In the spring of 2016, our son invited us to join his family for Easter break. Though well-traveled, a trip to Cabo San Lucas was new territory — something worth looking forward to. My ancestors are from Mexico, yet personally, there are no deep roots there — no tías or tíos, no cousins to visit. Whatever cultural connection exists came not from the land itself, but from the traditions our mother passed down, a woman born and raised in the United States. Everything heard about Cabo San Lucas pointed to one thing: a playground for singles, a party town. What no one had mentioned — and what would soon become very clear — were the dangers lurking in its waters.
The Arrival
The airport was bustling from the moment we arrived — signs everywhere welcoming tourists, and scores of locals competing energetically for attention, each eager to sign up the next group for a popular excursion. The atmosphere was a bit overwhelming.
Getting to the car rental office brought its own set of frustrations. The staff attempted to charge far more than the agreed-upon price — a shady but apparently common tactic. Our son Mikos stepped in and handled it with confidence, though the language barrier occasionally required some translation assistance to keep things from escalating. Enterprise Car Rental in Mexico operates quite differently than its American counterpart, and since no one was looking to start an international incident, a reluctant compromise was reached and we moved on.
The Chain Letter
Our granddaughter Maddie was worried sick — she had broken a chain letter and feared the worst. A gentle reminder set things straight: as Christians, superstition has no hold over us. God is in charge, not chain letters.
Or so it seemed.
Upon arriving at the hotel, the luggage locks refused to cooperate. Every combination tried — birthdate rearranged in every possible sequence — yielded nothing. Meanwhile, the rest of the family was already downstairs, buzzing with excitement to get to the pool. Without access to the suitcase, the bathing suit was as out of reach as the water itself.
Finally, Mikos called up to the room. “What’s taking you so long?”
The reply came quickly: “Maybe Maddie should have sent that chain letter after all — I can’t get this lock open.”
After nearly an hour and the patient assistance of a hotel porter, the suitcase surrendered. Everyone was finally reunited at the pool. A stroll along the beach followed, and Mikos and Wil eventually waded into the water. The waves looked a little rough, which was enough reason to stay on shore and watch. That instinct proved wise — the current swept Wil under without warning, dragging him down before releasing him. After that, Wil wanted nothing more to do with the Sea of Cortez.
Resort Piña Colada
Resort life has never been particularly appealing — the sun has taken its toll over the years, and the whole bathing suit affair is, frankly, overrated. A good piña colada, however, is another matter entirely.
Just as a comfortable position had been found in the lounge chair, drink in hand, an uninvited guest appeared — a large lizard creeping deliberately toward the chair. Petrified is not too strong a word. As it turned out, these reptiles are simply fellow sun-seekers, scattered everywhere across the resort grounds, completely unbothered by the human crowd and posing no threat whatsoever. Still, no one warned us about the lizards.
Time To Pray
The following day, the rental car was put to good use with a drive toward San José del Cabo. The village itself was worth every mile — beautiful, unhurried, and full of quiet charm. That morning, however, there was friction between Mike and me. The exact cause has since faded from memory, as petty grievances tend to do, but the tension was real enough.
Then came the steps of Parroquia San José.
Walking into that humble, beautiful church, a simple prayer was offered — asking to be freed from the spirit of anger that had taken root that morning. Something lifted. The church, unpretentious and welcoming, provided exactly what was needed: stillness, grace, and the presence of the Lord. There is something profound about that reality — that in any corner of the world, one can walk through a door and find the Tabernacle of Jesus Christ waiting. No appointment necessary. No explanation required. Just mercy, freely given.
The Bathing Suit-Cover Up
The next day, the pool held no appeal. Glancing out the hotel window, the lounge chairs lining the beach looked far more inviting. Mike agreed, towels were gathered, and down to the beach we went.
A recent purchase had quickly become a travel essential — a bathing suit cover-up with flattering slip-on pants that had done wonders for confidence. No discomfort, no self-consciousness. Just ease. A spot was chosen, towels laid out, and for a while, there was nothing to do but rest.
The Red Flag
Eyes opened from a light rest to an unexpected sight directly overhead — a red flag snapping in the wind. In English and Spanish, the message was unambiguous: No swimming allowed.
The sun, however, was relentless. After a while, the heat made a brief wade in the water seem entirely reasonable — just enough to cool off, nothing more. Walking down toward the shoreline, Mike gradually disappeared from view, and the only thing clearly visible was that red flag, whipping urgently in the wind as if trying to say something worth hearing. A few local vendors nearby were quietly displaying silver jewelry, but otherwise, it was still — just the sea, the flag, and one very warm traveler walking toward the water.
The water felt so good on my feet that going in deeper seemed harmless enough. It took only seconds for the sea to decide otherwise.
Round One
Without warning, a violent undercurrent seized control. There was no fighting it — my body was dragged deep, tumbling without direction or footing. At some point, my head struck the ocean floor. Shock gave way to panic. Coming up for air was impossible; the current tossed and held me with what felt like heavy, deliberate hands pressing down from above.
Then, in the chaos, came stillness — not of the water, but of the soul. A prayer rose up from somewhere deeper than the fear. God, help me.
And just like Jonah, the ocean spit me out.
Staggering back toward shore, dazed and beaten, there was barely time to find my footing before another sight registered — my beloved cover-up, that dear and faithful travel companion, being pulled back toward the waves. What happened next defies all reasonable explanation.
Back in I went.
“Oh hell no — you’re not getting my cover-up!”
Round Two
The ocean, apparently, was not impressed. It took me again. This time was worse. With one hand clutching the cover-up and my body completely surrendered to the current, there was nothing left to do but pray a second time — and mean it even more than the first. Once again, mercy prevailed. The sea released its grip, and this time I reached the shore for good.
Still dazed, still half-running from the water’s edge, a voice cut through the noise. A nearby vendor — a man selling silver crosses — approached and said calmly, in Spanish:
“Señora, necesitas una cruz más grande.”
“Lady, you need a bigger cross.”
I finally made my way back to Mike, who took one look at me and said, “What the hell happened to you?”
“I almost died while you were out here sunbathing!”
I was a complete mess. Sand was everywhere — lumped inside my bathing suit, ground into my hair, packed deep into both ears. An outdoor shower nearby offered some hope, but it was useless. No amount of rinsing was making a dent. I was essentially a walking bag of sand, and with every step back toward the hotel, I could feel the gritty weight of the ocean still clinging to me, unwilling to let go. My body had collected enough sand to make a sand castle.
But the sea had let go. Twice.
San Lucas had been watching over me that day — of that there was no doubt. And to my guardian angel, a sincere apology was long overdue for putting her through all of that. But also — and this felt equally important — a word of thanks. Because somehow, against all odds, she helped me get the cover-up back too.
