Goleta Beach Christmas Gift

 

In the entrance to my townhome, a small wood sign shows a diver sitting on the stock of an anchor with an octopus perched atop of the diver’s head.  I JUST LOVE GOLETA BEACH DIVING captions the artwork.  

This item was a Christmas gift from John and Mary Erdahl.  I worked with John at Delco Systems Operations.  He was a contact engineer, I was a senior technical writer.  I got my start in sailing when I crewed with John on Max Lynn’s CF36, Tranquility, in the summer of 1982.  John purchased a 29-foot sailboat, Windover, a few years later which he kept in a slip in the Santa Barbara Harbor. 

I crewed for John during many of the summer “Wet Wednesday” races sponsored by the Santa Barbara Yacht Club.  He very generously let crew like me take the helm during the races, something few other skippers would do.  He always offered a cold beer to the crew as the boat crept along on the downwind leg.  After tucking the boat into its berth and folding and stowing the sails, we adjourned to the Yacht Club for cocktails and to await official race results.  I have a couple of SBYC cocktail glasses, awarded to the winner of each class, that John shared with his crew.  Also, when my out-of-town friends visited, John gladly took us out for a cruise.  People awed at the panorama of the city against the backdrop of the Santa Ynez Mountains.  Nothing quite says “Santa Barbara adventure” like a sail on a sunny and breezy afternoon.

The idea for the gift originated in conversations about my scuba diving at Goleta Beach with John and Mary.  With a few exceptions, I absolutely did not like diving there and expressed that opinion freely.  Goleta Beach is a giant sandbox—acres and acres of it.  The littoral cells that move sand down the Southern California coast seem to be particularly favor Goleta Beach.  Sand constantly moves, suspended in the water column, rendering underwater visibility zero.  I have compared it to “diving in a sand storm.” To say the water is turbid is akin to saying the night is dark.

Even if you could see more than a few inches, not much of interest to sport divers lives on the sandy bottom except an occasional sting ray, a treasury of sand dollars, and a catalog of other invertebrates.  I suspect rays don’t bury themselves in the sand at Goleta Beach.  Rather, they just kind of lay there and get buried by the sand grains precipitating out of the water column like snow in an Alaska blizzard. 

Some marine life clings to the hard surface provided by the Goleta sewage treatment plant ocean outfall pipeline—at least the parts that are not buried in the shifting sands.  Even then, a diver moving along the pipeline seems to be a target of the fishers on the pier that parallels the pipeline.  Some anglers relish aiming their casts at the submerged diver’s air bubbles. 

John and Mary came upon the sign while enjoying the Sunday afternoon arts and craft show that extended along Cabrillo Boulevard from Stearn’s Wharf toward East Beach.  One of the exhibitors offered various hand=painted signs.  After spying the diver, they immediately thought of my remarks about Goleta Beach diving.  The vendor added the tongue-in-cheek caption that made this most prized gift complete. 

The gift has proven a great conversation starter over the years.  Placed in the front door entryway, guests to my home see the sign as they remove their shoes—following the Alaska custom.  First-time guests to my home ask, “where is Goleta Beach and why do you love diving there?”  I animatedly regale them with tales of Goleta Beach dives.  That may explain why, on subsequent visits, they pretend not to notice the sign as they hurry into the adjacent living room.

Bob's Christmas Abalone Iron

My brother Bob graduated from San Diego State University with an industrial technology degree.  At one point we spoke about projects for his upcoming manufacturing course.  I suggested that he might consider producing good quality abalone irons.  Many of the abalone irons I had seen in the dive shop were ok.  Other irons I had seen on boats looked like someone used a grinder to cut down rear leaf springs from a ‘65 Ford Falcon.

Bob’s group, named Abscam[1], created and produced an abalone irion that was an aesthetically functional device. With its steel blade, bicycle handle grip,  surgical tubing lanyard, and weight, it just felt like the right tool. Bob gavepresented me with an iron just before Christmas.  I was so impressed with it, that I purchased a few extra to gift to dive buddies.  I gave one to Mark Bursek for Christmas in 1985.  Wrapping was easy—I merely placed the iron in  a cut down gift wrap paper tube and sealed the ends.   

I showed the abalone iron to Curt Weissner, owner of Santa Barbara Aquatics.  He too was impressed by the design and feel of the iron.  The iron was limited to its initial low production run.  While I have no doubt that this was a great design, the question was whether it could be produced at a wholesale price point that made it competitive with commercially available irons.  The market is somewhat limited.  Bob related that they manufactured approximately 100 irons at $12.95 per unit.  The irons were sold at a local San Diego dive shop but large scale production was not really practical.

The iron designed and produced by the class had to be compliant with California Department of Fish and Game regulations which have specified standards for abalone irons since 1974.[2].

Abalone may be taken only by hand or by devices commonly known as abalone irons. Abalone irons must be less than 36 inches long, straight or with a curve having a radius of not less than 18 inches, and must not be less than 3/4 inch wide nor less than 1/16 inch thick. All edges must be rounded and free of sharp edges. Knives, screwdrivers and sharp instruments are prohibited.

