Islas
de Todos Santos - August 18-22 - 2002
It would be hard to improve upon Steve's report. It catches the spirit and
materially represents what occurred very well. It's always a blast to go on
trips with Steve and Vickie, because they have such a zest for life and having
fun. I find myself pushing the envelope a bit on their trips, but rarely end up
in trouble. It seems like after I've been paddling hairy stuff for a couple of
hours, I shift up into another gear and it starts to seem easy.
It was an added bonus to have along the others:
Mike, who I have enjoyed paddling with for two years now and has helped me
improve quite a bit
Jonathan, who is the best paddler in the group and is more conservative than
Mike, Steve and I (and will probably live longer). He is also an all around
good guy and fantastic cook. Ladies, note that he is single, too.
 Margo, who I just met on the trip, is more of a touring paddler than a rock
gardener. This gave Vickie a good excuse to stay out of the rocks on this
trip, although she can mix it up with the rest of us, when so inclined. Margo
already knew these waters better than all of us put together and is an
interesting conversationalist, as well.
On the way down, we found a great Greek buffet place on the main drag in
National City, where even a McDonalds looks like an Oasis in the desert.
The La Jolla campsite would be nicer if it wasn't so crowded (Steve mentioned
that it's deserted out of season). It is right on the ocean, near shopping and
has a spectacular beach. The accommodations are a bit shabby. Most of the
patrons are locals. Most bring extended families and friends along and seem to
have a really great time on their vacations. Everyone we talked to was quite
friendly. The staff members were pretty good. Nobody messed with our cars
while we left them for three days. There are quite a few Americans there on
budgets. To me, this is much better than sitting around in some stuffy hotel. A
lot cheaper, too.
The first day's paddle was
very mellow. We took it real easy, explored nearly every rock on the North side
of the Peninsula, paddled around the point, explored some of the wild and woolly
point area, then headed over to the landing cove on Isla Todos Santos Sur (the
south island).
I loved the campsite on the island, although it had the disadvantages of
thousands of aggressive birds and being fairly desolate (also an advantage). We
never saw another human being near the site until the last day. The cove below
was very peaceful. We spent a fair amount of time on the shore, paddling and
swimming in the area, through the rocks and islets. There was a tiny bird
observation building that we used for a food locker. We never did see any tiny
birds. Dozens of squid washed up on the outer beach one day, providing an
incredible feast for the birds, which fought tooth and nail (beak and foot) for
the choicest morsels.
Our evenings revolved around dinner, where we shared (our beaks weren't as
sharp) various delicacies, chatted, plotted and schemed the next day's
activities. We mostly slept quite soundly, after long, active days in the water.
We spied a convoy making a movie at sea, three days in a row. We also spotted a
number of fishing boats, military craft and a few majestic cruise ships going in
and out of Ensenada. The view at night up and down the coast was spectacular.
 The paddle back to the mainland and Punta Banda brought us to the most beautiful
and potentially hazardous paddling areas. There were numerous huge sea stack,
rocks, headlands, caves and surf areas from the point, all the way to La
Bufadora, a small town with a day tourist area, half way along the point to the
East. You could get lost in the islets in some sections.
There was a three foot southerly baseline swell, with a very long period, during
most of our trip. Local conditions produced considerably larger surf and
powerful surge in some areas. It was a great playground, complete with postcard
quality scenery for miles and miles.
Best of all, even in midsummer, we had it nearly all to ourselves, except for
the birds, seals and the occasional sea lion or fisherman. It sure was good to
be backed up by my competent paddling friends. I would have felt very insecure
out there by myself.
There were miles of deserted coast along the way. We explored virgin coves and
mini fjords, paddling between rocks and around miles of kelp beds. If this was
California, it would be lined with Starbucks and McDonalds.
Once we got to La Bufadora, we were nearer to "civilization." I was surprised at
the surf and the surge even in some of the harbor area. There is an enormous and
spectacular blow hole/tourist attraction at the end of a long tourist drag, with
hundreds of observers on a deck high above. I was expecting Steve to ride it up
80 feet in his kayak, but he didn't. We hiked up into town to get directions
and find transport, wearing smelly neoprene, VHF radios, knives and boots.
Steve, in his helmet, looked like Zonker out of the Doonesbury strip. The
locals were nonplused and quickly integrated us into their economy.
After retrieving our vehicles from La Jolla Campground, we re-launched and
played until we dropped. There were some great rocks, surf and surging channels
right in the harbor.
We all went downtown, where they roll up the sidewalk at dusk. Fortunately,
Cecilia's, the premier restaurant, was still open. They treated us like royalty
and served up a very nice meal, with salad, pitchers of Margaritas, chips and
entrees. $65 for 6 people. Not bad. The view from the restaurant is spectacular
and the interior is full of fascinating photos. We were the only dinner
customers in this large establishment.
 We were the only people at the campsite, which was on a cliff overlooking the
harbor and up at the city lights. The instant that tents came out of the cars,
someone materialized to collect money. Most of us slept in the cars, to avoid
the fine, gritty red clay, which was everywhere and stuck to everything.
