Baja’s Whale of a Bay : Rocking in Kayaks, It Was So Quiet We Could Hear Every Bird Call, Every Sea Lion Splash

Here among towering dunes, mangrove stands and endless blue waters is Mexico at its quietest. No big bustling cities, no tour-group-trampled ruins, no giant resorts with poolside mariachi shows, or souvenir stands with cheap crafts. Just miles and miles of bleached-white beaches, bountiful bird life and--if you time your visit right--whales, whales, whales.

It is to these sheltered waters on the Pacific side of the arid 800-mile-long Baja California peninsula that California gray whales migrate each January through March to mate, bear their young and gorge through the winter months. Then, calves in tow, they turn around and head 5,000 miles north to Alaska’s arctic waters to pass the spring and summer before repeating the process the following year.

Magdalena Bay is tranquilly sandwiched between the peninsula mainland and the 50-mile-long barrier island of Magdalena. While the not-so-pacific Pacific rages on one side of the island, the bay remains calm, except when the winds kick up periodically.

In February of last year, I joined the growing number of nature lovers who come to Magdalena Bay to see the whales. Several companies send small whale-watching ships into the region, but my companions and I chose a more intimate approach. Intrigued by the idea of meeting the animals more or less on their own “sea level,” we paddled after them in sea kayaks. These sturdy 20-foot vessels glided quietly through the water, allowing us to hear every bird call, every splash of a sea lion, or porpoise, or whale, and to savor the animal and plant life around us with only the plop of our paddles intruding on nature’s own sounds.

We were a diverse group--11 Japanese conservationists, a North Carolina doctor-nursecouple in their 60s, two young lovers from Fort Lauderdale, Fla., a Brooklyn businessman and me. We had all signed on with San Diego-based Baja Expeditions, which operates whale-watching trips out of La Paz, southern Baja’s quiet coastal capital, about a 3 1/2-hour drive from Cabo San Lucas.

After spending the night in a pleasant hotel in town, we were bused four hours north across the desert to the tiny Magdalena Bay-side village of Lopez Mateos. From there, kayakers, gear and food were shuttled the 15 minutes to Magdalena Island in two pangas-- 26-foot motorboats that carried provisions as we paddled, and served as expedition vehicles for pursuing the whales at a faster-than-paddling clip.

Our six-day kayaking and camping trip required an affinity for outdoor living, but I wouldn’t call it really roughing it. Baja Expeditions provided two expert guides--Robin Kelly and Peter Cole, both Americans. If we needed assistance, a four-man Mexican camp crew helped us set up our company-issued, two-person tents each day, and prepared meals that were a far cry from your typical camping fare. No freeze-dried entrees here.

We awoke each morning to strong coffee, freshly squeezed fruit juice and either eggs and bacon or pancakes with blueberry jam. Picnic lunches consisted of a variety of salads, tropical fruits and vegetables, and dinner was a formidable feast. One night we had a spicy sea bass stew with green chilies, salsa and soft corn tortillas. Another night was spaghetti with scallops we’d helped harvest off a mangrove island near the evening’s base camp.

The kayaking, meanwhile, was a cinch.

Before you turn the page at the mere mention of kayaks--with visions of raging rapids and violent 360-degree Eskimo rolls underwater--relax. Sea kayaks are a sturdier breed of boat, and Magdalena Bay is smoother than most river-runner routes. Seldom did we encounter more than a ripple, and some simple instruction about leaning into the waves and paddling cross-wave got our group of mostly novices quickly into the swing of the sport. Our dexterity improved impressively with each day’s on-the-tour training. While most of us chose to navigate rock-steady two-person kayaks, the gutsier took a turn at the more rickety--but more fun--single-person kayaks our guides used.

Before we could embark in our kayaks, however, we all had to pass the dreaded dunk test--a safety precaution designed to show us how to behave in the highly unlikely event our kayak capsized. With our guides at either end of the kayak, each kayak twosome had to rock once, twice, three times, then purposely tip over, quickly release the waterproof skirts that kept water from splashing into the boat, then float to the surface.

Our only capsizing ordeal occurred when the senior statesman of the Japanese contingent leaned too far over in a one-person kayak to photograph a bird directly above him, just as a larger-than-usual wave came along.

Over he went. He was quickly picked up by the guides--but his Nikon camera suffered a saltwater death.

Otherwise, there were no mishaps.

