The pintails arrived a few weeks ago, taking up residence in the local mangrove pond. Somehow, they crossed the border without passports or any other form of ID. Just drifted in on winds and chose their winter home. My normally ponderous mind, grabbed hold of the idea of borders, about how they are constructs, power structures, and quite out of step with the innate rhythms of our blue planet.
I harken back to American Indian tribes, who believed that no one owned the land (at least that was what i was taught), that the earth belonged to everyone. Seems the birds have it right. So I ponder and go about my day.
Northern pintails are long, slender ducks with long, narrow wings, earning them the nickname “greyhound of the air.” Pintails are named for their elongated central tail feathers, which constitute one-fourth of the drake’s body length. (Duck’s Unlimited)
Dabbling ducks, they filter out seeds and insects from the surface of the water with their bills. They also waddle at the edges of wetlands and through agricultural fields feeding on grain and insects. They form large groups and readily associate with other ducks during the nonbreeding season.
They can be found on every continent except Antartica, which i suppose means they have a true GLOBAL ENTRY certificate. In any case, I enjoy watching the two pairs, and hope that their mating brings some ducklings to our watery pond.
It’s the hour of fishing, or so I’m coming to know. I’m bobbing on a 23’ boat, the sun hasn’t shown its face, and I’m mentally measuring the distance to shore. Could I manage to swim in for a cup of really hot coffee?
Why am I here? Oh, right. I wanted to learn to fish, and my girlfriend’s husband, Barry, volunteered to teach me. I stumbled onto his boat this morning, and here we are, somewhere near Isla Coronado in the Sea of Cortez bobbing up and down in the pre-dawn hour. The sea is dark and the sky is just beginning to throw hints of pink.
I’ve got a rod and reel, a box full of pretty hooks, sinkers, and lures that are brightly colored and dressed up with fuzzy things – and no real idea what any of what to do with them.
Our mission, so I’ve been told, is to catch bait before we go farther out to actually catch fish. Isn’t that what we are doing? Why do we have to do it in the dark? Barry says it has something to do with the angle of the light, that bait fish are hungrier in the early hour.
On the end of the line attached to my reel I’ve fixed a small leader with 8 tiny hooks. The idea is to feed out the line until I feel a ‘bump’, then quickly – so the fish don’t swim off – reel the line back in. Just before the fish break the surface, I’m supposed to execute a delicate pirouette and swiftly lift the attached bait over the lip of the deck and deposit them into the gurgling water tank. Any missteps in this procedure, and the small sardines will fly from their hooks and be lost back into the sea. I know this, because I’ve already lost eight. I’m getting cranky for breakfast.
Finally, I pull my ‘strand’ onto the boat with four small fish attached. I am ecstatic until Barry points out that two of them are mackerel, which means I have to toss them back. “Weak fish,” he explains seeing my disappointment. “They’ll die in the tank before we can use them.” He’s already caught 12 sardines, and decides we have enough to go after bigger fish!
Scottish writer, John Buckam once wrote, “The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is illusive but attainable. A perpetual series of occasions for hope.”
His words will aptly describe my day.
Barry tells me my pole is too long – better for rock fishing than sport fishing – and shifts me to one of his that is short and sturdy. He shows me how attach the bait to a fat hook. With a small net, I corral one of the sardines in the tank and bring him to the surface. As Barry holds him, I drive the hook through the roof of his open mouth and out the top of his head. I try not to look into his eyes or think about how much this must hurt. Now that I have him hooked, I toss him over the side, give thanks for his sacrifice, and let him swim gladly away from the boat.
Get me a big fish, I telepath after him. Get me a big fat fish! I imagine him below swimming in his watery fish world, looking for friends his size and kind. Then I imagine bigger fish coming to find him, to eat him. And voila! I’ve got a bite and I’m reeling in my line. This is easy!
“Careful,” advises Barry. “Slow and steady.” The fish ‘runs’ with the line, my reel wildly spinning as I keep one finger over the line so it doesn’t tangle. I let him swim until I feel a pause. Then I go back to reeling, which is not as easy as I had initially thought.
The fish is heavy, or a fighter. Whichever the right word, my arm is tired from trying to finesse holding the pole, feeding the line across with my left finger, and reeling with my right hand. I keep telling myself, this is fun, as the muscles in my arms burn like fire.
Finally, an astonishingly beautiful blue/green head breaks the surface. “Dorado,” Barry proclaims. The fish shimmers in the sunlight, a green iridescent color against the turquoise water. He’s got a flat face, a kind of pouty mouth, and a long deep blue dorsal fin. His tail splits in a wide yellow-green V. I’ve caught a fish!
When I pull him to the boat, Barry asks me if I want to keep him. “He’s kind of small,” he says. Small? I’ve just wrestled this fish for ten minutes and it’s small?
“Cut him free,” I answer, and with pliers and a pair of gloves, Barry dislodges the hook from my dorado’s mouth. I look into his dark fish eyes and thank him for making my morning. Then, off he swims, hopefully to grow bigger.
