PLAYA SANTISPAC
Saturday, November 12, 2022
26º 45.657 N, 111º 53.037 W
A Baja Beach Tapestry: Playa Santispac
We left Isla San Marcos on a fresh morning breeze, setting a broad-reaching course that carried us smoothly southward. Our destination: Playa Santispac, nestled along the shores of Bahía Concepción. This bay is known for its shallow, warm waters and scenic beaches that lure travelers from all over—both boaters and RVers who come down the transpeninsular highway. By the time we approached Playa Santispac, the afternoon sun blazed overhead. But the moment we spotted that gentle arc of sand, we knew we’d arrived somewhere special.
I slowed Thaalia to just above idle as George scanned the bottom for a good sandy patch. The water here is so clear, it’s like peering into an aquarium. We found a spot in about 15 feet, and once George released the anchor chain, we confirmed that the holding was decent—always a relief. A few other sailboats were dotted around the bay, and far ashore, I saw a collection of RVs parked near beach palapas. Playa Santispac is a popular stopover for folks exploring Baja by land, but that doesn’t make it any less appealing for us sea-based nomads.
First things first: “rum and yellow shit.” We took our drinks up to the bow and sat side by side, letting the breeze ruffle our hair. I spotted pelicans gliding low over the shallow water, abruptly plunging now and then to snatch fish. Out toward the middle of the bay, a couple of kayakers paddled leisurely. Somewhere off to the east, the highway traced the foothills, occasionally reminding us that we weren’t quite as remote as we’d been at Isla San Marcos.
Our arrival day happened to be a weekend, so the beach itself was alive with local families picnicking under palapas, children splashing in the gentle surf, and vendors selling everything from ceviche to cold coconuts. From the boat, we could hear joyful echoes of laughter and music, which felt like a welcome change of pace. After weeks of more solitary anchorages, it was fun to see civilization and local culture in full swing.
By late afternoon, we decided to head ashore with the dinghy. We tucked it up on the sand, tying it to a driftwood post so the tide wouldn’t carry it away. Walking along the beach, we observed the mix of travelers: Mexicans enjoying their weekend getaway, a handful of Canadian RVers escaping winter up north, and the odd fellow boater who’d decided to anchor and come in for a beer. The sense of community was palpable—even though many of us were strangers, the shared enjoyment of this gorgeous spot bridged any language barriers.
George and I wandered over to a small palapa restaurant—nothing fancy, just a place with plastic chairs and a cooler full of cold drinks. We sipped on ice-cold cervezas while chatting with a couple from California who had driven their RV down. As the sun began to set, a rosy glow spread across Bahía Concepción, making the whole bay look like a painting. It was a soft, warm moment that reminded me again of how alive Baja can be.
Back aboard Thaalia that evening, the temperature remained toasty. I opened all the hatches, hoping for any passing breeze. The water was calm, and the moonlit reflections danced across Thaalia’s hull. George rummaged for leftover dough from his homemade pizza experiment. We topped it with a bit of tomato sauce, cheese, and jalapeños. The results were scrumptious, and the gentle rocking of the boat added to the ambiance. One of the joys of cruising is turning simple meals into something special.
The next morning, we woke to that same bustling charm. A few fishing pangas zipped out of the bay early; presumably, they’d return with their day’s catch by noon. We watched from the cockpit as the beach began to fill with families. Kayaks, paddleboards, and small motorboats dotted the bright green water. Even though it was busy, the bay is large enough that it never felt crowded for us on the water. I decided this was the perfect time to go snorkeling near the rocky point at the bay’s edge.
George stayed behind to check on our battery charge and solar panels, while I donned my mask and fins. The water was pleasantly warm—still in the low 80s. Visibility was moderate, allowing me to see small schools of grunt fish and even a couple of spiky sea urchins tucked between rocks. It may not have been the most spectacular reef I’ve ever seen, but it was a refreshing reminder that even in popular spots, marine life thrives if you know where to look.
By the time I returned, George had prepared a late breakfast: scrambled eggs with onions, peppers, and bread warmed in the pan. We also pounced on the chance to do some laundry, old-school style—in a bucket on deck. The blazing midday sun was perfect for quick drying. It’s funny how thrilling clean clothes can feel when you’re living on a boat.
That afternoon, we experienced a tiny taste of changing weather. A mild southwesterly breeze kicked up some small chop, rocking the boat more than usual in the shallow bay. Some folks ashore packed up to leave, but the wind wasn’t enough to warrant major concern. Still, we double-checked the forecast. No chubasco warnings, just a brief period of unsettled air. It blew through within a few hours, and by sunset, the bay was tranquil again.
That evening, the moon was high, illuminating the bay like a stage light. We sat out on deck, letting the warm breeze brush over us. I made a quick mental note that we were approaching the time to move on again. That’s the cruising life: settle in, adapt, enjoy, and then —often on a whim—decide to seek fresh horizons. Of course this time we were headed back to La Paz with a purpose. We had a ways yet to go. Playa Santispac had given us a couple of wonderful days of lively beach energy and scenic calm. We still wanted to see more of Bahía Concepción’s anchorages, but we also had a mind to keep heading south toward La Paz.
As I lowered myself into my bunk that night, I couldn’t help thinking of how varied this summer and fall had been. We’d encountered chubascos, scorching days, tranquil sunsets, dynamic towns like Santa Rosalia, and remote coves like Puerto Don Juan. We’d hiked up a volcano, celebrated my birthday, caught dorado on hand lines, and shared “rum and yellow shit” with new friends. Playa Santispac was another bright thread in this ever-evolving tapestry—an anchorage that reminded me of the local culture thriving along these shores, a place where land travelers and sea travelers intermingle in the warm embrace of Baja.
Tomorrow, our plan is to weigh anchor early, to push onward to a new destination. The forecast shows mild winds, but that could change. It always
can. That’s part of the intrigue: you never truly know how a day will unfold until you cast off the lines. In the meantime, I’ll savor every last bit of this place, from its friendly beachside vendors to the crystalline shallows that soothe me like a warm bath. After all, these are the memories that keep us afloat, long after we’ve left the anchorage behind.