Arising at dawn produced great relief from the discomforts of the night. Almost immediately the wind subsided completely, allowing us to rinse the salt from our encrusted bodies. Despite continued humidity, it was the most beautiful morning either of us has experienced in many years -- bringing full circle a common characteristic of the Cortez: for those who survive the torment, the reward is generous, indeed. This phenomenon has played a very important role in fueling our life-long love of the Sea of Cortez.

We ate a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal and began packing the jeep for a return trip that would include three extra passengers. It quickly became apparent that hauling three exhausted hombres 117 km overland would require, in addition to leaving their gas cans behind, better control over equipment that was normally packed tightly across the bottom of the compartment. We were going to have to tie much of it to the roof, and this would require rope. Having no suitable cord ourselves, we decided to place this problem in the hands of our passengers. We dumped our gear into the vehicle and headed up the beach. When we arrived, our hopeful friends were huddled around their short-wave radio.

"The search is back on this morning," Captain Gringo announced excitedly, "and they're getting closer!"

"Well, maybe they'll find you and we can all get on with our lives," I chided. There was no sense arguing with them about an event that hadn't happened yet. "Meanwhile, we're going to need some strong cord to tie the lighter equipment to the roof of the jeep."

Captain Gringo offered some further explanation of the events of the last 36 hours.

"It was hell," he said, "adrift out there, listening to the chatter from the search planes and not being able to respond. Brand new radio, and the transmitter quits the first day out."

My soul mate and I began rearranging our equipment. The day was going to be a scorcher, but it made little sense to set up the temporary sunshade so completely denied us by wind the previous afternoon. About halfway through packing, the drone of a distant engine broke through the hiss of the surf and demanded our attention. It was a plane! We exhaled the long sigh of released prisoners as the trio hooted and waved. The plane made three circles overhead. The pilot waved. Then the plane straightened out and veered away toward the south, from whence it had come.

I congratulated them, "You'll be picked up by noon; we'd better get this stuff unpacked."

"No," countered Captain Gringo; "We'll be needing that ride now. I told them we were OK."

The shock was evident on my soul mate's face.

"I thought you said your transmitter didn't work?"

He pointed to the message he had inscribed in the sand with his heel while everyone else was cheering:

"OK. HAVE RIDE."

Now, to say that we were upset would be gross understatement.

My wife expressed it first, "What gives you the right to turn down Search and Rescue in favor of overloading our vehicle, overburdening our patience, consuming our fuel, and ruining what's left of our vacation?"

He gave no explanation. From then on there wasn't much conversation. We put the finishing touches on the packing and Captain Gringo offered up his canvas boat canopy to compliment our tarps as overhead luggage wrap. Like everything else associated with these guys, declining it was complicated. I told him it wasn't necessary and would just waste more time removing it when we arrived; he kept repeating that it cost him over $200 and that he didn't expect it back -- all he wanted was to get back to Cholla Bay. In the end he gave up, one of my few victories.

Eventually, we were ready to go. The trio made no comment when introduced to the rear compartment where they would be sitting on the floor pressing their backs against the mountain of equipment they would be required to control by thrusting half-bent legs against the backs of the front seats. There obviously was no way to restrain either men or equipment.

 
Copyright (c) 1996-2010
Larry K. Fox

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