A close family member had a car accident recently, which got me thinking in terms of how to deal with such an event. I have written an entirely fictional scenario, hopefully to point out a proper and an improper course of action in such a case.

Incident:

A young woman crashes her car, driving it into the trees and shrubs beside the road. She calls a family member for help.

Scenario 1:

The family member and her partner rush to their car and drive to the scene of the accident, about 10 minutes away.

Scenario 2:

The family member (FM) calls the accident victim (V).

V: (weak voice) Hello?

FM: Hi. I just heard you had an accident. Stay where you are. I have some questions for you.

V: ok

FM: Are you still in the car?

V: Yes.

FM: Is anyone in the car with you?

V: No

FM: Is the car upright? Are you in a tolerable position?

V: Yes.

FM: Good. Try not to move, ok?

V: Ok.

FM: Is the car turned off?

V: Yes.

FM: Is there a smell of gasoline?

V: No.

FM: Good. You are safe where you are. Please don’t move. Although you may not feel it, there is a chance you injured your neck, so it is important to stay still. Can you do that?

V: Yes.

FM: Good. Now I want to you to follow my instructions. We are going to examine you for injuries. Can you move your arms? Does anything hurt when you do that?

V: I can move my arms. Nothing seems to be broken.

FM: Excellent. Now without moving your head, I want you to feel your sides and down your legs. Feel for torn clothing. Feel for wetness. Feel for anything that seems the wrong shape, or is hurting when you touch it.

V: (a moment of silence) My sides feel ok, but it feels like there is something sticking into my leg. And it feels wet.

FM asks partner to call an ambulance, giving the nature of the accident, the exact location, the number, age and sex of victims and saying that there is uncontrolled bleeding.

FM: Ok, try not to move. You will be okay. An ambulance has been called and we are on our way.

FM and partner borrow a second phone, get in car and start driving toward accident site.

FM: We are on our way now.

V: Thank you

FM: Ok, it is important to remain calm. Can you do that?

V: I’ll try.

FM: Good. It seems something is imbedded in your leg. Let’s try to see how bad that is. First try not to move the leg. Can you feel around the object? How big is it where it is touching your leg? Try to describe it.

V: (breathing a bit more rapidly) it is a big piece of metal, and it is in my leg just below my hip. Blood is coming out under it.

FM: ok, do not move it. Do you have something you can push against where it is bleeding; a scarf or a shirt?

V: I have a bandana.

FM: Good, Fold it up and press it against the area where the blood is coming out.

FM’s partner is still on phone with emergency services. She reports that the victim is bleeding from an imbedded metal object in the leg, and her breathing rate is increasing.

V: There, I have it pressed against the bleeding area.

FM: Ok, hold on, the ambulance is on its way, and so are we.

A few seconds pause.

FM: Do you have a hand free?

V: Yes.

FM: Ok, while we are waiting for the ambulance I have a few more questions for you. Try not to move your head, ok?

V: Ok

FM: Take a deep breath.

V: (breathing deeply and exhaling) OK.

FM: Did that hurt?

V: No.

FM: Good. Now feel your face. Does it feel like you hit your face?

V: No, face feels fine.

FM: Good. Now run your hand very gently over your head. Try not to push against your head. Feel for any sign of injury.

V: Head feels fine. No cuts or bumps.

FM: Very good. Now very gently, feel your neck and throat.

V: Feeling neck. Ow. Feels a little tender.

FM asks partner to update emergency services. Sign of possible neck injury.

V: (very faintly) Ambulance has arrived. They are opening door.

FM. We are two minutes away. Hand the phone to an attendant.

Phone is handed off.

AA: Hello?

FM: Hi. Did you get our updates?

AA: Yes. We are putting a collar on her and are working on the bleeding. She is pale but still conscious.

FM and partner arrive in time to see AA’s extract V from car. She looks very pale and is on oxygen. They set up a drip before loading her into ambulance.

Back to Scenario 1: FM arrives to find victim unconscious and still in car. They call emergency services. 

