Month: March 2019

Glassy calm, dark gray backs
Spouts abound in morning chill
Children’s shrieks of joy

In late February, while the wind blustered and blew through the gaps in hills and islands and was making its mind up which way to blow, we made our mind up to get off the boat and go exploring. We got a mooring at Puerto Escondido, rented a car, and drove back across the wide peninsula to the little town of Puerto Alfredo Lopez Mateos, a community that clearly loves its whales and particularly comes to life during baby whale season. Ironically, we had passed near here not more than a few months before as we made our long trek down the Baja coast. But there weren’t whales there then. At least not babies. Gray whales leave the cold waters of the north and arrive at these warm water bays and protected estuaries on the Pacific coast of Baja in the winter to give birth and raise their calves until it is time to head north again in the spring. In mid-November as we headed south, we had seen only a few of the first few whales to arrive.

We made our whale watching reservation and rented a little “Casita” through Cheri, a native Alaskan who has been in Mexico for decades (she can be contacted via her AirBnB site). We joined her and a friend for a dinner at a gem of backyard “cafe” that we never would have found on our own. We followed Cheri down a long, narrow alley to a house with three plastic tables set up. Dogs ran back and forth along the alley, and three little girls shrieked and giggled at the sight of our two kiddos. The semi-outdoor kitchen off the alley is where the owner does her cooking and once a week opens up her doors to guests. She cooks up a huge pot of spiced, slow-cooked shredded beef, and offers a choice of tostadas, sopas, and flautas. While I had a little difficulty getting her to believe that I didn’t want any toppings on the kids’ flautas, their orders came out perfectly, and they proceeded to eat…almost nothing. Ugh. I myself chose a large tostada, and I can say that it was hands down the best tostada I have had here in Mexico.

We retreated to the charming Casita, and, with the coffee pot set for an early morning, we tucked the kids and ourselves into bed and crashed. We awoke early, gulped down our hot coffee and were out the door at 7:30 to make our 8:00 appointment at the docks. We met Jimmy, our guide, who took us down to our awaiting panga, the ubiquitous open boat that is used for everything in Mexico from fishing to touring to mail-carrying to hauling fuel and provisions.

With the kids gripping the gunwales with white knuckles, we sped off into the estuary, our panga skidding and bumping loudly over the otherwise glassy, calm water. After only a few minutes, we saw a large dark back break the surface of the water. Jimmy cut the engine, the bow dropped down, and we rode the remnants of our own wake as we peered into the the silence for another glimpse of the large, dark whale.

And there she was, dark and barnacled in front of us, gliding and bending her back so we could see the full length of her beautiful body. We stayed with her for a few minutes, and Jimmy drew our attention to some of her markings and idiosyncrasies. We saw ahead of us another female surface, followed by a smaller back right behind her. A baby! We went forward very slowly and traveled in sync with the mama and calf. Mama breathed and dived, and baby breathed and dived. Over and over, they worked their way north. Jimmy explained that the mother was exercising her calf, having him swim into the incoming current to build up his strength in preparation for their eventual migration up the coast. The estuary, which provided strong currents but calm, shallow water was a perfect place to get the babies strong enough for the long trip.

Eventually, we left the mama and baby to themselves in order to head out to the mouth of the estuary (Estero de Soledad). Jimmy revved up the engine again, and we went at light speed through the still-chilly morning wind, zipping past sand bars and other whales out for their morning swims.

Jimmy told us about the gray whale pods and some of the behavior of male and female whales. He asked us about the orcas in the Pacific Northwest and their migration patterns, diets, and general health. We learned that the whales arrived very late this year and that it was a low season for gray whale babies in the Estero de Soledad. As Jimmy spouted off numbers of babies this year and in past years, I began thinking, “wow, this guy’s pretty knowledgeable.” So, it didn’t surprise me when we later learned (through Cheri, not soft-spoken Jimmy) that Jimmy was the only naturalist/biologist in Lopez Mateos. We had hit the guide-jackpot! I only wish I had come more prepared with some more astute questions, because I have a feeling we would have been able to learn even more if we had thought to ask the right questions. Though, we were so overwhelmed with what we saw, that I probably would have forgotten all my questions anyway.