Divers also needed to carry a measuring device to ensure the abalone taken was a certain minimum size, which varied by species.  These were either stamped from thin sheet metal or made from orange plastic.  I recall one year the plastic devices were rumored to be inaccurate.  The result was that a "short" abalone would measured as "legal."  Apparently the manufacturing process did not account for shrinkage of the plastic as it cooled.  Whether this really happened or if it was a dive shop urban myth is anyone's guess.  I do recall checking mine when I was told of the discrepancy.  ! carried a sheet metal gage as a spare.  Woe to the diver stopped by California Fish and Game wardens without a legal iron and measuring device.

Over the years, I did harvest a number of pink abalone, a common species around the northern Channel Islands, and a few red abalones which seemed to favor deeper and colder waters.  Any abalone was considered a prized and wonderful gift from the sea, not only for the tastiness of its meat but also the beauty of its shell. The folks I dived with only took for immediate consumption.  Abalone is best prepared fresh!

Abalone harvest in Southern California ceased in 1997.  I understand the need to close the harvest after a precipitous decline to near extinction for all the abalone species. While diving the last two years at Catalina Island, I have seen abalone among the boulders of the Avalon breakwall.  I am hopeful for their recovery.  Still, I can't help think of the divers that will not experience the great fun of finding, taking and preparing an abalone, especially when done communally with good friends.  That aspect will be covered in a future blog.

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[1] According to Bob, the group name, Ab Scam, was a play on the FBI investigation and sting operation involving public corruption that made the news in 1980.  https://www.fbi.gov/history/famous-cases/abscam

[2] See Historical Summary of Laws and Regulations Governing the Abalone Fishery in California.  https://www.oceansciencetrust.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/Historical-Summary-of-recreational-abalone-fishery-laws-and-regulations-for-California-5_16_2018.pfd accessed on December 10, 2022.  Since 2013, the Department of Fish and Game became the Department of Fish and Wildlife.

A Coffee Cup for the Decades

 

One of the great benefits of scuba diving is the people you meet and the friends that you make.  Some of these friendships last a lifetime connected, over the years, by posts and messages on social media and an annual exchange of Christmas cards.  

For me, one such friend is David Porter.  I met Dave when he learned to scuba dive in the very first class that I taught as an assistant instructor with Ed Stetson in the Summer of 1985.  As it turned out, David needed a place to live for the 1985/86 UCSB school year.  He wanted to move out of the college student ghetto of Isla Vista in order to raise his GPA as he would be applying soon to law school.  I mentioned that I had a spare empty bedroom in my mobile home that it would rent cheap.  The class ended, nothing more was said.  A few weeks later, days before school started, he called and asked if the room was still available.  I replied it was.   He moved in shortly thereafter. Having another diver living in your home means you will always have a dive buddy.

At the same time I was assisting with Dave’s certification class, I was finishing up my SSI Dive Control Specialist (e.g., Divemaster) certification with Curt Wiessner at Santa Barbara Aquatics.  Between the two, I was spending a lot of time in the water.  When the summer ended, the number of dives declined.  I started swimming laps with my mask and fins in the 25-yard pool at the nearby Los Caneros Court Club in order to keep in condition for diving.  Someone once remarked to my brother Bob, who was also a member of the club, “some nutjob is snorkeling in the swimming pool.”  Bob replied, “oh yeah, that’s my brother” and quickly added, “he does that to stay in condition for scuba diving.”  

I kidded with Dave that“I am getting waterlogged.  I need to dry out before these wrinkles on my hands become permanent and I grow gills.”

After final exams were completed in early December, Dave was packing to go home to San Francisco for the Christmas break.  We exchanged Christmas gifts early.  

“I saw this in San Francisco and knew I had to get it for you” he said as he handed me the package.  I opened it and immediately got the joke.

Inside I discovered a Federal Penitentiary Alcatraz Swim Team” coffee mug. I have that mug to this day!

As many of my dive buddies will attest, I am a coffee hound.  Black, no cream or sugar.  I could not start a day of diving without a cup of brew from the 7-11 across the street from my house or board a dive boat if it didn’t have “navy coffee” already brewing in the oversized percolator.   Nearly 40 years later I still have and use that mug. 

Dave took the Rescue Diver course taught by Dennis Divins and Ed Stetson in the spring at UCSB.  Dave moved back into Isla Vista for his senior year. That summer, Dave and I worked for passage as rescue diver and divemaster, respectively, on weekend dive charters to the Channel Islands.  I monitored dive operations, he responded to divers needing assistance.  We would harvest scallops during our dives and barbeque them at my place when we got back.  We did lots of diving that summer. 

Dave went on to become President of the UCSB Scuba Club.  We had great times diving, skiing at Mammoth, visiting Marineland just before it closed, and on the annual UCSB Scuba Club dive trip to Catalina Island.  He also got certified as an assistant instructor before graduating in June 1987.  The assistant instructor rating allowed him to be a scuba instructor that summer at the Club Med in Playa Blanca, Mexico.  Years of French classes in school sealed the deal.  I went down to the Club for a week that August.  When I got to the Club, the Chief of the Village asked me if I would consider taking a two week position as a scuba instructor to fill in for an injured instructor.  It took me about 10 seconds to say “yes.”  It turned out I could only stay a week, so Club Med flew Ed Stetson down to work the second week.

He married his college sweetheart, Annie, graduated from law school, started a practice, renovated a house in Sausalito that had been in his family for years, and, with Annie, raised two boys into adulthood.  The bio on the law firm’s webpage states “he enjoys hiking, mountain biking, surfing, snow skiing, and fishing. He was a rescue diver and scuba diving instructor before becoming an attorney.”  He sure was, one of the best.