The point of this exercise is to demonstrate how important it is, not to just do something. The instinctive reaction is to rush there, hopefully to do what you can. But it is much more important to stop and think, before you do anything. The first priority is to assess the severity of injury, to determine if there is need for emergency services, and how fast they need to get there.

If the accident victim is only mildly injured, and not in need of immediate treatment, (as was the case with our family member) then they can stand to wait a few minutes while you properly assess the situation. If their injury is more severe, then they can’t wait for you to show up first before calling in emergency services. Always stop and think, before you act.

I invite comments.

Cheers, Jack

The night of 6 September, Hurricane Newton reached the Sonoran coast, somewhere just north of San Carlos. All day long, the rain came down and the wind gradually increased. By midnight the wind reached its howling peak, driving the rain sideways, knocking down utility poles and fences, uprooting trees and tearing at roofs and walls. The last privately-owned weather station peaked at over 120 km/h before it too was torn apart.

Hurricanes are a part of life here on the shore of the Sea of Cortez. Fortunately for us, most hurricanes, born far to the south, usually head out to the open Pacific and only come ashore in this general area once about every six years. Those that pass by will exert a strong influence on local weather though, and much of our summer rain is tied to the effects of not-too-distant hurricanes.

From a naturalistic point of view, hurricanes can be seen as destructive elements, or like forest fires, they can be seen as natural, periodic disturbances that re-arrange the environment, tearing out the old, and making space for new growth and new life.

Heavy rains create flash floods, washing out much of the plant life that covered the canyon floors and making room for new growth.. Much of the rain will soak into the ground, replenishing the groundwater, which will provide a long-term supply for deep-rooted trees and the vegetation of the canyon floors.

But the real changes wrought by hurricanes are found on the shore of the sea. Hurricane Newton created eight-metre-high waves that rolled up the beaches and sucked away millions of cubic metres of sand and gravel. Any turtle nests on an exposed beach would have been buried and drowned or smashed and drawn out to sea. Near-shore marine life also took a severe thrashing, uprooted and thrown ashore or dragged out into deeper water, to be fed on by a variety of marine predators and scavengers.

A walk along the shore after a hurricane reveals a glimpse into the tremendous diversity of near-shore marine life. Colourful sponges, soft corals in a variety of shapes and colours, sea cucumbers, starfish and a diverse array of molluscs lay tangled with masses of marine algae (seaweed) and unfortunate fish along the upper edge of shore.

I once found a dead bat, its huge curved claws revealing its identity as a Pacific Fishing Bat, the only species of bat known to catch marine fishes. These bats nest and roost in deep caves and crevices on islands in the Gulf. Such niches are no safe harbour when the island is being hammered by giant storm waves.

So much death is a source of food for crabs, shrimp and lobsters, as well as many other opportunistic scavengers. Gulls, terns, frigatebirds , crows and vultures also take advantage of the sudden smorgasbord laid out along the shore. Underneath the seaweed wrack are thousands of tiny crustaceans, amphipod beach-hoppers and isopod sea roaches. They have already begun to consume all of this waste and return it to the ecosystem. And along the rocky intertidal zone, new space has been made available for barnacles, oysters, scallops sponges, algae and corals.

All of this is no consolation to the people who have to deal with torn-off roofs, downed trees, and the temporary loss of such essential services as water, electricity and phone service. It only takes a couple of days without electricity to end up with a lot of spoiled food. And when your water tank runs dry, the dishes pile up, clothes and bedding go unwashed, and life gets unpleasant It makes you truly understand how dependent we are on the amenities of modern technology, and how much better they make our lives.

This is the time of year when the Olive Ridley Turtles (Lepidochelys olivacea) come ashore to lay their eggs. Here in the beaches around San Carlos they do not nest in large numbers, so there is no turtle-watching tourism, but it seems the number of nests is increasing.

The turtles hang around near the nesting sites, feeding and mating for about two months before the females come ashore to lay their eggs, so there is always a chance you will see one while snorkeling or paddling quietly around local waters.

