With the morning the flood comes back. The wind picked up and lets the wave rise to immense heights. Meter-high glassy-green walls come hurtling towards us until they overturn and disperse into white foam. With at least equal power they dive under the next wave and flow back into the sea, carrying everything away thats not well anchored. The surf that thunders against the rocks explodes 30 m high, so that even Arminius looks like a dwarf. Pelicans impress me with their flight skills. They surf the incoming waves, they let themselves being pushed by the air cushion, and, right before the wave rolls over, sail out of the deathly tunnel.
For our part, we sail to Todos Santos, that means All Saints, a town with a pretty plaza and Andalusian architecture. The original mission was destroyed like so many others, but eager monks created replacement. Numerous cafés, restaurants and art galleries contend for the visitors dollars. The road to the fresh water lagoon with many waterfowls is suitable only for small cars, not for RVs.
Some few hotels and ranches offer rooms at the beach thats also not suitable for swimming. The town itself was built in the 18th century two kilometres inland at a spring. It unexpectedly dried up two centuries later, brought agriculture to a standstill and made Todos Santos practically a ghost town. In 1981 the spring suddenly bubbled again and gave the town a second life.