Kayaking in the Sea of Cortez by Mark Stratton

It took Marjie, a mother of three from Portland, Oregon, approximately 37 seconds to capsize her kayak after casting off from Playa Dispensa’s bleached coral sands. Her dramatic flip sent a startled brown pelican standing sentinel on a nearby rock scrambling for take-off.

This wasn’t, perhaps, the most auspicious start to a week of both paddling and wildlife-watching in the Sea of Cortez: an elongated slit of sea sheltered from Mexico’s Pacific coast by the gangling Baja-California peninsula. For we’d planned to use our kayaks to get close to, not terrorise, the marine-life of what is generally regarded as the most biodiverse sea on earth. Cortez’s strong tides cook up a fertile stew of nutrients and oxygen-saturated water creating a rich marine feeding ground. John Steinbeck was particularly impressed during a visit in 1941. In ‘The Log from the Sea of Cortez’, he described its waters as ‘ferocious with wildlife.’

In truth though, sea-kayaking in Cortez’s tranquil, turquoise waters was not technically demanding. It was a far cry from my previous experiences splashing around in icy-rivers back in the UK. For a start, the sea simmered like a Californian hot-tub at around 75F, and rather than applying a liberal coating of lard to keep out the cold, I had to plaster myself with factor 50 sunblock to fend off skimming UV-rays. Likewise, in contrast to the dinky plastic kayaks I’d previously inexpertly paddled, we were introduced to a fleet of fibreglass giants: 17ft-long, pencil-slim, and equipped with rudders you steered with foot-pedals.

It took a while, to feel confident with the kayaks’ fine poise. Sergio, our guide, had anticipated this, so our first lesson had been how to perform a ‘wet exit’ - forcing us to rip off our waterproof skirts and squeeze out of a kayak upside down underwater. But after an initial hour of being corralled by Sergio like errant ducklings, we’d quickly got the measure of them.

Our small party consisting of Marjie, myself, and four Californians from the ‘bay area’, were Sergio’s last kayak group of the season, as by early May Baja-California’s burning azure skies scorch the peninsula. For the first three days we paddled gently for a few short hours to adjust to the heat and coax our biceps to function like windmills. Our time at sea depended on how often we made voluntary ‘wet exits’ from our kayaks to cool down or snorkel the numerous shallow coral-reefs. The snorkelling was sumptuous; although the sea was so opalescent, we could watch shoals of sergeant-major and Angel fish mingling with chocolate-chip starfish and orange-cup corals, still seated in our kayaks.

Besides wildlife-watching, each day we sought out heavenly white sand beaches to pitch our tents in the intimate bays indenting Espiritu Santo - the island we would circumnavigate over the week. While the sea seemingly teemed with every type of flipper and fin imaginable, the island, contrastingly, was a desert. The bays’ possessed a caustic beauty; backed by parched-pink volcanic cliffs and mammoth cardon cactus - whose limbs resembled green corduroy bolsters.

We may’ve been just five miles from the peninsula’s strip of air-conditioned hotels, but there was very little shade castaway on our arid, uninhabited island. And fastidiousness went out the window, as sand in every crevice and salty bods were the norm - with Sergio limiting us to one solitary freshwater bucket-wash all week, from Espiritu Santo’s only well.

Still, it wasn’t too much of a hardship. For every Robinson Crusoe needs a Man Friday, and in the form of Alvaro - our amply-proportioned and thickly-mustachioed chef - we had a Man Saturday and Sunday as well.

He was the fine line between the trip being ruggedly intrepid and comfortable adventure. He’d travel ahead of us in his panga to erect an awning sparing us the blistering sun when we arrived to make camp. Lunch would always be waiting: fresh crab salads or chicken tamales. This laconic, ex-fisherman, would make an original celebrity-chef, I mused, a refreshing change from ‘in yer face’ extroverts and haute coiffure. His stock phrase, whether tempting us with an extra cerveza - which you knew you’d regret in the heady afternoon heat - or just one more tortilla, was always “Por qué no” - why not? And come hell or high water at 6pm he’d conjure up a pitcher of iced margaritas or piña coladas. Where he kept such huge quantities of ice was anyone’s guess.

