My Log from the Sea of Cortez
by Rebecca Lawton
The Crossing
On Day Seven of our sea journey from Loreto to La Paz, we must cross to the Isla de San José. To get there we have to paddle south along the peninsula, then cross the ocean to the east to a light station of sorts, an abandoned shell of a building, we’ve been told, with a light still flashing. Unfortunately, the north winds that blew yesterday continue to sandblast our camp, and the surf still batters the beach. Our leader, Nick Peligro, thinks we shouldn’t paddle out into the surf today at all, especially the novices in our group. It’s too rough at the usual launch spot. We’ll have to wait it out.
We seem to be in irons, bored with waiting but afraid to go, until sometime after lunch Nick perks up. His digital barometer shows the pressure changing. He believes el Norte won’t get worse today, that we’ll be able to get off the beach. Our native guides Chuy and José, who’ve run support for us in la panga, have told him the ocean is not bad out past the breakers. The wind is moderate, not as strong as it seems here on shore. So Nick busies himself pairing paddlers into strong teams.
I’m hoping to be part of a team with someone at least as strong as me, but it’s not to be. There are too many inexperienced boaters who need partners. Nick asks my friend Louise or me to go with one of the weaker paddlers. I demur—I don’t feel strong enough to compensate for another’s mistakes in a wild ocean. But I want to help. I offer to take a single so the others can be safely doubled up. Louise agrees to do the same, although I know how she feels about it. She is solemnly silent, even when spoken to. We select our singles, condemned women. I remind myself of all my paddling experience, years of solo kayaking in big-water rivers. I assure myself it’s okay that I haven’t been in a kayak much for over ten years.
We take turns launching those who feel ready, watching them paddle out briskly, like wind-up toys with arms flailing. I take solace in the fact that they’re all still upright after a minute or so. Soon it’s my turn to shove off into the wild surf. As Louise helps launch me, she says, you can do it, you’re a professional. With her words in my ears and heart, I’m off, paddling for the outside, giving it everything, reaching for all the water in the ocean to pull it behind me. I hear cheers from shore as I make progress, then a voice shouting, rudder! Thanking the voice and God, I release the rudder so I can steer out through the breakers. I aim for the opening in surf that Nick has shown us. Once there, I face the waves head on, still paddling, never stopping, never letting down my guard. Then it’s fierce paddling, not forgetting what can happen to a kayak even when one seems home free. Up and down, up and down, I catch some air on the backsides of waves, slowed by some breaking caps but not stopped. Then the waves smooth out and become huge swells, and I realize I’ve made it outside the surf zone. I’m sitting like a duck in some storm-riled pond with the others, hushed and waiting for the last kayaks to come from shore.
We proceed across to the Isla de San José. Nick has told us we’ll head somewhat upwind, counting on el Norte to move us south and even with the light station. We are like little corks at sea. Great swells buoy and drop us. When the swells pass between us, we’re out of sight of each other, waiting for their passage so we can stay connected by sight. We travel as a group across the gulf, with Nick out front and assistant guide Kristian in the rear in a double with a novice. Louise and I paddle on either side of the double, but far enough apart that in each swell we disappear from view. We take a southwest course through the wave troughs. Occasionally the waves crest and break on us, and then it helps to throw a side brace to stay upright. Generally, though, the swells pass beneath us, like a tidal surge or the great back of an animal, as we progress across the windy sea.
An hour into the crossing, my lower back aches. In a few places, my spine is left with only degenerated disks, ruined from heavy lifting during all my years guiding on Western rivers. My lumbar region throbs from the strain of sitting and paddling without a break. My feet go numb. I use the usual tricks of shifting position in the boat, varying my paddling stroke to engage different muscles, but the pain worsens. I raft up occasionally with Kristian’s double and Louise’s single, which helps us all, but we don’t sit long. If we rest too much, we’ll be pushed downwind of our target on the isla and will have to labor farther upwind to the light station. Paddling with the pain is difficult, but I have to continue and reach land. Stay strong, I whisper, you can do it.
After another hour or so of paddling, we see the light station of the isla over the tops of the white-crested swells. Kristian estimates we’ll be there in a half hour, even considering our slightly headwind course. The pain pounds in my back. Remember — arms straight, paddle with the torso. I wiggle my toes to regain sensation. The light station grows larger in our view, and larger, and then we see some of the first kayaks ahead of us land onshore. I yearn to be among them, pulled up and flopped on the white sand. Soon Louise has landed, then Kristian and his team-mate, then me. I unkink my body and collapse near Louise. She says she’s glad we took the singles across because we know we did it.
Our native guides show up in la panga. They’ve had their own hairy crossing, nowhere to be seen during the entire time. They ask how it went. Big-eyed, surprised, they ask, no one went over?
The best paddlers on the trip, extreme-condition kayakers Michael and Dennis, congratulate us. Michael, who also paddled single, said it was tough out there. Out in the swells, he wondered how those of us who don’t sea kayak regularly were doing. He and Dennis are both still alert and pacing from the adrenaline of the crossing. We’re impressed, they say. Still exhausted, still in pain, I reply, Good. We’ve wanted to impress you guys all trip, and we’ve finally done it.
(Excerpted from Reading Water: Lessons from the River. Sterling, VA: Capital Books. 2002.)
