Winter Paddling: Viva Mexico!

October-November 2000

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Ron Smith

Mexico is a land of surprises. Here a whale skull puts things in perspective.

My partners and I were in the Sonora Desert, the hottest, driest terrain in Mexico, an expanse of land isolated by the Sierra Madres.

We had driven down from Vancouver to Puerto Penasco, Mexico with kayaks in tow, looking for adventure. We had big plans for some hot paddling. And now, after months of planning, it was finally time to hit the water.

We began paddling to Isla San Jorge, an island 12 miles offshore. As we paddled to the compass bearing, the island soon emerged from the dark blue sea like three white razor teeth.

This island is home to a colony of Brown Booby birds and California Sea Lions. The years of colonization and guano accumulation by the boobies have left the island completely white with a smell that only a booby could love. The sun was rising and so was the 'smell' Richter scale. We left for the mainland.

Traveling down the mainland, after a few days of hard paddling, we arrived at Puerto de la Libertad, "Port of the Free". We quickly became a centerpiece and curiosity for the locals who came to examine these strange Canadians in little boats. That night we were treated to a fish bake on the beach and then hauled off to a cantina, where a cowboy band was giving its weekly performance. We had a great time: drinking Tecates, doing lots of sign language, and proving that gringos really don't have rhythm on the dance floor. The next morning we were treated to coffee on the beach by one of our new friends. We thanked our gracious hosts and upon leaving, I did a couple of Eskimo rolls. This brought a cheer of laughter from the children and numerous waves from the adults.

We paddled off to Isla Tiburon (Shark Island), the largest island in Mexico, and the Canal Del Infiernillo (Canal of Hell). This area is home to the Seri Indians who, at one time, numbered in the thousands but now total less than 800-an endangered culture. Although Isla Tiburon is their ancestral home for fishing and religious vision quests, they were moved to mainland reserves in 1956. The Seri made American news in 1894 when they stoned to death an American reporter for some unreported indiscretion.

We landed on the beach of the cement row housing town of Punta Chueca, and were greeted by several women carrying necklaces made of dyed snake and shark vertebrae; hand-made cloth dolls and "palo fiero" carvings. Palo fiero, or ironwood, does not float and was believed to contain magical powers that would calm the turbulent waters of the Canal Del Infiernillo. After we traded a pair of sunglasses and some bandanas for carvings of dolphins, eagles and shells and some shark necklaces, I asked if I could take some photos. It is always best and polite to ask permission for photos, especially of people who have been known to throw stones at gringos. The women sported their new bandannas and we took lots of photos, spending the afternoon with them. We were told that one of the women in the group was not married and that brought lots of giggles from the others. It was time to go.

Further south we arrived at the resort town of San Carlos. My two paddling partners decided it was time to return home having had enough of being sand blasted by wind, eating sand in every spoonful of food (which I unaffectionately named "crunchy spice"), unrelenting heat and sun, the daily drudgery of paddling, scorpions crawling out of the firewood at night, leg cramps, and barren terrain. All this had taken its toll on them after three weeks of paddling.

So I paddled away from the town of San Carlos, alone, on my way to Guaymas to take the ferry over to the Baja.

Baja California, once part of the Californias during Spanish colonial time, was believed to be an island. Any adventurer to this "island" was to find it inhabited by Amazonian women bearing spears made from gold, or so the story goes. Hernan Cortez, a Spanish explorer, never did find these women, but he did discover that Baja was actually a peninsula and not an island.

Immediately outside Santa Rosalia harbor, the ferry terminus from Guaymas, is Isla San Marcos. I spent that night on the headland of the island, Punta Ines, a rose colored point, reportedly the site of treasure buried by the Jesuits when they were expelled from Baja. This treasure was to have included a life-sized gold statue of Jesus Christ. Several days further south, I entered Bahia Conception (named after the second Spanish ship to arrive in Baja), a long, narrow bay sprinkled with islets, sandy bays and petroglphys from forgotten peoples.

Seri Indians

Out past Punta Conception and into the open sea, life was prolific. Mobulas (like small manta rays) jumped out of the water doing somersaults and belly flops. Several times I would find two very close together, laying at the surface, with their tails jettisoning out of the water. There were also numerous green sea turtles that at first I thought were small seals or sealions. The snorting sound of their breathing and their small heads just at the surface of the water gave them the appearance of seals. But as I approached they would splash and dive under the kayak where I could see them swim by, darting about with barnacles on their shells.

I arrived at the city of Loreto, which was my supply stop along this part of the coast. I restocked my kayak with food, filled my waterbags and for the next several days battled my way south because of strong southerly winds. This whole section of coastline is famous for its sandy bays filled with butter clams, chocolate clams and fan oysters. My meals were never so good- fresh clams topped with tabasco and lemon and eaten raw.

During Spanish colonial times until the early 1900s, this area and its abundance in oysters and pearls supplied a jewelery industry until depletion of the resource put a stop to it all.

Bahia de la Paz marks the entrance into the port city of La Paz. Paddling past a large crucifix with an anchor at its base, I entered into the harbor called The Peace.

After a rest and a chance to rehydrate, I went to the ferry terminal in La Paz and took the ferry back to the mainland, to Mazatlan (land of deer).

For this leg of the journey my friend, Brenda, joined me in her Feathercraft folding kayak. Both of us having been to Mazatlan before, we soon had our supplies and were paddling out of the harbor heading south for less developed spots. The coastline south of Mazatlan is one long beach fringed with coconut plantations. A great place for hammocks.