Olive Ridleys aren’t big, as sea turtles go, about 60 cm or two feet in shell length, so watch for a head about the size of a fist, poking out of the water. When they come up for air they stick their heads above the surface several times, gulping air, before they submerge. Once they go down, they may remain submerged as long as several hours, depending on how active they are.

All sea turtle species are in danger of extinction, mostly due to human harvesting of the eggs and adult turtles. Olive Ridleys are actually the most abundant sea turtle, worldwide, but are still listed as vulnerable  by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN). There is an international treaty called the Convention on Trade in Endangered Species, commonly known as CITES. Under this treaty, of which Mexico, Canada and the USA are all signatories,  the trade in listed species of plants and animals, and any parts, including a shell you may find on the beach or in a market is strictly controlled. Taking a sea turtle or even a piece of a shell across the border into the U.S. or Canada will land you in very hot water, and may result in heavy fines or even jail time.

Once they reach maturity,  these turtles nest annually, typically in large numbers called arribatas. Here in San Carlos, the turtles are so few in numbers that nesting occurs singly. Turtle mortality is highest in the egg stage. Nests sometimes drown in extra-high tides, can be exposed by beach erosion from storms, or be dug up by egg predators such as raccoons, coyotes or feral dogs.

The eggs hatch after about two months incubation, usually at night. The newly-hatched young dig their way to the surface, and head to the sea, guided by moonlight sparkling of the surface. They have to get into the water before first light. If they are caught out in the open, they are quickly gobbled up by vultures, frigatebirds, gulls and ravens.

Annette Felix is a local woman who is spearheading a campaign to protect these wonders of nature. She has organised support to patrol the beaches, looking for tracks or any evidence of nest-building. She has also recently put together a flyer warning people of the possibility of nests on the beach, and suggesting things they can do and should not do, in order to maximise the survival of eggs and hatchlings.

Because the eggs are just under the surface of the sand, they can be crushed by a careless pedestrian or under the wheels of an ATV or truck. Motorised vehicles are banned by law from the beaches here, but this rule is poorly enforced and often ignored. So the first rule is; be careful where you walk, and try to discourage motorists from using the beach as a racetrack.

When the hatchlings emerge, they may be misdirected by lights from homes and streets, and head away from the sea. By the time they realise their mistake, they are a long way from the sea and are vulnerable to predators. So the next rule is: lights out. Keeping exterior lighting to a minimum is crucial to the survival of hatchlings.

These animals are adapted to swim in the sea and are very good at it. But travelling overland is a tiring and difficult venture for a female turtle carrying a heavy load of eggs. Beached boats, chairs, trash and even sand castles and pits dug in the sand by happy children can be a serious impediment to females and also to the hatchlings heading for the sea. So the next rule is: keep the beach clean and free of trash and obstacles. Fill in your pits and flatten your sand castles when you are finished with them.

Following these simple rules will contribute to turtle conservation, and help to ensure that these magnificent animals which have been on the earth for millions of years, will still be here for your grandchildren to see and enjoy.

Photos from National Geographic.

I am sitting outside in the early morning of a cloudy day, after a long, soaking rain that lasted through the night. Swarms of termites hover over the ground and crawl along the wall.  A gecko, normally strictly nocturnal,  is dashing from the cover of a window frame  to  take advantage of this sudden abundance. It seems to know they will be gone soon and this rich feast is too much to ignore, even at the risk of being eaten himself.

Termites are social insects with a caste system. Each colony will have a king and a queen. The queen grows a huge abdomen and pumps out thousands of eggs. The eggs hatch and are divided into workers, soldiers and winged reproductives called alates. The alates have been waiting for the rain.

Termites are essential members of the desert ecosystem. Living underground by the millions, they take the energy and nutrients from dead and decaying vegetable material and redistribute it down into the soil. They do not have a waterproof skin, so they remain underground or build inverted tunnels of chewed cellulose and saliva along the surface of dead grass, sticks and hard surfaces like cement. In this way they search for food without exposing themselves to the dry air.  But after a rain, they take advantage of the humidity to spread farther and faster than tunneling would ever allow. Great swarms of alates take to the air, hoping to find a mate and settle on the ground, look for some wood to chew into and start a new colony. Most don’t make it.

