Adventures in Baja California

We spent over two hours descending the black cliffs and preparing for the dive. Now, finally in the tumultuous, murky waters, I squint through my diving mask as one of my friends—I can’t tell which, I haven’t color-coded them by goggles yet—fires a spear at the large, flat, blue-and-yellow fish squirming upwards in a cascade of sand. I’ve finally gotten the hang of the snorkel and fins, but my mask keeps slipping, letting in stinging, cold saltwater. Chris? Gianmarco? Chris—swims up and adds the bleeding creature to the string of them trailing the kneeboard rigged for the purpose.

As the only non-scuba diver, I’ve been given command of the vessel and its booty, a task that makes me more than a little nervous. I’ve never seen blood in the water without shrieking violins announcing the approach of a species keen on reintroducing humans to the food chain.

Though a tiny part of me thinks "you should be so lucky," we’ve already unearthed a grumpy orange octopus, two eels, and more tropical fish than I’ve seen in a lifetime of waiting rooms. No sharks necessary, please and thank you.

A happy thrill passes over me. How did I get here? I’m a risk-manager; I'm snorkeling because I refuse to scuba for the first time so far from a hospital. After hearing warnings of violence in Mexico, Gianmarco had to assure me we’d be fine. "That's in the more populated areas. We'll be in places no one's heard of." He warned instead of long stretches without a proper shower, of slow going across the hot, unpaved desert. It sounded uncomfortable and a little scary. Yet here I am.

Though we will see sharks, they will be harmless and small; however, the jellyfish I don’t see will set my lips on fire for an hour and a half. Poncho, the sun-shrunken man who lives on this gloriously lonely white beach will laugh and say "Beso de una medusa," then search his small quarters for Benadryl cream while I wait on a throne made of tires. The Montero will break down, leading to an unplanned stay in Guerrero Negro: margaritas, karaoke, boredom, and stray dogs.

When I expose myself to the dangers of the unknown, yes, I get stung, and frightened of sharks and smugglers, and frustrated with dust. I also get campfires, grilled fish and cerveza and billions of stars. I get a remoteness hard to find in the modern world and a connection to people living vastly different lives. I find dolphin skeletons in the sand, and memories that stand just as mythical and bare against years of the quotidian.