Approaching South Island. At 1830 I sailed into Smugglers’ Cove but made an unpleasant discovery. There was no beach or dock on which to land.

“Come on, you slut! Pick it up before I put a cap in your ass!” This was no idle threat, for a fully loaded Colt Python lay near at hand in a large Ziploc freezer bag. I thought of the kraken lurking below. And then, sotto voce, “If I don’t reach my weapon in time, I hope you choke as I’m going down....” Hours passed, and San Diego fell farther astern as I sailed toward my mysterious destination. I had researched South Island with the aid of two thin library texts, both more than 20 years old, and much can happen in 20 years. The books said a landing could be made on the island’s northeastern side, in a small bay known as Smugglers’ Cove. This was my immediate goal.

The steep slopes of South Island create a large “wind shadow”

Indeed, I was a smuggler myself, carrying a loaded pistol and one marijuana cigarette across the international border into Mexican waters. To any who question the wisdom of this action, I reveal the extent of my preparation. The weed was in a weighted, waterproof canister, ready to be jettisoned at any moment, while the pistol could easily be thrust through an inspection hatch in the deck and be hidden well out of reach under blocks of foam.

The Mexican marines and sailors spend one month in this remote place before being rotated back to the mainland.

At 1730, when I sailed into the lee of South Island, less than a mile from my destination, I experienced a dramatic loss of speed. The steep slopes of South Island create a large “wind shadow” as they rise precipitously from the sea. I could make out the entrance to the cove, and I could see two or three apparently deserted buildings on the crest of the small point that forms the cove’s eastern side. I spent the next hour working my way toward the inlet.

South Island ridge. I thought of the early explorers, the seal hunters, the rum runners, the gamblers, sightseers, fishermen, and naturalists.... How many had stood on this summit?

Half a mile offshore, I saw a baby seal floating on the surface. The top of its head was bare, a circular patch of bone gleaming whitely through the fringing fur. It had been scalped by a propeller. It looked as if it had been dead for several days.

At 1830 I sailed into Smugglers’ Cove but made an unpleasant discovery. There was no beach or dock on which to land. The cove was surrounded by inhospitable rocks swept continually by a strong tidal surge. Though possible, a landing would have been difficult, and I didn’t care to risk the damage to my boat.

As I pondered my situation, I took in the rugged beauty of my surroundings. Deep in the recesses of the cove, a fantastic rock spire rose from the water, an island within an island. At the base of a high cliff on the cove’s western side, the mouth of a large cave yawned in eerie silence. Across the inlet, on the eastern point, a well-worn trail led from the now invisible buildings on the crest to a cluster of shotgun shacks down by the water’s edge. A battered skiff rode at a lonely mooring buoy a short distance from these makeshift wooden structures.

I heard a stone clatter on the trail above; looking up, I saw a solitary Mexican rambling down the trail toward the shacks. Stowing my weapon out of sight, I sailed across the cove to meet him. As I neared the shore, I could make out a rude cement stairway descending into the sea from the shack nearest to the water. This was the “landing” mentioned in the books, these miserable cement steps.

Rounding to, I clambered over the side and stood on the lowest step, a narrow rectangle of cement submerged 18 inches.

This was my landfall. After six and a half hours and nearly 20 miles of continuous sailing, I had arrived on South Island.

Standing in knee-deep water and fending my boat off the rocks to either side, I unbuckled my life vest as the Mexican approached. His expression was mellow; he seemed unperturbed by a solo Laser sailor appearing on the landing, a sailor wearing only shorts and vest under gray and forbidding skies. I hailed him when he came within polite speaking distance.

"Hola. lEsta una playa aqul?"

Nope. No beach.

Wait, what is he saying?

"En otra isla..."

There’s a beach on one of the other islands. That’s a comforting thought, with no wind and just over an hour of daylight left.

I changed tacks. “Vives aqul?"

Yep, he lives here.

“Soy un marinero de San Diego. El viaje en barco usa todo el dla. Necesito dormir aqul por la noche. ”

My grammar may not have been perfect, but he seemed to understand my request, and he nodded his assent.

“Hay otras personas en esta isla?”

“Ah, si."

He turned back up the trail and rambled out of sight. I waited, and soon he returned with two other men. I quickly rummaged through the cockpit, extracted a small waterproof bag, and turned to greet the newcomers.

“Hola. Tengo un regalo para ustedes," I said, whipping out a bottle of rum that I had brought expressly for this purpose. They smiled at the welcome sight of this gift.

“Ah, amigo!"

I reiterated my desire to spend the night on the island.