Every so often, I will be clutching the mug filled with hot coffee and remember with great fondness the great times we had diving.  It is funny how an inanimate object can evoke such strong and wonderful memories.  

December Diving in Cozumel--Island Time

 Island Time

Three days into the trip I decided to offgas and skip the afternoon dive. High winds were going to limit the choice of dive locations. I wandered around town with another diver from our group. Cozumel has four sectors. The only city on the island, San Miguel de Cozumel, and her beach area houses the hotels, while the center city caters to tourists with hundreds of small establishments that seem to sell the same things at the same prices, the residential areas, and the rest of the island. We visited two churches and wandered around the residential sector with its colorful houses that bordered the tourist area.

Many of the residences are surrounded by high walls capped  by broken glass bottles cemented directly into the wall.  I guess this acts as a deterrent to wall jumpers and seems much more aesthetic than barbed wire and probably just as effective.

The city’s Christmas pageant was planned for that evening in the central plaza which borders the ocean and bisects the commercial section. The plaza does attract performers and artisans. Its interesting to see American tourists taking pictures of themselves in front of the waterfront monument not realizing it is a memorial to those who fought the American invasion of 1847.  Other monuments dot the city.  We found on such monument to Benito Juarez Garcia, President of Mexico and leader of the resistance against the French occupation under Maximillian is also prominent.

 

I stop to observe an artist using stencils and paint spray cans to create "reef art"  The pictures are very colorful and attractive even if done in a paint-by-numbers fashion.  He charges $5 per picture, or 3 for $10.  He offers to make a picture while I wait. I accept his offer, amazed at how fast he completes the picture.  Nearly 20 years later that image enhances my home decor.  I did have a semi-custom frame made for it.  The frame cost nearly 20x as much as the painting.

As we stroll through the plaza, an American stops us and strikes up a conversation to gage our interest in buying time share condominiums on the island.  She offers the inducement of a free meal just to listen to a presentation at a nearby hotel the next day.  I say that I am not interested because I am diving all day and then packing for an early departure.  Time share or "fractional" ownership is ok for some people, but not everyone.  I also know from speaking to people that foreign ownership of coastal property is limited or require an arrangement with the Mexican financial institutions.  Even then, I recall that a few years before several U.S. citizens lost their homes near Ensenada when the court ruled the land had been illegally taken and returned it to the rightful owners.  The Americans lost everything with no recourse.  But, the bottom line is that I am not a time share type person.  It works for some, but not for me.

Cozumel, much like other islands, was a diver-driven tourist economy. But, a constant stream of cruise ships seems to be changing the economy to one that caters to a mix with an upscale emerging sector leaning towards servicing the cruise ship passenger. One night there were seven cruise ships at the port. Globalization is seen in the chain night clubs that have taken root including Senior Frogs, TGI Friday, the Hardrock Cafe (smallest one in the chain), and so on.  They even have a Pizza Hut that delivers, but from boxes bolted to the back of motor scooters rather than from cars. McDonalds completes the branding of the tourist area.  Luckily, we dined at one of local restaurants where the food was excellent and the pace slow.

End of the trip

We got blown out of diving on our last day on the island by high winds.  It reminded me of my Baja trip 14 years earlier. We took advantage of the cancellation to do "island stuff" wander around town, rent motor scooters for ride around the island, and just hang out.

We left the island on Thursday morning and went diving in the cenotes on the mainland that have been developed for diving (that is, with permanent guide lines installed and ladders down into the cenote to reach the water). We went to Hidden Worlds Jungle Adventures. This freshwater diving was fascinating. We did two tanks. The shorter dive lasted about 40 minutes the longer dive lasted about 50 minutes. It is much more interesting than cave diving in Florida because of the stalagmites and stalactites. These are guided tours, more a matter of keeping the small group (four divers per guide max) from getting lost. I found this diving most intriguing, not having done anything like it before.

Returning to Anchorage

We left Cancun on Friday, getting into Anchorage early Saturday morning. Apparently, it had snowed every day we were gone. The morning’s paper indicates that the storm that dumped up to 10 inches was unexpected. Luckily, I managed to avoid must of the recent activity. On my way home from the airport as I drove up the street toward my house past the mounds of plowed snow I wondered "how much higher can they pile it before it has to be hauled away?" A lot higher I found out.

December Diving in Cozumel--2003--Boat Diving

 Day 3 and Beyond--the Boat Diving

Our dive schedule called for three dives a day. We were picked up at the dock for a two tank dive in the morning about 8:15 a.m., brought back about noon and picked up at 3 p.m. for a single tank dive. Our first boat dive is at a location called Plancar Horseshoe. Our boat makes four stops to pick up the 16 divers who make up the two groups that day, each under the supervision of a divemaster. On the way to the divesite, in what becomes a daily ritual, we assemble our gear checking the contents of the tanks with an analyzer to ensure the Nitrox mix we ordered is the mix we get.

The Alaskan contingent dives as a group and the divemaster cautions us not to get too spread out. As with all boat diving on Cozumel, this is a drift dive with a fast current along the wall with a number of swim throughs. After one group enters the water and descends, the boat motors away to deposit the other group. Ideally, the groups remain separated by this distance through the dive. At the end of the dive, which is indicated by 700 psi tank pressure, we ascend to a 15-foot safety stop.

