When we first took off from San Diego’s Brown Field, jump-off point for private pilots and charters in search of a Baja adventure, we didn’t know what our trip would reveal. Oh, they were out there. And we knew enough to keep a lookout for them. No, a vigilant lookout for them. Creatures like stingrays and scorpions and, of course, the reason we came in the first place: whales.     

Kevin Warren, our seasoned savant in the air and owner of Baja AirVentures, sounded as if in a tunnel, yet the words came loud and clear through our earphones.

“Those dots down there? That’s our overnight, folks.”

Glimpsing it from the Cessna’s window, I poetized it in my mind, the way the tanned knuckle with dimpled dark brown dots touched by smooth scalloped turquoise held the six of us mesmerized. “The water looks so sm-oo-ooth,” I drawled.

Circling a second time gave us the chance to scrutinize our destination tucked into the bay, Bahia de Los Angeles, on the Sea of Cortez, which stretches approximately 700 miles along the Baja Peninsula. Baja itself extends 806 miles from the United States/Mexico border to its southernmost tip. From high up, Cortez wore a smug sheen. As we glided closer, its waves turned nervous. By the time we landed, they grew downright wild. Not knowing how quickly Chameleon Cortez can go from fun to furious, I wondered out loud, “What did we get into signing up for this kayaking adventure?” After all, we came for the creatures. What we didn’t want to lure from Cortez was a close call.

The Cessna nosed onto a runway that could challenge a dirt bike while dust plumes clouded our view. “The water looks choppier,” I said with a start after the plumes swirled away.

“Day to day conditions change,” Warren explained, hopping out of the pilot’s seat. Cortez has a split personality. Don’t let that stop you from keeping a sharp lookout for marine life. It’s the richest spot for it.” Ah yes . . . the reason we came.

In a way, perhaps not realizing it at the time, we had prepared for this frothy foray: a weekend kayaking Washington State’s San Juan Islands, taking various classes at the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, whale-watching from a tour boat in Westport, Washington, and visiting Monterey Bay Aquarium in California as well as the famous Scripps Institute in San Diego.

According to Scripps, the Sea of Cortez nurtures about 900 species of marine vertebrates. This famed Institution of Oceanography labels Cortez, “one of the most diverse marine nurseries on earth.” The largest whales in the world—finbacks and blues—make their home here. Gray whales migrate from Alaska to have babies in its protected coves February to April every year. And at various points along its shoreline, sea lions and elephant seals romp on its rocky formations. So if my husband, Tom, and I wanted to kayak here and regard the wildlife, we would just have to accept Cortez’s fickle moods.

Isla Angel de la Guarda, the second largest island in Cortez, spread its wings before us, smoky gossamer smudging its edges. I hardly took my eyes from it as our veteran pangero, Maleno, directed us to a paint-peeled panga (wooden boat) and secured our allowable fifteen pounds of luggage each. After we donned yellow slickers, the panga eased into the chop. As we gained speed, wailing winds pummeled my head, my shoulders and my spirit. Icy and raw, sandpaper  tongues lashed out, sprayed over the bow, and licked my exposed skin. I closed my eyes as a big wave curled toward me. It slapped my face, clinging, then stinging. Droplets dribbled from my sunglasses, smarted my eyes, and lay trapped between cornea and contact lens. I blinked hard to work the salt out. Still, my sunglasses wore a coating of thick white powder. I brushed the crumbs away as we edged around a finger of land into Pescador, the “Cove of Fish.” I relaxed when I spotted the dark brown dots—our overnight bungalows.

As waves spat us onto shore, Warren told us to do the “stingray shuffle.” Stingrays, creatures with fan-like bodies, burrow into mounds of sand at water’s edge frequently.

“Where are they?” I asked.

“Just shuffle.”

I danced the obligatory jig, digging my toes into the sand, disturbing hundreds of granules into a murky cloud. To my surprise, two sleeping rays floated from their silken graves and fluttered away, wings spread wide.

“They sting,” warned Warren, as one by one we tiptoed, sinking into beach muck. (One of those “stings” killed Steve Irwin, animal conservationist and Australian TV personality.) I shaded my eyes with my hand as I made a 360. Rock piles, dried grass sprouts, and white crescent beach touched what looked like fields of woven straw mats. This weave holds a mixture of plants and more than one hundred species of cactus. The spiny 4,000-foot mountain, “Sierra de las Animas,” towered near us. And a milky whalebone jutting straight up added a crude, almost obscene, bit of landscaping. “A finback about 60 to 70 feet long,” Warren offered.

And sunning their smooth bottoms under a shaggy grass umbrella, in a rainbow array of white, yellow, navy and cranberry, were Sedas and Expeditions—the kayaks. I wanna try out one now. But I remembered the sea’s schizo, showing its bossy side, and the sun was sinking fast.

