Boca de Soledad & El Barril, Baja California Sur
Darkness and quiet surrounded us at Boca de Soledad, the mouth of solitude. One wonders whether the region was christened such because of its isolation, or if some wandering soul felt not just alone, but truly lonely. To us this isolation was a gift, a taste of wilderness. In the emptiness a sigh could be heard, a deep exhale and brief inhale. It repeated itself again and then once again, this rhythmic breathing of a whale. The lights of our floating island reached out, beckoning to creatures of the sea, inviting them to seek their fortunes within the orb of our illumination. A solitary pelican paddled here too. Wrists thrust out and elbows tucked in, it floated, poised to strike whenever a fish appeared. Flashing red, its gular sac expanded like a giant net scooping up water and wriggling prey.
Slowly light crept into the world through bright tie-dyed patterns in the slate colored clouds. The sounds of silence changed as, one by one, the avian population took to the sky. Great blue herons barked at creaking terns. Gulls shrieked at one another and from somewhere within the mangrove forest, a pair of scrub jays screamed. By the time the water had taken on a greenish hue and before most of us had thought of breakfast, our fleet of Zodiacs set sail seeking the nursery grounds. Gray whale calves frolicked in the waves, never straying far from mother's side. Sliding down mom's rostrum or riding on her back, they rolled and flipped and piece by piece showed us all their parts. It looked like fun, but in the play a bond of sorts was reinforced. Each female has one goal right now. Her fat stores are growing low. It will soon be time to head for the northern feeding grounds. But before she leaves, her progeny must be prepared. It is a long and perilous journey they face. The young one must be strong, so between periods of play they swim the treadmill of the tides developing muscle power. We bid them bon voyage and set our course to the south.
El barril, the barrel or keg, could be filled with food or drink. In reality, the El Barril we visited this afternoon truly is, for the mangrove lagoon is the source of nourishment for the sea. Fingers of the Hull Canal reach into the desert wearing a glove of various shades of green. Dark green, lime green and gray green are the leaves of red, white and black mangrove trees. Branches, roots and trunks intertwine into an impenetrable thicket, perfect protection for creatures living there. Green herons crept within this tangle, standing stock still until a well-timed leap landed them upon an unsuspecting fish. Brilliant red crabs disappeared into hollows in the trunks. Mudflats, exposed by the falling tides, were carpeted with godwits, curlews, egrets and more. Quietly we plied the shallows in our colorful kayaks or drifted in Zodiacs with motors shut down soaking up the last moments of solitude.
Darkness and quiet surrounded us at Boca de Soledad, the mouth of solitude. One wonders whether the region was christened such because of its isolation, or if some wandering soul felt not just alone, but truly lonely. To us this isolation was a gift, a taste of wilderness. In the emptiness a sigh could be heard, a deep exhale and brief inhale. It repeated itself again and then once again, this rhythmic breathing of a whale. The lights of our floating island reached out, beckoning to creatures of the sea, inviting them to seek their fortunes within the orb of our illumination. A solitary pelican paddled here too. Wrists thrust out and elbows tucked in, it floated, poised to strike whenever a fish appeared. Flashing red, its gular sac expanded like a giant net scooping up water and wriggling prey.
Slowly light crept into the world through bright tie-dyed patterns in the slate colored clouds. The sounds of silence changed as, one by one, the avian population took to the sky. Great blue herons barked at creaking terns. Gulls shrieked at one another and from somewhere within the mangrove forest, a pair of scrub jays screamed. By the time the water had taken on a greenish hue and before most of us had thought of breakfast, our fleet of Zodiacs set sail seeking the nursery grounds. Gray whale calves frolicked in the waves, never straying far from mother's side. Sliding down mom's rostrum or riding on her back, they rolled and flipped and piece by piece showed us all their parts. It looked like fun, but in the play a bond of sorts was reinforced. Each female has one goal right now. Her fat stores are growing low. It will soon be time to head for the northern feeding grounds. But before she leaves, her progeny must be prepared. It is a long and perilous journey they face. The young one must be strong, so between periods of play they swim the treadmill of the tides developing muscle power. We bid them bon voyage and set our course to the south.
El barril, the barrel or keg, could be filled with food or drink. In reality, the El Barril we visited this afternoon truly is, for the mangrove lagoon is the source of nourishment for the sea. Fingers of the Hull Canal reach into the desert wearing a glove of various shades of green. Dark green, lime green and gray green are the leaves of red, white and black mangrove trees. Branches, roots and trunks intertwine into an impenetrable thicket, perfect protection for creatures living there. Green herons crept within this tangle, standing stock still until a well-timed leap landed them upon an unsuspecting fish. Brilliant red crabs disappeared into hollows in the trunks. Mudflats, exposed by the falling tides, were carpeted with godwits, curlews, egrets and more. Quietly we plied the shallows in our colorful kayaks or drifted in Zodiacs with motors shut down soaking up the last moments of solitude.
