Dive Baja Road Trip--December 8, 1990--Mulege

We reached our destination, the town of Mulege .  We fuel as soon as we find a station with unleaded gasoline and then go directly to the dive shop. The woman in the shop explains that the boat might go tomorrow or it might not.  High winds have kept the boat in port.  She asks that we return at 3:00 p.m. when her husband will be back.  He will tell us for sure, since he is the boat operator. Rather than wait at the shop, we drive out to the lighthouse to check out the view of the Sea of Cortez.

After spending two days driving through volcanic and desert landscapes, the Gulf looks wonderfully wet and refreshing. The beach is cobble and rock.    

Brandon combs the gravel bar, examining shells and the remains of a pencil urchin. I walk the length of the beach with Andy and come across the remains of a sea lion, looking very similar to one that I had found on my exploration of San Miguel Island off the California coast nearly a decade earlier.

At the appointed time we return to the dive shop having picked up a fourth passenger along the way--anticipation. The skipper relates that for the last two weeks the diving conditions have been very poor due to high winds. Almost immediately we lobby for him to consider going in the morning. He is willing to try and directs us to be at his boat at 8:00 a.m. Coming all this way to learn that the entire area has been blown out for nearly 14 days is a disappointment. It shows in our faces and underlies our conversation as we head for our campground, a collection of thatch roof shelters. We set up camp.

We seem to be the only people in the camp. The snowbird season is just starting signified by the number of elder-piloted motorhomes on the road. Fishing season has not started. This time of the year is the lull. In another few weeks the area will be flooded with visitors for the holiday. But now it is just the locals, snowbird refugees from the furthest northern reaches, and a trio of California divers praying that the now calm conditions stay that way.

What a sight we must be, lounged out on our beach chairs with our belongings hanging about the truck that makes us look like the characters from Steinbeck's novel, The Grapes of Wrath. A blanket vendor makes his way through the deserted campground asking if we would like to purchase a blanket. After a little half-hearted haggling, I give him his asking price, five dollars, and he leaves us in search of more well-heeled customers. I’m not sure whether he set the price out of desperation for a sale or out of sympathy to our appearance. Thirty years later, I still use the blanket bought that December evening.