When we arrived at the mouth of the estuary, we were astounded at the sight. From a distance, we could we could see miles of rough surf breaking on the shallow sand bars, but as we eased closer to the mouth, the more spectacular sight was the dozens of spouts all around us! One here, another there, then another, then five out in the distance, then one to the right, another to the left just a few yards away! And there’s a breach, and one over there diving, and another breach! And another breath and a dive. Which way should we look?! Photos simply couldn’t capture the stunning experience of being surrounded by these grand animals. Jimmy explained that most of the whales out by the mouth of the estuary were the males, who tended to stay out here while the mamas and calves went further into the protected waters. We stayed out there admiring them and taking it all in until our brief hour was up and it was time to head back.

We arrived back at the whale watching dock exhilarated and amazed by the experience. Though we had seen whales all along the Pacific coast – orcas in the San Juans, dozens of humpbacks all the way from Cape Scott down to Cabo San Lucas, and a blue whale and a few (we think) pilot whales here in the Sea of Cortez – it was still magical and overwhelming to see so many whales so close up. To see calves exercising. To see males breaching in the distance. To see huge, dark backs constantly emerge out of the water all around. To hear their breaths.

If Andy wasn’t already excited by whales, this experience launched his passion, and he has continued to have his head buried in our “Whales, Dolphins, and Porpoises” book non-stop. When he didn’t know I was listening, I have heard him trying to slowly sound out their names in his little 4-year old whisper: “L-o-n-guh F-i-nn-ed P-i-l-ot Wh-a-luh-, Bu-ll-oo Wh-a-luh.” What a perfect way to learn to read! He correctly identified that Tom had seen a short-finned pilot whale when he described it to Andy, and if you ask him what a pygmy killer whale eats, he will surely tell you and proceed to talk your ear off about it for the next ten minutes. And while Dylan’s love of orca whales will never be usurped, he was also deeply affected by the experience of seeing the gray whales and the proximity to these amazing beings.

So the value in this short trip back out to the Pacific Coast has been far more than in just the knowledge and the experience, but in the inspiration it has sparked in our children. I hope that their fascination and their love of marine animals and the ocean will just continue to grow and that the intense memory of these whales never fades. Even if they don’t become marine biologists, if we can raise two people who care deeply about the health and preservation of the whales and the ocean and take action to protect them, then we will have succeeded.

Addendum: For more information about gray whales, their near-extinction, and their rebound after anti-whaling conventions and protections were put into place, National Geographic has a short and useful summary.

We’ve never been parents to hover. Well, to hover too much. Okay, we may have hovered a little. And living on a busy street in Anacortes while the kids were toddlers, we were understandably relieved when we finally got a fence built to keep their wandering legs away from speedy, distracted drivers. But I did look forward to the day when I could send the kids across the street to the playground on their own and not have the police called on me for being a negligent parent. That moment never came while we were in Anacortes, because we set sail when the kids were only 3 and 5 and proceeded to make the Pacific Ocean and its sandy shoreline their playground.

We may have hovered a lot at first as the kids found their footing on rocky shores and a rocking boat. And we may have hovered a lot when they were anywhere near water, because they hadn’t mastered that essential skill of swimming that we had tried so hard to instill before we left. But in time, we lengthened their leads when appropriate (i.e. not when there were bears or deep water around). As they get older, they get more and more bold and more and more skilled. Sometimes, we have to rein them back in, but we also have to celebrate when they’re ready to take that first little leap out of the nest on their own (and actually do it). Agua Verde will always represent for us a special moment in Dylan’s life, a moment when our safety-conscious, anxious child had the confidence to take the leap.

All that we knew of Agua Verde was what we had heard from the owners of a Mexican restaurant in the U-district in Seattle: that they had been there on a kayaking trip, it was beautiful, and they loved it so much they ended up naming their restaurant after it. We did not know what to expect, except the existence of a protected nook that our guide books said was a suitable anchorage in strong north winds.

We sadly left the beauty of Los Gatos and began to motor straight into the north wind. We cursed the catamaran out there with us, which, with all sails up, bashed straight into the wind and gained ground on us (we were relieved to find out later that day – over a few laughs – that they had also had their engine on the whole time). We puttered slowly past Punta Marcial with its extensive reefs lurking just below the surface, and slowly saw Roca Solitaria emerge as we rounded the corner, marking the entrance to the famous Agua Verde.