Within fifteen minutes, we picked a casita next to the dining room. Falling into its swaying hammock, I closed my eyes. Thoughts of bouncing about helplessly in an angry Cortez flooded my brain until I recalled travel brochures I’d seen that state, “Kayak Baja. Paddle quiet coves.” In the pictures, kayaks mirror more kayaks on a glassy sea as gray whales poked up their mottled heads. I wondered if the photos were really Cortez. Touched up, maybe. The wild waves airbrushed out. While contemplating this, drinking in the surroundings, I noticed the solar bags near our hut. In the morning we’d fill them with water from the kitchen, let ’em soak up the sun’s rays all day. Then we’d scrub up while they were still inflated with liquid warmth. Mañana. Tomorrow.   

“Check for scorpions before turning in,” Warren warns. We scour the room, shake out the pillows. Safe.                                                 

Whoosh. Sh-hh. Ha-um-mm. Sh-hh. Ha-um-mm. At 6:30 a.m., I woke to waves lapping and a distant nasal-tone.

I squinted. Out the window, an orange glow hovered on the horizon. The gaw-gaw of sea birds filtered through walls so thin it seemed they were fluttering inside.

Then . . . a nasal whine. A-eeeeeee. Ha-ummmmm. Again. Louder. HA-UMMMMM.

“Hear that?” I asked Tom.

“Let’s go!” he returned.

We slipped into bathing suits, scurried to the kayaks. Choosing a yellow one called Revenge, I skidded it along the sand to flat water. Finally . . . the water’s like the brochure, I thought, and jumped in. I’m perched high but stable. Tom grabbed Gypsy. Tipsy, but fast. We headed to the canal; followed the nasal whine. But fifteen minutes later, nothing. Noiseless. Where were they? 

A gray shadow slithered by. Thirty feet away, a mound rose. We made out the finback’s small dorsal fin and long, flat, v-shaped head. Sh-hh. Sh-hh. A mist shot straight up. A second mound porpoises. Then another. Three of them!  

We paddled parallel. But they seemed to deliberately stay a safe distance away. We dared paddle closer. Their outlines riffled the water into “whale prints.”

One circled me, arched. Its sleek black body gleamed as sunrays sparkled off its back. Another surfaced, but quickly dove, leaving behind soapy bubbles. Were they teasing us? Two seals interrupted, playing hide-and-seek. Their whiskered heads disappeared then popped up seconds later in another spot. Soon our stomachs rumbled, begging for food. As we arm-muscled our way back, we basked in Cortez showing us its good-natured side.

At breakfast, Warren listened to our whale story. He flipped pitch-black hair from his eyes and settled his bronzed body into a lawn chair. “Once I was in my kayak . . . just waiting . . . when suddenly I lifted out of the water. Can you believe the finback was underneath me? What a feeling to slide right off its back.”

The next two days, we relaxed, let watches tick-tock in the casitas, not on wrists. Let the sun remind us when to eat and sleep. The sea was easygoing, too. Or so we thought.

On the fourth day, a playful breeze tickled my arms as Tom and I paddled across Pescador. A short excursion. About ½ mile. The air pushed us gently to shore, nosed the kayaks into the weeds. We scrambled over jagged rocks and spindly bushes that pinched our legs. But the hike was worth it. We found another sparkling bay.

After forty-five minutes, I was aware the air no longer tickled. Instead, it smacked my cheeks, madly brushed my hair into tangles. Was this what Baja-ians called a coromuel, a stiff afternoon breeze, or was it going to escalate into a full-blown chubasco? Alarmed, we rushed back to the kayaks.

Waves washed over them so they shone like slick sweat. Sand hugged their skins like whale barnacles as we shoved them out quickly. “We need kayak skirts,” I commented,

immediately sorry I hadn’t thought of that earlier.

“Just keep paddling,” Tom yelled.

I push-pull, push-pull. A deep-down burn radiated to every fiber of my arm muscles. Like oaring slabs of cement, I thought. Water splashed in where the zippered skirt should be, and I scolded myself for not taking the time to put it in. I shivered. Chameleon Cortez wore a more frightening face.

More chilling, we gained only a few feet. I pushed my arm up higher, pulled down harder. Push-pull. I used my entire body, including my waist. My arms tingled with pain. Then I saw a white speck plowing toward us. A giant wave? The speck turned out to be the skiff. I was relieved, yet annoyed, when it skimmed alongside me. So I ignored it. Insisted on fighting Cortez alone. Pumping through it for all it’s worth.

“It’ll take thirty minutes . . . maybe an hour . . . to get back. Can you handle it?” asked the boatman, a laid-back guy named Tom, who piloted the Cherokee, a second plane that joined our trip. His long rock-star style hair danced wildly, forming an angelic halo around his head. His hand stayed extended. Finally, I grabbed it. He hoisted me onboard, telling a guy named Rocky to slip into Revenge, take over saving the kayak. He shouted to my husband, but Tom continued to push-pull, push-pull.

Laid-back Tom eyed me. “I was kayaking once. Wind picked up and I was making no headway. Ended up ditching the kayak and hiking back. Didn’t want to end up a missing body.”   

At the beach, I plopped onto the sand, not kissing it, though I wanted to. A small audience gathered. “I didn’t need to be rescued—yet!” I blurted out. Focusing on Cortez and its puckering foaming lips, I watched anxiously for Tom. A half hour later, he paddled in, shadowed by Rocky in Revenge. Panting, he dragged the kayak to the grass umbrella. Moments later, he slumped into the hammock and fell asleep.

