It’s early in the morning but the sun is still hot and high. I catch a zodiac across the shallow channel to the beach and slip my sandals off in the golden sand. I’ve got my Nikon slung across my shoulders and my iPhone camera in my pocket. I know it’s at least a thirty minute trek through the gently rolling dunes to the coast of the Pacific Ocean and so without hesitating, I set off.
I’m in Magdalena Bay, a crescent shaped bay hidden between the mainland of Baja California and a spit of land that we call Sand Dollar Beach. Grey whales come to Mag Bay each winter with their calves, and [my former company] offers guests the chance to get up close and personal with them: I’ve kissed a baby grey before.
In the distance, across the bay, is San Carlos, a small fishing community on the Pacific Coast of Baja. To get to San Carlos, you drive Highway One from Cabo, through La Paz and up to Concepcion. At Concepcion, you head west. The road appears to end at San Carlos.
But that was yesterday; today I’m alone in the dunes. What I know as succulents and a naturalist can probably tell you the Latin name for are clustered in groups. A vivid green against the pale sand, they crawl out on vines like ants after crumbs. Tiny yellow flowers poke their heads out and there are blooms of red too. And there are sand dollars.
As big as my hand and as small as my wrist. The dunes are littered with them as I get closer to the coast. I crest the last dune and look behind me. As far as my eye can see, it’s dunes. I can’t see the opposite shore, nor can I see my boat home or the line of folding chairs that the staff set on the beach. And there isn’t a human in sight. I turn my sights back to the scene in front of me: the vast pacific coastline stretches out, miles in both directions. This time, there’s something unusual about the beach: it’s red. It looks terrible; like there was a bloodbath here, and I hesitate to walk along the beach. But curiosity gets the better of me and I go closer. To me, it looks like a red tide, a “phenomenon caused by algal blooms during which algae become so numerous that they discolor coastal waters (hence the name “red tide”). The algal bloom may also deplete oxygen in the waters and/or release toxins that may cause illness in humans and other animal” {source}. (Later, after talking with the naturalists, they determine it wasn’t a red tide, but something else. I still think it is.)
{you can see the red tide in the wave that’s coming in}
Something else is off: it’s not just red, it’s fuzzy balls, about the size of a quarter. In the places where the red hasn’t come in, the balls are the same colour as the sand, giving the impression of a lumpy beach. But where the red has come in, they are a vivid blood colour and I don’t step in it. (Again, later there is discussion about this: the algae is red to begin with and the balls that are not have been bleached by the sun. This, I can’t argue with. But.)
It’s unnerving to see, and it’s unnatural.
I spend some time on the beach, but soon I hear the voices of other people coming through the dunes and I make my escape. Slipping between two dunes, I find myself in a shallow pit, and I’m surrounded by sand dollars. They’re layered one on top of the other, some pure white, others a jet black. Encrusted in sand, they are untouched by humans, carried into the dunes here by the shifting sands.
I relish the solitude of the dunes, but soon the heat is almost too much and I know I still have my hike back. As I cross back to the landing beach, I’m struck by the fact that I can stand on the top of a dune and look in around me, 360 degrees, and not see a single human or man-made thing, except for the things I carry.