The mating swarm of termites is a rich source of food for many desert animals. Bats, dragonflies and birds snatch them from the air. On the ground they are gobbled up by toads, lizards, snakes, mice, skunks, coatis, more birds and a variety of invertebrates such as ant lions, scorpions and spiders. And the timing couldn’t be more perfect.

This sudden burst of available protein and energy will fuel the mad dash that high temperatures, and abundant moisture and sunlight will bring to the desert. For it won’t be long before the ponds dry, the soil bakes hard again, and most life will shut down or go underground until the rains come again, many months from now.

The thunderstorm came in just after sunset. Temporarily blinded by a nearby bolt of lightning, I can feel the thunder in my chest. Quickly the storm moves on and the air is filled with a new sound: the calling of thousands of toads. I am standing outside a room at the Posada, with Matt and Richard, two American conservationists spending the night, and sharing their beer with me.

We wander down to a newly-created pond, drawn by the mating calls of Couch’s spadefoot toads, Scaphiopus couchii . Already they are pairing up, the males embracing the females from behind. Soon eggs will be laid, fertilised and left to fend for themselves in a pond which will completely dry up in less than two weeks.

I remember the calls of frogs and toads from my childhood in Northern Ontario. Each species would have its own season, throughout the spring and summer months, and I could hear the calls from my bedroom window.

So imagine my surprise when the very next night, I went down to the pond to listen to the toads and was met with silence. Northern frogs time their mating by temperature and day-length, and call for weeks before all are mated. But in the desert, the ponds dry up, and so the tadpoles have a short time to grow and transform into adult toads.

The mating was over that first night, and already the eggs were hatching into tiny tadpoles. The adult toads have a few days to feed before the ground starts to harden, and they burrow in again to await the next rains.

San Carlos is located near the southern edge of the Sonoran Desert, but it hasn’t always been desert. During periods of a wetter climate, this area was a part of the Tropical Deciduous Forest. As the climate dried again, the Tropical Deciduous Forest retreated to the south, and was replaced with the desert vegetation we see today. There remain, however, a few places where the tropical forest species survive.

The Nacapule Canyon is one such place. A deep, narrow gap carved into in the surrounding hills, the Nacapule Canyon is shaded much of the day, which reduces evaporation. Much of the surrounding rock is porous volcanic ash, which absorbs the rain and slowly releases it to the bottom of the canyon. The result is an oasis, where tropical deciduous forest trees and shrubs can survive, completely surrounded by desert.

The entrance to the canyon is a broad trail, an easy hike up the arroyo. The walls of the canyon are made up of layers of red, yellow and grey rock twisted and carved into weird and beautiful patterns. A short zipline crosses overhead, accessible by climbing a short, steep trail. The trail follows the arroyo, sometimes running alongside, where the arroyo is filled with boulders. As you follow the gentle slope upwards, you come to the tree from which the canyon is named, a Canyon or Macapule Fig. There was an even larger specimen nearby, but it was wiped out by the terrible rains of a hurricane.

The canyon splits here, one branch following the edge of a permanent stream, to the right, the other, a dry arroyo straight ahead. Neither branch goes very far, so there is time to explore both. The right fork becomes thick with vegetation as it follows a small permanent stream and wanders through a thicket of palm trees. After the palm trees, the way gets steep, and there is a small cave to explore, or to travel through as you start to climb. Climbing higher brings you to a larger cave, some small ponds and eventually you come out on top, and the trail descends to the desert to the north of the canyon. Rather than descend, if you got this far, you can turn around and head back to the fork

Following the second fork, brings you to a dry waterfall below a series of plunge-pools. There is a rope ladder on the right which brings you to the top of the falls. From here you can see more pools, glistening black in the sunlight. There is even a Nacapule Canyon leopard frog here, if you can spot it. Can you imagine a frog in such an isolated place surrounded by desert?

