Isla San Jose & Isla San Francisco
Orion, favored son of Zeus, slowly slipped below the western horizon as Virgo began to rise in the east during pre-dawn hours. The constellation Leo strode prominently westwards from its night-time zenith. The sky then methodically, following an ancient cosmological path, morphed into a blanket of muted blue, pocked with gray cumulus and streaked with slightly higher stratus clouds. This made for cool, but not uncomfortably so, meteorological conditions. Heading south between the Baja Peninsula to the west and Isla San Jose to the east in the Sea of Cortez, the National Geographic Sea Bird was in a repository of natural history possibilities, graced with the natural light and climate of a northern temperate Fall.
To the bold the glory unfolds – in quick time the call of “whale” was put forth over the public address system. The Gulf of California holds myriad possibilities for the viewing of cetaceans. However, any given individual must remain alert at all times for the opportunity of having their senses heaved by the presence of this region’s leviathans. In the distance, a tall, virtually-diagnostic blow was spotted. A long, dark back rode briefly but conspicuously upon the water’s surface. Speculation as to the spotted species was bantered about. The angles and lighting of viewing held sway over confirmation. The mild drama tugged at the heart of discovery. Captain Kay deftly and sensitively turned the ship in accordance with staff directives originating from the bow. Blows and backs were repeatedly spotted, but back-dropped and slightly obscured by the waxing light. The geometry of viewing was not in our favor. No matter – a denizen of the deep had been located. It was certainly a reasonably large baleen whale – perhaps a Bryde’s (Tropical) whale (by all designations). It was time to move on.
Shortly after breakfast we found our vessel anchored off Isla San Jose. The island, though not given national park status, is rife with some of the most salient of the Gulf of California’s natural history aspects. Mangrove forests, where they occur in tropical climes the world over, are important land builders and, specifically in Baja California, refuge for a variety of aquatic and avian fauna. We entered the low-lying forest on the island’s southwest side through a shallow channel and fanned out into paths of individual discovery. Red mangrove trees (Rhizophora mangle), the principle species here in the form of shrubs to small trees with diagnostic prop roots descending from their branches, formed impenetrable thickets lining the channels. Overhead ubiquitous turkey vultures soared. Pelicans, snowy egrets, green herons, and the occasional belted kingfisher were the conspicuous feathered residents adorning the forest’s low branches. But for the keenly observant, the singular calls and flittering flight of the strikingly-colored mangrove warbler were reward.
Beneath the surface the clear, placid waters held a bounty. Schools of needle fish, mullet, and damselfish, among others, swam en masse near the mangrove edges. Porcupine puffer fish, oddly-shaped and slow-moving, were easy to spot in the shallows. However, the upside-down jellyfish Cassiopeia was perhaps the most unusual resident. It harbors a community of symbiotic algae in its tentacles. The algae provides some of the jelly’s metabolic needs, via photosynthesis – a relationship very similar to the one found in reef-building hard corals. Ergo the beast must float upside down, oriented towards the sun, to reap the benefits of solar radiation. As the tide turned we made way back out the channel towards our mother vessel.
A few clicks to the south of our morning anchorage lay Isla San Francisco. In a wide white sand-lined cove on the island’s southwest flank, the National Geographic Sea Bird launched her entire complement of small watercraft. Zodiacs and kayaks were dispatched to the beach. The afternoon was at our leisure. We hiked, snorkeled, swam, and kayaked within the small bay. All the while our vessel’s hotel staff busied themselves with the business of setting up for a beach barbecue. As the sun began to fall behind the rugged ramparts of the Baja Peninsula, streaking the sky in shades of peach and flamingo, we partook of the feast around the communal bonfire. To the west Venus and Jupiter, diamonds against a deepening blanket of sky, swept eventide into night.
Orion, favored son of Zeus, slowly slipped below the western horizon as Virgo began to rise in the east during pre-dawn hours. The constellation Leo strode prominently westwards from its night-time zenith. The sky then methodically, following an ancient cosmological path, morphed into a blanket of muted blue, pocked with gray cumulus and streaked with slightly higher stratus clouds. This made for cool, but not uncomfortably so, meteorological conditions. Heading south between the Baja Peninsula to the west and Isla San Jose to the east in the Sea of Cortez, the National Geographic Sea Bird was in a repository of natural history possibilities, graced with the natural light and climate of a northern temperate Fall.
To the bold the glory unfolds – in quick time the call of “whale” was put forth over the public address system. The Gulf of California holds myriad possibilities for the viewing of cetaceans. However, any given individual must remain alert at all times for the opportunity of having their senses heaved by the presence of this region’s leviathans. In the distance, a tall, virtually-diagnostic blow was spotted. A long, dark back rode briefly but conspicuously upon the water’s surface. Speculation as to the spotted species was bantered about. The angles and lighting of viewing held sway over confirmation. The mild drama tugged at the heart of discovery. Captain Kay deftly and sensitively turned the ship in accordance with staff directives originating from the bow. Blows and backs were repeatedly spotted, but back-dropped and slightly obscured by the waxing light. The geometry of viewing was not in our favor. No matter – a denizen of the deep had been located. It was certainly a reasonably large baleen whale – perhaps a Bryde’s (Tropical) whale (by all designations). It was time to move on.
Shortly after breakfast we found our vessel anchored off Isla San Jose. The island, though not given national park status, is rife with some of the most salient of the Gulf of California’s natural history aspects. Mangrove forests, where they occur in tropical climes the world over, are important land builders and, specifically in Baja California, refuge for a variety of aquatic and avian fauna. We entered the low-lying forest on the island’s southwest side through a shallow channel and fanned out into paths of individual discovery. Red mangrove trees (Rhizophora mangle), the principle species here in the form of shrubs to small trees with diagnostic prop roots descending from their branches, formed impenetrable thickets lining the channels. Overhead ubiquitous turkey vultures soared. Pelicans, snowy egrets, green herons, and the occasional belted kingfisher were the conspicuous feathered residents adorning the forest’s low branches. But for the keenly observant, the singular calls and flittering flight of the strikingly-colored mangrove warbler were reward.
Beneath the surface the clear, placid waters held a bounty. Schools of needle fish, mullet, and damselfish, among others, swam en masse near the mangrove edges. Porcupine puffer fish, oddly-shaped and slow-moving, were easy to spot in the shallows. However, the upside-down jellyfish Cassiopeia was perhaps the most unusual resident. It harbors a community of symbiotic algae in its tentacles. The algae provides some of the jelly’s metabolic needs, via photosynthesis – a relationship very similar to the one found in reef-building hard corals. Ergo the beast must float upside down, oriented towards the sun, to reap the benefits of solar radiation. As the tide turned we made way back out the channel towards our mother vessel.
A few clicks to the south of our morning anchorage lay Isla San Francisco. In a wide white sand-lined cove on the island’s southwest flank, the National Geographic Sea Bird launched her entire complement of small watercraft. Zodiacs and kayaks were dispatched to the beach. The afternoon was at our leisure. We hiked, snorkeled, swam, and kayaked within the small bay. All the while our vessel’s hotel staff busied themselves with the business of setting up for a beach barbecue. As the sun began to fall behind the rugged ramparts of the Baja Peninsula, streaking the sky in shades of peach and flamingo, we partook of the feast around the communal bonfire. To the west Venus and Jupiter, diamonds against a deepening blanket of sky, swept eventide into night.