Kayak flyfishing the coast of Isla Espiritu Santo in the Sea of Cortez
is humbling. The incredible height of the sculpted layers of stone
forming the cliffs above us, the magnitude of the boulders at their
bases and the intensity of the colors are astonishing. They seem freeze
framed in geological time. Any second, the house-sized boulder could
finish its exodus into the sea. The scale of everything says that you
are a small part of this world. Then you catch a glimpse of a giant
grouper in ten feet of transparent turquoise water beneath your kayak
and have second thoughts about the skinny graphite stick in your lap.
The sense of adventure tingles inside.
This may at first seem like a desolate desert environment; but
life is everywhere. Perched in the cliffs are blue footed and brown
hooded boobies spreading their wings in the sun. They stumble and flap
across their water runway to become airborne. We can see and hear a
whale blowing and breaching off shore. The seagulls on the lowest rocks
with their fuzzy gray hatchlings warn us to not get too close.
Eating
a meal from its source on the very beach where it was harvested connects
us to the timelessness of this island and the fishermen that have lived
here for thousands of years. One evening we discovered the beach
littered with what looked like drowning fireflies, but were actually
sand hoppers that had ingested bioluminescent plankton. Our dinner entrée
was calamari ceviche. The rose colored eighteen-inch squid had cruised
into the cove and along the beach near our encampment.
On another late afternoon Sergio, my compadre, caught blue clawed
crabs in the back of one of the mangrove lagoons while the rest of us
paddled about and fished for small snappers or gawked at the blue heron
and frigate rookeries. Our good natured and talented cook, Alvaro,
turned the crabs into a delicious soup. After dinner we took our
“gritas” and sat in the sand while Sergio pointed out constellations
and recounted ancient myths of their origins.
Several people stayed in our outdoor dining area to view the
ringtail cats that silently searched for scraps after dark. While those
of us who wanted to get out for the dawn bite of sierra and barracuda
crawled off to our tents. In the spring ” Baja Midnight” comes around nine o’clock.
The
next morning a “Corumel” kept us off the water. The wind is named
after the English pirate Cromwell, who used these predictable blows to
swoop down on his Spanish victims and then escape before they could
retaliate. Under our big
shade tarp on the beach we tied flies, built leaders, practiced our
knots and raved about our favorite books and authors. By midmorning the
wind began to subside and we were ready to fish. I decided on a move to
the north end of Isla Partida. The kayaks were loaded into one of the
pangas. Everyone jumped in the other panga after stashing rods overhead
in the Bimini top. After coming around the point we anchored the panga
in a small cove. We then stepped over the rails of the panga into our
kayaks and paddled off to see who found our new flies irresistible.
We
were on a pod of green jacks and ladyfish on the northern most point of
Partida, the island that forms a third of Espiritu Santo, when suddenly
magnificent frigates and brown pelicans began a feeding frenzy near a
rocky islet a quarter mile offshore. We knew some sort of pelagic game
fish was driving the sardinas or halfbeaks to the glassy surface; and we
began a paced sprint in their direction. Manta rays were providing
background music with six-foot high flips ending in belly flops that
sounded like distant thunder claps. They seemed to enjoy synchronized
leaping with four, five or six of them flying at a time. Could this
exuberant ballet only signify parasitic itch? As we paddled past the
bird guano encrusted spires the constant barking of the sea lions
intensified. They guarded their rookery with dog sounds, but some warned
us with the most agonized moans and others with long exaggerated
belches. Paddle on.
Since
we were changing location we let out our flylines and trolled. We
didn’t feel a bit guilty about the self-powered troll.
It was often a good way of locating a surface feeding school of
sierra mackerel or black skipjack. Then we could stop and cast in the
area and usually find more fish.
Casting
a fast sinking head from a kayak is a little easier than from a float
tube, but it takes some practice for the flyfisher whom has only fished
with light rods and short casts..