The next morning was cool and overcast. We set out in the morning, intending to
explore the coast to the East and play, with Arbolitos being our destination and
turnaround point. There was some talk about camping at Arbolitos, but the
logistics were problematic.
It was cooler and a little rougher on this morning. As the day wore on, it got
sunnier and much windier, of course turning into a stiff headwind on the return
leg. Although we played in a number of areas, many were off limits due to
hazardous rocks and rough conditions.
It was always possible to avoid danger simply by paddling farther from the rocks
and surf.
On this day, I paddled more and deeper caves than ever before. I found them
somewhat intimidating. This was not primarily a caving trip, so we weren't
fully equipped with strong enough headlamps and long enough lines. My touring
paddle was too long to be agile in tight spots. Our headlamps and light sticks
were nearly useless, except to help avoid collisions and find each other. In the
future, I will put lightsticks on my paddle, for recovery purposes.
 A few times we went into coves or caves that were buried by huge sets after we
got out. I got trapped in a long, narrow canyon which was swept by a very large
set, throwing me up a steep rocky face. Only instinct kept me from being smashed
upside down and thrown over. I was exhausted and frightened after finally
fighting my way out, vowing to be more careful about scouting hazards in the
future. Steve had just gone in a few short minutes before, when it was much
calmer.
Like the Pied Piper, Steve led us through a hazardous slot, with a killer cave
on the right and a pounding wave swept beach on the left. Some folks swept in
to the beach. Steve and I paddled into the long cave. The waves and surge were
so powerful, that you could only influence the general direction and travel
through the passages. It was quite rocky and shallow, so the kayaks would
bounce along and nearly capsize, unless you deftly leaned and paddled-pushed
through. Steve was ahead and did not proceed all the way through, so I finally
backed out, turned around and broached and braced a spilling wave into the beach
with the others. I later learned that he was disappointed that I didn't go all
the way through.
On shore, I found a battered and bloody Mike, who was still game to paddle.
Fortunately, the feared broken nose wasn't. Mike takes a lickin' and keeps on
tickin'. We carried three of the kayaks down the beach for a safer launch.
Three of us elected to challenge the "slot," a narrow, treacherous passage
between two enormous rock faces, to get back out to sea again. We all survived
to tell the story,
The cave East of the "slot" was the best. After getting in past the rocks, a
large chamber opened up. It gradually got rougher in the half hour we played
around there. It was loud, dark and frightening, especially when larger waves
swept through and reflected off the walls and rocks farther back. Often, we had
to feel our way along in the dark with our paddles, ducking and being ready to
roll, in case large swells rose too high. Steve and I went all the way to the
back, where it merged with other caves and ended in an open top, with small
sandy beach and a thirty foot cliff maybe suitable for camping. The caves
junction was somewhat chaotic, with waves coming from four directions. We had to
pay attention to keep from getting swept into the rocks. We found another
passage out and conspiratorially doubled back, giggling like little children, to
"ambush" the rest of the group huddled in the cave mouth.
We all lunched at Arbolitos, which is just a fish camp with a launching ramp and
a small boat anchorage. Those fishermen have a hard life, but it is beautiful
and provides solitude. We were debating whether we would trade this existence
for the life of a busboy in LA, if we were local fishermen. We finally elected
to stay (We don' need your stinkin' dishes!).
The trip back was a bit harder. We had been paddling hard and living fast for
nearly four days and it had taken its toll. The stiff wind and additional play
on the way back tuckered us out. We played in a cove, where between two rocks,
there were surging, boiling surf, a treacherous pour-over and a suck-hole. So,
it was of course a macho magnet that the guys had to all paddle. There were
thrills and spills, capped by Mike's spectacular wipeout, chronicled by Steve,
elsewhere in this missive. By the way, Mike had rock gardened less than all of
us before, but rapidly improved during this trip.
We finally got back to the harbor at La Bufadora. Steve and I went back out for
a while, but we were on autopilot by then and soon returned, packing up, then
heading downtown, to a sad strip of too many redundant tourist trap booths
gunning for too few dollars. After buying obligatory tee shirts and cheap
necklaces (I had Mike "I can get it for you wholesale" Brown at my side, which
saved me enough to make it back to the border), we ate. Jonathan and Margo had
already fled for the border, but the rest of us gorged on cheap, tasty fish
tacos and Cervezas. I bought a
high-tech version of the ancient and lethal native blow dart gun. Woebetide any
nocturnal intruders at the Miller household.
We finally convoyed back North. I found myself inappropriately in the lead car
at one point, (mis) managing a wrong turn that caused us a twenty minute delay
and an unplanned tour of beautiful downtown Tijuana. Mike and I stopped briefly
for dinner and later tried to sort out ten cubic yards of soggy gear in the dark
outside his garage. Finally, I headed home to my darling in faraway Ventura
County.
I rarely get to Mexico, because the poverty, stories of corruption, run down
buildings and garbage strewn areas put me off. It's amazing that a nation of
such energetic, intelligent, vital people put up with that. It seemed that
things have improved a bit since I was last there in 1998, when I had my boat
down there for a few months. In retrospect, it's worth coming down, because
most people are so nice, the prices are mostly right and some places are very
beautiful.
George J. Miller
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