The library is well stocked.
One leg of the round trip from San Diego to the lagoon is always aboard a remarkably spacious Convair prop, a meticulously maintained relic from an age when air travel was gracious. The couchlike seating is covered in a nurturing, nubby material. Custom.
In camp the solar energy works and the showers are hot. Tents are large, airy and in good repair. The cots are cushioned with deep mattress pads upon which sit sleeping bags lined with clean linens.
The immaculate outhouses are rustic in the best sense of the word.
When the fishermen arrive in their fiber-glass pangas to pilot the guests out into the lagoon, there is never any crowding, which allows everyone in the boat easy access to the whales. The physical contact between human beings and the leviathans is sustained, intimate and as graceful as palpitating hearts will permit.
As royal terns dive into the fish boil off the panga's starboard, a mother whale passes beneath the skiff and playfully discharges a tuba blast of staccato bubbles. Just then an older woman reaches across the bulwark and rubs the baby calf's head, which is a good three feet above the waterline and 18 inches above the freeboard. The little whale and the visitor look into each other's eyes. The moment stretches, and then extends itself until the rubbery skinned youngster sinks beneath the calm green waters. The traveler, face absolutely rapturous, raises her hand to her chest, the fingers splayed over her heart, unable to find her breath.
It goes on like this day after day. You have never heard such squealing from fully grown adults. Soon the whale calves are given names. Baby Face and Sparky visit daily.
It is always like this.
Rocca remembers a woman who battled and beat breast cancer. When the survivor bent over to touch the whales, everyone in the panga fell silent.
"This woman started sobbing," says Rocca, who describes the moment as her favorite memory.
Karen Ivey was a white social worker in the black side of Chicago when she fell in love with a Tucson adventurer who was forever beginning his Baja sojourns where the road ran out. When the marriage imploded, she took the whale-watching business.
Today, she runs the company, organizing anywhere from 12 to 15 trips per year. Fearful of flying, she also has a home in San Diego occupied by an army of cats that need her attention.
"I don't see the whales very often anymore," laments Ivey.
Instead, she has turned the camp over to Sullivan, a woman who learned to run things when she remodeled homes and worked as a painting contractor. Sullivan operates a garden design business in Portland, Oregon, in the off-season.
But for the past couple of decades, when the whales headed south, so has Peg Sullivan.
In the late '60s, she went to San Felipe, a beach town on the Sea of Cortez that still attracts the off-road, dune buggy crowd.
"I drank tequila and saw God," says Sullivan. "I remembered the tides and a full moon. We waded out to a barrier island and became surrounded by the water. Started coming back regularly in the early '70s. I love this peninsula. The light and shadow that happen here are like nowhere else."
Friends took her into the interior of Baja's rugged mountains to a place called Rancho de San Gregorio.
"It was the Garden of Eden to me," remembers Sullivan. "The water moved through hollowed-out palm trunks and bamboo. Over 20 to 40 years they'd packed in soil for gardens."
By 1985 she was leading mule trains into the Sierra San Francisco for travelers who wanted to see the remarkable pictographs painted on enormous cave walls by early dwellers.
Not everyone welcomed her moxie. As it does so often, particularly in the context of eco-tourism, the involvement of Americans, the mere musk of their presence outside of the States, raised red flags.
"I had a classified ad in a magazine on archaeology, and it provoked this incredibly snippy note from a guy in Australia about how Americans ruin everything with their attitude when they show up. Americans are the worst destroyer of sites. What safeguards had I put in?"
Eventually, the work burned her out.
Waiting on people, even those who fancy themselves low maintenance, generates a level of high exhaustion that is pandemic among those who run tours. Ivey herself often sounds as if she is at the end of her rope.
"I keep threatening to quit," she says. "The stress is killing me."