seine in Puget Sound, it is set around a school of midwater fish as they swim, then closed end to end to make a complete pen. Then the differences come in play, Instead of pulling on a "pursing strap" as the salmon or sardine fishermen used to do on our coast to gather the bottom of the net together under the fish, the Mexican fisherman dons a mask, flippers and weight belt and dives with a small gas powered compressor from his panga and painstakingly maneuvers the hem of the net under the school of fish, keeping it pressed tightly against the rocky bottom. With it all gathered together and tied off the fish are once and for all caught and the men slowly pull the web into the boat hand over hand, squeezing the fish down into a huge mass. At times they succeed in catching literally tons of prime food fish this way and more than one panga is necessary to carry the prize away. It can turn into an all day and all night job, but the payoff is grand. It requires perfect conditions though. First you need the large school of fish and they need to be in the right sort of spot with the right depth of water and the surface needs to be quite calm, neither chop nor swell, conditions that do not often obtain, even in the sheltered bays hereabouts.

As it turned out the next morning was choppy and the cincharro stayed where it was in the old panga floating just off the beach. Instead we took a different boat and went to lift a set net that had been soaking 2 days hoping for angelitos. I'd never seen an angelito before. . .and they are not terribly angel like now that I have. They seem to be about intermediate between a skate and a small shark, weighing around 10 pounds each, they are bottom dwellers like a skate, but no longer have his "wings", but rather, very large fleshy pectoral fins that give him almost the skate's appearance and must be the "angel's wings" that gave him his commercial name. In any event, I learned a lot from the few hours in the panga. Most importantly, that I have nowhere near the strength or stamina required to pull 1500 meters of light monofilament net out of 40 meters of water. I lasted well for perhaps 10 minutes, pulling the corkline while Heraclio's nephew pulled the lead line and Heraclio freed the occasional fish from his tangle in the net and threw him (carefully, they bite fiercely) upside down in the bottom of the boat. The other two pulled the net steadily for an hour and a half, clearing the occasional fish or chunk of debris and straightening the web as it came aboard. The web and cork and lead lines (top and bottom) are really quite light, but in effect, you are anchored by the net and pulling a 24 foot long boat sideways through the water up wind and up current. It's not a huge weight but it's absolutely unrelenting and not an inch comes for free. Other lessons. . .angelito's bite as I mentioned, pangas go amazingly well through a light chop, though they do pound going upwind, big outboards have huge appetites (you could almost see the level dropping in the fuel tank as we cruised along at 20 knots), the reason Mexican fishermen sing so well without needing a microphone is that they normally sing above the howl of 65 horse outboards. . .using the drone of the engine as a pleasant bass accompaniment. There were no doubt other things to learn but that's a start. When we returned to the beach I was herded directly to Heraclio's home up the beach, where we were served a delicious breakfast of eggs with machaca of manta raya (something I'd mentioned I liked the previous day while the big fish were being filleted) with frijoles, arroz and a sweet custard for dessert. Nobody had eaten since the night before and the men had done most of a day's work already, so this wasn't really an excessive breakfast. . .just a lot more (and infinitely better than) my normal oats and raisins and prunes. Machaca, by the way, is made by first boiling the filleted fish, then drying it in salt for a few days then tearing it into individual fibers and finally frying it with garlic, onions, tomatoes, and who knows what other magical herbs. Served with, or stirred into scrambled eggs and frijoles (almost runny refried beans) it's a truly delightful taste and texture. You can make it out of any number of meats and fishes, but my favorite I think is the manta raya.

By this time the word of my returning photos over at La Cueva had spread to Punta Alta and Nopolo and I did not lack for customers as long as I had film in the camera. Some of the smaller kids needed teasing by mothers and aunts to go along with the plan and somebody had taught the whole village to say "WHISKEY" to produce the requisite smile for a photo, so all afternoon ragged choruses of "WHISKEY!!" marked my progress from one group of models and the next. In some photos you can clearly see the ripple of the syllables as the Word sweeps across the room. I worked up quite a thirst by the end of the day, just listening to the endlessly repeated suggestion.

This was a Sunday and though all here were Catholics, no mass was available and the morning, with the fish safely on ice, passed with visiting house to house, kids running and playing everywhere, and a spirited game of dominoes on the front porch. Later I hosted Heraclio and a large boat load of kids on board Gaviota. She's never had such a crowd. . .five of us in the cabin at one point (there are only seats for 3 normally, but we squeezed) and several more out in the cockpit. This was their turn to eyeball me and ask questions about everything aboard and everything at home. Finally that too was over and, though it was noon, the wind was lovely and fair for Isla San Francisco. I was fretting over gasoline and planning to stop in San Evaristo a few miles further South, even though I didn't particularly want to visit there again, just to buy three gallons before starting the long leg offshore toward Espiritu Santo Island and La Paz. Gasoline, like everything else not caught or grown here, has to come from La Paz in the fish buyer's truck, then be carried across the beach, loaded in a panga, delivered to the home beach, wherever that is, unloaded from the panga and packed up the beach to the house at last. Given that, I was astounded when Heraclio offered to just sell me the twelve or fifteen liters I needed from his tank. I argued against it, fearing I'd run him short, but he insisted he had to run into San Evaristo in the morning with his fish anyway, so he could replace it then. I doubt that, but it was a grand offer, and given the fair wind for Isla San Francisco out on the horizon, it was too good to pass up. We carefully siphoned and measured and transferred fuel from his tank to mine. When we were finished he asked only for the 8 pesos per liter that it cost him in Evaristo. By the simple expedient of failing to offer exact change I at least gave him a dollar or so of profit. Goodness. Fueled, fed and reasonably sure I had a photo of everyone in the whole place safely on film, I went aboard and got her ready for a daring departure under sail. The wind was gusting out of the notch in the cliffs and blowing straight away to the South and Gaviota tacked back and forth on the end of her anchor line and there was the usual question of getting rid of the tangle of anchor line and chain through the small port in the deck while managing the boat in tight quarters. It was a little closely run, but we skated by, anchor stowed, main hoisted and partly drawing, gathered way, tacked over and bore off just in time to dodge the rocks next to the fish cleaning shade and then went roaring away with a fine fair breeze, cleaning up the mess of hastily dropped lines and securing the anchor as we ran. Two pangas chased me down to say good bye, good voyage. . ."que le vaya muy bien!" may it go very well for you. . .I didn't want to leave.