JD and I retuned to our beach house at Punta Bufeo, Baja California, in mid November, planning to spend five weeks here before returning to Montana to celebrate Christmas and the start of a new year. The house we share here with three other partners is a home away from home, one which holds many memories for us, as well as the many friends and families that have joined us here over the years.

We arrived to find our neighbor Walt hard at work joining his existing house to another house that he recently purchased from its prior owner. The two houses are a mere 5 feet apart, and Walt and wife Tammy have had hopes of acquiring the second house, and joining it to theirs, for years. As with our beach house, the two homes are constructed of rock that is hand-quarried from the desert nearby; Walt hired a member of the Mexican family from whom we all lease the lots on which our homes were built, Benito, to do the masonry work. It was our first time seeing Benito since early last spring, when his wife entered the hospital with COVID. Tragically, she did not survive, and Benito, who also contracted the virus, has long-hauler syndrome, struggling with chronic shortness of breath and fatigue, on top of his grief in losing his wife of more than 30 years.

One afternoon, we learned that Julio, another member of the Fernandez family whom JD knew from his early years on the beach, was back on the beach with his two young boys. JD offered to take them fishing, and the five of us headed out in our boat. Julio’s sons, Julio, 10, and Cesar, 7, were quite excited – and we learned that it was Cesar’s first fishing trip! I jovially pleaded with the boys to teach me new words – silver (“plata”), sharp (agudo). We soon learned that Cesar talks constantly – enthusiastically addressing his father as “Papi”, and rattling off one question after another, in rapid succession, for the duration of our four hours on the water. At one point, after asking permission from their father, I gave the boys Snickers bars – for which they were grateful. After awhile, I noticed young Cesar diligently pick up a small corner of his candy bar wrapper that had escaped from his hands in the wind. I extended my hand to him, inviting him to give it to me, so I could throw it away. He looked at me, sizing up my intentions, and said, assertively: “La basura no va en el aqua!” The trash does not go in the ocean! I was delighted to have understood his Spanish, and even more so, by his commitment to ensuring that he did not place trash in the ocean! I heartily agreed with him, as I securely placed his trash away in our cooler – smiling big and holding my heart as I looked at him, hoping that young Cesar might understand, just a little, how much he had helped to sustain my hope for the world. 

We caught several Sierra (a type of mackerel), ultimately allowing young Cesar to reel in some of the smaller fish. Unfortunately, his brother Julio became seasick, and we headed for home. We invited Julio, Benito, and the young boys over for dinner, and Julio offered to cook for us – serving a delicious preparation of Sierra and asparagus in butter and garlic. We were able to show Benito a photo album that JD and I were given back in the spring by Allen and Diana, from whom JD and friends bought our Bufeo beach house 13 years ago, depicting the house’s construction back in 1995. It seemed to me that Benito’s eyes went a little misty, as he recalled those times long since passed, some 30 years ago.

We were reunited with Traile, another neighbor, who was down with her daughter Maise, sister Romi, and their mom, who is well into her 80s and for whom this trip represented her first trip out of the house since the start of the pandemic. JD and I recalled, along with Traile, meeting Maise years ago when she was a teenager, and she and her mom were down on the beach for Christmas. Now, young 20-something Maisie is preparing to leave home for a new job and apartment with girlfriends, in Seattle. I could feel my age as I beseeched Maisie to slow down and enjoy this time on the beach with her mom, aunt, and grandma – she laughed, and I could tell that she, a bit more mature than my 20-something self, was doing just that. Traile, Romi, Maisie, JD and I took a hike to a nearby onyx mine, where Traile invited us to think of three adjectives for the desert, which we would all share at the end of the day. Arid. Unforgiving. Relentless. Unique. Resilient. Alluring. Reverent.

On Saturday, JD and I retrieved my dad from the airport in Loreto, Baja California. After a few days of sightseeing, and enjoying the town, the three of us – plus our german shepherd Pelli – made the nine hour drive north, back to our house at Bufeo. Dad will stay with us for about a week, then the three of us will drive north, up and across the border back into the states, where Dad and I will catch a plane out of Yuma, Arizona back home to Bozeman, while JD and Pelli complete the 2-day drive. We will reunite for Christmas in Montana with Dad and daughters Anika and Kara, and their families. Life is good.

Shortly after mom passed away in January, at a memory care facility in Bozeman, Dad moved to Ohio, where he is a 10 minute drive from my sister Patricia, her husband Geoff and their kids. Throughout February Patricia and I, our husbands and entire extended family began the work of helping him pack up, close on the sale of the house he shared with mom the past three years in South Carolina, and move away from the only corner of the country, and the world, he had called home for all of his 79 years.