While trolling, the sierra and barracuda would sometimes sever our
tippets, but the skipjack would take a hundred or more yards of backing
before we could stop and tighten our drags. Skipjack are members of the
tuna family, and like the false albacore of right coast fame-they will
fight to the death. Therefore it is important to work the fish hard and
land them as quickly as possible.
Fighting
a strong fish from a sit–on-top kayak means that you don’t lift your
rod high, you use the butt of your rod. When the battle goes into the
depths retrieve line while dropping the rod tip to almost straight down
and then pump up to just above horizontal. Then repeat as long as the
fish is not making a strong run. Never reach out much beyond the cork
grip on a fish like this; the stress will be transferred up the rod and
a shattering explosion may occur. It
is nice to have a pedal operated rudder so you can keep your kayak
pointed in the right direction when a fish is trying to drag you to
Mazatlan. When the fish sees you and decides to go home suddenly, be
prepared. When reeling in
as you drop the rod between pumps up, lower it into the salt until it is
almost straight down, and lift again. As a rod is lifted, the main
stress point moves up the rod towards the tip. Don’t put a death grip
on it and be ready to do quick bows.
Once you get its head to the surface swing the fish to your
buddy’s side and let him land it for you.
On a fish like a yellowfin, skipjack or yellowtail the buddy
system really shows it’s worth. Besides, who is going to take the
pictures?
One
of my favorite points for rock fall fishing is called “Punta
Tinterreto.” Translated: “Tiger
Shark Point.” Are there
sharks? I have never seen a shark in these shallow waters. Nor do I know
anyone who has. The locals say they have been fished out. This has
become the fate of many of the dominant predators that keep life in
balance. Like the grizzlies in my part of California.
We are the stewards of the waters we fish. The survivors are
giant basking sharks that may cruise through. But they don’t chew on
mammals. Baitfish school
off this arm of volcanic remains. At dusk, yellowfin tuna or yellowtail
could erupt only a hundred feet from the cliffs. One adventurer was
stripping out line just yards from the shore when a large yellowtail
took his streamer off the surface and towed him a half mile across the
bay. The Baja Sleigh Ride. A
nine-pound yellowtail was landed a few minutes later. We encounter
triggerfish, bonito (skipjack), cabrilla, barracuda, Creole fish, yellow
tailed snapper, and leopard grouper.
The
Barollete (yet another name for skipjack), were not plentiful this April
and May. The water temperature had stayed cooler for much longer than
usual; and the early spring alga bloom was still clinging to the bays
and near shore waters on our western side of the island. Most of the
catch were around ten pounds and seemed to be loners.
One evening, on the other side of the Isla, Patrick Doherty rode
his fish drawn chariot for nearly a mile before he landed a large
skipjack.
There
were still spring fish like yellowtail and Mexican barracuda cruising in
the shallows. Then there was bioluminescence. Until you have seen
dolphins at night speeding along and glowing like comets just five feet
away from shore, it is hard to imagine. We could see schools of fish on
the surface moving very swiftly like glowing clouds in the dark waters.
It
is always difficult to leave the tangible wholeness of Isla Espiritu
Santo and return to the world of speed and insignificance. At dawn we would often hear and see the feral goats coming
down out of the hills in search of moisture.
Their ancestors were abandoned by the Spanish here. Our last
morning on the island we headed up the canyon behind our camp. We
marveled at the white trunks of the native fig trees and compressed pink
volcanic ash that had been carved by water and wind into flowing and
grotesque shapes. Sunning themselves were beautiful banded rock lizards,
while a two inch long tarantula hawk wasp searched every square inch for
a juicy spider to feed to its young.
Looking out over our bay, an osprey hovered over his breakfast,
while pelicans crashed into the aquamarine flats in front of our beach
encampment. Beneath the seemingly calm waters life erupts in rich
diversity.
Last
October we encountered yellowfin tuna averaging fifteen pounds.
If they are on schedule we will be there to meet them in the
fall. No matter, every time
I come to this island some new natural wonder appears and my sense of
wonder and aliveness becomes vivid again. And I am properly humbled once
more.
