Isla Magdalena
We deem today blubber-fest 2010. The morning began with low, spooky overtones: fog. Although we could see stars through the moist air, we could not see shore. Being intrepid explorers, we set out anyway to see what whales might be occupying the Boca de Soledad in the early hours. There’s nothing like a veil of fog to enhance your other senses—we stopped our engines, perked our ears, and heard… the roaring of the surf. By the second round of Zodiac tours, the fog had lifted, and we set out again to see what whales might be plying their time in the still waters of Bahia Magdalena. Ocean roaring, we went out. It was a morning worth taking advantage of.
After all Zodiacs returned to the ship, we bade farewell to our pangeros and welcomed aboard our pilot, Alejandro, who would guide us back through the shallow, winding path of Hull Canal. Sun, still waters, and birds galore rewarded us. We saw terns and frigatebirds cruising the air for fish, cormorants and brants paddling the riplines, and long-legged waders perched in mangroves. Because of the high tide, we were treated to the unusual sight of godwits and willets afloat on the calm surface, waiting for the tide to drop and their beloved mud to be revealed. Keen-eyed spotters even glimpsed a coyote passing behind a great egret on shore.
It was in the later hours of the day that blubber-fest really began. First, it was the bottlenose dolphins zipping in from the mangroves to play with our bow. Then, at the boundary between Magdalena Bay and the Pacific Ocean, gray whales gyred and gamboled in the waves, sometimes hefting their entire, barnacled bodies out of the water. We were able to spend time with a group of three adult grays as they made their way south at a leisurely pace. What a treat to see them rise, breathe, and fall away from view, only to surface again. Against the stark hills of La Entrada, the gentle passage was spectacular.
We all agreed that this would have been a day full enough, but Baja had more in mind. First, a pair of common dolphins ducked under our bow, then a lone humpback started punishing the surface of the water with its gnawed flukes. It beat them again and again on the sea. When we got close enough to look and listen, we dropped our hydrophone—moans, grunts, and melodic groans from this humpback and others in the area filled the sea, interrupted by the piercing whistle of dolphins.
In the background of all this aural chaos, the sun did its usual, spectacular work and set in the west behind a dramatic bank of clouds. Ordinary, we suppose, and yet not—like everything on this trip, which has done the incremental work of opening our eyes to each day’s spectacular wonders. Four species of cetaceans in one day. Acres of birds. Tangles of mangroves and shining, rolling hills of sand. Not bad. Not bad at all.