In early March, after burying mom’s ashes in a small service for immediate family, a caravan consisting of JD and our 10-year old nephew Wyatt in our truck and trailer, Patricia and her daughters in their minivan, and Dad and me in his Subaru, headed north, to Ohio. After two flat tires on our truck, one of them a catastrophic blowout, we entered Ohio amidst a torrential downpour late in the evening. We dropped Dad at his new apartment in a senior community, which my sister had thoughtfully decorated, down to the welcome decor on the entrance door. JD and I remained for a few days, sleeping in our truck camper out in the parking lot of his retirement community, just below his third-story bedroom window, to help Dad begin to get settled in before completing our cross-country drive back home to Montana.

Like most couples, my parents were a mosaic of similarities and differences. Whereas mom was quiet, sincere, and tended to gravitate toward familiar people and places, Dad has always loved meeting new people and traveling to new places. He loves people, and storytelling – he can find something to talk about with anyone. No matter what is ailing him, whatever physical or emotional strife he might be navigating, he finds a way to take it in stride, and remember to smile. He has never met a stranger – I cannot count the times he has told me a story of meeting someone at the dentist’s office, or in line at the grocery store, striking up a conversation, and ultimately learning that they have a mutual connection. He is tender hearted, generous, and kind. Seeing him emerge, re-shaped but essentially unchanged, from the weight of his caregiving role has reminded me of these qualities in him. It is a gift to have this time with him, however bittersweet, as I watch him navigate the world more alone than I have ever seen him – having lost his only brother in 2017, followed by his best friend (to COVID) and wife exactly two months apart, this time last year.Watching my father serve as the primary caregiver for my mom through her 10 year struggle with dementia, and after, navigating his grief, has taught me many things about loyalty, patience, resilience, love, and surrender. One day I hope to do better justice to his their story, and my own, but for now, I can simply say that I would do well to emulate the patience and love that he managed to give to my mom, sister and me as his entire world turned upside down, and began to unravel at the seams. With his array of serious health conditions, none of us – himself included – expected that he would live longer than mom. But life has a way of delivering the unexpected, and here he is, approaching his 80th birthday on New Years Eve of this year, having survived mom’s illness and death amidst a global pandemic, and a cross-country move.

And so, with his 80th birthday approaching, JD and I invited Dad down to Baja. He has never visited Mexico, and with the exception of Canada, most of his foreign travel dates back to his military service, in the early 1960s. When we called to extend the invite, he jumped at the opportunity.

Thankfully, my sister readily embraced the idea, and helped him pack – taking him shopping for beach clothes and organizing his belongings into checked and carryon luggage. One of the blessings I cherish most from the past few years, amidst Mom’s escalating dementia and our parents’ deteriorating living situation, all of which was compounded by the COVID pandemic, is the bond it helped me forge with my sister. Like our parents, Patricia and I are in many ways different, and haven’t always been particularly close. But thankfully, about 15 years ago we began to learn how to see our similarities while laughing through our differences, and build a genuine friendship. I could never have foreseen how much I would come to rely upon her, particularly her ability to see and communicate through my insecurities and defenses, as we both confronted the various role-reversals that accompany caring for, and letting go of, aging parents.

JD is another such blessing. He has walked every step of this journey, from purchasing an Alexa device for my parents, which allowed me to communicate with mom by video calls long after she’d lost the ability to use a telephone; enduring my multiple flights back to South Carolina, well before vaccines, and setting up our camper in the backyard for me quarantine; holding me through my sobs after hanging up with my sister last November, finally surrendering to the knowledge that dad could endure it no longer, and it was time to move mom to a long-term care facility; furnishing and decorating mom’s room in memory care in January, while her brother and I flew with her out to Montana from Charlotte, North Carolina; and keeping the vigil with my dad, sister, and me as mom took her final breath.

And so, with this year almost behind us, JD and I walked into Loreto International Airport a week ago on Saturday afternoon, standing alongside dozens of other face-masked people eagerly awaiting passengers. We joked with each other and through text messages with Patricia: would he make it through customs? How many new friends would he introduce us to from the flight? After an hour or so, finally he emerged, weary but seemingly intact, from behind the frosted glass sliding doors. We hugged him tight, and breathed collective sighs of relief. Characteristically jovial, he was tired but ready for a beer. We headed straight for the plaza in downtown Loreto, to El Zopilote Brewing Company, and savored some tacos and beer while watching the end of a youth bicycle race – kids seemingly ranging in age from 4 to 14 zipped around corners, directed by race officials, each bike displaying race numbers on its handle bars. They were serious about the competition, eyes acutely focused on the path ahead of them, and onlookers cheered them on.

We returned to our AirBnB at Casita Campañas, to briefly regroup before dinner. Rested, we headed out again to walk the plaza, do a little shopping, and enjoy food and drinks at Mi Loreto, just across the plaza from the Misión Nuestra Señora de Loreto. Dad and I walked, hand in hand, as I sought to stabilize him over the cobblestone streets and mosaic sidewalks so characteristic of cities as old as this one, all over the world.