Barry catches the next two – both dorado – and returns them to swim another day. I’m beginning to understand the ‘sport’ in fishing. What he’s really after are wahoo, a prize fast swimming game fish that can weigh up to 180 pounds, which is also excellent eating.
We take the hooks off our lines and lay out the brightly colored lures to choose exactly which one we think (or Barry thinks) will attract the wahoo. Slowly, I’m learning the difference between all the things in my tackle box. Barry has me change the liter to wire. Seems wahoo’s teeth can snap clean through filament.
We shift from drift fishing to trolling at around 9 knots. Instead of hand-holding the poles, he sets them in rod slots, leads the lures just beyond the engine wake, and kicks back in his chair with a beer.
A pod of dolphin sights the boat and swims in to surf the bow. I rush to the front and watch with joyful glee as these playful creatures leap, spin and dive back and forth in front of the hull. I feel childlike in their presence and relaxed.
From a dark morning to a brilliantly sunny afternoon, the Sea of Cortez shimmers in the mid-day light. Deep cerulean blue surrounds the boat. A green sea turtle swims past and in the distance, a pod of pilot whales rolls on the surface. Blue footed and brown boobies dive for small fish, while split-tailed magnificent frigate birds soar overhead.
A pair of sleeping sea lions, the rolling fins of lazily drifting marlin, and a large formation of pelicans round out the vista. The offshore islands beckon with small turquoise rimmed beaches
If something bothered me yesterday, I don’t remember it. The comfort of the sea and this new adventure of fishing has washed away any cares I might carry of the rest of the world.
We don’t hook any Wahoo, but it doesn’t matter. Well, not much. I’ve learned new skills and had such a glorious day on the water that it’s hard to hold any negative thought. But I can sense Barry’s disappointment.
Already, I understand the essence of “…a perpetual series of occasions for hope.” It must be this reason that men go to fish again and again. When I step off Barry’s boat, I thank him profusely. And then, like a true fisherwoman I say, “Just wait until next time.”
(First published in 2011, in PRESS PAUSE MOMENTS, a collection of short stories edited by Anne Witkavitch)
Land cloaked in lingering green, a gift from the last summer storm. The monsoons give this region water, and now that season yields to dryer fall and winter months. I ponder how much the jagged cliffs of the Sierras remind me of areas in northern Arizona, and how the current verdant carpet, like Maui.
A few cows nibbling on roadside grasses. Small families of darting goats. Horses set free to graze.
Cara-cara feast on road kill, competing with vultures. Crows glide amongst them.
Morning sunrise on the Sea of Cortez begins the day. The chatter of terns one to the other echoing across a glass-like sea surface. Raucous gulls join the symphony, and behind them, the platoon of pelicans, diving in formation to capture sardines.
Evening sunset on the Pacific. The shifting of coasts, of colors. Sunrise salmons and pinks. Sunset glowing oranges. Still waters to small waves. Course sand to rocky coast.
Figures they’d name the late season hurricane after my mother, Kay. Although to be honest, my mother was nothing like a hurricane. More like an ebb and flow tropical storm, most of the time delightful, oftentimes windy and unpredictable. Always Mom, gone too soon for me, and now, as the storm edges up the Baja peninsula and bends the palms toward the ground, her memories churn inside my head like the uprooted branches flowing down the arroyo.
It wasn’t easy being her daughter. She was vivacious, charming, a sparkling light in whatever room she occupied. She inhaled the air in a room in the same way, decades ago, she inhaled the swirling grey smoke of a Pall Mall cigarette, or the condensation laden glass of her icy evening scotch. She was Girl Scout President, PTA President, Community Chest President. She was always in front of the train. Dressed impeccably. Coral colored lipstick smudge-free. A full-mouthed smile, even though she hated a front crooked eye-tooth that looked like a ragged cat.
I could never quite measure up, and yet she was my greatest cheerleader. In the belongings she left behind, a folder of clippings, all my newspaper columns for ten years. She was always there, even in the middle of my life when her drinking shadowed the woman I loved and make our relationship so damned difficult. Our own stormy decades.
1:49PM – September 7 2022
Hurricane Kay, not quite her alter-ego, is only 12 hours old. Much much to come, with the bulk of the winds due to hit Loreto sometime around 3am tomorrow, the 8th.
Last weekend, the cone predictions (area of effect) lined straight up the middle of the Baja. by the end of the weekend, the trajectory had moved westward, and by yesterday, even more so. The predicted landfall of lower Baja shifted, and now only the tip of Guerrero Negro is in the sights of the spinning ball of wind and rain. A wet storm, rain has fallen in Loreto since yesterday. Light and then downpour, back to light and downpour. And we are only at the beginning of the storm.
Yesterday I drove from the Pacific west coast back to the east coast and the Sea of Cortez. A number of reasons, but shelter and power were the primaries. The drive was rather harrowing, with moments when the water pouring from the sky was so heavy it required lowering speeds to 15mph, or simply stopping. The road between San Juanico and Insurgentes has been under renovation/reconstruction, and the day before, a large swath was as yet unpaved. I was extremely grateful that the workers had pushed forward and laid the asphalt on the last stretch. Otherwise, the deep mud on both sides would likely have found my truck up to the axles. The photo below shows Highway One between Insurgentes and Loreto with river-like lakes on both sides. An idea for you, of the amount of water falling.
