The plan B

Our trip to the Yucatan Peninsula was nearing its end; after several rainy days the sun was out.
My partner, Matt, and I took a taxi from Tulum pueblo to the beach strip. We had to get some colour before returning home.
We arrived to the deserted beach framed by bent palm trees. After? warming up under the sun for no more than a couple of hours, the air suddenly changed. Dark clouds approached from the horizon: We hoped they were just passing by.
In a matter of minutes, the ominous wall of water drenched the shore. Before we could grab our stuff, we were soaked. Plan B was a visit to El Camello ¬– a seafood restaurant with amazing food that catered to locals.
There were no taxis or people in sight, only a beat-up VW Jetta parked outside a beach hotel. The owner saw us. He could tell we had been hit by the storm.
"You guys need ride?" he said in English. He was heading to the town
The Jetta was missing its door handles – it was one of those cars whose owner only knows the intricacies that make it work. He stuck his hand through the passenger window, pulled a metal wire exposed by the missing door panel and invited Matt to take the front seat. He opened my door from inside the car.
The man was friendly and his English was not bad; we talked about the unfortunate weather pattern, which had been hovering over the area for weeks. As we approached the pueblo, he shared about the power of prayer and how the Lord had turned his life around. He then invited us to join him in prayer. By now we both had noticed the Bible placed over the cracked dashboard.
"Sure!" I said. As long as we got to the town, I'll repeat his prayers. My customer service training had taught me to play along with certain people in order to avoid conflict. When Matt refused to pray, I whispered from behind his ear, "Just do it. For fun!" but he said, "No way!"
The man's insistence turned into an argument.
Matt asked the man to stop the car but the man kept driving. We arrived at the intersection with the main strip in Tulum pueblo. The argument was not dwindling. Our agitated driver suddenly careened into oncoming traffic. Time stopped for a few seconds. The other driver honked and slammed on the brakes, stopping inches from the Jetta's passenger's side. The two drivers stepped from their cars; the other driver ran to inspect her car's front bumper, insisting they had made contact. All the while, we managed to (somehow) open our doors and creep away. El Camello was in sight.