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.
Dawn breaks with low hanging grey clouds and the persistence of a westerly swell that has blessed the eastern Pacific shoreline for nearly a week. Surfers up and down the coast have relished the opportunity to put their skills to the test in unusually large 10’ to 20’ foot waves. Boards have been broken, thousands of photographs taken, and adventure tales fill bar stools, dining tables, and campfire circles. The stuff of legends.
Here in southern Baja, we’ve traversed a full moon, listened to the waves thunder through the night sky, and woken to corduroy lines marching from the southwest. Temperatures in the 70s. Water temps in the 70s. Dogs frolicking on sand stretches and out dirt roads. Heron fish the shallows, eyes fixed on tiny fish caught in the tide pools. Overhead, osprey soar, dive and shred their fish catch on my planted perch, talons and beak ripping the often still twitching soon-to-be-carcass. Nearby, vultures wait on fence posts for droppings, their task, cleanup.
The desert wastes little. And here, is definitely desert. Native vegetation stands between toe-high and knee high. In a few arroyos, errant scrubby near leaf-less trees might stand taller than 5’. Wind pushes plant life flat. Dormancy runs the long season now, dry until the summer rains. Plant life pulls inward, much like bears hibernating in far-off snow-covered dens.
My dog and I head late to the beach, having waited for the tide to recede and expose white sand. He runs and runs, long ears flopping, tail wagging. Sticks to find and beg to be tossed, and then chase and the game begins again.
It’s a new year. No resolutions, this woman, only looking forward and reminding self to pay close attention to each and every day. To increasingly open my heart, to make sure I tell those around me how much I care for them.
Wintry sunrises set the tone for southern Baja mornings. By wintry, meaning the early temperatures hover in the mid-50s and I may need to put on a sweatshirt for my walk with Loki. My neighbor, Ernst, without fail, slips into the water for his morning swim. He’ll do this even when the water temps drop into the 60s, somewhere in February.
The nine-days of Mexican Christmas are in full swing, so decorations, pinatas, Christmas carols continue to ring through our city of Loreto, and the tourist season has begun. A wide-ranging palate of foreign tongues – German, Italian, dare i say Canadian? – can be heard on the street and in restaurants. A outward expression of the love for our waterfront location.
Yet even with the arrival of our foreign guests, there is a tranquility, a peaceful quality of life here, that feeds anyone’s need for quiet contemplation. Perfect for greeting the New Year, which is now a mere inhale/exhale away.
There’s a magic in this slender peninsula that lies beyond the borders of cities or towns. Beyond the hustle and bustle of commerce and development. That sits on the edge. The untouched. The yet to be disturbed by the heavy hand of man.
Here, the coyote hunt small prey. Range cattle forage outside of fences. Red-tailed hawks and osprey soar over land and sea, eyes pinned in search of their next meal.
Tall cardon reach their stately trunks every upward, aside paloverde, paloblanco, creosote and straggley cerote. Random water holes, estuaries and narrow canyon pools remind us that water is still the essence, especially in the dry dry desert.
It’s in these lands my soul finds a freedom, a sense of expansion. In the desert, one must look with refined eyes to ferret a tiny flower, a scampering beetle, the tracks of lizard and quail. A roadrunner zooms past. A kingfisher calls from a tree branch. A flotilla of pelicans glide across the face of a wave.
Light from the rising sun reflects in my face. Home in the fierce dry landscape. Home in the magic.
Preparations are complete – as least as much as I can wrap my head around. Patio furniture sequestered. Any object capable of flying tied down or relocated. Sand bags in front of potential rain intrusion. Extra food, water, vehicle filled with gasoline. Flashlight batteries charged. Camera at ready
The first band of clouds arrived around 9am. Grey. Whispy. Not really a hint of what was stringing along behind them. Winds whipped up from the north, being dragged south into her wide spread arms. Yesterday evening, she was measured at more than 2000km across. Today, a Category 4 storm. She’s big and she’s powerful and she’s coming this way.
First hint of Hurricane Hilary 08-18-23
On the east coast, my son Cooper is midst of securing Loreto home. Plywood on the beach side. Generator at ready with extra gasoline. Food, water, same drill. While the eye will be far away the size of the storm, great enough that the wave warnings for the Sea of Cortez are worthy of awe.
Wave height predictions from “Windy.com” for Hurricane Hilary – west and east coast of Baja.
Now, a chance for reverie in the face of nature’s awesome force and beauty. I pour myself another ice filled glass of water, and watch the storm approach – the changes in the sea surface, the shift in feeding of the gulls, the scattering of the chipmunks, the scurry of the quails, the heavy buildup of clouds to the southeast.
A storm is brewing. As yet unnamed, but gathering itself together off the coast of Mexico. A hot swirling mass of clouds, interacting, trying to figure out how best to work with one another. What to become? Forecasts now 90%, the chances of becoming a tropical depression, and then a hurricane. Trajectory to skirt the western edge of the Baja, snaking alongside the coastline all the way into southern California. El Niño beginning to clearly show his face.
There’s an anxiousness associated with incoming storms. A tingling in my fingertips. A slow building race in my heart rate. The unknown unsettling. The questions that remain, unanswerable. The timing. The where. The force and power of the wind. The probable amount of rain.
Preparations: Secure the property. Move outdoor patio furniture indoors or garage it. Relocate anything that might become a projectile. Check food supplies. Water. Propane. Flashlights. Candles. Satellite phone. Board games or jigsaw puzzles for the duration. Hope that the hurricane glass doors and windows perform as advertised.
Again, the unknowing.
We desperately need rain, so a part of me screams, bring it. The desert begging. The dry and desiccated cardon and tarote shriveling downward in response to seven years of drought. Here in southern Baja, it seems feast or famine. Too much water, too fast, turns dry arroyos into raging rivers. Shuts off vehicle access. Blessed water pours from the sky, and no place or way to store the same.
NOAA Hurricane Center checked multiple times per day. The waiting.. the waiting …
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)
Sultry morning with coffee on the beach. Pelicans glide and rise and circle and dive. Silhouette shapes mirrored on the windless Sea of Cortez. Sometimes rising from up from their dive with a fish in their gullet, more often not. They float for a bit, then as if in formation, then take off clumsily, one at a time, glide inches from the water’s surface, circle upward, eyes pinned on the water below, and dive again searching their breakfast. The flap flap of their wings echoes across the bay. Bait fish ruffle the water at the seas edge. A night heron stalks on long stilt-like legs.
I sip cooling coffee, it’s deep roast flavor a pleasure in my mouth. The air almost steamy. Summer is upon us.
Stillness. A light made perfect by photoshop filters. A reduction of color that echoed exactly the quiet in the air. A respectful honoring of the passage of night and a pause before the days activities make such spaciousness a receding memory. Diving deeply to allow unfettered dreams drift into waking.
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.
Baja Dreaming 
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