Baja : Grey whales

Grey whales boiled out of the sea beneath us, so quickly that the boat captain had to carefully, and deftly, maneuver us backwards in the little panga, to keep from being bumped. Every second, it seemed, a whale was upon us. My heart raced and my smile was permanently plastered in a goofy arc across my face. One whale stopped a few feet below us, under water - mirroring the shape of the boat - he paused at his depth and speed for several minutes, rotating slowly around to position his eye on us. Another whale poked it's head out of the water - ten feet high - just off our stern. And it, too, paused and locked eyes with us. Then we were intercepted by a group of five whales, who all wanted to see us at once. Three would poke up their heads while the other two would playfully bump their noses on the boat. We reached out and touched their barnacly skin - wet, soft purse leather.

Ojo de Libre - Eye of the Jackrabbit - is a huge bay off the Pacific coast of Baja where grey whales congregate in the winter months to give birth and breed. The nearest town, Gurrerro Negro, is a dusty u-shaped outpost halfway down the desert peninsula. Several licensed operators take out boats on the bay with tourists who come to get close to the whales. It's a highly regulated industry, allowing only a handful of boats out per day, aimed at a balance between disturbing the whales and giving the tourists a close up experience. After being out on the bay, I couldn't tell who was more excited and curious about the other - the humans or the whales.

The expanse of blue seems to carry on in infinity out on the bay, it's a grey-ish blue, as if the cold of the winter has tinged it with frost. A light fog hangs on the horizon, a gentle haze. Michael and I share a boat with another couple and the captain, which gives us plenty of space to move around as we sight whales. We feel pretty lucky - when we set out early that morning other boats were overloaded with tourists - 16 or 18 people sausaged in to each panga and fitted with life preservers. Most of the people we saw loading up were part of a tour group, and their guides worked on keeping them together with the fortunate side effect of leaving us without many boat mates.

I'm counting, or trying to, and I've found that about once a minute, a whale, somewhere in view, breaches, spys, or flips it's tail. We shift and twist, seeing the whales in all positions and distances from us. Our captain lets our boat float through populated areas, letting the whales approach us. We see mothers with newborn calves. We see huge males showing off by launching themselves out of the water and with a thunderous clap, slap the water with their whole bodies. We see the bubbly chaos of a social gathering of whales just under the surface.

And then, a few meters off our bow, a churning patch of ocean explodes with whale. A big male breaches, slapping the water and sending wake our way. Then another whale follows him and it's apparent that they aren't curious about us at all. In fact, they probably have no idea we're so close. The captain moves us back a little - these whales need their space. Suddenly, both whales begin rolling on the surface, together - then we see it, just for a flashing second - a giant whale penis. It's a sight that's hard to forget. Even from several meters away, the penis looks to be at least as big as my leg, and in the blue haze of the ocean and sky, it looks neon pink. Michael and I giggle and point like little kids, I clap my hand over my mouth to hide my surprise.

Baja has no lack of sunshine, stretching from long horizon to long horizon; and it has plenty of burning trash and cheerfulness, but it is short on everything else. The people get creative with nothing, they make restaurants out of old blocked up vans, putting their tiny grandmothers inside to make tamales and serve them from the sliding door. Dried up cactus arms are the beginning of a new palapa; a string tied to a matchbox car a little boy's pet; a bulldozer pulls the broken tractor's plow. It is a land that is welcoming and yet alien. The drive from the border is mystifying in it surreal changing landscapes, twisty mountain roads, huge cactus and big semis barreling down the highway.

Baja is split into two states, the north and south, and at the border, with a giant steel CaraCara Eagle sculpture, is the dusty town of Guerrero Negro. The name means Black Warrior, and comes from a wreaked whaling ship that was sighted off the coast in the 1850's. Despite many whalers who used the lagoon as killing grounds for years, no settlement arose from the flat desert until a billionaire American Daniel Ludwig decided to plant one down, call it Guerrero Negro, and build a salt works. He built a factory town - a miniature suburbia, with matching houses and little identical plots that at one time sported green lawns. Not long ago the salt works were donated to the Mexican government and the town has grown to include not only the still operating salt works, but also an army base that controls the state line.

In the evening, we returned to Guerrero Negro from the bay to watch the sunset along the lagoon. Birds stop here on their migrations and it is brimming with heron, coots, loons, egrets, pelican, pintail ducks, terns and sandpipers. They rise in clouds, bank into a spectacular ember sunset, and quack in puddles, shaking their feathers. Osprey make nests on most electrical poles - huge messy woven hay bales, complete with bright colored scraps.

In the distance, beyond the huge bay and out to the open ocean, lays the Black Warrior, under the waves. It is a place that has long been considered dangerous and cursed. The beach, Malarrimo - translated to something like "bad place" - juts out into the pacific. Its point is caused by a confluence of tides and currents making it tricky to navigate. The Malarrimo, it is said, swallows boats whole.

We strolled along paths and back to the main drag. A cluster of little taco stands glowing in the dusk attracts waves of languid strolling couples. The air is warm in town and each person we pass greets us, "buenas!" and nods politely. We walk to the far edge of town - inland towards the highway - to have dinner at the Malarrimo restaurant.

The Malarrimo is coated in the debris from the beach it's named after. Japanese fishing floats hang from the ceiling. The walls are lined with bottles and the garden is dotted with whale huge bones. The place is a tourist mecca in an otherwise non-tourist kind of town. There's a provision store, a trinket store, a restaurant, an RV hook up area, a hotel, a touring service to see the whales, and a dance floor and pool tables. It's charming with hanging flower pots and painted scenes of whales.

We order a big bowl of their famous fish soup and a bottle of wine. Michael held up his glass, "cheers," he said, and we moved to clink our glasses together, "to big pink whale penis," He tipped his glass towards mine.