The Nacapule Canyon is a jewel in the desert, a place to explore, or just to spend a moment of peace.

It’s night, about an hour after sunset. The fluffy clouds of the afternoon have congealed into a solid mass of blackness, blocking out the stars. Yet all is not dark. There are flashes beyond the hills, several every second, coming more frequently as the minutes pass.

While the sun was up the humidity was quite bearable. Now that the sun has set, the air has become so saturated that the sweat glistens on my skin and soaks my clothes, refusing to evaporate. This is the summer monsoon.

When we hear the word “monsoon” we may think of a tropical forest, of swollen, muddy rivers, of flooded roads, of hot, humid nights alive with the buzzing of insects and the drumming of rain on tin roofs. In some parts of the world, that is a pretty accurate picture. But, despite what many people from the American Southwest are led to believe,  monsoon is not rain. You hear up in Tucson, “We had a real monsoon last night, I’ll tell ya.” They get that from the phrase “monsoon rain”. The fact the word “rain” is in the phrase should tell you that monsoon is not a type of rain. You don’t hear people talk of “thunderstorm rain” or “heavy shower rain”; that would be redundant.

So what is monsoon then? The word comes from the  Arabic, mawsim, meaning “season”. The monsoon is a seasonal wind-driven weather pattern, which brings dry weather during the winter, and wet weather in the summer. The Indian sub-continent and SE Asia all the way to N Australia are all affected by this weather pattern, as is West Africa and the W coasts of the Americas.

This seasonal shift is what gives it the name monsoon, but the wind pattern is nothing more than a sea breeze on a very large scale. Here in Sonora, the desert heats up in the summer faster than the water from the Gulf of California. The hot, desert air rises, leaving low pressure behind, which is filled in by the cooler air from the sea. As this cooler (not exactly cold), humid air moves inland it is pushed upward over local mountain ranges. As the air rises, two things happen. The air becomes over-saturated with moisture and forms tall clouds with growing tops. And the ascending clouds generate static electricity. This build-up becomes too much for the cloud, and a thunderstorm is the result.

Even the hardiest desert shrub needs rain. All through the winter and spring the desert has become drier and drier. The hill-sides are rock and gravel, with a sparse cover of bunches of sere, grey twigs, and the occasional cactus.standing in green defiance. The arrival of the monsoon has been a cruel joke to this tough vegetation. Hot humid air gives no relief and the nightly show of distant lightning does nothing to quench a desperate thirst.

As the monsoon progresses, the storms have grown in size and approached a little closer every night. Some nights they are close enough to hear the thunder (typically less than about 11 miles or about 18 km), and we may even get a spatter of raindrops that glue the dust to the windshield on my pickup without being quite enough to join together and wash the dust away. So we wait. It will come eventually. It must.

And it finally does. Lightning blindly stabs the ground with its crooked spear, shaking the heavens and the earth with great booms of thunder that roll around the hills, blending one with the next in a continuous rumble like the march of an army of giants. The still, moist air is suddenly pushed aside by a strong breeze and you can hear the rain approach. It comes as a wall, pouring from the sky in a solid mass of water, momentarily almost drowning out the sound of thunder.

Soon both thunder and rain abate slightly, and during the flashes of light, one can see that the road has been turned into a creek, the middle washing away down the street, leaving a deep, stony gash where a dirt road used to be. Nothing can be done about it, so we watch the storm and celebrate.

San Carlos is located near the southern edge of the Sonoran Desert, but it hasn’t always been desert. During periods of a wetter climate, this area was a part of the Tropical Deciduous Forest. As the climate dried again, the Tropical Deciduous Forest retreated to the south, and was replaced with the desert vegetation we see today. There remain, however, a few places where the tropical forest species survive.

The Nacapule Canyon is one such place. A deep, narrow gap carved into in the surrounding hills, the Nacapule Canyon is shaded much of the day, which reduces evaporation. Much of the surrounding rock is porous volcanic ash, which absorbs the rain and slowly releases it to the bottom of the canyon. The result is an oasis, where tropical deciduous forest trees and shrubs can survive, completely surrounded by desert.

