The Inland Sea

By Kristen Hayer

Mar de Cortés

The first time I went to Baja, it was Cabo San Lucas — Chris's thirtieth birthday, all fishing boats and cold beer and sunburned celebration. I barely registered the peninsula beneath me. It was a backdrop.

Fifteen years later, Chris invited me back. Not to Cabo — to the fishing village on the Sea of Cortez where he'd been coming for a decade, chasing dirt bike trails with his friends. He knew this place. I didn't know I was about to.

I fell in love on that trip. With the person Chris becomes when he's here, easy and unhurried. And with the land itself — the wide, uncluttered desert running straight to the water, the light that seems to come from everywhere at once.

Now I pay attention differently. Every morning, there are tiny moths on the front porch — the ones who made it through the night, resting on the stucco before the day heats up. I've started thinking of them as the night's survivors, gorgeous and unhurried. Jackrabbits bound through the scrub in that improbable leaping way they have, like they're made of springs. Hawks hang overhead, patient and precise. Coyotes pass through sometimes, indifferent to us, busy with their own concerns.

Every day here is different, a little daring, entirely natural. I started painting it because I didn't know what else to do with the feeling.

These are small paintings — the size of a playing card, each one a single creature or moment. I'm selling them now, and you can find them in the shop. They are the beginning of something larger I'm not quite ready to show you yet. But you'll be the first to know.

Welcome to the inland sea.

— Kristen