The first night here — we stayed four total — I woke around 3am to pee out some Tecate and nearly stumbled into the ocean in the process. The tide was hundreds of yards from our van when we went to bed that night. It was twenty feet when I woke. I was shocked, nay, surprised. But more tired. I sauntered back to the gaucho bed in the van.
San Felipe boasts the third largest tidal costal bore in the world, according to the Chicago snowbird Sharon with the pastel cat sweatshirt we met the next day. The bay is also the sandiest and shallowest I’ve seen. One morning, I paddled boarded what seemed like a mile off the shore, and I could still see the ocean floor. As such, the difference between high and low tide is also the most dramatic I’ve seen. It’s science, I suppose. Less slope equals less depth which equals more horizontal ground to cover. San Felipe has a lot of ground to cover. When the tide comes in, it marches right toward you, like an army of miniature waves attacking the shore. It’s incredible to watch. Over the course of a few hours, the tide marches a few hundred yards.
Prior to San Felipe, I’d never watched the tide come in. At least not fully in. That’s likely for two reasons: it’s never been that apparent to me, and I struggle to absorb the moment. The former, as mentioned above, was easy to witness in San Felipe. The latter, I’ll likely spend my life working on. I’m hoping this trip will help. I spent nearly three hours the next morning doing nothing by watching the tide — and peeing out the last Tecate in my system.