The sensory thrill of being on the ocean amps up generously in Key West, Florida; not just because it's a tiny island with salty breezes damp enough to wear the air, but also because locals and visitors go offshore often just to keep from tripping over each other. Sunset sails. SCUBA diving. Yachting and fishing—indeed, world renowned fishing—wherein the shallow flats men and women chase dreams of trophy tarpon, permit and bonefish.
Such skinny water, though, is hardly conducive to one of my favorite on-the-water activities, whale watching. This natural attraction enriches Hawaii's tourism, as well as the Dominican Republic's. In fact, DRs Silver Banks Sanctuary has protected humpback whales since well before ecotourism came into vogue. But it was in Mexico at the turn of the 21st century that I first heard the expression “footprints on water,” a concept related to whales as incongruous as it is miraculous given that God’s handiwork abounds throughout the Baja Peninsula. This is where gently sculpted, white sand dunes part water from sky on the port side of the motor vessel Sea Bird. Gnarly, green mangroves host white herons and egrets to starboard.
A cloudless horizon glows blue on Magdalena Bay’s flat surface, and only the sighs of gray whales blowing heart-shaped spray into the air rise above excited whispers. Since daybreak, our 62-person expedition has cruised in a northerly fashion up the bay, with dozens of these giant mammals moving majestically slowly ahead of us. For the last hour, though, we’ve been dead in the water: The bottleneck of Big Boat and Big Mamas with baby whales at the narrows of Hull Channel mandates queuing. Amidst the standing-room-only crowd at the bow of the 152-foot-long boat, the regular whirr of rewinding cameras and videos resounds louder than the hum of the boat’s engine.
“Big blow at eleven o’clock. Over there, at two o’clock, a mother and calf are surfacing. Look, look, straight ahead another pair—jeez, they’re everywhere,” says Steven Zeff, a naturalist and whale specialist on this particular Lindblad expedition. He's working hard to contain his enthusiasm while maintaining the hushed awe on board. Standing on a platform above the crowd, he passes off the microphone to his cohort, Dr. John Francis, who describes the play-by-play action.
One more time, Dr. Francis explains how whales walk on water.
“When a whale flips its tail underwater, water rushes in to replace it then wells to the surface, where it creates the glassy pools you’re looking at. The same thing happens when you slap your hand into a swimming pool,” says Dr. Francis, the leader of National Geographic Society’s research and exploration arm. “Whalers used to think these large circular slicks on the water’s surface were oil slicks washing off whales. Although the tail never surfaced and they couldn’t physically see the whale, by noting what direction the slicks were moving in, whalers could tell what direction the whale was going, and they actually hunted whales by following what scientists now call, 'footprints'.”
Francis hands the mic back to Zeff who surveys the crowd like a preacher from his pulpit. Then tongue-in-cheek, head nodding to the rhythm of the boat, Zeff says, “I am really sorry it’s taking so long to get through this channel.”
So goes this Sunday morning church service of sorts, and on this, our first day traveling “Among the Great Whales”, it’s been a quiet way to get acquainted with some of the planet’s largest mammals. Equally mild have been the weather conditions: sunny skies, flat seas, no wind whatsoever. But by late afternoon, I quickly learn that weather south of the border shifts in an eye blink, and much more than whales leave footprints on Baja.
Out of nowhere, the wind kicks-up this afternoon while we’re exploring Boca de Soledad. Dramatic and desolate, the northernmost beach tip of Magdalena Island connects its namesake bay on the western side of Baja with the Pacific Ocean.
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| Magdalena Island, Baja Mexico |
Nothing grows atop these sand dunes; the wind keeps the powdered-sugar-fine grains of sand in near-constant motion. Here, time is a bottomless hourglass. Buried deeply in sand are branches from tree trunks that drifted ashore. New arrivals litter the beach: turtle bones, pelican skulls, Elegant Venus seashells--my own footsteps. Within an hour, though, the sand swirls up the dunes, rising like steam on hot asphalt, and pours over the sloping folds in the manner of water rushing down a hillside. It fills all man-made tracks.
Although this morning’s calm switched without warning to fast forward this afternoon, the sand blows only as high as my calves. It doesn’t blast me off the island or prevent photo ops. But the sting of sand on bare ankles is a subtle warning that Aeolus, the god of wind, owns these parts. Whether on land or sea, the wind’s footprints are visible in layered, undulating waves, and this particular dunes hike is a donkey walk compared to the bronco busting, late afternoon Zodiac ride.
