Arroyo Blanco Norte and Bahia Salinas, Isla del Carmen
The dolphins found us in our Zodiacs and kayaks this morning off Isla Carmen. We humans must have looked like small and benign creatures, so they followed us, playing in the waves and leaping into the air. The sally light-foot crabs were less impressed, flashing turquoise underbodies as they skittered to safe nooks between the rocks.
Toward afternoon, we all landed on Salinas Beach on Carmen Island, sight of a former salt works that was in operation for centuries. The island itself is privately owned, populated by three caretakers and a few hundred bighorn sheep, imported for private hunting excursions. We toured the ghost town, and then split up for snorkeling and diving around an old shipwreck.
A small group of us headed to the sight of the salt flats. The area looked not unlike a winter scene, with pure white salt formations rising incongruously from the desert like snow. We decided to go swimming there, stepping cautiously into the warm white waters. Immediately, we found ourselves rising and being supported on the surface by the high salt content. Intricate salt crystals clung to the bottom of the pool and sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clinging to our skin.
“It’s like floating on Jello,” Trim remarked. Or on a giant air mattress. Or on some kind of miracle gel that holds you, as if weightless, on the surface of the water. It wasn’t every day that we got to float on Jello, and we remained in the water until pleasantly pickled and pink.
Everyone returned to the ship as the sun dipped to the west and took the harshest heat with it. The resident dog of Isla Carmen saw us all off, sitting on his haunches to watch the last Zodiac disappear in the waves. Then, without further care, he stood up and picked his way across the pebbled beach toward the shade. For him, just another day. For us sentimental humans, some good memories.
The dolphins found us in our Zodiacs and kayaks this morning off Isla Carmen. We humans must have looked like small and benign creatures, so they followed us, playing in the waves and leaping into the air. The sally light-foot crabs were less impressed, flashing turquoise underbodies as they skittered to safe nooks between the rocks.
Toward afternoon, we all landed on Salinas Beach on Carmen Island, sight of a former salt works that was in operation for centuries. The island itself is privately owned, populated by three caretakers and a few hundred bighorn sheep, imported for private hunting excursions. We toured the ghost town, and then split up for snorkeling and diving around an old shipwreck.
A small group of us headed to the sight of the salt flats. The area looked not unlike a winter scene, with pure white salt formations rising incongruously from the desert like snow. We decided to go swimming there, stepping cautiously into the warm white waters. Immediately, we found ourselves rising and being supported on the surface by the high salt content. Intricate salt crystals clung to the bottom of the pool and sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clinging to our skin.
“It’s like floating on Jello,” Trim remarked. Or on a giant air mattress. Or on some kind of miracle gel that holds you, as if weightless, on the surface of the water. It wasn’t every day that we got to float on Jello, and we remained in the water until pleasantly pickled and pink.
Everyone returned to the ship as the sun dipped to the west and took the harshest heat with it. The resident dog of Isla Carmen saw us all off, sitting on his haunches to watch the last Zodiac disappear in the waves. Then, without further care, he stood up and picked his way across the pebbled beach toward the shade. For him, just another day. For us sentimental humans, some good memories.