On surfacing, the boat should pick us up. At least, that's the plan. There are several boats in the area. During the pre-dive briefing we are advised to remember the name of the boat and that it monitors Channel 88 on the marine radio. If a different boat comes by to pick us up, they will radio the boat that we came from. While we were picked up by our boat each time, veteran Cozumel divers love to relate incidents where a group of divers got caught in a current and got picked up by a different boat some distance away. There are also stories about divers being left in the water when their boat leaves the site unaware that not all are on board!

Using a 2-mm shortie wetsuit in the 81 degree temperature, I have about 9 pounds in each of the two integrated weight pockets on my B.C. The dive has some great scenery. As I begin to ascend at the end of the dive, one of the weight pockets separates from the b.c. and plummets to the sand below, narrowly missing one of the other divers, Justin. He retrieves the pack for me. Apparently, the velcro which holds the pockets is losing its gripping power and I switch to my weight belt for the rest of the dives.

The reefs seem relatively healthy, although you can see where portions have been stressed. Also, the sheer number of divers contributes to stress on the habitat. These are not cattle boat operations, but when dozens of small boats use the same reefs, well you begin to get the picture. This was especially true when high winds and seas limited the reefs that were accessible and all the boats seemed to head to the same place. The groups of divers seemed to merge underwater into a big bait ball and the groups did not emerge from the ball intact, much to the consternation of the divemasters.

We did have a chance to do a wreck dive, a former Mexican Navy patrol vessel, C-53, engineered in a way that it is not considered a penetration dive. Compartments have been opened to allow divers easy entry and exit. I am paired with a newly-certified diver who related that he did not feel comfortable swimming through the wreck. So he and I swam about the exterior of the wreck as the group wandered around the interior. The combination of the wreck and water makes for framing some great photos.

The current was really ripping across the wreck stern to bow. My partner ran low on air (700 psi) before the divemaster was out of the wreck. There were two ascent lines to the mooring buoys that the boats tied off to while waiting for their divers. Both were occupied, but I didn’t know which one was ours. We were amidships when Ted signaled it was time to go to the surface. I figured we had a 50-50 chance of coming up on the right boat. I swam Ted to the stern mooring line against the current. If we surfaced on the wrong boat we could drift back to the correct boat. Whereas, if we came up on the boat moored to the bow, we would have had an impossible kick against the current. Also, if we had to let go of the line during the safety stop we would come up down current of the moored boat with no guarantee that it would slip the mooring before it had retrieved all the other divers, which means we would be in for one hell of a drift. As it turned out, we came up on the wrong boat and drifted back to the right boat.

We went diving on a number of reefs and walls through the week. While any number of guide books are available, I found the Cozumel: Dive Guide and Log Book to be very useful, thoroughly readable, and richly illustrated.

December Diving in Cozumel--December 2003

Prelude

The trip to Cozumel was organized by the folks at Last Frontier Dive Shop in Anchorage, Alaska, while I was flying recon for bowhead whales and other marine mammals in the Beaufort Sea out of Deadhorse near the Prudhoe Bay oil fields. I learned about the trip from a fellow diver at work. The three weeks in Deadhorse in late September and early October gave me a preview of the Alaskan winter--cold, short days, snow. I decided that I needed to get some diving in before we got into the throes of a full blown great northern winter. I signed up for the trip the day after I got back into town. Winter came late to Anchorage by Alaskan standards. It didn't start snowing until mid-November. The trouble is that it didn't stop snowing for any appreciable period of time until the day before Christmas.

Day 1--In Transit

A few day prior to departure, I developed blocked sinuses and congestion that settles into my chest.  The result is a very raspy voice and a real concern about being able to equalize the pressure in my ears when I descend under water.  I load up on decongestant and hope for the best.  

Like many flights from Anchorage, our flight to Cancun originated in the wee hours of Thursday, December 11. The routing took us from Anchorage to Seattle for a plane change, on to Los Angeles to pick up more passengers, and on to Cancun. The plane was full on the first and third legs of the flight. We quickly cleared Immigration and Customs in Cancun.

After straightening out some confusion over ground transportation, we were on our way to Playa Del Carmen where we would catch the 7:00 p.m. ferry for the half hour trip to Cozumel. The ferry terminal is about three blocks from the taxi drop off point. We availed ourselves of the local baggage transfer service, a bicycle with flat bed platform on the front, remembering that in Mexico there is no set fee, all transactions must be negotiated before proceeding and any deviation from the agreed-to service is going to be grounds for reopening price negotiations. The price was inexpensive and more than fair.

The trip to Cozumel was uneventful, and with after a short trip by taxi, we arrived at our destination, the Plaza Las Glorias. The guide book tells us that this hotel has a unique-for-the-island Mediterranean architecture. The hotel is excellent, constructed from native and imported marble. A good thing considering the tracks that scuba divers leave on carpeted floors. From our room, we have a great view of the pool, ocean, and the mainland beyond. The large sliding glass door opening to the balcony ensure we will be refreshed by the constant sea breezes which will build to a small gale twice during the coming week.

Much to my relief, my congestion abates by the time we arrive at the hotel.  Still, I need to be aware of any problems in equalizing during descent in the next few days.

