Paddling Baja

I moved to California last year. To Southern California, no less, home to smog and traffic jams and an awful lot of asphalt where grass used to be. It was an intimidating move for a diehard western river-lover to make, especially coming off more than a decade of trout chasing in the Northern Rockies. How could a guy who thinks tiny Wilson, Wyoming (population 200), is the greatest place he ever lived, possibly find refuge among the three million residents of Orange County? Yet when I arrived, the answer was visible from my back porch—the Pacific Ocean, biggest wilderness on earth.

I became infatuated with the near-shore fisheries from Dana Point to San Diego. I went to every used bookstore I could find and started reading all the saltwater fishing classics. (There’s barracuda here? What’s a bonito? How big do they get? What’s the difference between a yellowfin and a yellowtail?) I became as excited about fishing as I ever have in my life—a life that’s included stints in great trout towns like Jackson Hole, Wyoming, Steamboat, Colorado, and Park City, Utah.
And always there was Trask, an 80-pound child of the Rockies who’d outlasted every roommate, relationship, and river trip along the way. Like me, he seemed surprisingly happy in SoCal, the joy of catching snowballs slowly giving way to the laid-back lifestyle of semi-retirement and chasing sticks in the surf. Even his aging joints seemed more at ease with the California climate than they had been in the dry and relatively steep landscape of Colorado.
We both shared that feeling you get the first few months you move to any new place: the air smells different, your surroundings are fresh and exciting. I didn’t pee on any trees, but we still shared the same outlook: explore. So whenever I felt the pressure of too much California crowding in, I’d just push my kayak into the surf, paddle out beyond the breaking waves, and cast something tasty-looking into the swell. And one of the treasures of sit-on-top kayaking is that you can take your dog with you. Trask was often as shocked as me when something unfamiliar came swimming toward the boat. I returned home from one of those first trips and immediately called a friend in Colorado to give my report.
“I didn’t know you could catch a halibut on a fly,” he said.
“I didn’t know you could catch a halibut in California,” I answered.

