A Return to Chileno Bay

The last time I had snorkeled in the Sea of Cortez was almost three years ago. That memorable event stood out for several reasons including that it was my very first time ever venturing into the underwater world off of Baja California. It was also a morning tour off of a Princess cruise ship, the Emerald, which sold a two-stop snorkel trip on a fast-moving Zodiac out of the port of Cabo San Lucas. Besides the beauty of the reefs and marine life, one more thing stood out from the excursion: encountering some humpback whales on the return to the port's pier.

Alas even though last week I was visiting the area off of another Princess cruise ship, the Grand, there were no whale encounters. When I had seen them three years ago it was at the very end of November, at least a full month later than this past visit, so I shouldn't have been surprised. While migration is currently underway, the giant mammals are only now beginning to arrive in the warm waters for the winter.

Another big difference between the two trips was that Princess didn't offer the Zodiac excursion on this visit. Maybe it was the short window of time available in the morning or the availability of Zodiacs or possibly even the difficulty of COVID-safe spacing on a small craft. Instead the cruise line offered a slower catamaran trip to either of the spots that I remembered fondly, Chileno Bay or Santa Maria Cove. I had enjoyed exploring the reefs close to shore at both locations, where I discovered new species of unique angelfish and parrotfish. In the end I chose Chileno Bay simply because the outing was fifteen minutes longer.

The catamaran ride from the port took about one half hour and passed by Los Arcos, the renowned rock formation at the very tip of Baja California. Gathered throughout the bay that morning were charter boats and pleasure craft preparing for the launch of that morning's marlin fishing tournament, one that pays the biggest catches millions of dollars in prize money. Maybe that explains the lack of Zodiacs available for snorkel trips.

I for one would much rather see a fish swimming in a pristine undersea environment than on a dock hanging as a bloody trophy. Not harboring many game fish, Chileno Bay easily accommodated my preference.

Up the coast at the bay, the water was initially a bit choppy and the skies cloudy; it was not even 8am so the sun had barely risen. But with only about forty-five minutes planned at the site, I quickly donned my mask, snorkel, and flippers and jumped into the balmy late October water.

The visibility wasn't excellent but I found my way to a reef toward the south end of the bay where there were many surgeonfish, including yellowtail and whitecheek, along with several damselfish and a large parrotfish. Frustrated by the waves and low light but also by the lack of angelfish - on my last visit to the area I had seen at least three varieties: king, clarion, and Cortez - I asked a guide floating on a nearby kayak if there were any other reefs to explore. "There," he said pointing toward another group of snorkelers closer to the beach.

I lowered my face into the sea to start my swim over when I immediately saw below me, maybe fifteen feet away, a stingray. Much larger mobula rays jump out of the water throughout the Sea of Cortez in a unique act of communication which thrills human visitors in the area. I've spent many an hour on the Promenade Deck of cruise ships looking for that stunning display. While the stingray elegantly undulating far below me was not apt to perform the same acrobatics, it was still an exciting find.

When the ray swam away, I headed forty or fifty feet closer to shore where a school of convict tangs greeted me in the shallower water. I noticed a lone fish nearby with a uniquely shaped head displaying a prominent brow or bump. The area is famous for the bumphead parrotfish which I saw three years ago and that has a similar forehead to my new discovery. But the fish from this encounter was a Mexican hogfish, a type of wrasse.

Thanks to the improving sunlight penetrating the sea, I spotted a giant hawkish nestled in a rocky crevice. The intricate pattern of lines and shapes on its body was an inspiring design motif to my awestruck eyes. Nearby a damselfish got my attention due not only to its size but its bright blue eyes. I found one of the angelfish on my my mind, the king, before heading over to the waiting catamaran in the middle of the bay.

On the swim over I saw one or two triggerfish of an unknown variety near the sea floor. Closer to the surface of the water there wasn't much to observe except a few jacks. But suddenly against the backdrop of the blue sea appeared an array of scintillating tentacles. I thought of the jellyfish warning the guides had given us but the pair of creatures attached to these gelatinous-appearing appendages were swimming differently, in a type of synchronization. Indeed the animals were fish but with extremely long fins, up to six-times their body length.

They were captivating to behold and virtually impossible to photograph because they were almost translucent: I couldn't even see though the camera what it was I wanted to focus on. Back home in Phoenix several days later I discovered a "National Geographic" featuring a photo of a similar species - if not the very one - the African pompano, or threadfin trevally. The caption said the juvenile's streaming filaments, resembling the tentacles of jellyfish, might help in the evasion of predators.

My blurry photographs are a testament to the ethereal nature of the subject, an ephemeral appearance in the wide expanse of the sea. While I didn't encounter several of the angelfish I expected, I did run into a pair of angel-like fish whose delicate fins I could have easily mistaken for gossamer wings. Close enough.