Day 2--Orientation and Shore Diving

The next morning, we took breakfast in the restaurant near the pool. The pool area, which fronts the seawall, seems to be a very popular area, with many of the reclining chaise lounges occupied by 10 a.m.

The trip package included boat diving and drift diving specialty certification. After nearly 1,000 dives, many from small boats around the world, there isn’t much new that the certification will reveal to me, so I approach it like it was a review or extended dive briefing. The "merit badge mentality"of the certification agencies never really infected me. I travel on my expired SSI Dive Control Specialist Card since my basic certification issued two decades ago is no longer recognized as "valid" since the open water certification is now considered the minimum acceptable. Thus, my delaminating basic certification card with a picture that shows me with more hair and less weight, has been relegated to the status of "relic" suitable for donation to a diving exhibit at a maritime museum. I'm do have certification for some real skills, such as dry suit diving, cave diving, and Nitrox.

After the discussion, we walk three blocks to the dive shop to set up our diving for the week. We are using Paradise Diving. A peculiarity of Cozumel is that each of the dozens of hotels seems to have a dive shop on the premises. The dive shop that we used, Dive Paradise, is present in at least two hotels, but not the Plaza Las Glorias, which hosts Aqua Safaris. The trip leader wanted to use a particular divemaster, Antonio, to make each dive with the group and Antonio works for Dive Paradise. It doesn’t really matter since each hotel has a pier and divers are picked up by each shop's boat at the hotel pier. For example, on the first morning we did boat diving (the second day of the trip) a total of four boats picked up passengers from the Plaza Las Glorias.

At the dive shop, they check our C-cards and see if we want to dive with air or Nitrox. I opt for the Nitrox, which some refer to as "geezer gas" for the advantage that it offers in reduction of nitrogen uptake during the dive. While the package includes air tanks for each dive, Nitrox is extra, $10 per tank, which is worth the expense. Still, I have had a terrible head cold for four days and chose to put my order for Nitrox in every day, rather than placing a standing order for the week. It seems that on Cozumel, none of the dozens of dive shops have their own compressors. Rather, tanks are filled at one of two filling stations on the island and delivered the next day to the various locations. I never did find out the reason for this complicated logistical arrangement, although I suspect it has something to do with the cost of a compressor and the economy of scale offered by having two large fill stations.

After the paperwork is taken care of at the diveshop, we proceed the Barracuda Hotel, half way between our hotel and the dive shop, to do our orientation dive. The Dive Paradise shop at the hotel gives us our tanks and weights. We dive in the shallows in front of the hotel, where a number of structures attract fish. The dive affords us the chance to get used to diving in the warmer waters and to check our weight and equipment before going out on the boat. The dive is interesting if uneventful, although we are warned not to enter the restricted waters next to the hotel which fronts the adjoining Mexican Naval Station. The shop staff intimates that we could be shot at if we cross the underwater boundary separating the two establishments. As far as I can tell, the underwater boundary is unmarked. At the end of the first dive, the tank slips from the tank band. This is the first of a minor errors that will plague my first few dives.

We do a second dive at the area in front of our hotel. The artificial reef there is quite interesting, constructed out of old cannons. Given these objects, a diver can easily fantasize about finding a gold-laden wreck.

I swim around the area taking a few pictures with my Bonica Sea King II which has not been in the water since the trip to the Cocos Islands last summer. As I approach the exit point, the stairs carved into the sea wall, the water suddenly fills with ink. I must have spooked on octopus with my approach. The daylight is rapidly fading and the sun sets right after 5:00 p.m. Still we have a full day of sunlight, quite a change from the 5 1/2 hours of daylight that Anchorage had when we left.

That evening, some in the group decide to go for a night dive in front of the hotel. I pass on the dive. So far my head cold is in check, but I don't want to take the chance of inducing a blockage by diving. My two shore dives today were pretty good and the boat diving starts tomorrow.

Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Roadtrip--Wednesday, December 12, 1990

The Last Day of Diving

We break camp early and head for Loretto for our last day of diving. After the dive we will drive to San Ignacio on the first leg of our journey back to San Diego. We pack the truck as best we can, but in our short time here our possessions seem to have expanded beyond the limits of our cargo-carrying capacity. We won’t leave anything behind except the unburned firewood, which we figure will be quickly claimed. A little creative rearrangement and we are on the way. I speculate that there may be more sand in the truck than on the beach.

We arrive at the El Presidente just before 8 o’clock, stopping along the way to shoot a couple of photographs of the beach which has been our base of operations for the last several days. I am shooting into the light as the sun rises over the mountains, silhouetting the peaks the locals call "goat tits" a name which requires no further explanation.

Our panga today is named Lourdes, which is a shrine in France to the incurably sick whose spring waters are said to provide miraculous cures. I speculate that the same can be said for the waters of the Sea of Cortez, given the way I feel right now. 

We are diving without the divemaster today. He is in another panga, escorting divers from Colorado who showed up with neon-hued divebags pulled from a car plastered with environmentalist-themed bumper stickers. In contrast, we put our tanks and gear on board the panga, after all, we are not resort divers who expect everything to be loaded for them. We push the beached panga into the water. and hop over the freeboard into the boat. Pangas are pulled across logs onto the beach by truck and must be manhandled back down to the water to be launched.

