Magdalena Bay
The southern tip of Isla Santa Margarita looms a jagged rust-red bulge on the eastern horizon, signifying the beginning of the end of our Pacific passage from Cabo San Lucas. To the west, the expanse is blue and vast. As we round the northern end of the island, pointing toward our entrance to Bahia Magdalena, the ocean surface ahead is frenzied with hundreds of plunging and swirling birds: gulls, cormorants, and pelicans. Telltale puffs of dense pale mist appear everywhere from nowhere. There’s at least 8, no, at least 10, no, maybe even 20 grey whales spaced in a wide arc around the entrada, an arc of exhalations. One look into the green sea that we’re cutting through reveals what all the action is about – pelagic red crabs float past by the thousands, and the birds and whales alike are having their fill.
As we maneuver into the bay, the motion of the Pacific stops, the wind is somewhat blocked, though the huge bay is still whipped into ephemeral white froth across its surface. The transit through Hull Canal begins. The tide is low, and off the port side of the Seabird the wet black sand and mud bars are exposed to the plucking feet and poking beaks of dozens of birds seeking their afternoon invertebrate snacks. The canal appears so shallow, it's hard to imagine a ship our size can find its way along an unseen, underwater channel deep enough to accept our draft. Indeed, it’s only possible with local pilot Alejandro Camacho at the helm, guiding us along with his intimate knowledge of the shifting sands beneath us.
The canal gets narrower still, and with the tide being sucked out to sea, the mangrove roots on both sides are exposed like a crazy maze of stilts. From this view, it’s easy to see they deserve their reputation as the nurseries of the sea, affording protection to the juvenile fishes that hide in the spaces between the roots. The shorebirds alight on the green mangrove canopies like volunteer ornaments.
Upon passing through the narrows, we steam into a wider expanse, the Seabird slows to a halt, and the hook is sent to the shallow bottom. The sun is low in the sky. It’s a pink and ruby Valentine’s Day sunset. The dining room is lovingly decorated for the festive occasion. After dinner, pausing on the top deck, I imagine that I can hear the exhalations of all the whales I know are surrounding us. Tomorrow I’ll be close enough to mingle my breathe with theirs.
The southern tip of Isla Santa Margarita looms a jagged rust-red bulge on the eastern horizon, signifying the beginning of the end of our Pacific passage from Cabo San Lucas. To the west, the expanse is blue and vast. As we round the northern end of the island, pointing toward our entrance to Bahia Magdalena, the ocean surface ahead is frenzied with hundreds of plunging and swirling birds: gulls, cormorants, and pelicans. Telltale puffs of dense pale mist appear everywhere from nowhere. There’s at least 8, no, at least 10, no, maybe even 20 grey whales spaced in a wide arc around the entrada, an arc of exhalations. One look into the green sea that we’re cutting through reveals what all the action is about – pelagic red crabs float past by the thousands, and the birds and whales alike are having their fill.
As we maneuver into the bay, the motion of the Pacific stops, the wind is somewhat blocked, though the huge bay is still whipped into ephemeral white froth across its surface. The transit through Hull Canal begins. The tide is low, and off the port side of the Seabird the wet black sand and mud bars are exposed to the plucking feet and poking beaks of dozens of birds seeking their afternoon invertebrate snacks. The canal appears so shallow, it's hard to imagine a ship our size can find its way along an unseen, underwater channel deep enough to accept our draft. Indeed, it’s only possible with local pilot Alejandro Camacho at the helm, guiding us along with his intimate knowledge of the shifting sands beneath us.
The canal gets narrower still, and with the tide being sucked out to sea, the mangrove roots on both sides are exposed like a crazy maze of stilts. From this view, it’s easy to see they deserve their reputation as the nurseries of the sea, affording protection to the juvenile fishes that hide in the spaces between the roots. The shorebirds alight on the green mangrove canopies like volunteer ornaments.
Upon passing through the narrows, we steam into a wider expanse, the Seabird slows to a halt, and the hook is sent to the shallow bottom. The sun is low in the sky. It’s a pink and ruby Valentine’s Day sunset. The dining room is lovingly decorated for the festive occasion. After dinner, pausing on the top deck, I imagine that I can hear the exhalations of all the whales I know are surrounding us. Tomorrow I’ll be close enough to mingle my breathe with theirs.