"No problema. ”

Great. I could stay. Now I had to decide what to do with my boat. We four could easily lift it out of the water at the landing, but there wasn’t any level ground nearby on which to set the thing.

We discussed the relative merits of one or two suspicious rock shelves across the cove. These were slippery with seaweed and obviously dangerous. But I was rapidly running out of options. If I didn’t secure my boat within the next 45 minutes, I would be standing on that miserable cement step all night.

Then I saw the battered skiff riding just offshore. Could I possibly tie my boat to its stern? With much discussion and gesticulation, the Mexicans agreed to this plan.

One man held the bow while I unloaded and de-rigged my boat, passing everything to the men on the stairway above. Water jugs, food parcels, cooler, clothing, tent, fartsack, sail gear — all were hoisted up onto the rocks and dumped in an untidy heap. I kept the canister of marijuana in my pocket, and the pistol remained in its hiding place.

A line stretched between the battered skiff and the nearest shack onshore. One man hauled upon the line, bringing the skiff close inshore; another man grabbed the bowline of my boat and secured it to the stern of the skiff. Once this was accomplished, the line to the shack was released. The skiff drifted lazily to its former position, dragging my boat with it. The task of mooring was complete. Now I could relax.

I dug through my belongings and pulled out an empty plastic canteen. Turning to the Mexican who held the bottle of rum, I motioned for him to pour some alcohol into the flask. “A las seis," I said, referring to the graduated scale on the outside of the canteen. He poured six ounces of alcohol into the container.

Then I opened the cooler and extracted an ice-cold fresh fruit smoothie (Naked Juice, bursting with enzymes, made earlier that day). I added most of this to the rum. Capping the canteen, I shook it vigorously, unscrewed the cap, and took a hefty swig of this concoction.

“Aaaaaaaah!”

My exclamation was met with laughter from the Mexicans, who had been watching the entire process closely. I gestured to the cooler, which was jammed full of smoothies and fresh fruit, but my hosts politely declined.

I broke out two packs of Marlboro 100s, and the men gladly accepted these with murmurs of appreciation.

About 25 minutes of daylight remained. Plenty of time for my purposes. With a drink in one hand and a fresh cancer stick in the other, I chatted with the three men.

I learned that the first man I saw is one of two lighthouse keepers who live on the island the whole year round. They are civilians employed by the Mexican government, and they live in two of the buildings on the crest of the point. The battered skiff is theirs; they use it to check the lights at each end of the island. Within the limits of their work, they are free to come and go as they please, and they alternately make excursions to the mainland whenever they feel the need.

The two other men belong to a small detachment of Mexican military personnel stationed on the island. Six or seven in number, these are ‘‘los marineros y los marinos de la Armada de Mexico, ’’the sailors and marines of the Mexican Navy. They spend one month in this remote place before being rotated back to the mainland. They wear uniforms and bear weapons while on duty, which consists of guarding the island against tourists like me.

One Mexican interrupted the conversation with a gesture toward the settlement above; he was due back at his barracks before nightfall, and he indicated that I should retire there. The other men agreed. Hastily stowing my sail gear and a five-gallon jug of water for bathing in a bug-infested shack, I donned shoes and a shirt, grabbed the rest of my shit, and followed them up the trail in the gloaming.

At the crest of the point, I caught my first glimpse of the barracks. It was a rude cement affair with an adjacent cement rampart. The words “Armada de Mexico” were painted on it in large block letters. A flagpole and a small water tower stood on opposite sides of the entrance.

We walked into a room that served as. a communal meeting place and dining area. A low table stood in the center of the room. Several Mexicans were seated there. The one who held the bottle of rum rattled off a long burst of Spanish, of which I understood not a single word.

I was introduced to Armando, the man in charge, a capable-looking fellow in a class apart from the others. He radiated maritime experience. Armando swooped on the bottle of rum, and I explained my mission over another drink.

"Toda la vida, quiero caminar a la cima de esa colina," I said, vaguely pointing toward the southern summit of the island.

"No problema. ”

I had his permission to explore the island the next day. Now I had nine hours to burn, so I sat down at the table to shoot the shit with these guys.

They were quite friendly. I told them I had been a soldier in the U.S. Infantry, and they asked myriad questions about military life across the border. I answered these as best I could, and in turn I was told of the rigors of life in the Mexican Navy.

These men endure primitive living conditions in the island barracks. There is no running water and no refrigeration; open barrels of tepid water rest on the rampart, and these are occasionally replenished with water brought from the mainland. The troops live on fish, eggs (seagulls’, not chickens’), and assorted canned, dried, and processed trash.

In the moments of twilight before nightfall, the Mexicans fire up a generator. The generator has a timer; this gives them exactly two hours of electricity for light, radio, and television.