I’m riding point. I get this lofty position because I’m wearing a wet suit. Eight of us hang on to the safety ropes surrounding the inflatable boat, and try to keep our butts steady on its sides while 20-knot winds and choppy seas work hard to unseat us. Sixty-degree water washes across my body. Salt cakes my sunglasses. Hair sticks to my wet face.
Just one close encounter with a gray whale (Eschrichtius robustus) could make this all worthwhile. But this is not to be, not today. And the next day is rougher. Four Zodiacs bounce and bang on white caps toward the narrowest end of the bay seeking protected water sandwiched between Magdalena Island and the Baja peninsula. Here, the lagoon’s current is stronger than the wind. And here, gray whale mothers with month-old calves collect to give their two-ton offspring some swim-in-place exercise.
“It’ll be another three weeks before the whales migrate north, and we think they swim in these shallows to help strengthen their babies for the trip,” says Michele Graves, one of the five natural history staffers aboard Sea Bird. She’s at the helm of the Zodiac, trying to keep bodies and cameras as dry as possible, but the surge of wind and water regularly washes over Janine Smith, a Los Angelina riding point this morning. She is not wearing a wetsuit.
At least six pairs of mothers and calves are nearby, maybe within 100 yards. When the little guys surface for air -- about every two minutes -- mama whale is always lurking close, surfacing with a much bigger blow. Her downtime can be much longer, too; up to 20 minutes, if she’s eating.
Farther off, a big gray has spy-hopped five different times, wiggling its huge tail underwater, thereby shoving its head high above the surface to survey surrounding activity. A lot’s going on: Heads on board the Zodiac crane left and right to see the spy-hops; bodies shift from side to side to catch a whale fluke here, spray over there. Whiplash goes unnoticed when a frisky calf strays from mom to check us out. It swims under the boat. Ten people hang starboard. The calf turns, comes back again, then it happens: A close encounter of a very personal nature develops as the tiny tot surfaces right next to us, peeks one eye over the edge of the Zodiac and quietly slips back into the sea.
“Where is that baby’s mama?” Smith wonders out loud; a question each of us ponders while scanning the chop for telltale clues to mom’s whereabouts. Then there she blows: Mother surfaces barely ten feet off port, spraying a geyser of saltwater, bad whale breath and snot into the wind. Her immense torso, maybe 30 tons of raw power, dwarfs the Zodiac as she rounds up her infant, and we wash off our faces.
The adrenaline rush from the whales’ nearness eventually gives way to the tenderness of a mother’s protective instinct, and the realization that it transcends all species. But of course, nature isn’t always so tender.
This afternoon's dunes hike is about a mile across a narrow section of Magdalena Island. Our destination, the Pacific Ocean. The stark, rolling mounds of sand are hot beneath bare feet. High contrast shade folds into the soft white sides of the dunes, occasionally punctuated by coyote scat or jackrabbit tracks. Twice we see the bounding bunny, its footprints a blur of rushed motion in the sand.
The ocean announces itself before we clear the last rise, and a beach of about five football fields’ distance separates us from the breakers. A green sea turtle greets us; it is dead. Within a half-mile, at least ten more turtles are in varying states of decomposition. The bodies of two sea lions have washed ashore, and skeletons of small rays, pelicans and other birds dot the barren landscape.
“No, I don’t think this is out of the ordinary because the turtles and sea lions don’t look like they were slain by men—their meat is in tact,” said Peter Rumm, the naturalist hiking with us. Later, though, I learn that the orange marks on the carcasses denote a tally by scientists who monitor this shoreline, counting what is probably sea life drown in drift nets.
On another day, everyone aboard Sea Bird watches a group of dolphin toss what appears to be a log into the air. Turns out this is not a log, and these are not trained dolphin. Hours later, when the dolphin group dissolves, staffers bring a dead baby dolphin to the shore where we’ve been kayaking. A mini-conference of biologists and naturalists and on-lookers try to make sense of this death, an infant guessed to be no more than 24-hours old.
The drama of life’s cycle is everywhere on Baja, but for me it's softened this evening. After another good dinner with good wine and good conversation on board the boat, I curl up with a blanket on the bow to listen to gray whales. Their spraying sighs sound so close, so reassuringly kind, it seems I could reach out and pet them. I imagine them eying Sea Bird with the same curiosity I have for them, and I fall asleep watching stars leave footprints on a black, black sky.
“Good morning,” says Bud Lenhausen, the overall expedition leader for Lindblad, who’s responsible for the impeccable operational flow. This is an earlier than usual wake-up call via the boat’s intercom, which can be switched on or off in the rooms. “It’s a little before seven, and you all might want to come to the bow of the boat to see a few long nose, common dolphin.”
