Baja by Sea Kayak

“Hola, Chico, cómo esta?” I ask a weathered Mexican on the beach. He is expertly twirling a lure attached to a heavy fishing line above his head. “Muy bien, Tomas!” Chico responds, still focused on a distant patch of water. “Hay cabrilla aquí.” Cabrilla is Spanish for grouper. He lets loose with the lure, and it gracefully arcs out into the water. Moments later, he is wrestling a large cabrilla to shore.

One of the aspects I like most about paddling in Baja is interacting with the locals. Along the coastline are small fishing villages where you can sometimes buy fresh fish and stock up on water. Using pangas, ubiquitous outboard-equipped open boats, fishermen travel up and down the coastline in search of yellowtail, grouper, snapper, and other tasty fish. More than once I’ve hired the services of a friendly fisherman to transport me to a source of water when our rations were running low.

After a fine Mexican fiesta with Chico’s family, Cree and I head back to camp by headlamp. As we approach the water we see a strange green sparkle. Investigating closer, we realize that the whole beach is glowing with bioluminescence. The green color is caused by a chemical reaction in dinoflagellates, unicellular aquatic organisms, when they are disturbed. We throw stones and sand into the surf, causing streaks of bright green to flash across the water. As we walk at the water’s edge, our tracks fill up with glowing green water, leaving a trail of eerie “radioactive” footprints on the beach.

Paddling down the coast, Cree and I understand why the Sea of Cortez is one of the world’s richest bodies of water. Pods of dolphins, as many as 40, cruise by, some performing acrobatic flips in midair. Below, huge schools of manta rays lazily swim past; imagine 100 black Frisbees soaring beneath you. Overhead, blue-footed boobies drop from the sky like missiles in pursuit of fish. On shore, steep orange-colored cliffs rise above cobble beaches, and in the distant hazy heat, the Sierra de la Giganta mountains puncture the blue sky. I would like to stop and explore every one of the secluded beaches we pass, but our schedule and water ration dictate otherwise.

Our last day we spend on Isla Coronado, a small rocky island just north of Loreto, our final destination. After unpacking our boats, Cree immediately dives into the transparent green water with snorkeling gear. “Wow!” she exclaims through her snorkel, never actually raising her head above water. Gurgled exclamations continue as I frantically put on my mask to join her. Diving beneath the surface, I feel a cold shiver race through my body. Surrounding Cree are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of barracuda. I have never seen a school of fish so huge. We dive down into the mass, enveloped on all sides by the slender silvery fish, curiously watching us with their beady eyes. I remind myself that these are not the aggressive variety that occasionally bite swimmers.

Back on shore, basking in the sun, I can’t stop thinking about our barracuda encounter. This huge school of fish reminds me of something John Steinbeck wrote in 1940: After breakfast, we pulled up the anchor and set out again northward. The water was intensely blue on this run, and the fish were many. We could see the splashing of great schools of tuna in the distance, where they beat the water to spray in their millions. The swordfish leaped all about us ... Just as Baja had captured Steinbeck’s admiration, so too had it captured mine.

Senor Tom Bol is a freelance writer and photographer who has guided dozens of Baja tours.