Each day we paddled a few hours (about four miles) at our own pace southward through the usually placid bay, coming ashore in early afternoon to set up our tents before devouring a picnic lunch. Afternoons we were free to paddle around on our own offshore or hike across the island to the Pacific side--about a 20-minute jaunt over undulating dunes and around deep sand bowls. Peter and Robin came along on these walks to identify whale bones, pelican skulls, bleached white-sand dollars and other beach finds.

Sadly, one day we came upon a newly dead porpoise still tangled in a fishing net meant for tuna. Deep, bloody welts showed how the animal had struggled to break free; buzzards hovered expectantly, waiting for the flesh to rot.

Late each afternoon we sped deep into the bay in our two pangas , with our camp crew doing double duty as whale scouts. With a lookout at the front of each boat guiding the motorman, we chased after green streaks in the water and distant spurts of spray. We learned to call out “fluke” when we spotted a tail flipped into the air, “spy hop” when a head bobbed up for a look at us, and “breach” when an entire body leaped out of the water.

One showoff came within 20 feet of us, then stood on its head for a full three minutes, its tail sticking straight up into the air.

Once--just once, but what a thrill it was--a curious baby came so close to one of the boats that one of the Japanese men was able to reach out and pat its head. Whales that behave in such a sociable manner are called “friendlies,” and though ecological etiquette strictly forbids touching the animals, we understood the irresistible temptation and found ourselves applauding instead of scolding our comrade.

As we scanned the water, Robin and Peter gave us on-the-spot lessons in cetology (the study of whales). They explained how the whales come south each winter to avoid suffocation under the frozen arctic waters. In addition, the shorter daylight hours in winter mean less sun to nourish krill, the animal plankton on which the whales feed. We learned that it takes two males to get a female into position to mate and that calves gain as much as 200 pounds a day during their first few months of life. Our guides pointed out whale footprints in the water--giant flat areas left on the surface by displacement after a whale has submerged.

As the afternoon wore on, the cooling air combined with sea spray made us shiver, and we were happy to get back to camp for happy hour.

This was a joyous affair. The crew laid out a tropical spread of spicy guacamole, tortilla chips and ceviche (chunks of raw fish marinated in lemon juice, hot sauce, onions and green chilies), which we washed down with potent margaritas or Ballena beer--the local brew with the whale on the bottle.

At sunset each night, my kayaking partner Harvey Berk, the businessman from Brooklyn, and I took a long walk along the water’s edge, watching the sand and sea go purplish gray. Pelicans glided gracefully overhead and, way out in the bay, whales spouted soft puffs of spray. Sometimes we encountered a fisherman laying a net just offshore, which he secured to mangrove branches and marked with bright blue or orange buoys.

I was surprised at how mesmerizing this mostly colorless land could be. The stark white dunes were like a blank canvas on which anything--or nothing--could happen. Here, the whales, the people and any other creatures who happened onto the scene made the place come alive. We returned to camp just in time for dinner, and then sat around a giant bonfire, sipping steaming Kahlua-spiked coffee and talking about the day’s whale sightings--and ourselves.

Some of the Japanese spoke about their conversion from a pro-whaling to an anti-whaling position--a rebellious stance in Japan that they said had resulted in their frequently being labeled unpatriotic.

“I used to be for whaling but now I demonstrate against it; it is cruel and unnecessary,” said Shogo Okada, a soft-spoken, white-bearded man who early on instructed everyone to just call him “O.K.”

As our camp crew played Mexican love songs on the guitar, the Americans in the group showed the Japanese how to roast marshmallows on a stick, while the Japanese passed around cans of sake they’d brought from home, and plastic bags of little dried fish that are eaten like potato chips.

Though daytime temperatures were in the 80s, evenings were quite cold, and I was glad I had brought along my down jacket and gloves.

Later, snug in my sleeping bag, I could hear the Pacific roaring, whales blowing and coyotes howling among the dunes. Sometimes the coyotes were much closer--like the night one stole my sandals from in front of my tent, where I had negligently left them, forgetting the guides’ warning to leave nothing portable in the open.

Hearing a noise outside my tent at 2 a.m., I ventured out with my flashlight and encountered just five feet away a coyote on the prowl. He looked like a scrawny beige dog, with a sharp snout and no sense of humor. I glared at him, he stared at me--not threatening, but certainly not cowed--and we remained that way until I got cold and retreated to my tent.

In the morning we awoke to find the dining area a mess of shredded garbage bags, tin cans and scraps of the previous night’s meal. The coyotes had had quite a midnight buffet.

