by M.S. Lindsey

Created on: January 02, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

Into the Sea of Cortez and Deeper

Six hours southwest of Nogales, Arizona, one can reach the shores of the Inferno Canal and touch the water that holds the Mexican mainland back from swallowing Shark Island, It's a land occupied by ancient sahueso cactus standing like proud soldiers across the diamond sharp hills, where at night the coyote sing eerily to the cresting moon. The fabled Isla TiburnShark Islanda daunting 467 square mile island nature preserve rooted a few miles off the coast of the mainland, is a reflection of the nearby Sonora Desert. She stands holding in her hand a bold and mysterious past. There is a black onyx depth in her eyes, for she is a land that has seen the shiny clamor of Spanish galleons and has felt the piercing spears of the warrior Seri Indians who have clung desperately to their native home. Until the late 1950s, the Seri occupied the island living solely off of the land and out of the depths of the canal. They are a skilled people of the sea who have survived on less than what seems necessary. And somehow, seventeen outsiders were permitted into unfamiliar lands, onto their ancestral waters and island.

Many would envy the shells we kept as souvenirs from the battered beach. They would love to tell the story of how they battled the sea and escaped with their life. We took them as remembrances of what God did in our hearts: He pounded us, but never forced us, calling us to a deeper thirst, a more exposed heart, a less comfortable pursuit of him. He never whispered in our hearts what he would ultimately lead us into, of where we would find our hearts with bodies in tow.

Our unpredictable warrior God pushed us off the protected shorelines and the easily paddled waters of our hearts, and into wild and confused water, intimidating and uncomfortable. And he did; he pushed us off of the ever-protected bay of mainland Punta Ona and into the pleasant evening water of El Infiernillo, the Inferno Canal. A southern wind that would last the first three days of our six-day kayak excursion gently pressed our sterns, pushing us with mild gusts across the channel. A steady current and wind, both in our favor, would assist us up the coast at nearly two miles an hour without our dipping a paddle into the sea. This lasted until the eve of "The Day," as we soon branded the epic. We floated in dreamy water in the evening twilight, the retreating sun splashing his deep purples, brilliant golds and oranges across our boats and faces. The painted water and

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