Over-keen in the undertow

It seems only minutes ago that Dave had to talk me into renting snorkeling equipment and boarding a little boat to Land's End peninsula, also known as the Lover's Beach of Cabo San Lucas. Rose pink clouds were tainted a purple hue as they swirled above our destination. I was determined to be a good sport: I kept telling myself I could stretch a little and accompany Dave on this adventure.

Once on the beach I weighted my towel against the gathering wind with discarded garments. Putting on the snorkel and goggles felt foreign, but not nearly as awkward as walking into the wet unknown with flippers flopping before me. Yet, the minute I hit the warm water, I was home. I skipped out a few steps until almost completely submerged, then, like a mirth-filled mermaid, joined the myriad fish searching for food. I swam surrounded by multicolored beings of bone and sinew, layer upon layer around and below me, attracted by the frozen peas we'd brought as bait.

An hour and a half later, high as a kite from intimate connection, I returned to my towel, threw off my plastic accessories and crossed the 35 feet dividing the Sea of Cortez from the Pacific Coast. Without regard for the now menacing clouds above, I ran out into the waves. The riptide pulled me down and battered me. After my third lost inhalation I turned and saw Dave sprinting toward me. Then I was under another pounding wave, holding my breath, feeling my dear brother Steven, dead only 40 days, whose ashes we'd just placed in the same ocean 1700 miles to the north. Dave lost his expensive snorkel and facemask as I flailed.

This was the day my life was saved.

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