Yesterday, we left the Pacific Ocean, rounded the tip of Baja and entered the Sea of Cortes. Following a dock call in Cabo San Lucas, the charming Mexican town built into the short, scrubby mountains on the desert peninsula, we sailed among humpback whales and a huge school of Mobula rays that leaped high and often. Now, at least 300 dolphin are soaring and splashing around us with as much gusto as did the rays.
“We estimate for every fin at the surface, there are six or seven dolphin swimming beneath,” says our underwater specialist, Iliana Ortega, clasping a cup of hot, strong coffee. Clearly, a jump-start is needed this early morning to count the fifty or so dolphin fins at the surface, and to register all that nature has delivered so far. But this is Valentine’s Day, and an already spoiled bunch of soft-adventurers is expecting nothing less than love notes from the sea. We are not disappointed. By the time breakfast is finished, a blue whale comes to call. Rolling at the surface, the biggest-ever-on-earth animal is also having breakfast. We watch it for more than two hours.
“Scientists can spend years studying whales and never get to see a big blue feed,” says National Geo's Dr. Francis. Apparently, working scientists can’t get enough of these illusive animals either, and a trace of reverence laces his words together. “Usually the plankton and krill they eat is deeper, maybe fifteen to thirty feet down. What you’re seeing is rare.”
An Old Faithful-like geyser of water shoots high into the sky, and the bathing beauty rolls over with its mouth open, baleen showing. It salutes us with a massive pectoral fin straight up in the air, and on board, Sea Bird tilts ever so slightly to starboard as 60 binoculared faces race to deck right, following the feeding blue whale.
More saltwater candy is forthcoming this day. Two fin whales drop by, the fastest of all whales with 25 mph track records. A small and distant Bryde’s whale is identified near shore. Then during an 11 a.m. showing of “Giants of the Deep”, a National Geographic TV special produced by Dr. Francis, about 30 pilot whales call us topside again. These guys are feeding at the surface, too. Up in tandem; down in tandem. Their broiling motion is like popcorn in oil. Playful, buoyant and exuberant, pilot whales are really dolphin that weight one-to-four tons.
In total, we sail the Sea of Cortes for four days. Jason Kelley, the on-board geologist, explains how the rift in this particular continental plate has created a 10,000-foot deep canyon of cold water. But before the Baja peninsula breaks away from the mainland along the San Andreas fault line in, say, 30 to 40 million years, everything from plankton to sea lions, from krill to blue whales is periodically condensed into this speck of liquid on the planet’s surface—not just for our viewing pleasure, of course, but we see all of this from Zodiacs, kayaks or hikes on shore. Birds and lizards, fish and turtles, in fact, we swim with sea lions, and remarkably in this chilly water, with tropical fish such as king angels and sergeant majors.
After a day when four different whale species hang around the boat – all at once – it gets harder and harder to rush to the bow in the late afternoons because, ho hum, there’s only one humpback a-visiting.
Lenhausen's last wake-up call proclaims, “the Sea of Cortes doesn’t get better than this.” Flatter than an ice hockey rink, people set off to kayak along its shores or hike among the scrubby foothills of Isla San Jose. I choose neither. Satiated with nature, I go into lizard mode; topside, I assume a reptilian posture lying on my stomach, body soaking up sun rays. While absorbing this life-giving energy, at any moment I can spring into action if, perchance, a giant squid approaches. Until then, barren landscape gets my undivided attention.
On shore, a little white house is tucked into the moonscape of mountain folds by the sea; on a wide, sandy beach back a ways from the water. Big boulders in the Sea of Cortes create a small, protected bay just south of the homestead. Clothes hang on a line between two out houses; a turquoise shirt, the only vibrant color among the shades of brown.
It’s hard to tell if a road leads away from the site. Probably not, this is an undeveloped island, and there are no electric wires, no telephone poles in sight. Two overturned boats on the beach are the likely sources of transportation. Nothing stirs, not even a breeze. God’s handiwork -- sparse vegetation and bleak mountaintops -- is incredibly desolate. If the miracle of life at all levels of the food chain weren’t so harsh here, this might be a testament to His/Her sense of humor. For sure, the surrealism is cartoon-ish enough. I roll over in the sun, close my eyes and smile: In my mind, Roadrunner beep-beeps across those irregular summits, a dust cloud billowing behind, and in the haze I swear I see Wiley Coyote doggedly pursuing his tiny footprints.