We pulled up behind the catamaran we had been cursing, found our depth and distance, and dropped our anchor. Before we had even finished setting and backing down on our anchor, a dinghy with two kids aboard came over and welcomed us to the anchorage. An invitation was extended to Dylan to come kayaking with them, and we hardly had our anchor snubber in place before Dylan had donned his lifejacket and – with our blessing and encouragement – was climbing into the kayak that the kids had returned in. The oldest was 8, the youngest 6, and we didn’t know their parents’ names yet.

Such is life of a boat kid – or perhaps of boat parents. While the three kids in their fluorescent green kayak disappeared amid the five boats in the sheltered bay, we parents shared a few beers together and occasionally looked over our shoulders and wondered where the kids were. It turns out they had befriended a lovely man simply called Tio (Uncle) and his friendly dog, skittish cat, and fierce kittens, who all lived in his small shack on the beach. They had, unfortunately, invited themselves into his house and made the complete tour, but Tio seemed to be all smiles and happy to have the kids enjoying themselves.

It was a special thing to see our solitary and young-for-his-age 6-year-old connecting so well and so immediately with other kids and enjoying the freedom that that companionship gave him. He would never have done that alone, but in a group he felt the security and confidence of the others. He reveled in the chance to run around, to play with other kids away (ish) from the watchful eyes of parents, and to explore the way he likes to explore. The kids returned to the boat and continued their exploring there, though the parents’ conversation was now disrupted every two or three minutes by at least one of the four kids now running around on board.

The free range parenting we engage in and the quick trust we have in fellow cruisers might be alarming to someone peering in from the outside, but we are not the only ones. Another kid boat once invited our kids over for a play date the day after we met, while Tom and I went ashore for a presentation. We had another 4-year-old over for a play date not two minutes after we had met him and his mom, who was headed into town to do some shopping (better to do that task without a kid in tow!). And the other night, a number of fellow-cruisers of the self-described “grandparently sort” offered to watch all 17 of the boat kids while the parents had a night out. In the world of cruising families, there is a common understanding among us that we need to support each other. We are each other’s tribe.

So many of us are raised to believe that the world is a scary place and that all strangers are dangerous, and sure, we’re not encouraging our kids to take candy from random people on the street or get in their cars (duh). But we are finding that most people we meet – cruisers and locals alike – are open, friendly, caring, inquisitive, and have their eyes open for our kids and all kids. We’re finding that we’re surrounded on all sides by a welcoming community, and while a healthy dose of caution and street smarts is important everywhere, we like that we can raise our kids in an environment where there isn’t pervasive fear but rather pervasive support and pervasive encouragement for kids to gain the skills, confidence, and smarts to take responsibility for themselves and each other.

Not so much a labyrinth as a merry-go-round, the process of applying for temporary residence in Mexico has been a lesson in patience. After reports from countless cruisers that Mexico was one of their favorite places in the whole world – not to mention my intrigue with it due to Mexican students and friends and our interest in learning Spanish – we decided we wanted to spend at least 18 months in Mexico. If we had entered on a 180 day tourist visa, it would have meant schlepping two adults, two small kids, and possibly a cat back across the border at least twice on schedules dictated to us. The appeal to have permission to stay in Mexico on our own timeline is obvious. But hindsight is 20/20, and I can now say I would not do it again (or I at least would have done it from La Paz). Would I recommend it? Only if you work in a lot of flexibility and do it from a office that you can easily access in a city that doesn’t have thousands of migrants camped on its doorstep.

We started at the consulate in Seattle, where we were interviewed, fingerprinted (remember this: we had fingerprints done in Seattle), and asked to submit a slew of forms and bank statements and (gulp) all our passports. We came back a month later with pretty visas stamped in our passports that would allow us to apply for temporary residence here. The rub, unfortunately, was that we only had 30 days upon entering to start our application process. Not wanting to have to hurry down to La Paz in 30 days and rush through the Pacific Coast of Baja, we opted to apply in Ensenada instead. The consulate had told us it would take two to four weeks to process, our insurance wouldn’t cover us south of Ensenada until November 15 anyway (the end of hurricane season), and Baja Naval marina had an awesome monthly rate. We would spend a month in Ensenada killing a number of birds with one stone; it would be perfect!

