Legends say that somewhere along the rugged coast of Baja California, an entire fishing village disappeared overnight.
The boats returned empty.
The houses stood vacant.
The townspeople were just — gone.
Today, Bahía Perdida proudly sells itself as “Mexico’s Most Haunted Bay,” complete with ghost ship tours, commemorative shot glasses, and enough dubious nautical merchandise to sink a cruise liner.
Naturally, I booked a ticket.
The “Ghost Fleet Expedition” began with a stern warning from our captain, a leathery man named Paco who assured us that some vessels still vanish without explanation. He then spent the next twenty minutes trying to start the engine, which seemed to vanish into a thick cloud of diesel fumes instead.
We pushed off into the bay in a boat that looked like it had been patched together with duct tape and good intentions. The tour promised sightings of spectral schooners, phantom fogs, and “whispers on the wind.” What we got was three hours of floating aimlessly in the sun, one plastic lawn chair collapsing under a tourist from Denver, and the ghostly sound of Paco swearing in Spanish when the radio gave out.
At one point, the guide pointed excitedly toward a “shadow ship” on the horizon. It turned out to be a weather balloon.
Later, a murky shape under the water was breathlessly declared to be “the lost Armada of Bahía Perdida.” It was a sunken jet ski.
Back on shore, the souvenir shop offered t-shirts reading “I Survived Bahía Perdida” — ironic, considering the only thing most tourists survived was mild dehydration and crushing boredom.
If there are ghost ships in Bahía Perdida, they have better things to do than appear for fifteen bucks a head and a free warm bottle of water.
If you go, bring sunscreen. And maybe a raft, just in case.