Several small rooms provide quarters for the men. These quarters are furnished in the military style, with racks, wall lockers, and a few small tables. The crew’s quarters house the one and only television; leaning against the wall for comfort, viewers share a rack opposite the screen.

I spent an hour talking to the men at the table. After a while, one of them nodded toward a saucepan on the table and asked if I was hungry. I had brought plenty of food, but I looked in the pan anyway; at the bottom was a congealed mess. I politely declined my host’s generous offer and unwrapped and devoured a thick avo sandwich.

After my meal, I asked to visit the bathroom. "Alla, "said one Mexican, pointing toward the rampart outside. I then realized there was no plumbing in the barracks; if one has to piss, one simply walks to the edge of the rampart and urinates into the darkness below. An armed guard stood on the rampart and casually ignored me as I urinated.

Back in the barracks, my hosts ushered me into the room with the TV, where we watched the last half of some B-grade flick in which Jean-Claude Van Damme kicked the shit out of an adversary and subsequently leapt from a burning ship mere seconds before it exploded. I can’t remember whether the movie was in English or Spanish, but Van Damme is Van Damme in any language.

At 2200 the generator died; darkness prevailed, and three or four of the men immediately crashed. I made my way outside, where I stood on the rampart for two hours and talked to several of my hosts, including the armed guard. Thinking of an early start in the morning, I retired at midnight.

Although I had brought my tent and fartsack, my hosts insisted that I sleep in the best rack in the crew’s quarters. It was the only top rack, well out of the reach of insects and other wandering varmints. I didn’t bother to undress or to pull back the covers; I simply lay down on the bunk fully clothed, Nike Airs still on my feet.

During the night, I woke several times. One time I walked partway to the cove to see whether my boat was still afloat. I was standing on the trail, peering into the darkness of the cove below, when I distinctly heard a stone clatter down by the shotgun shacks. I reckoned it was a ghost from the casino, which was built on the eastern side of the cove and enjoyed moderate success during the early 1930s. The casino is long gone, but the low cement foundation and the ghosts still linger. With one last look at my boat, I returned to my bunk.

I woke at 0500 the following morning, quietly gathered my gear, and joined the guard on the rampart. I ate a breakfast of fruit with the guard, and then I walked down to the cove to bathe. I stripped and showered by the landing; holding the five-gallon jug over my head and pouring at intervals, I washed the salt and funk from my body. It felt wonderful. The morning light was fantastic, and the sight of my boat riding high and dry cheered me immensely.

As I was toweling dry, I heard a clatter of hooves on the trail. A wild sheep was moving toward me with a purpose. The Mexicans had mentioned a flock of sheep and several burros that roam the island, but this was my first encounter with one of the beasts. I thought it was going to attack me, so I lifted my towel and snapped it once or twice in a threatening manner. The creature shied away, and then, seeing that I meant business, he turned and bolted up the trail.

I donned fresh clothing, and then I selected the necessary items for my hike: water, juice, Walkman, cassettes, camera, lighter, and nuclear weed were thrust into my backpack. I stashed the remainder of my gear and headed back up the trail toward the settlement.

There wasn’t much activity in the barracks at that early hour, and the guard was busy polishing his boots on the rampart. I quietly passed without disturbing my hosts of the previous night. The guard didn’t say a word.

Fifty meters south of the barracks, I stopped momentarily to examine a basket of seagull eggs that stood by the door of one lighthouse keeper’s squalid abode. These eggs were speckled green and black, and they were roughly the size of large chicken eggs. Their oval shape was slightly different, one end of each egg being more pointed than the average chicken egg.

Moving on, I was soon clear of the settlement. The rest of the island was mine to explore. I followed a well-worn trail that led around the rim of the cove to the light tower on the northern headland. From this vantage point I scanned the northern tip of the island. I also saw the first of many incredibly beautiful vistas of the islands to the northwest. Looking north-northeast, I could see Point Loma on the horizon.

Although the sky was overcast, the morning was warm and pleasant. The lightest of sea breezes kept the ridge temperature at an ideal level. I was quite comfortable in shorts, and the clean air was a soothing treat for my lungs.

I looked at the light tower in front of me. As far as I was concerned, this was the last outpost of civilization. The real adventure would begin now. Knowing one should never bring a foul city attitude into the wilderness, I ejected the punk tape from my Walkman and inserted The Best of Mozart.

Turning southward, I began to traverse the ridge. Sweet strains of classical music caressed my ears as I wandered along the spine of the island, stopping occasionally to suss out flora and fauna, rock samples, and insane 360-degree views. The sides of the island dropped steeply away in places, and I could see a good deal of the shoreline below.