It was not perfect. I fumbled through the paperwork, all in Spanish, which I did not speak. I walked all over town trying to find a place to make copies. I had to research and find a place to take our photographs and schlep the whole family there. I had to navigate the process of taking all my paperwork to a bank, paying the fee at the bank (in cash, I learned), and then bringing the receipts back to the Instituto Nacional Migratario (INM).

So, I came back to the office, except that I had made mistakes on the online forms and had to do everything again. And because they wouldn’t allow me to be the parent to sign for the kids, I had to drag Tom to the INM office and have him sign for the kids. The process of just submitting the application took over a week and no less than three visits to banks, two visits to copy places, and five visits to the INM to finally complete. My feet hurt. My back hurt, having thrown it out again walking over Ensenada’s broken sidewalks and sitting for hours daily in INM’s uncomfortable chairs. I expressed through very poor Spanish my nervousness about our timeline and was assured that it would all be done in time. Now we just have to sit back and wait to be called, right? Wrong.

I got a call about 10 days later and was excited to get the message that we could all come to get our fingerprints done. No. Apparently, because the kids hadn’t signed their new passports (they don’t write, after all), the copies could not be used. So, we fixed that problem. But that meant that the paperwork still hadn’t been processed. I began to panic, realizing that we were going to be hard-pressed to get our residence cards before leaving. But we already had our fingerprints done at the Mexican Consulate. Doesn’t that count? No. We have to do them again. But I was told that after our fingerprints were done, we could leave and return later for the cards. Somewhat mollified, we waited. And waited.

I finally got an official email through the electronic system that Andy was able to come in for his fingerprints. I waited two more days until I called to find out about the rest of us. “Another week,” I was told. “Maybe next week.” But next week started with a holiday, and we all know how weeks like that go. “We have to leave to get down the coast,” I explained in a crackling voice as I held back tears. I had done the math on how long we needed to get to Puerto Escondido for Christmas, and it was beginning to push it.

“You can leave,” came the sympathetic reply. “The documents you now have allow you to travel within the country. You will just all need to come back for your fingerprints.” Huh. I guess that’s something. We’re not stuck here. We just need to come back.

And so, we bid good-bye to Ensenada, took our weather window and headed south. The emails indicating permission for us to come and get our fingerprints trickled in over the next three weeks. I began to look into the cost of renting a car and doing the math on how long it would take the drive to Ensenada, and a lump began to get stuck in my throat. It was untenable and expensive. Damn. From our Christmas location in Loreto, I began to research flights to Tijuana from La Paz. Also untenable and expensvie. While Tom was still in La Paz working on the boat, I asked him to pose a few questions to Baja Paperwork, an agency near the marina that helps travelers with a range of documentation. They spent some time on the phone with the INM and got answers to the following questions:

Can we transfer the whole application process down to the La Paz INM? No.
Can we have the INM mail our cards when they are ready? No. Can we just get our fingerprints done in La Paz? No. Can we get our fingerprints done and pick up the cards in the same trip? No. It will take 5 weeks after the fingerprints are done to get the cards. (What?! Why did nobody tell me this before? The answer to that question relates to the backlog of work due to the thousands of refugees on Mexico’s border near Tijuana.)
Can we cancel the whole application? Yes, but then you have to leave the country within 30 days and come back as tourists.
Is there a place where we can renew tourist visas within Mexico without having to leave the country? No.

So, we began to do the math. It would still be cheaper for us to travel back to Ensenada to get the residence permits than to have the whole family leave the country multiple times. Ugh. I finally began to search for flights on dates after the holidays. Bingo. The flights dropped hundreds of dollars, and I was able to snag flights from La Paz to Tijuana for about $170/person. Not great, but not bad. We booked a cheap hotel and flew up to Ensenada in mid-January. I wisely arranged it so that we could be there for two business days if something went wrong. Something always goes wrong.