The entrance to the canyon is a broad trail, an easy hike up the arroyo. The walls of the canyon are made up of layers of red, yellow and grey rock twisted and carved into weird and beautiful patterns. A short zipline crosses overhead, accessible by climbing a short, steep trail. The trail follows the arroyo, sometimes running alongside, where the arroyo is filled with boulders. As you follow the gentle slope upwards, you come to the tree from which the canyon is named, a Macapule Fig. There was an even larger specimen nearby, but it was wiped out by the terrible rains of a hurricane.

The canyon splits here, one branch following the edge of a permanent stream, to the right, the other, a dry arroyo straight ahead. Neither branch goes very far, so there is time to explore both. The right fork becomes thick with vegetation as it follows a small permanent stream and wanders through a thicket of palm trees. After the palm trees, the way gets steep, and there is a small cave to explore, or to travel through as you start to climb. Climbing higher brings you to a larger cave, some small ponds and eventually you come out on top, and the trail descends to the desert to the north of the canyon. Rather than descend, if you got this far, you can turn around and head back to the fork

Following the second fork, brings you to a dry waterfall below a series of plunge-pools carved out of the rock. A rope ladder on the right brings you to the top of the falls. From here you can see more pools, glistening black in the sunlight. There is even a Nacapule Canyon leopard frog here, if you can spot it. Can you imagine a frog in such an isolated place surrounded by desert?

The Nacapule Canyon is a jewel in the desert, a place to explore, or just to spend a moment of peace.

Once again my season in Belize has come and gone. The best part of my work at Half Moon Caye is the last: a group of Biology students from various Ontario universities, led by University of Western Ontario Professor Graeme Taylor, spend 11 days in camp doing a course in Field Studies.

The students have a variety of tasks to complete, starting before they even leave home. Their first task is to learn to identify a wide range of commonly-seen marine life, ranging from sponges and corals to fishes.

An aside: the plural “fish” refers to individual fish. The plural “fishes” refers to types or species of fish.

With a head start on species identification, the students were ready to go  right into the water, so they spent the next few days familiarising themselves with the various snorkel sites. A part of their course was to keep a field journal, where they could record observations, keep track of species, and generally organise their thoughts. The ultimate goal was to explore and nourish their curiosity. Unstructured, unguided observation leads to questions. Questions and further observation lead to hypotheses. Further thinking leads to ideas about how to test these hypotheses, or to determine whether they are testable, in practice or in principle. Then the real work begins.

Once the students, working in pairs, had developed a question, hypothesis, and means to test it experimentally, they began to do their data collection. They were by no means restricted to the reefs; many of the students developed projects with terrestrial, semi-terrestrial or inter-tidal organisms. Nothing on or near the island was safe from their sharp eyes and simple measuring instruments. Everything was either passively observed or measured and put back as found.

The students worked hard and were serious in their application to this course. This was no spring break, but it was fun and the students learned a few things about the nature of field work, and got a taste of the difficulties of doing science in the field.

Best of luck to you all, and thanks to Graeme and Carli for your hard work in making this happen.

While at the beach, waiting for some no-show kayak clients, I chanced to meet Whitney, a grizzled old-timer with an inflatable kayak. Since I was partially blocking his access I helped him carry his boat to the water. Whitney is a very sociable character, so it was no surprise to me that he contacted me later and arranged a social gathering at the Captains’ Club. There I met Ryc and Marc. Marc is a fisherman: that is the main focus of his kayaking. I have to say it is great fun to catch fish from a kayak.

Ryc is a do-it-yourselfer. He built his own kayak, a skin-on-wood-frame Inuit-style boat. All had tales to tell, properly lubricated with cold draft beer. By the end of our session we had arranged to go for a paddle together a couple of days hence.

When the day came, Mark had to send his regrets, as he had caught a nasty bug. The rest of us met at Ryc’s camp.