Winds blasted continually that last night. “What did you say?” we joked while stuffing corn tortillas loaded with chunks of fresh grouper and sea bass into our mouths and  guzzling cervesas and margaritas.

By nightfall, the wind’s cries became whispers. Sunset was a silver-blue plate on a glossy table. As thumbprints settled on the plate, they striated and bent forming into odd shapes.

“Those thumbprints are islands,” Warren explained. “They metamorphose into weird shapes because of reflections off the water and sun filtering through moisture.”

I studied the optical illusions. The horizon was a sleeping dinosaur with spiked spine. Seconds later, it was two pyramids, round balls balancing on top. Next, it was three rolling hills. “Wearing one mask, then another,” I said out loud.  

Around the campfire, orange and yellow flames spat and sparred. Hundreds of stars, like grains of salt, spilled onto the charcoal canvas behind it.

Our fifth and last morning, I shimmied into a wet suit, grabbed snorkel, mask, booties, gloves, hood and fins. We plowed toward the seal rookery, minutes away by panga. Cortez cooperated. It shimmered flat. As we buzzed around Bahia de Las Animas, a pungent odor jammed my nostrils. Strong like urine and raw fish. I held my breath.

Gook! Ga-ook!

Sea lions, some lounging on backs, some lazing on stomachs, sunned themselves on rock pilings. I breathed shallow until I was used to the smell, then dropped in off the boat’s side. 

From a distance, a group of about ten lions peered at us. Within seconds, their frisky shapes slithered next to our rubber-suited, black-skinned bodies. They darted in and out. After making sure the mask fit air-tight, I plunged underwater. I snorkeled up to one, eye-to-eye. It treaded, practically stood on its tail. It somersaulted. It twisted. It stared. I stared back. Reaching out to touch it, I let loose a distorted whoop through my mask. It exploded away, a bubbling shaft in its place. I swallowed, the salty taste puckering my lips. I surfaced to ear-splitting ga-ooks from the master sea lion, scolding from a nearby rock. Then . . . the boatman motioned to me.

“One almost kissed me,” I squealed breathlessly, sliding reluctantly into the panga. Cortez is jittery, I’m told. Gotta go. As we waved to the sea lions, they fidgeted their fins. As if waving back. As if saying goodbye.

Swinging my bag into the panga, getting ready to go home, I thought about the diverse marine life, about the unpredictable sea. “Cortez sure has a dual personality,” I muttered.

“You mean duel, d-u-e-l, personality,” a native Mexican we called Jim, spelled out, punching his fists at nothing. “It likes a good fight.” He recalled fishing here with his father as a little boy. “Sometimes it’s calm. Sometimes we feel a little wind,” he continued. “But an hour later . . . whoom! A full-blown windstorm. Cortez? It always wears two faces.”

FLYGUY KEVIN WARREN

Ever since building his first airplane in sixth grade, Kevin Warren dreamed of flying. His final flight plan was to reach for the highest height—pilot for a major airline. It seemed a natural progression going from daredevil surfer, to ultra-light pilot, to flying small private aircraft. Once he achieved all that, what stood between him and his lofty goal were hours.

“I decided I could get those [hours] by flying my surfer buddies back and forth to Baja,” says the San Diego entrepreneur. “It was tough. Because the first seven years, I lost money or broke even.”

In the early 1990s, that changed. Warren managed a loan for a real airplane—not the grade school science fair project made of bamboo and plastic—a Piper Cherokee 6. “That’s when people asked me to fly them places without the surfing. And were finally willing to pay what it was worth.”

On one of those worthy forays, Warren discovered ten abandoned bungalows on a beach in Bahia de Los Angeles. The frond-thatched casitas sat on a lacy necklace of sand on a remote spot next to the turquoise Sea of Cortez. Warren arranged to lease them and began offering soft eco-adventure trips to La Unica Resort. Baja AirVentures was born.

But “rustic elegance” was what Warren envisioned. La Unica had the rustic, but not the elegance. So he quietly bought up bits of scalloped beach in the neighboring bay, Las Animas. After more than a decade flying folks to La Unica, Warren made a deal with the Mexican government, promising to promote preservation of Baja yet run a more elegant resort. Las Animas Wilderness Retreat opened in February 2005. Eight romantic yurts sit on rocky bluffs facing the bay. The tent-like luxury structures boast interior-designed bathrooms with solar showers, skylights in the roofs, and comfy beds. All with mesmerizing views. Warren completes the picture with new boats and gear while offering special touches like Mexican cooking classes or learning Spanish. And there’s a private runway planned.

“It’s everything you loved about La Unica,” Warren tantalizes. “We just added what we always wished we could.” About his jet dream? Seems a dream can fly one to the most unexpected of life’s destinations.

For Baja whale-watching, kayaking, or surfing trips, contact:

Baja AirVentures

800.221.9283 (WAVE)

bajaairventures.com

(Best of Baja trips include gray whale-watching in Scammons Lagoon)