We motor down the coast, past our recently abandoned campsite at Juncalito on the way to our first dive site, Piedra Cameron. From offshore, the area where we snorkeled the day before is just another indistinguishable stretch of coastline. Piedra Cameron is a submerged rock that rises to within 20 feet of the surface and then drops off dramatically to a depth of about 100 feet. Visibility was about 60 feet. We hung out at around 45 feet for nearly an hour, as if to stretch these last dives as long as possible. The second dive at nearby Punta Elanor lasted more than an hour, but we were a bit shallower, with most of the dive taking place at about 35 feet. Both dives were so phenomenal as to defy description.

The Taco Stand

The dives over, we headed back for Loretto, beaching the boat and removing our gear. We cleaned it at a nearby plaza that had a fresh water rinse. We then drove into Loretto proper in search of lunch and discovered a wonderful fish taco stand with a few tables. An elderly woman served us plate after plate of tacos. She did so cheerfully, but I got the impression that we were keeping her from her Spanish-language soap opera, telenovela, that played from a portable black and white T.V. on the counter. She would no sooner sit down and we would order another three plates of tacos and a round of Pepsi, having gulped down the previous serving. She must have thought that we had not eaten in a week the way we tore into those tacos. The bill rolled up at 7,000 pesos a plate, about $2.50 at the exchange rate in effect at the time.

Many year Brandon was in Loretto on an underwater photo shoot.  The taco stand is still there run by the same woman that served us years before.  He sent me a bumper sticker from the stand.

The Diving is Over--Time to Head Home

We left Loretto and raced for San Ignacio, making a fueling stop in Mulege, during which we observed a religious procession featuring a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico. After the procession passed, we were once again heading toward San Ignacio. 

Approaching the town, we decided to press on for Guerro Negro. We covered 258 miles since finishing  our last plate of tacos. With the diving done, we wanted to get home. 

That night, we camp in an R.V. parking area behind a restaurant-bar-hotel on the outskirts of the city. We park on a concrete slab. I claim the back of the truck under owner’s prerogative, Brandon grabs his mummy bag and stretches out on the slab, while Andy seeks refuge from the cold wind off the nearby Pacific Ocean by crawling under the front of the truck, where the engine block is radiating its residual heat. 

After nearly a week of primitive camping, this slab is almost a five-star location as the outbuilding has flush toilets and hot showers. After two dives and a long drive, sleep comes quickly. The thumping of the bass from the band playing in the nearby bar makes for a peculiar lullaby. I am awakened at closing time as more than a few people meander past the slab. Apparently we made camp beside the trail that connects the bar to the nearby neighborhood.

Thursday, December 13, 1990

The next morning, we head for the border, taking only time to refuel and wolf down a few candy bars with a lemon-lime Gatorade chaser. The odometer clicks up the 463 miles as the roadsigns count down the kilometers to Tijuana and the international border crossing.

Traffic at the border slows to a crawl and we are entertained by the moving bazaar of barkers hawking their trinkets to the car-bound captive audience. Mixed in with the merchants are kids looking to clean your windshield while others in the guise of priests, nurses, and rescue crews pass by with white buckets with appeals to various charitable endeavors. I wonder if the fund raisers change costumes from day-to-day to assume various roles. The first one to pass my car gets my last three 500 peso notes. The currency will be virtually useless once we cross the border.

We approach the Customs booth and present our passports to the agent. We must be a sorry sight, unshaven and in clothes that we have been in since breaking camp the day before. The Customs officer asks me "what was the purpose of your visit to Mexico" and "do we had anything to declare."

I answered "we were camping and scuba diving and about the only thing we had to declare was a blanket purchased in Mulege."

He asked to see what we had in the back of the truck. He inspected the bags with our dirty laundry. For a moment, he seemed to be looking for designer label knockoffs among our possessions. I swear, there was not a designer label among the three of us, unless none-to-clean J.C. Penny tighty whitey briefs, Hanes tee shirts, and worn Levis jeans are considered high fashion. 

I remembered my late mother’s admonition to always wear clean underwear to hold up the honor of the family in case of accident and though how disappointed she would be to the point of disowning me if the agent decided to check. 

After a period of time that the agent must have considered adequate to ensure that we were not smuggling contraband, we were unceremoniously waved through without so much as a "welcome home" or "drive safely."

Upon crossing the border, I ejected the REM tape that had been playing for the last hour. (I still have the cassette and play it on the way to Seward when I dive at the Alaska Sea Life Center.) Since leaving the States, we had played a selection of tapes ranging from big band to classical to rock. The radio carried news of foreign workers held hostage in Iraq, diplomatic initiatives, and continuing mobilization for what seemed like an inevitable conflict. We were back to reality. The world could have disappeared for the days we were incommunicado. I had a great week in the bush, diving with two friends, the kind of people you don't mind sharing a campfire with.

That night we enjoyed grilled steak and spaghetti back at Andy’s apartment. 

Friday and Saturday, December 15 and 16, 1990

We did a couple of beach dives the next day Friday, checking out La Jolla Canyon and La Jolla Cove. Like all addicts, we needed one more fix. Withdrawal was delayed another day for Brandon and I as we dove from Rick Cassen’s boat, America, out of Mission Bay on Wreck Alley and the NOSC Tower, which with its truss structure felt like we were diving on a big underwater jungle gym. We then headed back for Goleta.  These dives were interesting, but will be absent from this narrative of our makeshift expedition of the Baja desert coast of the Sea of Cortez.  They after all are part of the continuing story of my adventures.

Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Road Trip--Tuesday, December 11, 1990

Diving with Francisco!

We arrive at Puerto Escondito at ten minutes before seven eager to go diving.  The day was going to be clear and warm and the Gulf had a lake-like flatness--perfect dive conditions. Francisco is ready. We quickly loaded the panga. 

I turned and told the guys I wanted to lock the truck before we left. Francisco informed me that doing so was not necessary and seemed a little disappointed that I assumed it would be. We got underway, only to stall just outside the port. Another panga motored up beside us and Francisco and the other skipper diagnosed and fixed the problem. We were underway again headed toward Submarine Rock, so named because of the islet’s resemblance to a sub with decks awash with its central rock stack forming the conning tower. With a little imagination you can almost hear a claxon with the captain’s voice calling "dive, dive, dive" over the loud hailer.  And dive is what we came to do!

At Francisco’s signal Brandon dropped the anchor, a large rock secured by a rope cradle. We geared up and shortly after 8 a.m. we back rolled off the panga on the count of three, Andy and Brandon on the other side of the panga me on the other, with Franciso shifting his position to act as a counter balance, lest the narrow-beamed panga tilt too far to one side or the other and flip over. 

We dropped down to 40 feet and for the next hour were treated to a variety of fish, including the ever present sergeant majors and angel fish, with a great abundance of scallops and oysters. When my pressure gage shows 500 p.s.i. of air remaining in the tank, I leave my two buddies and make my way back to the panga. I hand my weight belt to Francisco. I roll out of my buoyancy compensator. Francisco grabs the tank valve and hauls the tank-b.c.-regulator rig into the boat before positioning himself on the opposite side of the boat so I can grasp the edge of the boat and pull myself over the freeboard. The boat tilts toward me, responding to the laws of physics. I outweigh Francisco by at least 100 pounds. As I flop onto the floor of the panga, he returns to fishing with a handline. We converse in broken Spanglish, with Francisco knowing more of my language than me of his. I manage to convey that Brandon is a student at the University studying marine biology and that Andy is an engineer.

We recover the remaining two divers and motor over to La Islette de las Tigerous. We flawlessly execute our back rolls, we seem to be getting pretty good at it with all the practice that we had. The dive lasts 47 minutes, which takes us pretty close to our no decompression limits as we figure them using the NAUI dive tables. 

The terrain is large boulder wall, much like a breakwater but much deeper. Visibility is great, about 60 feet. In spite of the great vis, I am a bit disappointed at the start of the dive due to be bleakness of the area. First impressions are not accurate as the area rapidly changes character. We see several large groupers, countless sergeant majors, king angel fish, and what looks like the crown of thorns starfish.

The dive is fabulous, but it ends too soon, as my strict adherence to the 500 p.s.i. rule and the minute hand on my black-faced Seiko automatic dive watch conspire to bring us to the surface. We ascend slowly, moving up slope, probing the crevices and savoring everything the spot has to offer. The sea seems to call, "wait! don’t go...I have more to show you. Explore more for the wonders the area. If you leave now, you may never be back this way again. Look under the ledge at the scallops hanging in the current like so many salamis hanging in a butcher shop window. Over there! Over there, is that a black sea bass?"

As we motor back to Puerto Escondito, I shoot portraits of the dive threesome and our skipper, Francisco. We have great conditions for surface shots, calm seas and a clear blue sky. The rugged brown of the islands punctuated by ribbons of green vegetation reminds me of the pre-rainy season look of the Channel Islands on my home ground.

 

Arriving back in port, Francisco asks that we send copies of the pictures to him and gives us his address. We thank him for two wonderful days of diving, take the obligatory buddy pictures, and part from our new amigo amid wishes for a Merry Christmas, now only two weeks away, and safe journey, now only one day away. Tomorrow is our last day of diving.

Snorkeling Juncalito

Back in camp we have the rest of the afternoon off. Brandon announces he is going snorkeling and I decide to tag along. Brandon is a nudibranch afficionado and scholar. I recall from the Log of the Sea of Cortez that while collecting from a tidepool "Doc" Rickets wondered what the critter tasted like. He plucked one out of the water and popped it in his mouth in what can only be described as empirical research, that which we know from our five senses. I wanted to be there if Brandon decided to replicate the experiment.

We move toward the south end of the bay where a small islet sits off the point. As the crow flies, the distance is short, but our circuitous route we take meanders along the shoreline, in and out of the numerous channels. One inlet has many marine caves, which we swim into, only to discover they go some distance back. Brandon points out a puffer fish that is nearly fully inflated. While this species is numerous in the area, this is the first that I have seen blown up into a ball with fins. I wonder what caused it to inflate, which I am given to understand is a defense mechanism. Moving out of the channels we see rays streaking from under the sand and scooting across the sand bottom in what seems to be an aquatic game combining "hide and go seek" and "tag." We watch these antics as we kick across the bay to an exit point near camp. After two hours kicking, I am looking forward to a good night’s sleep. I light my propane backpack stove to boil water for a hot cup of coffee, the elixir that fuels me on these trips.