Paddling south from Mazatlan, just outside the surf zone, I heard Brenda scream. In front of her I could see a large fin sticking out of the water. I had heard that it was quite common to see manta rays along this part of the coast sunning themselves at the water's surface with one or both wing tips pointing into the air. I quickly paddled over to her and realized it wasn't a ray at all. It was a huge fish.

My kayak is nineteen feet long and I estimated this Moby Dick to be twenty-five feet. I was about to grab my camera when the giant swam over to me and stopped under my kayak. With a gentle bump, I was sitting on top of a Whale Shark! There I was, speechless (actually not, but I can't write what I was really saying), looking at its brown spotted skin just inches from my hand. As quickly as it happened, it was over. With a flick of its tail he was gone, heading into deeper water. Brenda and I just looked at each other and then burst into laughter. Nerves, I guess.

At Playa Novillero, 96 miles south of Mazatlan, my paddling partner had to make her way back north for work. So we refolded her boat, said our 'see you laters' and headed in opposite directions. I was off to San Blas.

Europeans first settled San Blas in 1767 but apparently retreated to the hills complaining of insects. Here for the first time along the pacific mainland, the Sierra Madres collide with the coast. The terrain was a welcomed change: rocky shorelines, sandy bays and jungle hillsides. The whole northern part of the area is surrounded by estuaries and provides habitat for over 400 species of migratory birds. This is the best bird watching location in North America. At the top of a hill that overlooks town is the site of the original missionary church and administrative center when the port sheltered Spanish galleons and served as a shipbuilding and staging post for expeditions to Baja California. Some cannons and building remains are still there. The many mangrove estuaries here are best explored by boat and I spent a few days paddling through estuary canals watching egrets, kingfishers, parrots and small alligators hiding along the edges.

Always adventurous, I thought I'd spend one night suspended by my hammock in the mangroves. I had heard about the 'jejenes' or biting knats (which we call 'no see-ums') for which San Blas is famous. But I thought, "I've been to the Arctic and these little bugs can't be any match for the mighty arctic mosquito." I was wrong. I was not prepared for the onslaught.

Swinging gently in the mangroves they soon discovered my location. The choice between sweating to death in my gortex bivisac or being consumed by these little monsters left me with no choice at all. With my headlamp on, I paddled back to town at midnight to find a cheap hotel with good window netting and maybe a fan. I know when a battle can't be won.

Several days of paddling along a rugged lush coastline, sleeping in little sandy bays, catching fish and eating tortillas, rice and beans, I arrived at the town of San Francisco. This is a small beach resort for Mexicans arriving from the city of Guadalajara. As always my arrival was a topic of the town. One of the local families invited me over to their beach restaurant for fish fried in garlic. The Ramirez's showed me the typical Mexican hospitality that definitely made this trip a true adventure. My Spanish had improved quite a bit and I shared the 'whale shark' story with them. I'm sure they definitely thought 'loco gringo'. We spent the next several hours learning about each other, sharing more food and a lot of laughs. That night I spent on the beach in front of their restaurant watching the stars and feeling the ocean breeze.

For several days I paddled in large rolling ocean swells and even managed to break one of my paddles on a beach landing in heavy surf-good thing I brought a spare. Finally I rounded the headland of Punta Mita, the entrance to Bahia Banderas and Puerto Vallarta.

Bahia Banderas is the largest bay in Mexico. The bay was named in 1524 when Francisco Cortez tried to land but was greeted by 20,000 locals with banderas (flags) tied to their spears. Bahia Banderas-Bay of Flags.

Collecting eggs for a turtle rescue program near Puerto Vallarta Photo, Ron Smith

I managed to find a quiet spot just outside Puerto Vallarta to camp and as luck would have it, this turned out to be the site of a turtle rescue program. Sea turtle eggs being a local delicacy (even though illegal), predatory pressure on young hatchlings and commercial harvesting have reduced turtle numbers. That night we spent with our headlamps looking for the tracks of turtles which had come ashore to lay eggs. Strangely enough, turtles lay two sets of eggs. The fertilized eggs go into a hole dug in the sand by the turtle and then a second set-unfertilized-are laid on top of the fertilized ones as decoys.

We found six turtles and collected the eggs, removing them to a secured compound. We had armed security with us which I found very strange, but I was told that poachers are sometimes a little territorial. Back at camp, the eggs were reburied. For several nights I helped collect eggs and release newly hatched turtles back to the ocean where they would follow the moonlight out to deeper water. A great experience, being allowed to watch first hand the survival of these amazing and gentle creatures.

It only took a few hours of paddling from there to enter Puerto Vallarta. On my way in, I passed a US Coast Guard ship moored at the docks. From the deck, one of the officers yelled, "Where did you come from?"

"Puerto Penasco, near the Colorado River," I replied. He just shook his head. I tuned on my EPIRB (an emergency position indicating radio beacon). I asked if he could hear it on his emergency radio frequency and got a thumbs up. Everything had worked great; I never had any use for the EPIRB but you never know.

I had paddled 1080 nautical miles (2000 km), covered five Mexican states, spent two and a half months being treated to unforgettable Mexican hospitality, experienced the tranquility and magic of the desert, been ravaged by insects and had eaten a lot of 'crunchy' spice.

Ron Smith is currently employed as a helicopter pilot and is also a part-time kayaking instructor. He can be reached at ronsmith66_ca@yahoo.com©