Despite December to April being the best months to witness mass migrations of whales and dolphins, we were always on cetacean alert. As a streaked vermilion and cerise sunrise warmed our first night’s camp on Fishermans Beach, I’d heard several rasping snorts. I’d been rambling on the baked cliffs overlooking our beach, avoiding spiky agaves, with Mary-Lou from San Fransisco; who in her late-fifties was the group’s toughest paddler, and whose husband, Jan, did yogic headstands on the beach each morning. Drawn to the noise, we spied two lurking shadows on the cusp of the bay, so we rushed back to camp and set to sea.

The ‘shadows’ were indeed whales, and big ones at that. Fin whales can reach 60-70ft-long, second only in size to the blue whale - also found amongst a dozen species in the Sea of Cortez. They used to be persecuted by whalers, but now are only the quarry of whale-watchers. We trailed a mother and her stretch-limo-sized offspring, cooing each time they emerged from the sea. “They’ll come up for air every seven minutes or so,” Sergio had correctly predicted. They’re known as baleen whales as a mesh of whalebones hang inside their cavernous mouths filtering the gallons of krill guzzled with each mouthful. How could such gargantuan creatures be satisfied on such tiny morsels, I wondered, thinking back to our own substantive breakfast feast of refried beans, huevos Mexicanos (spiced scrambled-eggs), and stacks of tostadas. Finally, they arched their backs, and dived deep out of sight.

Perhaps our most beguiling encounter, however, occurred on our fourth day. We’d made our way northwards along the frizzled western flank of Espiritu Santo and camped for two nights on Playa Ensenada. Nearby, Los Islotes are two isolated islets capped with an icing-sugar coating of pungent guano. The messy culprits, angular-looking frigate birds and blue-footed boobys, squarked wildly with our appearance.

But we’d come to swim with the residents of a three-hundred strong colony of Californian sealions. Some honey-coloured, some grey, they resembled abandoned inner-tubes, draped over their rocks, especially the jet-black, blubbery males, whom I was amazed to learn could weigh up to 800lb. Making a mental note to avoid them as we jammed on our plastic fins, Sergio reassured us that only the maturing pups would take any interest in us.

He was right. It didn’t take long before a set of big, brown, beautiful eyes, and a twitching nose, were staring into my mask. Wow. I hadn’t expected them to be this forward. Feeling vulnerable at first as they circled me like svelte torpedoes, I soon relaxed and enjoyed being their plaything. Trouble is, I made a rotten sealion, and after exercising a few robotic corkscrew turns they seemed to get bored quickly and swam off to find more agile playmates. Nevertheless, several hours at their beck and call flashed by in what seemed like ten-minutes.

From then on, paddling further each day (five hours maximum) we settled into the life of wandering sea-gypsies: sneaking silently up on pelican colonies and sculling with the hypnotic tides. We rounded Espiritu Santo’s northern tip, and explored the high-rise eastern coastline of sea-cliffs, stacks, arches, and caves.

Afternoons, however, were reserved for lackadaisical siestas dozing under our precious awning, and it would take something special to move us, like diving for clams. The promise of Alvaro’s fresh ceviche (clams, tomato, onion, lime-juice, and a soupçon of chilli) would galvanize our flagging energy-levels. Our staccato bursts of lazy chatter would meander from the price of property in Silicon Valley (too high), to Botox (too revolting), and Mr.Paco’s whereabouts. The latter was our portable, foldaway toilet, which reflected the kayak company’s determination to remove every micron of waste we created in this Biosphere reserve.

Conserving Cortez is a burning issue at present, as the Mexican government has initiated Escalera Nautica, a $1.7bn project seeking to dramatically increase American cabin-cruiser traffic by upgrading and building new marinas. Many feel, at the expense of the sea itself.

One final muscular paddle, handled like veterans, brought us back to La Paz - a pleasant seaside town just two-hours flight from Los Angeles. Back in my seafront hotel, I saw a stranger when looking into a mirror for the first time in a week. Tousle-haired and tanned, I’d evolved into a beach-bum; though the palimpsest layers of sun-block looked deeply uncool. Could there be a more apt way of sampling Baja-California’s fantasy cocktail of marine life? I doubted it. And had another trip been leaving that afternoon, I might just have slipped back into my fetching waterproof skirt.