MEXICO: The stuff of nightmares and the stuff of dreams
The good news is we didn't end up on the nightly news
We had no idea how short-lived the peaceful scene would prove to be.
In the velvety blackness of night, it was hard to determine where the millions of glittering stars stopped and the festive twinkle lights adorning our caravan began. All five of our off-road vehicles, parked on the sand along the water’s edge, dazzled with palpable holiday cheer. Traditional Mexican party music, a cheerful combination of mariachi and polka, drifted softly from our portable speaker to the beach. Along with the gentle lapping of the waves, it created the perfect background music to the revelry of our ragtag party—eight lovely humans from age 27 to 56 and five friendly pups.
Tacos and margaritas. Bonfires and board games. Laughter and stories.
The calendar told us we were ushering in the new year that night, but our natural surroundings knew better. Here, where the prickly Baja desert meets the tranquil Sea of Cortez, life just goes on, unmarked by specified days and months and years, decades and centuries and millennia. The timeless and complex beauty of our natural surroundings made us feel small, temporal, grateful to be present for any length of time. We settled into the idyllic scene, unaware that the bliss would only last that one night.
The next morning, we slowly luxuriated around camp, making good use of the kayak and the paddleboards, the fishing poles and the beach chairs. A few other travelers pulled up, likewise looking for a good place to camp to start off 2025 on a high note. We chatted with them all in the friendly way travelers do as each one made their decision to either join us on the small beach or continue on in search of something less inhabited.
When a fancy 4x4 pulled up, a custom tricked-out racing truck with all the bells and whistles, several of our party went out to chat, curious about the truck and its people. A few moments after the newcomer’s arrival, I walked over to join them.
A shirtless gringo stood at the center of the circle. His hair was gray, and his leathery brown skin stretched over what appeared to be numerous six-packs of Mexican lager. With great animation and much profanity, he was telling a lengthy and sordid tale of woe. His American English was clear, but unlike the other travelers we’d met, there was nothing light-hearted and friendly about his manner. He didn’t acknowledge my presence as I joined the circle. Odd. My fellow caravan members were quiet, not smiling. Their bodies seemed unnaturally rigid; their faces guarded. Strange.
I walked away again, hoping this man and his fancy truck would conclude this was not the beach for them.
A few minutes later, our team leader came up the steps of Walter, our big yellow adventure truck. He stepped into the Snuggery and closed the door behind himself—unusual in such warm weather. In contrast to his jovial demeanor the night before, his face was all lines and angles. “Hey, guys. Sorry to bother you, but my wife is getting a really weird vibe from this guy. Something is off. The guy drove away, but she doesn’t feel safe camping here anymore with him in the area.”
“So, we’re packing up to go now?”
“Yeah, it’s just that . . .”
We cut him off. “No need to explain. If one of us senses something is off, we all act on it.”
“Exactly.”
“Ok, we’ll start packing up. We can be ready to roll in 15 minutes or so.”
Twenty minutes later, gear all packed up and stowed, we were all on the road. As we drove, all five ducks back in a row again, our handheld radios erupted with static and adrenaline-laced voices. The story came out in hard-to-understand bits and pieces of what each of the various caravan members had observed. We decided to reconvene in person at the brewery/pizza place in the nearby town of Mulegé, half an hour away.
On our way there, the same mysterious fancy truck passed us going the opposite direction on the narrow highway. “There’s our friend again!” the radio crackled.
The pitch of the walkie-talkie conversation rose to a new high.
“It’s like he’s patrolling this stretch!”
“Yeah, there’s no way he could have driven to Mulegé for anything already.”
The brewery was closed. We shouldn’t have been surprised. It was New Year’s Day, after all. We parked our rigs in the sandy lot and sat at their patio tables to piece together the situation.
The guy’s story had been suspicious from the start. It was a fantastical tale of being chased by local cartel members and cornered on a mountain road, way off the beaten path. Cartels are real, of course, and caution must be exercised, but this guy’s story sounded like something out of a B-movie, not reality.
There was also a lot of talk about a woman—specifically his girlfriend, in contrast to his wife—and how she had to run to get away and was now resting in the truck. There was more about his girlfriend, too—highly inappropriate sexual information that normal people certainly wouldn’t share in their first conversation with strangers. Some of our caravan’s members had glanced over to the truck to get a glimpse of her and noted she appeared sound asleep or even unconscious—odd for how pot-holey the road is to arrive at that location. They wondered if she was ok.
After telling his story and getting very little response from our crew, the man had wandered in and out of our line of vehicles, uninvited, inspecting everything with too much interest. At one point he returned to his truck to pour himself a drink, but we noted his eyes roaming meticulously over our camp set-up the whole time.
He was not out for a day of fishing, camping or hiking. His truck was set up for off-road racing, not casual recreation. He had no supplies, no camp chairs, nothing to indicate being a traveler or vacationer.
To make matters even more sketchy, there had also been a second vehicle, a black SUV with tinted windows that hovered briefly at the far end of the beach while the man was at our end. Then, as abruptly as they had arrived, both vehicles were gone.
Then we saw Sketchy Guy on the road again.