As pleasantly surprised as I was with the So Cal fishery, the real intrigue was pulling me from just beyond the border—from that 800-mile stretch of heaven-on-earth known as the Baja Peninsula, located just a few short hours away. I’d heard of it of course, I’d read the writings of Ray Cannon and listened to countless contemporary tales of dorado and roosterfish on the fly. But what I never realized about the places in those stories is that people did one of two things to reach them: they either flew way down south to someplace like Cabo or Loreto or La Paz; or they took a six-day to six-month road trip down Baja 1.
I didn’t have six months. I didn’t even have six days. What I had was a sit-on-top kayak, a copy of Kelly and Kira’s The Baja Catch, and one Labor Day weekend to see what all the fuss was about. That was back in August. It’s almost April as I write this and I’ve made seven trips to Baja in less than a year. So that gives you some idea what I found there. Actually, I couldn’t have told you at the time what I found there because I didn’t know what half of it was. I now know that the first fish was a Spanish mackerel that weighed about seven pounds, and that it was followed by a barracuda, a small yellowtail, several triggerfish, a leopard grouper, a ladyfish, a cabrilla, some member of the jack family, a hogfish, and a bunch of spotted bay bass. My buddy and I would catch a fish, take a digi shot of it, then get a book out and try to figure out what we’d just reeled in. It was one of the greatest days of fishing in my life.
While I sometimes miss the feeling of casting dry flies into a riffle of feeding ’bows, flyfishing has always been about discovery: new fish, new water, and new ways of enjoying old water. In Baja I’m also learning new species and new cultures. But while the Rockies taught me some of the dangers of kayaking steep creeks or skiing in avalanche terrain or wading a fast-flowing stream, I’d yet to learn that the ocean on a bad day could trump any danger in mountain country.
Because my trips across the border have all been by automobile, and because I’m looking for shorelines to fish, not waves to surf, the forays have been conducted primarily along the 100 miles of remote coastline that makes up the northern Sea of Cortez. And not only does this region offer superb fishing, especially from a kayak or other small boat, but with the exception of the occasional dirt biker, there is a surprising absence of other people, especially considering its proximity to the major population centers of Southern Cal.
Of course, there are reasons for this. First there’s the road, which deteriorates rapidly south of San Felipe, eventually disintegrating so badly that travel beyond Puertecitos averages 15 miles per hour. Secondly, the heat frequently hovers around 110 during the summer months. The third and fourth factors are of particular concern to the small-boat angler: The tide and the wind. During periods of full or new moons, the tides in northern Baja can fluctuate by as much as 20 feet during a six-hour period, creating dangerous currents similar to a fast- flowing river. Lastly, and most importantly, are the famously strong winter winds that come barreling across the Baja peninsula, rendering the Sea of Cortez waters excruciatingly unsafe for small-boat travel. I’d read stories of motorboats caught too far out when the wind kicked up, about how the gusts came on so sudden and so powerful that the swells swallowed up even full-size wooden pangas.
Darren, an old high school friend, was with me in early February about three hours south of Puertecitos when we woke to calm skies at 7 AM. Even with relatively few Baja trips under my belt, I knew the rule: If the wind isn’t blowing, go—because it’ll be blowing shortly. So Trask loaded up and we launched into calm waters, proceeding to take a few small bay bass and triggerfish for which the northern peninsula is known. The triggerfish is a strong fighter and as anyone who has ever tangled with one can attest, it takes a while to bring one in, especially on light tackle. The toughness of triggers also require some effort to get the hook out, especially with an always-interested canine getting his nose in the way from his perch just inches behind my seat. After a half dozen battles with these fish, I looked up to see that we had drifted an unsettling distance from shore. Feeling a not-so slight breeze starting to build, I casually suggested to Darren that we should reel up and head toward shore, where we could work the small reef in front of our camp. But no sooner had we turned to head in than the gusts started building.
Sit-on-top kayaks are basically built to offer three things: stability, comfort, and a place to hold your stuff. What they are not built for is traveling quickly into a 30 mph headwind with an 80-lb lab dragging his wet ass off the stern. I am an experienced paddler, but when one powerful gust pushed me broadside to the wind, every ounce of my energy could not turn me back in the direction I needed to go. I found myself in the middle of a rapidly deteriorating situation, and briefly contemplated the idea of turning out to sea and heading for one of the islands, located about six miles offshore.
But further consideration confirmed that I had neither the water nor the strength to pull that off, particularly with the surrounding whitecaps getting bigger by the second. Besides, as the waves got bigger and the winds got stronger, Trask became increasingly unsettled and it became nearly impossible to keep him sitting down. And I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing him to the sea halfway across a six-mile open-ocean paddle.
So instead, I bent over with my head down as far as I could, kept the nose facing into the wind, and tried to use the current to my advantage. Darren was fighting his own battle to the north, but I was trying desperately not to lose my dog in these increasingly unfriendly waters. Entering one of those memorable panic/calm cycles, I told myself not to overreact, yet I felt myself digging straight for fifty strokes with everything I had, only to look up and wonder whether I’d gained even an inch on that blessed shoreline. In terms of fatigue, only a boxing or wrestling match could compare: “You cannot stop to rest,” I tell myself. “Not for a second, or you will lose everything you just spent the past 20 minutes to gain. Dammit! This is so stupid! How did I let this happen? I’ve spent a lifetime outdoors—in far more dangerous places than this. I should know better!”
I was so mad at myself. A distance that should have taken 20-25 minutes to cover had already taken over an hour and the gusts kept building. Then a bad situation got worse. I felt the bow start to get pushed again in a direction I didn’t want it to go, and in the process of trying to rudder us back into position, the combination of a pushy current and an overpowering gust merged at just the right moment to flip the boat.
We capsized. I lost everything: two rods, reels, camera, shoes. And Trask. Both my dog and I were in really rough water, still a long ways from shore. I screamed for him with the full force of fear in my voice, but then I saw what would eventually save us both: the current. With his survival instinct firmly intact, my dog had lost all memory of our nine-year friendship in about three seconds. He was flying toward shore and it took me almost a minute to decipher what he’d already figured out: that we’d move faster in the water than on it. So with the lab unloaded, I half swam, half paddled the rest of the way in. Darren had also managed to reach shore, and when we saw each other we laughed that nervous laugh of a close call that went our way.
I was humbled. Not by an avalanche or a river in the Rockies, but by something as simple as wind blowing off an innocent, isolated beach. I’ve since shared the story with others, who have told similar tales of windsurfers being swept out to sea from San Francisco Bay or the coast of Maui. Admittedly, California has surprised me. And I’m certain there’s more to come.