Isla Coronado in Loreto National Marine Park

Forty-five minutes in a panga on choppy seas, breathing in gasoline fumes, was how I started my first visit to the marine preserve surrounding Loreto. Jacques Cousteau had labeled the undersea environment the world's aquarium. Above the sea, nausea prevented me from enjoying any marine life that might have been skimming the water's surface.

I had arrived in this quiet corner of Baja California on a cruise ship, in mid-November, with only a short, eight-hour stop at the port. Loreto was a lovely town, with charming streetscapes and an historic colonial-era plaza. But on my mind was the vast surrounding Sea of Cortez seascape, designated as Bahia de Loreto National Park and protecting 800 square miles of ocean, coastline and five uninhabited islands.

We were six passengers on the small boat, a panga, that made its way from Loreto's tiny port to Isla Coronado, the closest of the preserve's five islands. There were no fishing boats within view, a testament to Mexico's success in protecting the area. As we hugged the coastline sloping from high, rugged peaks in the distance, the town soon gave way to lone beach houses and then empty cliffsides.

As we turned toward the sea, in the direction of a sandy beach, our skipper slowed down to navigate the suddenly high waves like a snowboarder in a halfpipe. He ascended and descended steep waves one by one as he miraculously cut a path through the water. We passengers gripped anything that seemed solid: our seats, a mooring rope, the panga's canopy. This must have been why our cruise line cancelled all their excursions to Coronado that morning, I thought. Fortunately the outfit that sold my tour from the pier insisted we wear life preservers while in the panga. And even more fortunately, our pilot's name was Jesus.

We soon passed the beach which was part of a small islet, not part of Coronado at all. But the spit of land must have created a barrier because the seas calmed and we could enjoy our approach to our destination with the white-knuckle ride behind us. We sailed under cloud-free skies along a peninsula to a cove lined with a sandy beach, Playa Isla Coronado, our and several other boat parties' base for a couple of hours of snorkeling, exploring, and lunch.

The island was dry and rocky, like most of the Baja California peninsula three miles to our west. At least two large palapas with tables and benches offered visitors a sheltered place to picnic. A low, extinct volcano rose to our east, revealing an early chapter in the geological history of Isla Coronado. A trail led to some much-appreciated toilets, and beyond the bathroom, led deeper into the island for anyone wanting to explore more of the island's three-square mile terrain. Signs conveniently labeled individual specimens of flora like the towering cardon cactus. However I directed my attention to the coastline and the tranquil, sky-blue water beckoning me.

A reef extended from the north end of the beach into the sea. A small, rocky islet inhabited by pelicans lay immediately beyond that. The calm water looked inviting but was much cooler than what I experienced on the beaches near Cabo San Lucas the day before. Nevertheless I donned my snorkeling gear, eager to explore the shoreline.

Tight schools of goatfish and spot-tail grunts greeted me along with more colorful varieties like the king angelfish and even some exotics like the threebanded butterflyfish. A Mexican hogfish, meandered close by, as carefree and large as a spaniel. A group of what appeared to be parrotfish gathered below me, but I've never seen a species of that family in a school. The most common fish was a type of damselfish, black-appearing until a beam of sunlight illuminated the creature in chestnut brown. There were some outcrops of coral attached to volcanic rocks but a few starfish and urchins were more notable.

I swam around the reef, north, up the coast to a quiet, sandy cove beyond where most of the human visitors congregated. I followed a fat trumpetfish into murkier water, closer to shore. When I eventually exited the sea there, I noticed garbage in the surf and on the beach, mostly plastic detritus like bottle caps and crinkly snack wrappers. Walking back to where I left my towel and backpack, I observed the many gulls crisscrossing overhead and wading in the surf. They must have enjoyed scavenging what we day trippers brought to the island, and also evidently left. Brown pelicans preferred diving into the water to hunt for some of the same fish I might have just observed while snorkeling.

It was time for our lunch, and Jesus soon came ashore with bean burritos and sliced avocados, along with strips of papaya for dessert. All were freshly prepared on the panga, and covered in plastic wrap, served with beer in cans and water in plastic bottles. We made sure we packed out all of our garbage after we ate together under a palapa.

I still had time for another round of snorkeling, my third. I eyed an area of reef further off shore, a couple of hundred feet beyond where I had swum. Low waves were just breaking where the reef came close to the sea surface. None of the several snorkelers that morning had ventured out that far, and no one was out there at that moment; I knew it wasn't a good idea to head there alone. Besides, the steady breeze would have only made a chilly swim even chillier.

And then our skipper summoned us back to our panga for the last part of our tour: a ride completely around the island. We waded back to the boat, stowed our bags, and set off for the next adventure. It was difficult for me when our skipper pointed to that section of reef I had just gazed at offshore, where waves were breaking, and said, "Good place for snorkeling." Oh Jesus, was all I could think.

The calm, clear waveless water near the beach soon turned into the same choppy seas that accompanied us on the morning ride to Isla Coronado. Our pilot stopped the boat to tell us that it was too dangerous to circle the island and that we would travel back to Loreto directly instead. Well actually, he spoke more Spanglish than English; I only think Jesus said that because I only understood, "¡Muy peligroso!"

So there were no new birds to observe, nor a sea lion colony to witness which was a big attraction on the island. Come to think of it, we hadn't seen any dolphins or porpoises on the way over either. No whale sharks or jumping rays, known as mobula or flying rays. Nor any humpback or gray whales. And there was no chance I personally would see any on the ride back anyway because not only was the trip bumpy, it was wet. In an effort to keep somewhat dry from the surf spraying up as the panga cut through the waves, I hid under my beach towel during most of the return.

I had noticed at least one booby in the morning, near the docks, as our ship's tender sailed into Loreto's small harbor. For some reason, I hadn't thought of photographing the bird, thinking there would be a smorgasbord of marine animals to pick from throughout the day. There were certainly some interesting finds below the sea, in Cousteau's aptly described aquarium, while I snorkeled. But not as much as I'd like to have seen in the form of cetaceans, turtles, rays or even birds.

So I made sure to get one last shot of a lone great blue heron near our dock in Loreto late in the afternoon. It was a last connection to a local animal that relies on the air, sea, and land all being protected at the same time: a task Loreto and its surrounding parks seemed to be accomplishing.