Cabo

I am a reluctant traveler. But Nik's death has at least taught me to jump over my fear, to say yes to adventure and to friends and family. And so, without any hemming or hawing, I flew to Cabo with my daughter DaNae, fabulous friend, Monique, and her daughter, Kendra.

Cabo was wind and surf and sand and alcohol. The Sea of Cortez stretched out across my horizon. Ad infinitum. Everyone went out drinking but I sat inside and relished some alone time to savor the experience of walking through shop after shop where vendors said, “Senora, come inside to buy something you don’t need,” and the heat of the day sat on my shoulder like a warm hand.

I kept seeing Nik in the Cholo’s, the Vatos, the surfboarders and the ninos that sold trinkets on the beach. I saw him in the dark eye brows, the taste of seviche, the full Mexican smiles and in my daughter’s grin. And thoughts of Nik always leave an empty space, a question mark, next to my heart.

The sand filled my sandals and stuck to the crevisses of my skin, between my toes and in my underpants. A textured roughness that reminded me, yes, I am alive here in this dimension, with the blue skies burning my skin, trudging over this terrain, tripping over cobblestones, trotting horses with the sunset, snorkling with sea lions and skipping with waves.

We took a glass bottom boat to the great arc that divides the Sea of Cortez from the Pacific. I saw Nik on top of the arc—a halo, an angel, an illusion created by the sun filling this place in time with his memory. And I wish he was there on that spot, laughing and body surfing with his sister, the two of them tied together into eternity, safe and sound.