Several of us have shared the sentiment that we felt we'd finally arrived in paradise here on the Bay of the Dead. Perhaps it actual does deserve its attempted new name of Ensenada des los Suenos, or Bay of Dreams. Our anchor chain shows the way through clear water down to a sandy bottom that's mottled with broad patches of dark coral. The sandy beach curves gently across the north side of the bay and is fringed on top with brush against a backdrop of small mountains. There's a beach mansion and a resort complex a stone's throw away to the west and a fine cantina two throws away to the east.

Cruising boats from 30 to over 50 feet swing on their anchors over the rippling blue surface and dinghies ply their way to and from the beach, taking sailors ashore for beers, fantastic chile rellenos, or ordinary shell-collecting strolls. The locals trailer their pangas to shore, launching them onto the bay for fishing and dive trips out around the point. The early morning breeze pipes up with the dawn, then gets lazy around 10 for a nice, long siesta.

We went snorkeling the first day here. We'd dinghied over to scope out the rocky patches toward the east arc of the bay, but local knowledge said the point to the west was the ideal spot, dappled with fish of all colors and sizes. It proved to be true. Tiny, bright blue fish not much bigger than my thumb nail peered out from crevices of rock and around fingers of coral, flitting coyly from shelter to shelter. Awkward blue box fish covered from gill to tail fin with white dots hovered in plain sight, too clumsy and too bulky to hide. Strangely, their bigger cousins, the puffer fish, were better at concealing themselves. Wearing coats of army camo that gave them moderate visual cover, they were generally found tucked behind a forearm of coral or rock and glared back at you with huge, dark eyes that were somber and afraid. Yellow and black angel fish trailing little white pennants from their dorsal fins paraded in groups of three, four, maybe five, keeping a nervous eye on the gigantic human flotsam invading their territories. Long, slender pipe fish hovered everywhere, almost translucent blue with their long seahorse snouts and fins so clear that you almost couldn't see them fluttering.

There were clouds of little yellow and black wrasses that ran cleaning stations for other fish. I noticed one of the bigger fish, I don't know what type, but it was generally hatchet shaped, flat in the vertical and about the size of my hand, that was hovering above a coral head with a team of the wrasses all around. As I approached the little fish scattered and the bigger fish sidled away, turning from subtle shades of ivory and blue to a pearly white as it left. I wondered if its colored state was a solicitation for wrasse services and its white an attempt to look invisible floating above the sandy bottom.

You'll understand, then, why snorkeling has become a daily pastime. We went yesterday, too, and I'll go today. Kevin put on his scuba gear yesterday afternoon to replace the zinc on his bow thruster, but that didn't take long and he explored under his boat. He happily told me of friendly little puffer fish who, unlike the big ones in the rocks, were milling about his anchor chain and would come up to him to explore his face mask and play with his fingers. Maybe I'll ask if I can borrow his dive gear to see for myself.