The north wind had been blowing hard every day, leaving only calm, quiet nights. The forecast looked a little better, though not great, for a sixty‑mile run. To stack the odds, I set off at 12:30am—just after midnight. With a nearly full moon, it was easy to slip out of the anchorage and make the left turn.
For a few hours, all was fine. Then the swell found us. The waves weren’t big, but they were the classic Sea of Cortez short, square type. So, a bash it was—not the worst, but a bash all the same. As the miles ticked by, the slamming under the hull bounced everything on the table until nothing was left on it. Once all the loose gear was stowed, it became a waiting game to put the miles behind me.
A few hours after sunrise, conditions eased. Turning into Bahia Concepción, the water smoothed out, sails went up, and the motor went off. Peace at last. I ghosted into El Burro and had the anchor set by 11:30.
After a nap and some lunch, I wanted to stretch my legs. I kayaked to shore and set off walking toward El Coyote, the next bay over. It’s a few kilometers, and the path felt like a trip down memory lane—it had been seven years since my last visit.
Arriving at Coyote, I was reminded it’s a private community, at least until the far end where there’s paid parking and camping. Being low season, no one was around, so I was able to get down to the beach and take a look.
Since my last visit, there had been some new development, including a nice‑looking restaurant tucked behind the beach. Around dinner time I paddled back to shore and walked over. Closed. Huh. Okay, on to the two other nearby spots off the highway. Ten minutes later I found those closed too. Looked like this plan might be a bust.
The last option was JC’s bar, right on the highway near where I’d left the kayak. No problem—I didn’t mind the extra walk. As I got closer, I saw a lot of cars, which was a good sign. Sure enough, they were open, and as a bonus a band was playing. Everything worked out. The tables were full of ex‑pats, so I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, checked the menu, and went with the especial—ribs.
The band was excellent: guitar, saxophone, and drums, lively enough to get people dancing. The food arrived and I dug in, having skipped lunch. Between bites, a few people stopped to chat, curious about where I was from and what I was doing. They introduced me around, and it quickly became clear this was a close‑knit community where everyone knew what was going on—in a good way.
Toward the end of the night, a woman about my age sat down and we struck up a conversation. She has had a place in Posada for four years, and another in Mulegé with her sister. We have a nice conversation and I learned she is a chef for the mining camps up in norther Canada during the summer, she is on her last week in the Baja before hitting it hard all summer to fund the winter break in Mexico. With the sun already down, I said my goodbye and paddle home for some much needed sleep
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