I picked up Whitney at his house, and we headed to the rendezvous. Following the coast to the north of San Carlos, once you get past the hotels and gated waterfront communities, the pavement ends. The dirt road takes you to La Manga, a community of fishermen’s houses and shacks. Here you can buy shells, or things made of shells, or eat fresh seafood at one of several little restaurants. We pass through the village escorted by dogs and children on bikes.

Eventually La Manga peters out, and the road cuts into the desert until it rejoins the coast at La Manga Dos. Instead of driving into this cluster of mostly abandoned shacks, we follow the shore behind a dune that runs parallel to a long, curved beach. There, in the shelter of the dune is a modern-day version of a hobo camp.  We are greeted by a big dog, who is too shy to be friendly, and too gentle to be intimidating.

We pull up among a loose group of trailers, and get out to introduce ourselves. This is the winter camp of Ryc and Mona, and a few of their friends. In the shade of a big mesquite tree is the kitchen and dining area. Ryc and Mona bring their matching Cape Falcon home-made kayaks, and prepare to drag them over the dune to the beach. Whitney and I take one of my double kayaks to the boat launching beach at La Mange Dos. After unloading the boat, I leave Whitney with the boat and follow Rick’s van to the Soggy Peso. We leave my boat and trailer there, and return to La Manga Dos. Ryc drops me off and heads back to his camp, a scant half-kilometre away. He and Mona will paddle over to our launching point, as it is on the way.

From our launch point we could see the long, crescent-shaped beach backed by its dune, and the tiny figures of Ryc and Mona as they slid their boats into the waves. The cloudless sky was deep blue, the sea slightly darker, flecked with whitecaps. The forecast was for light, SW winds. The forecast was wrong. The breeze was building quickly from the NW, which would push us along, as we headed roughly east. As the day progressed, those waves would turn into swells. This was not to be some idyllic cruise over a glassy sea. Nor was it dangerously rough, but definitely sporting. I started to assemble our gear.

I am supposed to be a professional. Then why is it that I brought the wrong two half-paddles? We had one good paddle, but the other one was two female halves, which don’t mate together. It was not a disaster, because I can use one half-paddle, like a canoe paddle. but there was another solution. I opened the front hatch, and pulled out a three-part mast and a sail. By the time we had the sailing rig all assembled, Ryc and Mona were idling just off the beach. The wind was whistling through the rigging as we launched directly into it. as soon as we got around the point, we hoisted the sail and we were off.

It was a pleasure to watch Ryc and Mona paddle their light, nimble craft through the waves, and we had to luff up the sail once in a while to keep from getting too far ahead. We dashed along, heading for the string of islands collectively known as Deer island.

There were a few birds flying about; some blue-footed boobies and a couple of yellow-legged gulls. These birds are so common here that I paid them little heed. But something caught my attention off to the right. I saw two peregrine falcons, most likely a nesting pair. The smaller female was flying high over her mate, who stooped down to the water’s surface and snatched something osprey-style. As it rose from the water, I could see it was carrying a small grebe. The eared grebe is a common sight on the winter sea. In fact they seemed unusually abundant this year. This one must have never seen the falcon’s approach, as they are pretty quick to dive at the first sign of danger. The falcon carried his heavy load towards Deer Island, while his mate followed from high above.

Soon we were approaching Deer Island, and cut between two rocks to the shelter of the leeward side. The strong breeze and bumpy sea was left behind and, after dropping the sail, we slowly paddled the calm, clear water, ducking between emergent rocks, and poking our bows into various caves and coves. Rounding a small point we found our predator, standing on a cardon cactus, and plucking feathers from his well-earned meal.

We continued gunkholing for a while longer, then, moving away from the shelter of the island, we hoisted the sail and made a dash for shore.

We landed in front of the Sunset Grill, and pulled the boats above the reach of the waves. I went to the truck and got a set of wheels that Whitney uses for his boat, and after setting them up under my sturdy work-horse of a kayak, we easily wheeled it up the beach. With the boats safely nearby, it was time for a beer.

We sat in the sun, partly out of the wind, at the Soggy Peso, and drank to our new-found friendship and to a fun and successful paddle in the lovely winter sea.

Cheers,

Jack