I’m in Cabo San Lucas. It’s an island town at the very tip of a special area in Mexico called Baja California which literally translates to “below california”. It’s not quite Tijuana or Rosarito, and it isn’t quite a coastal town in California like Santa Cruz or Monterey.
The main economy of Cabo is tourism, and with it 3 million visitors from all over the world each year. A bus ride from the airport reveals hotel resort after hotel resort, almost like a white picket fence.
Like everywhere in the world, you can find good people and dishonest people. Folks that are secure in their self, and those that are insecure. You’ll also find smiles and frowns.
On August 19th, 2020, Hurricane Genevieve (how do they come up with these names!?) hit Cabo San Lucas. Raining for over 24 hours, and driving up a swell of violent winds and torrential rains into the wee hours of the early morning.
As I sit here writing on top of the “Pedregal” area of Cabo, quietly situated in a safe neighborhood overlooking a panoramic view of the town that’s only a 10-15 minute walk from the city center, it’s hard not to feel relief that I wasn’t terribly impacted by the storm. I’ve lost water and electricity throughout the day, but in all, my home isn’t flooded, I have a roof over my head, and I’m sitting here comfortably feeling the breeze.
On the other hand, there is a palpable sorrow that eclipses my every thought, feeling, and sense. You can tell that the collective community is hurting. The smiles and joy of what was just yesterday, a city filled with laughter (and excitement), have disappeared and transformed into a painful solidarity; a painful acceptance that nature had just done its work and could have changed the future for many. It’s a communal bond that is driven by grief. It’s a grief of what was, and perhaps what is to come. The dirt streets are laden with mud with streams of dark brown water, drowning even the cleanest shoes / toes under several feet of sediment with every step. Some businesses were so impacted, that all of their inventory was flooded and destroyed.
Stores and restaurants are boarded shut. The wealthier establishments protected by wood and waterproof filling covering the gaps. But for the majority, it’s a wasteland with people starting to assess the damage, and starting anew. Some show signs of an optimistic side of life, hurriedly starting to set their wares out to the sun, while others slowly gather their thoughts and stare blankly at what’s in front of them.
Under it all, there is a resilient thread of rebirth and renewal. With the rains came destruction and terror, but it’s also revealed a period of reflection. Reflection of what we’re meant to do in life, whether our priorities are truly meant to be priorities, the difference in “wealth” and how or how not it affects humans across the world, and lastly, whether we’re giving all that we can to live vivaciously.
I didn’t expect to find such a sign or experience when I bought a one way flight to stay in cabo and work from home for a month. I was expecting a retreat, and a time to shed away layers of myself that I have since outgrown. I was expecting to be enamored by the city, the ocean, and the energy of travel. I certainly was, and did during my first two days. But, I also discovered solidarity. I also discovered that we can be beat down as people, but rise again. We may not all choose to live in a hurricane prone part of the world and it may not be within our power to influence what’s around us, but what we can do each day, is light up and glow. Light up and glow to the communities around us, our friends & family that influence us, and our personal life mission.