Presently I found myself above a small cove on the island’s western side. This is the only other cove on South Island, and it is a haven for seals and sea lions. I watched several sea lions haul themselves out on the rocks hundreds of feet below. Switching off my cassette player for a moment, I listened to their barking and bellowing as they thrashed about. The cliffs surrounding this cove form a natural amphitheater, and the acoustics are excellent.

I continued southward, and soon I dropped into the saddle between the central and southern peaks of the island. Wheeling round overhead, hundreds of sea birds followed me as I made my way along the crest. Their ground nests cover the southern half of the island, and whenever other creatures pass these nests the mature birds instinctively rise in an effort to distract predators from their progeny. My karma was good, and the birds didn’t shit on me once as I carefully stepped around their nests.

I reached the summit of South Island at 0730 on Thursday, May 28. This was my ultimate destination, this remote, elevated platform. I stood alone in the morning light and basked in the precious solitude.

The nearest human being was over one mile away. Only the birds remained. I broke out the fat spleef and burned it as hundreds of sea birds circled above. Then I sat down and contemplated the magnificent scenery around me.

I thought of the people who have visited Los Coronados since Cabrillo first sighted the islands in September 1542. I thought of the early explorers, the seal hunters, the rum runners, the gamblers, sightseers, fishermen, and naturalists.... How many had stood on this summit? How many had admired this wonderful panoramic view? How many had listened to Mozart as they smoked the killer ganja?

Presently I stood and stretched, and then I sighted the flock of wild sheep foraging several hundred feet below on the western slope. There were 10 or 12 sheep in the flock, all very shaggy. I watched them for a moment, and then I turned to the north.

I studied the island from this perspective as I pounded my last smoothie. The ridge wound northward in a sinuous curve like the back of some huge dinosaur.

I returned to Smugglers’ Cove via a faint trail that skirted the eastern side of the central peak. Along this trail I found evidence of geologic activity; sharp folds and faults revealed various rock strata and a bed of conglomerate yielded some fine samples. I threw a few specimens into my bag and continued on my way.

The trail petered out before I reached the settlement, and I was forced to bushwhack some 400 meters through the scrub. I had covered half this distance when I detected motion on the slope above. Looking up, I saw several burros awkwardly bounding away through the waist-high vegetation.

Emerging from the scrub onto the main trail above the cove, I passed through the settlement one last time. There were only two Mexicans present; the others had walked down to the cove to meet a small skiff that had come from the mainland. I thanked these two men for their hospitality and proceeded down the trail.

I arrived at the landing in time to see Armando and the others unloading the supply skiff. Several bags of groceries and a number of water jugs were hoisted out of the boat and distributed among the men, who promptly disappeared up the trail with their burdens. The unloading was finished, and the skiff pulled away from the landing.

Retrieving my boat from its mooring, I prepared to embark upon my return voyage. Armando helped me rig and load the boat; when all was ready, I thanked him for permitting me to explore the island, and I received a sincere handshake in return. I shoved off the landing at 0930 to my host’s parting words, “Next time, bring more rum.”

The wind was light in the cove, and I slowly worked my boat toward a cat’s-paw half a mile away. As I cleared the cove, several sharp blasts sounded from the settlement; standing on the rampart above, a man was wailing on a trumpet in a farewell salute. He drifted into a sad and lonely dirge, and then I was out of hearing range.

The wind filled my sail as I cleared the northern headland, and I was off on a moderately fast reach home. Three hours later,

I entered San Diego Bay under ideal conditions: sunny skies, 11 or 12 knots of breeze, and a favorable tide. It was paradise.

I hit the beach below the Coronado Municipal Golf Course at 1400. I had accomplished my mission, and I felt like a new man. I was proud of my little boat; she had remained continuously afloat for 26 hours, and she had shipped only a pint of water during this time. Not bad for a 20-year-old Laser.

Since my return, many people have asked me why I made this pilgrimage to the summit of South Island. Why should I even bother to explain my reasons to them? If I had to give an answer, and I usually don’t, I would keep it simple and straightforward.

No wankers. No trash. No billboards. No traffic. No ignorant subhuman fucks killing each other. No trendy little kids spoiled rotten. No pretentious pseudointellectual yuppie fags in cheesy German automobiles. No pinner kooks, no fucking whiners, and, thankfully, no stinking whores.

Just Mozart and the elements. A rare treat for this lover of nature and classical music. Fresh air. Sanity. Solitude. Zen. Freedom. Absolute freedom, precious freedom, which no amount of money can buy in the city of San Diego.