We discover during dinner that the larder is getting low. Planning for food has gone pretty well. Ideally, we devour the last granola bar just as we cross the border into San Diego. Reviewing the menus of our meals, we discuss what could be added or subtracted for our next trip down here. Precut firewood tops my list as our wood has been a little too large to get a consistent fire going. I have a small hatchet, a relic of my older brother’s Scouting days, but this proves inadequate to split the larger pieces of wood. A greater variety of oatmeal flavors, macaroni and cheese, and peanut butter and jelly, old PBJ, tops our list of foodstuffs to bring more of next time.

Over the years. Brandon and I have gone on lots of dive adventures all over the globe.  The "hero pose" that you see in the image is one that we have come to call the "big friend, little friend" photo.

Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Road Trip--Monday, December 10, 1990

Diving out of Loretto

Since Francisco is fishing with some of his compadres, we go into Loretto to the Fantasia dive shop that is part of the Stouffer’s resort. We speak with Gonzalo, recently returned to Loretto from Oxnard, California, about getting out on a boat for a couple of dives. We are quoted an initial cost of $60 per person. We three must have involuntarily blanched at the mention of the price. Gonzalo hesitates and without skipping a beat lowers the price to $50 per person. We agree to the price realizing that with the bigger pangas that the hotel uses, we will be able to go to the more distant locations around Loretto.

Before heading out, we stopped at the town’s breakwater to take on refreshments for our time between dives. The skipper warned that he might have to fuel on the way back, but that was not necessary. 

The panga quickly speeds across the 10 miles separating the mainland from Isla Coronado.  The seas are very light and the boat seems to skim across the wavelets.  The winds we encountered in Mulege have thus far not appeared here.

Our first dive at La Piedra Blanca or "the white rock." The area drops off rapidly, forming a very large and lengthy wall. The resort insists that we be guided by a divemaster on each dive.

We dropped down at about 11:00 a.m. and had a maximum depth of 85 feet coming up slowly for a total bottom time of 20 minutes. The second dive was at another nearby location, Punta de la Fajas. Both dives were good, although our divemaster seemed to want to set a barracuda’s pace on the first dive. We had other ideas.

I remember from my time leading dives at the now-defunct Club Med at Playa Blanca in Mexico that the divemaster’s main task was to keep the group moving as a unit. If one dawdled, the group would spread out as the stronger divers raced ahead and the weaker divers lagged behind. As it was, Brandon was taking pictures, patiently waiting for just the right moment to trip the shutter. Andy and I seemed less inclined to concentrate on a single spot and moved about. Soon, we were spread out and well behind the divemaster. But that’s the way we wanted to dive. The 50+ foot visibility allowed us to maintain visual contact and mitigated our failure to keep close proximity to each other. I was the first to reach 500 p.s.i. and signaled my intention to go up leaving Andy paired up with Brandon.  I snap a shot of Brandon just before I ascend.

The dives were great. The reef abounded with sea scallops and the fish were colorful, what I term the "tropical aquarium" variety. The eels are smaller than the ones I encounter at the Channel Islands, which is surprising because I had always assumed that the tropical eels would be much larger than their colder water counterparts.

Between dives, Brandon explained the differences in the sea life compared to that of the Santa Barbara Channel. Like Doc Ricketts, he has an unquenchable curiosity about the critters and a very methodical technique for finding them. For each habitat, he seems to know what critters should be there and then he meticulously examines the area until he finds them, definitely a macro approach to discovering the underwater world. 

I am more inclined to explore, scout, or reconnoiter an area to randomly see the big picture. Anything interesting I find, like the blue lobster on the second dive, gets found via serendipity rather than by any structured search. Andy seems inclined to go with the flow, taking up a middle position between me in the lead and Brandon in the rear. We get separated sometimes, but with 50-foot-plus visibility, keeping in visual contact is not a problem. As is my habit, I circle back every so often just to see how things are going.

On the second dive, the divemaster moved at the pace car speed. We manage to stay together a little better as he races ahead. The divemaster places a small sardine in his mouth trying to coax a nearby barrcuda to snatch it.  But, we are here to explore, not watch a show.  Eventually, he got tired of trying to lead us and went back to the boat to await our ascent. 

When I got back on the panga, he related that he could see we were good divers and didn’t really need an escort (or by extension to be entertained while diving). None-the-less, we did generously tip the guide and the skipper.  We did enjoy the day, and decide to charter with the shop again on Wednesday, our last dive before heading back to California.

We take a break from camp cooking by indulging in a meal at the El Nido restaurant in Loretto. I had fish kabob and cold Pacifico beer while my companions settled on the fish platter.

Back in camp, I walk around the area to take in the view.  Very unique mountains, called "goat tip peaks" backdrop our playa.

I met Bill, a self-described snowbird from San Diego; which seems a little odd since I am not sure someone from a warm weather climate fits that description. He and his wife are searching for arrowheads on this trip. Bill related that a few years earlier, he had traded a local farmer some seeds for a copper, horse saddlehorn canteen that the farmer had found while plowing a field. Bill estimated the artifact to be between 200 and 300 years old.

Besides the couple from San Diego, our stretch of beach is shared by a group from Switzerland and Germany, with a liberal sprinkling of Canadians. The cove of which the beach is a part is shared with a fishing village and semi-permanent North Americans who call the beach "home" during the winter year after year. The roosters in this rural setting sleep later than their relatives in "urban" Mulege. I don’t hear the first crow until about 5:30 a.m.