It had been 18 months since my passport had seen daylight. Travel restrictions, lockdowns and, frankly, some level of complacency were to blame for my silenced exploration. My husband, Benjamin, and I had traded in airline tickets and carry-ons for tents and fishing poles to take our pack of pooches into the wild.
Four trips to the Sequoias had us on repeat, where we settled our tribe at the base of the river. It was there that we read books aloud, smoked fresh trout, counted falling stars and bathed under cascading waterfalls. Days would pass without seeing a soul, to the point that our return to a still-isolated and masked society was slightly depressing.
Being alone — and together — felt right. I suppose we had the pandemic to thank for that. Pre-COVID era, we were constantly on the go, traveling internationally at least once a month for both work and play. Our assignments took us to destinations as near as Costa Rica and as far as Turkey. To date, I had shaken hands with more than 85 countries, but now I was pushing my suitcase into dusty rafters instead of an overhead compartment.
Friends and family knew us as “explorers,” and many asked how we were “holding up” in the midst of global change. Ironically, we were doing just fine.
Together, we spent more time cooking, camping and enjoying life on our farm. Benjamin invested in passion projects like leather work and motorbiking, while I returned to my first love of surfing. Peppered throughout our travel hiatus were house renovations, property upgrades and research on how to better live off the land. This new normal had us soaking in the present rather than clinging to the fantasy of tomorrow.
Then, on month 18, it hit. That little itch that makes you want to cross a border. Flying ... eh, not so much. The thought of lines, masks, protocols, paperwork and possibly quarantine had sent us checking weather conditions and surf reports closer to home. We didn’t need to go far, but we did crave culture — a place where we could hear another language, taste exotic foods and maybe even stand 6-feet-together with strangers.
And there it was ... Mexico.
The neighboring country was nothing new to us, and in fact we’d probably visited Mexico more than 30 times. But this trip would be different. It would be our great resurgence, an awakening that had the potential to reignite our desire to explore.
We decided on a two-part vacation that would take us to the Baja Peninsula for a total of eight days. In between would be a weekend back home in San Diego. Part one would focus on surfing and relaxation near Puerto Nuevo, and part two on culture and cuisine in Valle de Guadalupe’s wine country. Both could be easily reached by car, taking us door-to-door in less than two hours.
To avoid crowds, higher prices, and border waits, we would travel midweek and capitalize on one of the greatest benefits of being self-employed: freedom. Literally days before our trip, we booked a beachfront property in the gated community of Primo Tapia. For just $110 a night, our little casita had two bedrooms, a courtyard and a rooftop deck. It was here where we drank margaritas and watched the ocean swallow the sun.
It really was a magical property. Newly renovated, it had a vibrant Santa Fe style decor with everything from artwork and cookbooks giving a proper nod to Mexican culture. Within minutes of our arrival, we were greeted by “Bill,” a friendly American expat who asked us if we had come from “the dark side.”
Even before we had toured our own place, he had invited us into his, expounding on the benefits of living in Mexico where beachfront property was shockingly affordable and, above all, life was good.
We soon discovered both his claims were remarkably true. We started each morning with a surf session just out front, where waves pitched well overhead. A swell came in days before, and so we paddled our little hearts out, committing to go big or go home.
