Nearing our last hop down the outside coast of the Baja peninsula, we stopped into Magdalena Bay. Apparently it is as big as San Francisco Bay, but it has almost no population around it. It is protected from the sea by a line of steep hills, while to the north, east and south the land is low and sandy. Around the bay are several fishing villages, a small naval station, and a small industrial port. In past centuries it was used as a whaling station, and there are visible remains of a phosphorus processing operation. Many of the place names are British because the bay was extensively surveyed by them in the 19th century. Seeing Belcher's Point, Man of War Cove, Deering Bluff, and Point Ricketson on the chart strikes one as a little incongruous given the barren Baja terrain and the sheer number of saints one has encountered getting there.

We imagined that Puerto Magdalena, a fishing village in Man of War Cove, would be a place we'd like to stay for a few days. The Baja Ha-Ha stops there, and we'd heard that it was a pleasant, protected anchorage. Instead we found it somewhat lacking in charm, and a bit too breezy and cool for our liking. Our friend John Paul writes us that "it's a bit of a wrecker's yard" which is about right. The seventy or so houses comprising the village are aligned with the beach, but there are no streets. A few cars have been brought out on homemade barges and there's a surprising amount of traffic coming and going, as people drive to the tiny grocery store or the school or the spot on the beach where they've left their panga. It is difficult to get rid of waste, so there are rusty refrigerators and broken chairs and abandoned houses and smashed crockery strewn throughout. There is an elementary school, but for high school the families move to cosmopolitan Puerto San Carlos, a long panga ride away.

The evening we anchored off the beach, we were dazzled by the many lights of the village, and the number of people out and about on the beach. But when we looked again, around 10:30, the village was entirely dark. The municipal generator evidently turns all the lights on at dusk, and then shuts off at around 10:30, so the village is very bright (and noisy from the generator) until suddenly all is plunged into darkness.

The following day we dinghied to shore and bought some groceries from the yellow house at the east end of the beach--the woman broke one of the six eggs we bought when she dumped the plastic bag on the counter--and 60 liters of water, as our tanks were dry. The village has no local source of water, but the Navy supplies them with it every month, and apparently they have enough extra to help travelers in need.

And that was it for Puerto Magdalena. We strolled around amid children asking for candy and pencils, the currency of gringos and children. The fishermen we passed would nod but not speak. A garden of whale bones decorates the spot in front of the restaurant (closed), and a couple of ruined cement buildings suggest past industry. But there was little to keep us there more than a day, so we poured the water in our tanks, repaired another broken sail slide, and got ready for the 170-mile leg to Cabo San Lucas.