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The air is soft. The light ripples across a jade
green-dark blue sea. The sky is soft too. The puffs of
clouds that hid the sun as it rose over the Sea of
Cortez all fiery red and molten gold are gone now. The
sky has colored itself a perfect pale shade of
periwinkle, spreading endlessly overhead until it’s
confronted by the jagged mountain range of the Sierra
de la Laguna. Layered back in rows, shaded dark to
light, the edges of these mountains captivate me,
begging me to paint them. They are green this year,
unbelievably so after two years of ample rains. Hidden
in their nooks and crannies are streams, natural hot
springs, waterfalls. There are rancheros scaled up the
steep sides of their peaks where every variety of
tropical fruit and flower grows in abundance.
As I walk along this beach, my feet crunch against the
coarse sand. A warm wave splashes over them and snakes
up my legs. It’s December, yet it’s warmer than most
summer days in Southern California, where I used to
live. I scoop up the tennis ball and toss it into the
waves so my dog, Cassie can fetch it. A tiny thing,
she flings herself into the face of the wave with the
determined force of a dog three times her size. I
smile to myself. How blessed am I to live here.
I snorkeled for an hour this morning. I saw three
eels, a sea turtle and two stingrays, along with the
usual bounty of parrotfish, needlefish, pompano,
triggerfish and so many others I couldn’t begin to
name them all. I swam further today than I have
before, alone in the sea, delighting in the warm-cool
softness of the water, the push-pull of my arms
against it, enjoying the tension in my legs as I
kicked along. My mask leaked—a lot—but it gave me the
excuse to stop every so often, to look again at the
mountains rising up out of the desert—stark and
adamant against sea and sky.
For years I dreamed of living in Mexico. It began on a
vacation to Puerto Vallarta in 1983. I was 30. My
boyfriend and I were at a restaurant named El Set,
terraced down the edge of the Pacific to the beach. It
was, of course sunset and we were sipping margaritas
and nibbling on guacamole. At a table near us sat a
group of 12 expatriates. They were close to our age. I
stared and eavesdropped shamelessly. My boyfriend was
appalled, but I couldn’t help myself. I had traveled
often in Mexico, particularly in Baja while growing
up, but it had never before occurred to me that I
could actually live here. It was a revelation
and the images of that golden group of expatriates
never left me. It amazes me still that I became one
myself—20 years later.
In October 2003 my husband Terry and I moved to Buena
Vista, 45 minutes north of the Los Cabos airport.
We’re on what’s known as the East Cape—one of the
premier sport fishing, windsurfing and diving
destinations in the world. This is my father’s
favorite place on the planet. He spends a week a month
here every year fishing, and he’s 82. My son comes
about five times a year with him. My daughter and her
dogs fly in frequently. Family holidays are spent
here.
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My
mother’s ashes are here. When we sold our homes in San
Diego and La Bufadora—just south of Ensenda—last year,
it was a no-brainer that we would move here. 
Visitors compare the East Cape to Los Cabos a
generation ago. It’s growing and it’s home to a
burgeoning community of Americans and Canadians, but
the resorts are still small, the restaurants few, the
lifestyle easy-going and peaceful, and the scenery
spectacular. People don’t come here expecting upscale
spas, world-class golf, shopping, raucous nightlife
and gourmet cuisine. They come for the outdoor
adventure experience, for the pristine beaches with
perfect swimming water and of course for the
fishing—which is even better than in Los Cabos. Back
in the ‘50s and ‘60s, guys like Chuck Connors, Desi
Arnaz, Fred Astaire, and Ray Cannon came here. They
came, the word got out and the East Cape was on the
map.
I am not a city girl. The life here suits me. Where I
came from, we had eight lane freeways and
20-hour-a-day rush hour. Here we say that three cars
in line at a tope (speed bump) constitute a
traffic jam. In San Diego I had constant
claustrophobia. To quote a Jimmy Buffett song, I found
myself always “pacing the cage.” Here I am deeply
content. There is a view of endless sand, sea,
mountains and sky from our living room window. The
beach is steps away. I am free, and I am connected to
my community in a way I never felt before. Everywhere
we go, people know us and we know them, Mexicans and
expatriates. Everyone who passes gives a smile and the
flat-handed Baja wave—modeled from the Native American
“how” gesture. My Spanish improves daily as I
plactico (chat) with Mexican friends and
acquaintances. Sometimes I find myself going back and
forth between the two languages so quickly I don’t
even notice the transition. I love it.
We frequently travel in our RV, just as my parents did
from the early ‘70s to the early ‘90s. Next month we
will take the ferry from La Paz to Mazatlán. From
there we will explore exotic tropical and mountain
places and historic colonial towns. I will write; he
will take photographs. Thus we will be able to share
our adventures.
I always felt more at home in Mexico than in the USA
and for years I pondered why. Now I know. It’s
simultaneously simple and complicated, like the
Mexican culture. It’s also a bit esoteric and more
than a bit spiritual—like the story of Mexico’s Virgin
of Guadalupe. I now know that my heart is Mexican.
Mi corazón es Mexicano. That is why I am here.
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