After breakfast began the daily task of dismantling our tents and loading them into the pangas before paddling off on the next leg of the trip. Forming a line from the beach down to the boats, we passed our gear along to be stacked under water-repellent tarps with the food and other camp gear. We called this our “conga to the panga ,” and became quite proficient at loading and unloading each day.

The tent business, meanwhile, was not as easy as you might suppose. Because the Baja sands are loose and shifting, we couldn’t simply stake down the corner--they’d tug right up with the first hefty breeze, sending the tent sailing across the dunes like some flapping flying saucer. Instead, we had to attach ropes to flat wooden slabs called sand anchors, which we planted in deep holes dug with the camp shovel. In the morning, pulling the stakes out of the sand was at times a two-person affair--one shoveled sand while the other pulled out the wooden anchors.

We soon learned to set up our tents in front of giant dunes. These partially shielded us from the wind that sometimes kicked up fiercely at night. The dunes also provided some privacy for the Porta Potti, marked by an upright paddle with a life presever hanging from the top. (If the life preserver was missing, the Porta Potti was occupied.)

When the wind really got going, sand blew all around us, stinging our eyes and requiring us to keep our mouths closed. We soon learned why the villagers in the region dubbed us campers “sand eaters.”

Six days on Magdalena Bay were just about enough. We’d seen more whales than we’d ever dreamed of, and there was sand in every nook and cranny of our sleeping bags, our clothes, our bodies.

We arrived back in La Paz just as the annual carnival was kicking off (this year it begins Tuesday and continues through Feb. 12), and celebrated our last night in Mexico amid an entire town of revelers. The previous week’s sleepy village was now one big party town.

I flew back the next day from La Paz to Los Angeles, the sounds of carnival still echoing in my mind, along with flashbacks of those tranquil days paddling on Magdalena Bay. I remembered my starlight standoff with the coyote, and the sight of our camp crew happily scrambling the morning’s eggs, shaking their hips to the lambada blasting from the portable radio.

And, oh, yes, there was another, more subtle scene I could just make out in my mind’s eye. Way off in the deep blue waters, a whale blew a misty spray, then breached way up in the air before descending deep, deep into my memory.

GUIDEBOOK

Whale Watching in Magdalena Bay

Trip details: Magdalena Bay kayaking and camping trips, with Baja Expeditions, cost $1,100, including accommodations in La Paz and round-trip air fare from Los Angeles to La Paz. Baja Expeditions provides all food and a two-person tent. U.S. citizens need a current passport or an original birth certificate.

For those who don’t want to kayak, the company also runs eight-day whale-watching trips on the 80-foot, 20-passenger yacht Don Jose and the 72-foot, eight-passenger sailboat Copper Sky for $1,795 double occupancy, including round-trip air fare from Los Angeles to La Paz.

For more information, contact Baja Expeditions, 2625 Garnet Ave., San Diego 92109, (800) 843-6967.

Other outfitters: The following companies also run whale-watching tours in southern Baja, though not all are kayak trips.

--Nichols Expeditions, 497 N. Main St., Moab, Utah 84532, (800) 635-1792. Kayak and camping trips.

--Baja Discovery Tours, P.O. Box 152527, San Diego 92115, (800) 829-2252. Base camp with whale watching via motorboat.

--Special Expeditions, 720 Fifth Ave., Suite 605, New York 10019, (800) 762-0003. Live-aboard cruises on 152-foot, 74-passenger ship.

--Biological Journeys, 1696 Ocean Drive, McKinleyville, Calif. 95521, (800) 548-7555. Live-aboard cruises on 80- to 100-foot expedition ships accommodating 14 to 26 people.

--The Sierra Club, 730 Polk St., San Francisco 94109, (415) 776-2211.

This national conservation society uses Baja Expeditions for its whale-watching and kayak-and-camping trips. The trips cost a bit more if you go through the Sierra Club, but include a tax-deductible contribution to the club and a Sierra Club naturalist, in addition to the two Baja Expedition guides.

--The American Cetacean Society, a conservation group specializing in marine mammals, will run three whale-watching trips to Baja this winter.

Travel is aboard a 95-foot boat, which holds a maximum of 31 passengers, two naturalists and a trip leader. Contact the American Cetacean Society, P.O. Box 2639, San Pedro 90731, (213) 548-6279.

For more information: Contact the Mexican Government Tourism Office, 10100 Santa Monica Blvd., Suite 224, Los Angeles 90067, (800) 262-8900..