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Small Baja bay serves as winter refuge for Gorge windseekers
By Adam Lapierre
News staff writer
We play Pictionary in the sand and dance the drawings to dust,
bare feet, full moon, margaritas and a campfire, cooking dinner
wrapped in tin foil and tossed into the hot red coals.
All good times come to an end, eventually, and I spend the last
night of a month-long Mexico vacation on shores of the Sea of
Cortez; good clean fun with some of the best friends of my life.
I fill my hands with sand and watch it slip through my fingers,
disappearing back into the beach like an hourglass running out of
time.
This was my first trip to the southern tip of Baja, and I know now
that it will not likely be my last. My friends have been telling
me about La Ventana for years, so I had to see for myself why so
many of them pack their lives into trucks and campers and head
south to spend the winter with the pelicans.
Wind.
Wind.
Wind is why, and it’s amazing to see what people
will do to pursue the things they love. Living in a camper in the
desert, with no bathroom, no kitchen, no modern appliances and no
luxuries is no problem when every morning entails waking up at
sunrise, squeezing fresh orange juice, reading a book and waiting
for the wind to pick up.
Other than the inconvenience of the closest bathroom being half a
mile away, I quickly appreciated living without so many of the
things that people often regard as necessities. It has been a
lifestyle not with a lack of those things, but with a freedom from
them.
Our kitchen was a plastic table, a propane stove and a cooler
filled with ice; our living room was the back seat of an old
mini-van, sitting on a patch of carpet laid out over the dirt; a
small solar panel provided more than enough electricity to power a
radio and a set of snowflake Christmas lights, strung suitably
over the living room on the palm tree leaves that double as shade
umbrellas in the daytime.
My shaggy-haired amigo (who has been down here teaching
kiteboarding lessons since November) throws a dried bush on the
campfire. It erupts in flames, sending shadows across the beach
and inspiring a unified silence from the people enjoying its
warmth.
A small creature with large pinchers abruptly flees from the fire,
someone yells ‘scorpion’, and the silence is shattered as a dozen
bare feet scramble to get out of the way. The creature scurries
over a foot, the foot kicks, and the creature is airborne and
illuminated for everyone to see.
It was only a crab.
I didn’t move quite as quickly as the others because my body is
exhausted from kiteboarding 20 of the last 25 days here. I would
say I got lucky with the wind, but windy winter days in La Ventana
are as common as windy summer days in the Gorge.
As I think about getting on a plane and heading back to rainy Hood
River (and back to work) the next morning, I ponder how I might be
able to prolong my existence in this endless summer for just a few
more days.
I’ve all but forgotten about the dwindling U.S. economy- a
realization that comes with great pleasure- but ignorance doesn’t
excuse the fact that if I don’t return to work on time I risk
becoming another drop in the pool of the newly unemployed.
Work.
Work.
Work, for me, is a means to finance the next
adventure; so I’ve decided to do the responsible thing and head
home as planed.
People with a wide variety of budgets visit La Ventana, and after
being down here for a month I am surprised at how many I have met
who came from the Gorge.
Why don’t they have to work? How do they finance this adventure?
For those with cash, a trip to the small village often means a
trip to a second home or a nice condo somewhere on the beach or
overlooking it.
On the opposite end of the financial spectrum are the beach bums
like my friends and I, who would rather camp in the desert and use
what little fun-funds we have to pay for expensive kiteboarding
gear and cheap food.
Living on a shoestring budget isn’t much of a dilemma in a place
with little use for shoes.
And along with shoes, there are a few things in my bag that
haven’t seen the light of day all month.
I brought a watch but quickly realized the uselessness keeping
track of time down here. I willingly lost track of what day of the
week it was, which is a rare luxury I’ve always enjoyed. For many
of my friends who have been down here all winter, their
perspective on time is simple: Remember what month it is.
Sunrise, breakfast and reggae, reading until the wind picks up,
kiteboarding all afternoon, beer:30, dinner, margaritas, sunset:
It was a daily routine I didn’t mind falling into, and the days
quickly fade into one another with such a schedule.
The first day arrived in La Ventana my friends all told me, ‘Baja
midnight is 9 p.m.’, and I quickly realized that after the daily
kite-bum lifestyle, staying awake much later is a challenge. It is
now long after Baja midnight, but we break the routine for my
goodbye party. Dancing keeps the sandman at bay, so we keep the
fire bright and dance the night away.
I pick up another handful of sand, letting the finer grains sift
through my fingers until only a few stones remain in my grip. I
toss them to the sea and they sink, like memories over time, and I
wonder what stones will remain with me from this most excellent
adventure.
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