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I had just driven all the way down the Baja, all by myself in a friends decrepit Corolla. And "driven" is the word, since I was moving fast and sticking to the business of writing a tour guide on contract (and a sage little nugget-chocked piece of counsel it turned out to be). But by the time I reached Cabo, I was sick of the harness and rarin' to romp.
I drove straight out to the gasoline dock, which is a far as you can drive without getting a saline undercoat, intending to take a fond look, then go back into town, check into a hotel, grab some tidbits of data, and come back out with my mask, fins and namesake apparatus. But one look out that glorious wall, with the turquoise water lacing in over that unique goldenrod sand and I was a goner. I didn't even unpack, just stripped down to my skivvies, pulled on my gear, and went in.
It has been awhile, and I was dissipated and out of shape. (Which is what working will do to you if you're not careful...or better yet, unemployable.) So I figured just to swim out the mile or so to Lover's Beach, check out the Alfil, catch some rays, chat up some shore birds, and come on back. But of course, once out there, I could hear the thudding boom of the Pacific waves ringing the pinnacles around the Arch like a huge, baroquely carved stone bell. So I gawked awhile, basked in the gentle lappings of the Sea of Cortez side, then headed out for the arch.
If was quite a fun swim, full of frolic and fatiguing frivolity, and when I rounded the Slab, there was the Arch...and a big bunch of Sea Lions and Harbor Seals lounging around on that sloped rock shelf that is just so perfect for seal lounge lizards. I was tickled to see them. I've always gotten off on seals, ever since kayaking around them on the Olympic Peninsula; their little dachshund heads popping up to stare at me paddling along. I used to wonder what a kayak IS to a seal. They look up and see this thing, even more perfectly hydrodynamic and streamlined than themselves, moving without moving on the face of the waters, up in the Higher World. Does a hull look like some sort of religious icon to them? Or is it something ominous like a cruise missile, a robot? Or does it just look sexy?
Anyway, I've swum with Cabo seals on several occasions and always dug it. They're a great bunch to hang out with it, and always seemed to get a kick out of me, too. Though they seem to consider me a retarded wimp in the swimming/diving department. I think they try to teach me to shape up, swim right, and stay DOWN longer, for the luvva Mike, but find me an unpromising pupil. Anyway, I swam over to greet my old playmates and they all started bellowing. A touching salute of welcome, I figured. Two of the biggest males rolled off into the water, but I swam closer, trying to have a cosmic interaction with the seals still up on the rock. Then I happen to notice underwater movement and ducked my head under in time to see the two males coming toward me like torpedoes.
Something in their demeanor told me it would not be a good time to try for a New Age feelie encounter. In fact, it persuaded me to roll over and head for somewhere a Sea Lion couldn't go to, which meant someplace at least a hundred yards away. It suddenly occurred to me that a lot of the odd behavior in the local sea mammal population could be explained it it were mating season. The two lugs following me probably thought I was a rival male trying to mess with their squeezes and were out to kick my bootie. Or worse yet, it suddenly came to me, maybe they thought I was a female and had decided to mate with me. Either way, it seemed advisable to take my bootie elsewhere.
I was REALLY tired from swimming out and cutting monkeyshines, but I really put some feeling into heading towards the shallow beach under the Arch. The seals followed my like a bootie-seeking Nemesis team. They were effortlessly shadowing me as I stroked along on full power, but if I slowed down or looked around, they started coming up off the bottom. So I peeled. You don't spend any time in the company of seals without realizing what a mess they could make out of you. They're heavier, faster, quicker, have better moves, and have big canine fangs. Big ones. The pair I wear on my hatband are an inch and half long. What I didn't want was to wear such a striking pair of fangs in my bollocks.
Once I hit waist deep water I looked back and the bouncers had peeled off and were heading back to their slab. Looking back at me a little, grumbling to each other about how I was damn lucky they'd just gotten laid or they'd have been on me like stink on fish. I laid there in the shallows for a half-hour catching my breath, unwinding my heart, and generally consolidating my feces, before heading back. It was getting late in the day. I took off, keeping a close check on the Deimos and Phobos in case they decided on some hazing as soon as I got into open water. They just sort of scoffed and nuzzled the females. It might have been my imagination, but I thought the females were a littler cuddlier than before. My big tough, hero. Aw, it was no big: that butthead don't even baring his fangs with him. Almost immediately I was aware of swimming against a very powerful current. I hate it when that happens.
The tide had turned, and was whistling past Land's End, funneled by the tapering gap between the Slab and the outside stacks. I hadn't been too into noticing such things on my way over to the Arch, being distracted by trying to avoid being sodomized by the fang gang. But now I had the leisure to appreciate the fact that I was not making any headway around the Slab, another hundred yard stroll. Anything less than about ninety percent forward and I didn't move. Less than about three quarters and I moved backwards, a direction we salts refer to as "out to sea". I had to flog my tired bod for another major sprint just to get back to where things first started getting weird. Then, after I ducked around the end of the slab into the still Cortez water (mentally making a novena to St. Vitus, patron saint of Mariners, Divers, and Sealbait) I still had to swim back along the wall to Lover's Beach. Which I made, but just, flopping like a chub in the shallows, listening to my heart to the flamenco and sweating degraded chemicals from the last few days. Made it! From here it's only a mile swim back to that damn car.
I was saved from that swim by the arrival of a boat to pick up the last few tourists of the evening. I hopped in and only when we were under way did I mention to the pilot (who was joining the passengers in staring at my wet clingy, somewhat reprehensible underpants, shivering, and lack of luggage) that I didn't have any money on me, but if he'd drop me at the gas dock I would get it from my car. Mexicans have a word for such situations: the word is "pendejo". But they agreed, even though it is illegal to take passengers to or off the gas dock. I jumped out, got the money, ran down to give it to them, just as the Port Captain's patrol launch hove up and pulled them down for illegal landing. Well, we've all got our problems.
Anyway, my point is, it's always a good day when you can get in a swim..
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