PUERTO DON JUAN
28º 56.564 N, 113º 27.036 W
Monday August 22, 2022
Rum, Dorado, and Desert Stars: Puerto Don Juan
We arrived in the early afternoon yesterday after making our way from Punta las Animas. It’s hot, hot. I eased Thaalia in at just above idle speed, scanning the horizon while George stood on the bow with the anchor remote. I can always spot the moment he sees the perfect sandy patch on the bottom; his shoulders relax, and he gives me a quick nod. I nudged Thaalia forward a bit more, then put the engine into neutral. A moment later, the chain rattled off the bow roller and disappeared into the turquoise water, sinking into a firm hold below. That’s when I exhaled—a long, contented breath. There’s a quiet relief that comes with a good anchoring job, almost like setting down a heavy backpack after a long hike.
Our first order of business, as always, was to whip up a “rum and yellow shit” in the cockpit. We’re not fancy, just practical. A gentle breeze drifted through the cove, helping cool us down. In that moment, I realized how lucky we were: anchored in a peaceful nook, the sea glimmering around us, and hardly another soul in sight.
Puerto Don Juan is tucked near Bahía de los Ángeles, but it feels even more remote. The cove is shaped like a horseshoe, with desert hills embracing the water from three sides. Cacti—prickly pear and giant cardon—stand like silent sentinels, and the stripped, rocky slopes bear the marks of centuries of erosion. Locals say the region’s geology is a fascinating story of seismic shifts and volcanic activity. Though I’m not a geologist, I appreciate the rugged beauty that results from nature’s slow, patient sculpting.
This morning, I woke up just before dawn and climbed up on deck with my camera to watch the sunrise. There’s a stillness here that steals my words. The water was a perfect mirror, reflecting the pale sky and the golden outlines of distant peaks. Pelicans glided overhead, scanning for breakfast. Once or twice, I heard the splash of a fish jumping, maybe fleeing a larger predator.
Around midday, the temperature is climbing, so I stash my novel—a lighthearted mystery I’ve been devouring—into Thaalia’s cockpit locker and try to convince George that a swim would do him good. He’s fiddling with our outboard motor, per usual. After a bit of persuasion, he agrees, and we slip into the water. The initial shock of the warm but still cooler-than-air water makes me smile. We drift around for a while, letting the mild current carry us. Visibility isn’t crystal clear—there’s some plankton bloom in the area—but I can still make out small fish darting past our feet.
When we head back aboard, I notice a couple of other boats arriving. We wave to our new neighbors, but everyone seems content to do their own thing for the time being. Later, maybe we’ll connect on VHF channel 16 and see if they want to gather for an evening sundowner.
Later in the afternoon, as we lounge in the cockpit, an older panga chugs by, piloted by two fisherfolk who wave at us cheerfully. We exchange greetings in Spanish, and they inform us they’ll be heading out past the point if we’d like to buy fish on their way back. They mention they often catch cabrilla (sea bass) and sometimes sierra or dorado. We thank them and say we’ll have pesos ready. Buying fresh fish straight from a panga is one of the many perks of cruising in these remote areas. The local fishermen are usually very friendly and happy to chat—our Spanish is shaky, but a smile goes a long way.
George sets up the cockpit table, rummaging for spices to whip up a marinade. He’s planning a grilled fish dinner if the fishermen come through. If not, we’ll revert to “Plan B,” which is usually rice and beans with whatever we can scrounge from our pantry. George’s rice and beans are a staple on Thaalia, but he personalizes them with a secret blend of cumin, garlic, and maybe a dash of chili flakes.
As evening sets in, we hear the soft sound of an outboard motor approaching. Sure enough, the same panga we saw earlier pulls up alongside Thaalia. The fishermen hold up two fish—both dorado, glistening silver-grey in the dimming light. George leans out over the boat, exchanging pesos for fish to complete the purchase, and we all share a few laughs about the weather. They say the water is unusually warm this year, and the fish are staying closer to shore. They also warn us to keep an eye out for the possibility of a chubasco tonight. With a friendly wave, they’re back off into the distance, the panga’s motor humming across the still water.
A short while later, George has one of the fish filleted, seasoned, and ready for the grill. I set the table in the cockpit, which is to say, I place two plates, two forks, and two drinks, of course. We have a bag of tortilla chips, some chopped cabbage, and a jar of salsa we picked up in Bahía de los Ángeles. That’s all we need for an instant feast: dorado, boat-style. One bite, and I’m in heaven. Fresh fish has a sweetness you can’t replicate with store-bought fillets. The rest of the world fades away in that moment, replaced by the joy of a good meal shared in an unforgettable setting.
When we finish dinner, I lean back and watch the sky turn from pale orange to deep purple, then finally into a canopy of stars. We’ve seen countless incredible sunsets on this trip, but each one feels new. Darkness settles in, and I can see the faint lights of the other boats at anchor—single pinpoints in the blackness. No city glow, no traffic noise, just the distant calls of seabirds and the gentle slap of water against Thaalia’s hull.
Before bed, I take one last look at the night sky. If I’m lucky, I’ll spot a shooting star. Tonight, the sky is especially clear, and the Milky Way arcs across it like a glowing river. I whisper a silent “thank you” to the universe for allowing us this moment. Moments like this remind me why we do this, dedicating ourselves to life on a 38-foot boat. It’s not always glamorous, but it’s real, and it’s ours.
Crawling into our bunk, I can still taste the lingering salt on my lips and the smoky flavor of grilled fish. The gentle rocking of Thaalia and the rhythm of the waves feel like an embrace, coaxing me to sleep. I fall asleep thinking about the intangible gifts these anchorages offer: the hush of remote waters, the colors of the sea at dawn, and the warmth of people we’ve met along the way. Each place is its own adventure, and each day reveals new ways to appreciate the Sea of Cortez in all its forms—calm, windy, scorching hot, or gently breezy. In Puerto Don Juan, I’ve found a sanctuary where time slows down, letting me savor every breath, every splash, and every note of the desert wind. And in those quiet moments, I can’t help but feel that no matter where our journey takes us, a part of me will always belong to this rugged, peaceful corner of Baja.