Crossing Day

Snorkeling Naked?

"Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to re-create a dream"-Steinbeck

Night Watch Our 46’ sailboat, Pegasus, sails in the dark, fifteen nautical miles off-shore after an 0330 start. She heads on a westerly course crossing the Sea of Cortez from Guaymus on Mexico’s main land to Santa Rosalia on the Baja Peninsula. I’m sure Sandy, my wife, is sleeping well in the forepeak, as the sails are drawing nicely, the motion is minimal, and there is a steady gurgle as Pegasus slices through the sea. I treasure moments like this, being underway, alone in the cockpit, Sandy secure and trusting below.

With a crisp preternatural half-moon overhead, Jupiter spotlights the way under a canopy of stars, planets, and meteorites. An ocean counterpoint sparkles below. The eastern horizon is dimpled with flickering shore lights and a faint crimson edge as the planet rolls on its axis. All is well in the quiet lonely cockpit, the instruments casting pale light showing speed (7.1 knots), course (275° magnetic), and depth (62 fathoms). The absence of blurs on the radar screen reassures that we are clear of dangers. I have to remind myself to breathe. Pegasus is so alone on a big ocean.

I remember my first voyage to the other end of a Wisconsin lake on my home made eleven-foot sail boat. At age twelve, I knew the other kids wouldn’t think of doing it, and thought “My parents will be proud. But what if I can’t get back? What if I turn over? What about those big snapping turtles under the water?” Out here on the Sea of Cortez there is still some of that, but mostly it has been edged out by long experience and mastery. Behind this is a familiar vague apprehension. A primordial fear? It all washes away upon hearing the low exhaling bursts and squeals of invisible echo-locating dolphins playing in the bow-wave.

The stars are dimming, Isla San Pedro is off to the north, a low ghost. The sea; liquid, dark, a silver flow, smooth rolling wavelets; left-overs from yesterday’s weather.

Star lights blinking out; only the strongest survive–––like Sirius, not Belatrix. And then only Sirius, Rigel, Jupiter, the Moon, and one un-named… is it my old friend Capella? I look away, look back, and they are gone, their place taken by a flopping flying fish on deck and hot coffee handed up from below by a sleepy smiling face.

Morning Watch It is cloudless with a light 360° haze. T shirts, shorts, and broad brimmed straw hats have replaced last night’s clothing. Pegasus has been making 7 knots towards a still invisible destination only 28 nautical miles away. Isla Tortuga has been drawing near for over four hours. The seas are short and choppy little walls with wind just off the starboard bow. Pegasus does not like this; bucking, lurching in complaint. We ease off, resulting in less water on deck and a smoother faster ride for my well-deserved mid-morning nap. I drift off to a symphony of water burbling past, creaking lines, the low whir of the autopilot, the ticking of the ship’s brass clock. Familiar, reassuring, amniotic. Most of all, is a lovely confidence that Sandy is on watch and can handle everything.

The reverie is shattered by a high pitched “FISH ON! All hands on-deck!” Scrambling up from below, disoriented and squinting in the bright sun, I laugh: “You mean ‘The only hand on-deck!’” We have to slow Pegasus down to pull in the thirty-pound bull dorado that is trying to get rid of the feather lure on the end of the line we have been trailing. Sails are askew, flapping and snapping. Pegasus tosses awkwardly in the swell. “Turn to port hard!” I screech in a full octave above normal, only to contradict a few seconds later, “No, blast it, turn hard to starboard…he’s heading under the boat. Don’t let it get caught on the rudder! Watch it, no slack line. He’s close, get the gaff!” Sandy can only shake her head and stifle a broad grin at the sight of her steady, calm, competent captain coming unglued. “Incredible” I blurt, “take the rod and just feel the power of this fish.” Holding on for dear life, Sandy let’s out… “Look, it’s flashing gold and green!” Finally, I’m able to gaff the exhausted fish and haul it aboard. Pegasus begins moving gracefully in the right direction with sails trimmed once again. While washing the blood and scales off the deck, we glance at each other as the fish’s brilliant hues dim.

At Anchor Pegasus tugs experimentally at her anchor and swings slowly around in a little cove, which is actually an ancient volcano cauldron. Sails are stowed, navigation is done, boat is settled in. Sandy and I are alone and have seen no human life all day. We are ringed by Los Gigantes (the giants), the mountain range given to us by crunching tectonic plates with strata so similar to the Grand Canyon. The insignificance I felt under the stars has been replaced by feeling tiny in this broad moonscape. We try unsuccessfully to outwit the merciless sun. When we shift the awning and shades, predictably Pegasus changes position on her anchor, and we roast. Boat chores are complete, the fish is cleaned, and fresh filets will await us after snorkeling.

Snorkeling Naked? It just came to me, so I said it. There are no censors out here, on a day like this.

“Honey, why don’t we snorkel with no bathing suits?”

“Ahhh…that’s a No.”

“Come on, why not? It would be fun.”

“Someone might see us.”

“See us? Come on, there’s no one within 20 miles…and even if they did, so what?”

“I wouldn’t like it, so N…O.”

“They’d probably see us and say: ‘Boy is that guy lucky, that woman is stunningly gorgeous, what a body.’”

“Were you in the sun too much today?”

“No, come on, we skinny dipped when we were first married, remember?”

“Poof…that was different. You can do it, but I’m not.”

“But that would take all the fun out of it.”

“Well……. how about some fun after the swim?

“Whoa…now we’re talk’n! OK, I’ll load the snorkels, goggles, and fins, you bring the sun protection.”

Floating in our own aquarium, a flashing shimmering kaleidoscope lies beneath us. Lavender, plum, glamorous pink, apple red, peach, lilac tangerine bursts surround us. Disorienting vertical gilt stripes of the Cortez Angel Fish; King Angels, wearing their finest bright blue/gray uniforms; Hawk fish, trying to outwit the others by rocklike camouflage; blue green Giant Damsel fish around each corner, glaring at all intruders. Tiny animals perfectly blending in near shore, getting larger as we move out. Cobalt yellow tailed Surgeon fish escort iridescent rainbow wrasses. Moving in and out are nearly invisible needlefish as they blend transparently with blown glass-like surface ripples. A disinterested barracuda motionless in the mid-range gloom, a couple of evil moss-colored eels succeed in making us move back. The more we look, the more we see. I am suspended in a body temperature liquid I cannot see or feel, as though there is nothing to hold me up. New corals and different kinds of sea stars, brittle stars, and a strange urchin are added to our list of sightings. They had been there all along, we are just perceiving them for the first time, a small fraction of what is there. I turn to show Sandy something interesting, but then cannot find it again, only to discover something else even more captivating.

Sundown Soft cockpit chatter of the day. Did we really cross the Sea? Steinbeck was right, the whole thing is like a hallucination. Finback whales are spraying rainbow geysers of water in the distance, refracted by the easing setting sun. We can hear them, a hollow sighing blow. At dinner, the translucent bright white shimmer of the grilled dorado’s meat; so sweet and delicate that no flavorings are added. Plans are afoot for a nighttime exploration.

Apres Dinner We dinghy out in the night black; a blanket of thick stars reflecting off oily flat liquid. The propeller excites bioluminescence-thousands of pinpoint sparks, tracers everywhere as fish bolt to eat or be eaten. Pizza pan circles of light turn out to be the defense of an organism. Our flash light beam shows solid action below.

Day is Done Back aboard our little craft, I whisper: “How can we ever describe today to our friends back home?” Nodding her head, Sandy whispers back: “We can’t…they won’t get it.” And with that, and a giggle, we go below. A consummate ending to the Crossing Day.