Whales, A Witch, and Wonderful Weather: Group Sea Kayaking in Baja

By Jill Irwin

We sit circled around a beach fire, faces lit by the waning flames, entranced by the rhythms of our percussion jam session.  Overhead zillions of stars shine brilliantly in the Baja sky through the diaphanous stretch of the Milky Way.  Five of us remain awake on this vernal equinox to celebrate the coming of spring; together we blend into one chaotic yet strangely harmonic convergence of sound that echoes up the arroyo behind us and drifts back out into the bay.
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When I decide that I simply must go sea kayaking in Baja for spring vacation, it’s so last minute that nobody can join me.  Well, my sister could, but when I say, “camping,” she asks “Where would I go to the bathroom?”  So I check out group trips, uneasy about vacationing with people I’ve never met. But when I talk to Gabriola Cycle & Kayak, they’re so friendly that I sign up.

As I wait to board the plane to Mexico, I eye my fellow passengers, picking out the kayakers with their chunky sport sandals and baggy shorts.  Once on board, I’m next to a fiftyish man wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with “Ouzo Power.” I’d already pegged him as a sport fisher, but he turns to me and says “Are you on the Gabriola kayak trip, too?”  Jim, who manages a family counseling center, turns out to be a kind man with an unexpected, sly sense of humor. I like him immediately.

As our plane descends into Loreto, on the Sea of Cortez, a stark, dramatic landscape lies below. Jagged peaks slice through the electric blue sky; a moon-shaped bay forms a perfect circle on small island not far offshore. An intricate pattern of ripples covers the azure sea surface.

Our first evening together, we camp at a hacienda run by expatriate Norte Americanos.  I assess our group—a twentysomething couple on their honeymoon, a couple in their thirties, three solo women, two solo men, and two male guides—and decide it’s a good gender balance. 

Morning arrives with sunshine and warm, dry air. As we load our camping gear into the boats on the beach, I snag a single kayak. But our amiable guide Jim says, “You’ll be switching between single and double kayaks to mix it up, so don’t get too attached to your boat.” Mary, an athletic blonde fortysomething who looks great in a bikini, immediately leads the pack as she charges off paddling toward Isla Coronado, our first destination.  Even though I’m a veteran kayaker, she intimidates me.

Our first campsite is on the circular bay I’d seen from the plane. Conversation doesn’t flow easily around the evening campfire—we’re still sizing each other up. I head to my tent early and read.

By the second day, as we begin to relax into the pace of rising early and paddling in the mornings, personalities are revealed.  I’m paired today with David, a former advertising executive, now a Zen Buddhist and volunteer for stroke victims.  He tells me his epiphany to step off the fast track came on a trip to Alaska when an eagle feather spoke to him.  “It was time to be of service to others.” He’s a cool guy.

Our guides are low key yet helpful.  During the four-hour crossing to Isla del Carmen, they paddle up to each of us occasionally to see how we’re doing. Their attitude helps the group settle into an easy camaraderie.  Guide John has brought a bag of percussion instruments for campfire entertainment, and Jim engages anybody willing in a game of dice.  (Next Page, click link below…)

After hitting and holding our peak for a few minutes, we gradually fall away one by one, until the last rhythm ceases.  As if on cue, the unmistakable sucking and blowing of a whale sounds just offshore.  For a mystical moment it seems that the whale was drawn by our jam.  I get up and walk to the shoreline.  Does the whale sense we’re here?  I pick up a handful of pebbles and toss them into the water, where they light up the waves in tiny spots of phosphorescent glow.
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On Day 3, we layover at a lovely bay on Isla del Carmen.  Everyone feels comfortable to go off alone and come back together for a hike or meal.  After reading all afternoon in a shady cove, I suddenly realize the longstanding knot in my back is gone.

Around the campfire that night, Mary announces that she’s a witch.  She picks up a piece of wood and says “This is a talking stick. Share freely when it comes to you.”  She hands it to me; I mumble something about being relaxed and pass it off quickly.  Guide John reads a poem.  Mark the newlywed takes a skeptical approach “How do you know you’re a witch?”  Mary says she became a white witch while hiking in the Canadian Rockies. We start slipping away to our tents. 

Several of us go hiking the next day.  Huge saguaro, barrel, and prickly pear cactus dot the steep slopes of the ravine as we head up in the heat and sun.  Later back at the beach, we strip and run into the water.  Mark asks aloud, “How common do you think it is to feel completely comfortable walking around in a T-shirt and underwear with people you’ve only known for four days?”

On Day 5, group dynamics evolve. People are no longer on their best behavior.  Lynn, a naturopathic student, has turned quiet and sullen.  Her arm hurts, and she complains to me ”Don’t you think Mary’s laugh is false?”  Mary confides to me, “I’m concerned that Lynn seems unhappy.”  The two couples are outgoing and cheerful.  Guide John is getting quicker and cockier with his jokes.  I cover myself with long-sleeved shirts, hat, SPF 43 sunscreen, and read in the shade.  I think I’m perceived as quiet.  By now we tease each other in a wise-cracking, good-natured way.   

On Day 6, Guide Jim tells us  “Today’s destination, Isla Danzante, is the most magical spot on our trip.” We all feel the spell cast by the dramatic, sheer cliffs and rock formations.  I’m lunch cook today, and everyone offers to help as I prepare what they agree is the tastiest lunch of our trip, a pasta salad with a zesty vinaigrette. 

Our last night together is subdued, and we wander off to bed earlier.  I revel in one more night away from electricity, cars, and people outside this little social unit.

After our last morning paddle, a bus takes us back to Loreto.  We start to disperse and exchange addresses and hugs. I feel slightly sad that this wonderfully refreshing sojourn is over and I will probably never see most of these people again.  But hey, I’ll definitely do another group trip!

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Soon we head for our sleeping bags; I drop mine next to a kayak on the beach and crawl in.  I drift asleep to the sound of the whale breathing close by.  It’s a perfect equinox.

Jill Irwin is a freelance writer and editor based in Seattle Washington.