We rose the following morning, and went for a walk on the marina, and enjoying a buffet breakfast at a restaurant on the pier. Temperatures rising, we opted to drive out of town and up into the hills to the Misión San Francisco Javier de Viggé-Biaundó, one of the most beautiful missions that we have seen on the Baja peninsula. As we drove the long, mountainous road leading up to the mision, we began to see people walking and riding bikes, and support vehicles carrying drinking water, clearly part of an organized race. When we pulled in to the small town of San Javier, we encountered a hundred, maybe more, spectators, vendors, race officials and participants in the square. The race, we learned, was an annual event, a ride to celebrate Baja’s many missions. We were the only gringos in sight. It was lovely to see so many Mexicans gathered together celebrating their history, and be genuinely welcomed into their midst.

We returned to our AirBnB that afternoon, I went to pick up some groceries for our return trip home, while JD and Dad sat poolside, getting to know some of the other guests, two Canadian couples. By the time I returned, they were all well acquainted, and the guests greeted me with familiar smiles that told me they felt they knew me already. We sat for several more hours, engaged in an animated, probing, genuine conversation that explored topics as varied as politics, history, social media, illness and death, grandkids, racism and racial justice, and travel with a refreshing combination of curiosity and an absence of judgement. The Canadians acknowledged their bewilderment in watching the US, particularly these past four years, amidst the election of Donald Trump, the killing of George Floyd and the ongoing fight for racial justice, and the January 6th assault on our capitol. We each took turns sharing our experiences and opinions, lamenting the increased polarity of our times, as Heather (one of the Canadians) and I passionately advocated for our collective responsibility to restore common ground through embracing the complexity of the issues, listening more and talking less, and resisting the tribalism that inevitably accompanies our search for simple answers, and a clear line between right, and wrong. These days, genuine dialogue is so hard to find and sustain beyond the headlines and sound bytes – it felt good to be reminded that it is still possible.

JD, Dad and I left town the next morning to begin our 9-hour drive north, back to our beach house at Punta Bufeo. JD and Dad passed the time listening to a Steven King audiobook, while I listened to podcasts (thank you, noise cancelling headphones!) and worked on the blog from the jump seat. We arrived at San Ignacio in the mid afternoon, where we had a reservation at Ignacio Springs Resort. We were greeted by Mario, and promptly shown to our rooms – two fully-furnished yurts with tiled floors, box-spring queen and king mattresses, and attached private bathrooms. With breakfast included! What an amazing find – highly recommended!

After checking in at Ignacio Springs Resort, we headed into town for a little more sightseeing, a tour of the misión, and dinner at Rancho Grande. We encountered a town hall in progress, where the Governor of Baja California Sur was speaking and listening to his fellow citizens. After touring the misión, and walking the courtyard where a nativity scene was in process of being erected, we were introduced to the oldest living native of San Ignacio, a gentleman of 92 years!

After a delicious dinner of shrimp, and seafood chile rellenos at Rancho Grande Restaurant and Bar (another favorite), we headed back to our yurts for a restful night sleep, followed by a breakfast of made-to-order eggs, homemade bread and jam at Ignacio Springs Resort. We hit the road again, and arrived without incident back home in Punta Bufeo before sunset. Dad instantly appreciated why we love it here, expressing (-/ most first-time visitors do) that photos don’t do it – the place, or the house – justice. After a dinner of grilled ribeye and shrimp, we walked out into the night sky to show Dad the Milky Way, and Saturn, Venus and Jupiter aligned with each other, and the moon.

While walking the beach with Dad the next morning, we ran into beach neighbors Marty and Kim, and invited them to a dinner of wine and spaghetti. They arrived shortly before sunset, which our group savored up on our deck. We dined by the light of oil lamps, indulging Dad as we listened to his stories about spending the entire month of August at Indian Rocks beach in Florida as a child; his neighborhood routes collecting empty glass Coca Cola bottles and distributing the Atlanta Journal Constitution; and his days in the Navy and the Philippines.

And so, JD, Dad and I are settled in for a week on the beach, closing out a year that began, for us and so many others the world over, with loss. But also, impossible as it is to embrace when in the throes of grief, new beginnings. Dad will return to his new home in Ohio to celebrate his 80th birthday on New Years Eve. And as he approaches that momentous anniversary, I am grateful for the ability to tell him how grateful I am for the power of his example, namely the patience and the love that Dad has given to us all, while helping him to feel loved and supported in return. And, I am grateful to JD, for making it possible to spend this quality time with them both, to slow down and savor sunrises and sunsets, the beginning and ending of every new day, to take nothing for granted, to devote ourselves, with each out and in breath, to the awareness that we are indeed, lucky enough.

“…Grief is like the wake behind a boat. It starts out as a huge wave that follows close behind you and is big enough to swamp and drown you if you suddenly stop moving forward. But if you do keep moving, the big wake will eventually dissipate. And after a long enough time, the waters of your life get calm again, and that is when the memories of those who have left begin to shine as bright and as enduring as the stars above.”

― Jimmy Buffett, A Salty Piece of Land