What was all that about? The various members of our caravan debated several different theories, which ranged from ‘the guy was just a weirdo’, to ‘the guy is in cahoots with the cartels and was casing us to see if we’d be an easy target.’
Either way, we all agreed we were glad to be rid of him and would feel better moving to another campsite.
One of our five vehicles had planned to return to the United States soon anyway, so they decided to split off from there and head north. The other four of us opted to spend a night or two at a more secure paid campground nearby before continuing south. It wasn’t until we were settled into our new digs for the night—with no weird vibes present—that we all completely relaxed again.
Over dinner at that campground’s restaurant, we discussed how important it is to trust our fellow travel buddies. Whether you want to call it divine intervention, intuition, a gut feeling, or just a vibe-check; if one person senses danger, we all respond immediately and without question. We can piece together the story later and try to determine if there was an actual risk, but the important thing in the moment is to move quickly without taking time to discuss.
Could our encounter with Sketchy Guy have been a bad situation, the stuff of nightmares, a scenario that ended badly and landed us on the nightly news? I suppose. Could it have been nothing or close to nothing? Sure. We’ll most likely never know.
Either way, we won’t let one weird encounter steal our joy and force us into living in fear. It’s not who we are, and it’s not the reality of our overall experience. We make friends with and get advice from the locals, and we enjoy our lovely little life.
We’ve already moved on from there to the most amazing location—a legendary beach at the end of a legendary road where we’ve met the most amazing fellow-travelers.
In fact, I didn’t know if I should even write about that one strange encounter with that one strange guy. We are with a caravan of experienced Baja travelers, and they all agree—that is not the norm.
But what has been the norm for us is not a very good story, according to those skilled at plot lines, and story arcs, and hooks and such. What has been the norm is the stuff of dreams:
Warm days camped along the edge of pleasant water
Cool nights, but not too cool, perfect for sleeping under the covers with the windows open
No annoying insects
No illnesses or intestinal issues
Quiet days of kayaking and paddleboarding, fishing, reading, chitchatting with our camping neighbors, and making jewelry and crafts with whatever materials we can find
Studying the birds—the deep-diving cormorants that disappear under the surface for what seems like far too long, the squadrons of pelicans that soar in precise formation then divebomb into the water with a tremendous splash, the raucous gulls above them sweeping in from every angle at once, the frigate birds, pirates of the sea, with their split tails and stealthy glide poised to swoop down and steal whatever they can; and above them all, the enormous turkey vultures circling high overhead on the currents, scanning the cliffs for carrion
Studying the fish in the perfectly clear, clean water—the schools of silver sardines near the surface darting away from the bigger fish, who in turn are flipping and flopping and occasionally flying away from the larger predator fish who expertly herd them into the protected bays for easier hunting
Celebrating every fish caught, knowing the small ones will serve as bait for the larger ones, which will serve as dinner
One of our caravan family members, Cristin, holding a bait fish she caught while paddleboarding 
Mimi, a friendly Polish teenager who is camping with his family on the same beach as us. He is a master fisherman and regularly catches more than anyone else. Here he is showing a string of trigger fish he caught for his family’s dinner. These fish taste similar to grouper. Daily routines, like hanging wet clothes on a line, sweeping the sand out of our rigs, walking (at low tide) or paddling to the little tienda in the village nearby for supplies, washing our vegetables, cooking up delicious food and then cleaning up—rinsing our dishes first in the sea water to conserve the fresh water in our tanks
Sharing meals with our friends—so many fresh fish tacos, so much joy
Those soft tostada shells are made with nopales—local cactus—which is why they are green. They are delicious, especially topped with locally caught fresh fish. Sipping hot beverages on the sand while the sun rises and then cold beverages when the sun sinks again—admiring the colorful sky show at the start and end of each day
Sitting by the campfire laughing and listening to each other’s stories
Stargazing from our sand chairs to identify planets and constellations, watching for shooting stars and satellites
Sleeping to the sounds of the sea
But in the stuff of dreams, there is no plot. There is no story to tell.
As is my habit, I climbed up through the hatch in my pjs and jacket to sit on Walter’s roof and sip my morning tea. I stayed up there for two hours, alternating between reading and watching the birds and other fishermen. Then, when the sun rose higher, I had to take off my fleece. After I’d read three chapters and my tea was long gone, I came back down to find something else to do.
Yeah, that’s not terribly suspenseful.
At this point I don’t even remember what day it is or how long we have been at this particular campsite without looking for the information on my phone. In this phase of our lives, time is measured simply by the rising and setting of the sun and the rumbling of our bellies.
Maybe soon I’ll have a good story to tell.
Or maybe not.
Either is fine with me, to be honest.
I do hope you appreciate the stuff of dreams in your own life, as well—the parts of life without a plot, the moments where you get to just BE and not worry about DO. It doesn’t have to involve fish tacos and campfires on an idyllic beach. There is beauty around us when we remember to look. I challenge you to find it.
Until next week,
Sherry
Loved both parts of this post. Jim’s back in the hospital. Long story. Please pray for us.
I'm glad that guy wasn't better at hiding what a creep he was! Props to you guys for following your guts and getting space from him.