So we got on that plane. It rattled down the runway and headed up to its cruising altitude of 7500 feet. No one ever really showed us the emergency exits or how to work the seatbelts. Since it wasn't pressurized, we didn't need to know about the oxygen masks that would never drop down in front of our faces. We just sat in our seats and read or slept.
About two hours later, we made a couple of steep turns and Sally pointed out the window. "I think we're going to land there," she said. She didn't sound too happy about it. Game, certainly, but with a touch of trepidation. We didn't have too long to worry about it, though because the pilot basically dove the plane toward the dirt strip before pulling gracefully (perhaps miraculously?) up and landing as softly as I've every experienced. Nice.
And then they let us out of the plane.
Desert. As far as the eye could see in three directions. In the fourth was water. We really were in the middle of nowhere. (Refer again to the picture on the previous page...). The amazingly efficient staff then proceded to get our baggage off the plane and get the departing group on the plane. In no time at all, the plane turned around and headed down the runway. The pilot demonstrated no small flare for the dramatic when he pulled his gear up no more than ten feet off the ground. Fancy or not, though, the plane was gone.
Here we were in Baja California Sur. And I was a little nervous.
We ate lunch and visited an oyster farm if for no other reason than to give the camp staff time enough to clean up for our arrival. Soon enough though, we loaded up into four small boats -- pangas, we were told -- and headed for our camp at Punta Peidra (rocky point).
Before we left though, we took time to take a picture of me and Sally on the shore of the laguna (at right.)
