Baja Babes: A Launch to Remember
Appalachia, December 2002
After a breakfast of yogurt and granola, a new challenge awaited: loading the kayaks. I wondered how my mountain of gear could possibly fit inside a vessel about as big as a tube of lipstick. The answer, said Terry, was as easy as ABC: accessibility (keep close objects that you need, such as sunscreen, camera, and water); balance (don't put all the heavy things on one side); and compressibility (squashed-up objects take up much less room). I managed to pack in all my stuff plus some of the group gear. The fuel canisters fit into the pointy bow, water dromedaries behind the seat, and kitchen pots in the stern. Getting it in was easy. The difficult part was trying to secure the rubber hatch cover. When I snapped down the front, the back popped up. If I started with the back, the front wouldn't go down. After breaking two nails, I gave up and called Tina, who straddled my kayak, grasped the lid with her palms, and used her body weight to pull it over the rim.
We slathered our bodies with sunblock, wiggled into our sprayskirts, clipped our PFDs closed, and were off. Our single-line parade of four one-person and two double kayaks looked like the Disneyland ride "It's a Small Small Small Small World." As we paddled along, Terry told us that the Gulf of California (the real name for this sea that everyone still calls the Sea of Cortez) was formed about 25 million years ago when two tectonic plates cleaved the western edge of Mexico in half, separating it with a narrow emerald sea. I looked around me at desert islands bursting with flowering cactuses and acacia trees, surrounded by green-blue sea. Even more stunning than the earthscape was the absence of people; there was no one around — no fishermen, sailboats, or other kayakers.
We paddled for about 50 minutes toward Danzante Island, our destination for the next two nights. A big green sea turtle swam only a few feet away as we pulled to shore. We unloaded the kayaks and hiked to the top of a hill that offered perfect views of a neighboring island, Isla de Carmen, with a turquoise-blue lagoon and a huge rock with a hole in it, which from here looked like a small window. But Tina said it was bigger than a door. We ate lunch and snorkeled among scores of colorful fish, including parrot fish, sergeant majors, and — most amazing to me — starfish. Later, walking along the beach, I picked up a rock whose center had a white spiral symbol that reminded me of an Anasazi cave drawing. The design was actually created by the discarded shell of a tube worm, which sticks to a rock and forms a shell. It was a precious work of art.
I volunteered to chop vegetables for dinner, but Tina decided I should light the stove, and I sheepishly admitted I hadn't paid attention to her demonstration the night before. She explained again how to set up the spiderlike base, unscrew the fuel bottle, attach it to a tube, prime the pump, turn on the gas, let it drip into the bottom lip, turn off the stove, light the gas in the rim, turn off the gas, let the flame burn out, turn on the gas, relight the stove, and finally watch the blue flames spring to life. She handed me a second stove. "Now you try it." Reluctantly I went through all the steps, and to my complete surprise the stove hissed to a blue flame. My hands were covered in black soot, my nails were filthy, but I'd done it! The stove hadn't blown up, and for the second time in two days, I felt elated. Another fear conquered.