Arriving only shortly after their opening time, we still had a full line of people in front of us. Two hours later, when we were finally called up, Tom and I were able to do our fingerprints, but we were informed that the boys’ photographs would not be accepted because you couldn’t see their foreheads. I was livid! They have had these pictures for months, and no mention was made of the pictures being unacceptable. And now we had only an hour and a half to get them done before the INM closed. So, off we went to get new pictures made for the kids. A nice couple in line told us where we could get pictures done close by, and we rushed off to do that and to find some food. I poured water on my hands and slicked down my kids’ hair so their foreheads and ears were as plain as day. We ran back to the INM, sneaking in the door 6 minutes before they closed for the afternoon. But at least we would be seen. An hour later, an official came out with paperwork, and the kids finally could provide their blurry and totally useless fingerprints. And the bonus is that the new photos are really much cuter than the old ones.

But I would still have to go back to Ensenada to pick them up later. We debated whether to go by car or bus, but then when we did the math (again), we realized that it would actually be cheaper to fly than to take a bus (oh yeah, and the bus was an 18 hour trip from Loreto, nevermind the additional 5 hours from La Paz). So, I began to search for flights from La Paz, confirmed with the INM that they had all our cards, that only one person needed to come to pick them up, and that they would be open on Wednesday. So off I flew again to the north end of this long peninsula, caught a bus down to Ensenada, wolfed down two amazing chicken tamales at the Ensenada bus station, and headed to Ensenada Backpacker Hostel to settle in for the night.

I woke up too early, nervous that something would go wrong. Something had gone wrong every single time I had been in this office. And, alas, this trip was no different. I arrived at the office at 8:30, a full 30 minutes before opening, and was still the second person in line. By 9:00, there were six people waiting. I signed in and made sure that everyone knew I was just here to pick up my cards. It would just be a matter of being handed the cards, right? Wrong. Turns out that whole issue with Tom being the only parent who was allowed to sign for the kids came back to bite us. As they dangled the cards and all the completed paperwork in front of me, they said that Tom would have to come in person to pick up the kids’ cards and sign for them. Except nobody mentioned that when we left the last time. Nobody mentioned that on the phone when I called. I had been assured numerous times that only one person would need to be present when we picked up the cards. Nobody ever mentioned that Tom would have to be that person.

And so I lost my shit. In a tirade of angry, mixed Spanish and English, I said that I flew here from La Paz (again), that nobody told me that Tom needed to be the one to pick up the cards, and that I confirmed a few times that the cards were here and that I could pick them up. I refused to take no for an answer. I was probably the dreaded ugly American in that moment. The entitled traveler who is loud and complains and throws tantrums. But I wasn’t complaining about Mexico. I love Mexico. I want to be here legally. I just don’t want to keep making expensive trips back to Ensenada for piddly bureaucratic hurdles just to be told every time that there is some else they need.

The issue was taken quickly to the deputy director, who simply asked if it would be possible to talk with Tom. I put him on the phone, and I believe I heard Tom say at least three times, maybe four, that he gave his full permission for me to pick up the residence cards for the whole family. He thanked Tom, gave the phone back to me, told his staff to process the paperwork, and after another twelve signatures (I’m not joking), I was given my paperwork and the coveted, long-awaited residence cards and sent on my way.

I spent far too much time at the INM in the morning to catch the 9:30 bus to the airport, so I quickly called an Uber and asked him rush to Tijuana. I arrived at the departure terminal and checked in 30 minutes before my boarding time. Plenty of time to spare, right? And when I passed through security, I proudly displayed my residence permit along with my boarding pass. After five months of paperwork hell, I am now, after all, a Mexican resident.

For all the agony that this process has been and the expense it has brought about, I actually feel somewhat guilty complaining. It is nothing compared with someone who has to deal with the American immigration system. I think of so many people I’ve known who spent years in paperwork purgatory to get refugee status, green cards, and citizenship. I think of the smiles and tears of happiness I saw from some of my students when they got their official documentation or American passports. It took them years, sometimes more than a decade. And I think of people I’ve met who put in years of work and residence only to have their papers revoked and told to return to Mexico and start all over. And so I appreciate that it is so easy for us to cross borders. To travel the world. I don’t for a second take it for granted. And if it has given me even the tiniest of glimpses into the frustrating world of immigration documentation, then I appreciate the opportunity to have that glimpse as an immigrant myself.

