Thar She Blows!

What could be better than camping on a Mexican beach in tents furnished with cots and fresh linens?

What could be better than pulling an icy cold Corona out of the cooler and chasing your lunch of fresh fish and marinated artichokes?

What could be better than a nighttime stroll looking at the glowing phosphorescence in the mangrove thickets then getting up early to watch Comet Hale-Bopp through a telescope?

I’ll tell you what—Whales! Dozens of them during calving season in San Ignacio Lagoon 300 miles down the coast of Baja. It was a trip sponsored by the Utah Museum of Natural History when we went to play with the grays for a few days.

Twice a day for three days we’d gear up and board the 20-foot motor boats—seven passengers plus a guide and a boatman. This was no ordinary whale watching experience where you board a big boat or ship and shout “Thar she blows” from afar. No, this was a trip where we’d get up close and personal with them. At first we saw them spouting in the distance and spyhopping. That’s where they stick their eight-foot face out of the water and eerily peer at you with one big eye. There were also lots splashy breaches and flukes—the things that postcards are made of.

Eventually, they would approach our boats. They were as curious about us as we were about them. One mother gave her calf a piggyback ride to show it off to us. Another gray ducked underneath our boat exposing a blowhole the size of a halved papaya. Some of my fellow boatmates even touched one and stroked its baleen. As for me, I was a fingertip away on one occasion and thought for a minute about diving in. Two problems: First, I can’t swim. Secondly, I remembered the fates of Jonah and Geppetto.

Sleeping at camp was sublime. The sounds of whales spouting could be heard through the night. One morning when I awoke, I heard something that sounded like a whale blow. But it was echoed seconds later by the sound of water rushing out. I lay for a few minutes wondering if it was the sound of the surf or a bunch of whales outside my door. When I unzipped my tent, I discovered one lone whale—snoring about fifty feet from my bed.

One afternoon, we bounced on choppy water under cloudy morning skies to Shell Beach. Since the beach was a half hour away on the other side of the lagoon, we cruised faster than a whale watching speed, but still managed to keep pace with a school of dolphins.

Once ashore, we wandered among the sand dollars and seagulls. Swirling in billows around my knees, the sand made me feel like Lawrence of Arabia as I walked around the dunes to the Pacific Ocean side. The beach was dark silver and so fine that its wet surface reflected the sky like a mirror. I stood for half an hour with my face to the afternoon sun watching silhouettes of gulls and pelicans against the gleaming water with tide washing over my feet. My grandma had recently passed away and I couldn’t help but wonder which gull she was now—keeping an eye on me. 

 

Our final day found us speeding across the lagoon one more time where our van was waiting to take us to a distant village to say our goodbyes. Even that last boat ride was a rush. Bouncing on the waves, squinting into the sun—it’s nearly impossible to keep salt water out of your mouth when you’re smiling from ear to ear.

If there is a heaven, St. Peter wears an orange life vest.