Mex 1 – Day BEFORE Hurricane Kay – just a little water both sides of main highway
Mom didn’t much like inclement weather, which another area in which we were quite different, odd on it’s own, since we shared a birthday 22 years apart. She was a sunshine and blue sky kind of gal. While I am quite happy in sunny beach weather, I get a thrill out of storms. As long as there is no loss of life or widespread damage, when the heavens let loose and the winds whip up the sea, it’s as if some wild child has been unleashed. An aliveness that is tamped down when weather is too calm or normal.
Anyway, this storm, this storm called Kay, has me racing from childhood, to young adulthood, to motherhood (her grandmother-hood) and into her senior years, now chased by my own.
My mother was always optimistic, and that trait I did inherit. She suffered her own dark days and losses, as have I. But always, her words still ring in my head. “It’s going to work out fine,” she said. Even when it’s tough to see through a storm to the potential rainbow on the other side, I hear her. “Everything will be alright.”
Sea of Cortez, Afternoon, September 7, 2022Tropical Storm Javier – September 2, 2022
“On the way into San Basilio on Saturday, Martin Castro and I were informed of a very late turtle nest hatch after 72 days of incubation (normally they hatch from 45 to 60 days). We hustled over to the nest site, where we have installed protectors that were designed by Martin to protect the nests from coyotes and raccoons, who can smell the buried eggs and will dig them up and eat them.
For the next three hours or so, We watched as Martin, who is the Director of the Sea Turtle Sanctuary at San Basilio expertly helped them through the hatch and to get into the sea successfully. His knowledge and care is really impressive! Over 60 hatchlings made the transition to their new environment.Since the late season hatches are almost exclusively males, this is the last time they will ever be back on land during their lives.
Under Martin’s leadership, this effort has seen over 500 hatchlings survive this year, up from only 88 the first year. I have seen this before, but never watched so many actually hatch, breathe for the first time, have their bodies expand into their normal shape as they take in breaths, and then launch out into the world, where only a few will survive to adulthood.”
“If it were lush and rich, one could understand the pull, but it is fierce and hostile and sullen. The stone mountains pile up to the sky and there is little fresh water. But we know we must go back if we live, and we don’t know why.”
Imagine waking to the gentle slapping of sea water on cobble and sand. Hearing the chatter of terns overhead as they search for fish. Watching a flotilla of pelicans glide inches from the surface of the sea.
Imagine, your days transport for fishing or island hopping, a pangero, pulling up on the sand in front of your Casita.
More of the magical ways to begin a day in Loreto.
Not just any fish, but a fish on a coral reef, swimming with my brightly colored friends. Together we made up a palette of blue, lavender, yellow, gold, orange, pink, green and silver scales, fins, tails and mouths. Our motions fluid. Our community hierarchy long established. Big fish eat little fish. Great white sharks down to the tiniest plankton and krill. Fastest fish wins the chase. Hiding places and ability to change color can save a life.
But something was different.
Something in the water.
Or lack of – on the water.
There were no nets to tangle or strangle us, or our warm-blooded mammal friends, the dolphins and sea lions. There were no hooks dangling from lines with bait. My friend once nibbled, and was gone, whipped to the surface, never to return. A different kind of predator.
Something was happening on the water.
No pleasure boats.
No tankers. No cruise lines.
I could see the blue sky and shimmering ripples of sunlight. No gooey oil sheen spewed from motors. No sinking puddles of dark black goo settling on the sea floor. No man-made gunk. No cast-off plastic bottles, paper plates, napkins, party balloons, straws, or discarded food. The sea was like a mirror on windless days. At night, I could see the stars, and the flickering light of the moon fingered across the reef and the sandy bottom. My friends and I frolicked and multiplied. We rolled with the tides and spun with the currents.
For a few months in 2020, in the time of COVID, the humans left us alone.
While most thoughts of Mexico in the winter are of sunshine filled days lazing or frolicking on the beach, there are still those that sneak in – like this morning – cloud filled and gorgeous – and yes, chilly.
The beach walkers bundled up in sweatshirts and even down jackets. Ugg boots, or at least fat socks and tennis shoes, instead of flops and beach shorts. Their pace is a little quicker to fend off the cold.
Winter in Baja.
A place where pelicans, boobies and arctic terns dive for bait fish in the shallow waters close to shore. Where egrets and herons patiently hunt on the shoreline or in the estuaries, side by side with sandpipers, godwits and occasional killdeer. Where offshore, orcas, fin whales, dolphin, and dancing mobula entertain guests and locals, while we wait for the arrival of the blue whales.
A place and time for contemplation. The hunkering down that winter begs of the body and the mind. A hibernation of such, so that when spring unleashes her torrent of renewed growth, we are fresh from rest and ready to press forward again.
Baja Dreaming 
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