Migration and the movement of people has been happening for as long as there have been humans on earth. It is how we have populated the world. Migration is driven by economies and opportunities, by war and desperation, by adventure and wanderlust, by persecution and cautious hopes of a better life. Migration is what has grown our own beautiful country and has given it a diversity, a strength, and a uniqueness I am proud of. But I am not proud of the hate and exclusion that has become so pervasive in the United States in the last few years. Walls will not stop migration, nor should they. I don’t (and won’t) often veer into the political, but I find myself drawn to express this as I am now an immigrant to a country where I have received nothing but smiles and welcomes. Where thousands of refugees from Central America are being taken care of and offered residency and jobs. Why is it that they still want to cross the border to the U.S., where they are likely to experience far more hate and prejudice, driven by myths and stereotypes. But paperwork purgatory or no, what all of us migrants have in common is that we’re willing to take a chance. And the more we travel and migrate, the more we learn that we have more in common than different.

Each new place we anchor offers something new to explore or notice or learn. And there is always the eager anticipation for the moment when we can drop the dinghy and putter ourselves onto an unknown shore. In some places, the excitement wears off in an hour, others in a day. And in others, you find yourself looking forward to returning even before you’ve even left. Puerto los Gatos became one of those places for us. We arrived shortly before dark after a long day’s trek from Isla San Francisco and a two-hour provisioning stop in San Evaristo. We were greeted with glowing red rocks that looked like they had been plopped from above like thick pudding. Red pudding.

We were so desperate to get the kids and ourselves ashore that we dropped the dinghy, loaded the kids up in only their underwear and lifejackets, and sped over to the closest beach, which gifted us with a landing that allowed us – almost – to get ashore without getting our feet wet. The kids sprinted up the smooth rocks in their bare feet and explored the ups and downs of the rounded bumps and crevices, smearing their soles and skin with red powdery sand.

On hands and knees, the kids explored the beach, rich with hermit crabs, lobster carcasses, smooth pebbles, and seashells of all sizes and colors. They found water-smoothed rocks that they turned into fishing pangas and drove all over dark beach, racing and betting on who would catch the most fish.

Barely an hour after arriving, we already felt that pang of regret that we would have to leave this beautiful place the next day. We had fast learned that the winter northerly winds in the Sea of Cortez are not to be taken lightly, and we knew we needed to seek a more protected anchorage before the winds moved in.

But we allowed ourselves one more morning. We couldn’t resist the call of the trail that wound through the flat valley between the towering red hills. We wound our way on the rugged road, dodging cattle dung and low-lying cacti. We saw trees! Proper trees, complete with bark and branches and leaves. And we saw the biggest cactus we had ever seen. We wondered if the cattle ate the cactus fruit and whether woodpeckers had made the holes in the large green barrels. We circled back to the beach for a snack and play time with the rock-pangas, and we stayed until the breeze began to pick up. “There a few white caps out there,” I said to Tom. No time for a dinghy cruise to explore the reefs. The kids stowed their panga-rocks in a secret place, and we headed north to the more protected nook of Agua Verde.

We were so excited to return a few weeks later that we opted for a long 38-mile day under motor from from Puerto Escondido back down to the glowing Los Gatos rocks. And this time the calm weather allowed us three days. Three days of exploring, swimming, hiking, playing, and fishing. I dove below the water and saw new a host of new animals – a chocolate chip starfish, a bullseye pufferfish, a live lobster hiding under a rock, and countless new reef fish. Tom spent hours trying out new lures in fishing-approved waters. The kids retrieved their rock-pangas, which provided additional hours of entertainment (I love that rocks are their favorite toys). And in a rare event, we were the oldest couple of the three boats in the anchorage, indicating the increasing tendency of people of all ages to pursue an alternative lifestyle. We went hiking with our neighbors on the kid boat and chatted fishing and sailing with the young couple on the other boat. We enjoyed our time at Los Gatos. We were beautifully present at Los Gatos.

Puerto Los Gatos. Port of the cats. Even our cat was content there. Or maybe it’s just that we didn’t turn the motor on for three days. And Demon may not be looking forward to the time when we return, but we are. We are looking forward to a return to this red pudding playground teeming with life, sand, salt, and presence.