SURGE

I turned, and my heart skipped a beat before Jill’s head emerged from a narrow gap in the rocks below. The surf was growing more powerful, and every few minutes a wave would crash against the slippery ledge and send us scrambling for the shore. She crawled onto the outcrop to hand me a glossy black shell, and I emptied a few more rocks from my pocket to make room. 

The storm was closing in fast, and the wind had intensified with the rising tide. At one point, a gust picked up my notepad and sent it skittering down the beach. Seagulls squawked and scattered, and shore crabs sought higher ground. Our planned trip up the coast was looking less likely by the second, so I snapped a couple more photos and turned us back south toward the condo. The itinerary for the week had taken a sharp detour, and it was a welcome change.

SOLACE

Inside, we took stock of what we had left in the kitchen: tortillas, chorizo, avocados, a few eggs—the basics we needed for a batch of chilaquiles to celebrate Charlie’s birthday, even though plans had changed and he’d no longer be there for it. Kristen and Bella shuttered the storm doors, and we settled in to wait things out. The wind roared loudly outside as we switched on the news, eager for updates on the storm’s progress. The power flickered, then died.

Growing up in North Carolina, I owed a lot of core memories to hurricanes. Mom and I would sneak outside during the storm’s eye to check on an elderly couple down the street, and I remember marveling at the uprooted trees and downed power lines around our neighborhood. I’d lost her to cancer when I was eighteen, and violent storms had become a rare connection to my childhood following my move to sunny Colorado. The nostalgia comforted me as the winds died down outside, and I ventured back onto the beach in keeping with tradition.

FOOTPRINTS

Boone joined me and we meandered along, stepping over palm fronds, driftwood, and bits of debris scattered by the raging tide. Our rusty Spanish got us through a chat with a national guard team patrolling the shoreline, and they kept a close eye on us as we inched closer to the water. I took the chance to test out the weatherproofing features on my new camera, wading carefully into the surf to freeze the sea foam crashing onto the sand.

Still kicking myself for missing a shot of a humpback whale that morning, I took out my notepad and jotted down some thoughts. Travels had blurred together since photography became my full-time job, and I was trying to write more in order to add some sensory details and personal anecdotes to the repository of memories I built with my camera. Cataloging my adventures in analog felt more grounded and personal, and these were moments I didn’t want to miss.

DRIFTS

Time moved slowly as we made our way back up the beach. The site of a sea turtle release days prior was unrecognizable now, transformed by the chaos of the storm. Boone and I wondered aloud how the baby turtles would survive the threatening seas, and Siri assured us that Loggerheads were remarkably resilient—well-adapted to high surf, with migrations covering vast distances each season. They’d likely already made it to deeper, calmer waters, and would be well on their way up the Pacific coast toward California or Japan.

I thought about how this trip was a deviation for me as well; this time of year was normally reserved for my own migration north for the winter, in pursuit of colder climates and remote landscapes after the tourist season had waned. Being on the road had its pros and cons, and I tried my best not to take my travels for granted. I’d found myself in corners of the world I’d only dreamed of, but experienced a shift lately as I felt myself drawn to places that challenged my usual narrative.

BALM

Baja owed its vitality to tourism, but the locals here were immensely proud of the land, and everyone was offered a warm welcome. The breathtaking natural beauty was enriched by a vibrant community tradition, and it was in these shared experiences—buying horchata from a stand by the water, or picking up trash on the beach—that I felt the true heartbeat of this place.

Walking into town after the storm subsided, the indomitable spirit of Baja Sur shone brighter than ever. Grocery stores remained closed, but vendors roamed the streets with pushcarts, selling fruit and paletas while residents worked to clear the sidewalks of scattered sandbags and clay shingles. Neighbors exchanged nods and smiles, a silent acknowledgment of strength and shared experience. Baja, like the sea turtles, seemed built to weather any storm, and had a charming way of making survival feel like a shared accomplishment.

Originally written for Field Notes in October 2023.