The SandShark and the Mudslide

A Baja California adventure — and a lesson in listening to Marie

I have always considered myself a positively inclined adventurer, the kind of fellow who prefers experience over warnings and adventure over caution. So when Marie told me that El Niño had severely changed the weather in Baja California, Mexico, I listened politely—and promptly ignored her advice.

The morning looked promising. We left our hotel early, anticipating a glorious day of sunshine, a refreshing sea breeze, and waves rolling lazily onto the beach. What could possibly go wrong?

After finding the perfect spot to soak up the sun, I spotted a sign advertising sand-buggy rentals. The dunes beckoned. Why waste a perfectly good opportunity for adventure?

“Marie, I’m going to rent one of those buggies and explore the dunes. I’ll be right back,” I announced.

Marie, apparently more interested in enjoying the beach than challenging the laws of nature, settled in to absorb the sunshine. I marched off to the rental stand, signed the paperwork, accepted the usual collection of waivers, and climbed into my newly acquired four-wheeled companion, the mighty SandShark.

I was ready to conquer the dunes.

But Mother Nature had other plans.

By the time I returned to Marie, the sunny morning had vanished. Rain poured from the sky as though someone had opened a gigantic faucet overhead. Water raced down the slopes, carving new rivers through the sand. Marie had already gathered our belongings and was preparing to retreat to the hotel.

That was when I noticed it.

A dark, rolling mass of mud was sweeping down the walking path toward us.

Before either of us could react, the mudslide engulfed us. In an instant, Marie and I—and my magnificent SandShark—were half-buried in a thick, miserable mixture of mud and sand.

So much for conquering the dunes.

After freeing myself, I turned to help Marie. Getting her out of the mud was one thing; pushing her uphill through the slippery mess was quite another. Every step felt like pushing a sandbag through wet cement.

As I strained and slipped, I cursed—not the weather, not the dunes, and certainly not the rental company.

I cursed myself.

There I was, a self-proclaimed adventurer, discovering the hard way that optimism is no substitute for judgment. Marie had warned me. The weather had offered its own forecast. Yet I had trusted my adventurous instincts over both.

Eventually, we made it to safer ground, exhausted, muddy, and considerably less enthusiastic about Baja's outdoor attractions.

The SandShark had lost its appeal. The dunes could wait. Even the ocean breeze seemed to have abandoned us.

On the miserable trek back to the hotel, I glanced at Marie. She didn't need to say a word. Her expression delivered a complete weather report, an I told you so, and a marriage lesson—all without a single syllable.

I had set out that morning to explore the dunes and returned having explored the limits of my own good sense.

From that day on, I added one essential item to my adventurer's equipment list: a willingness to listen to Marie.

After all, a man can survive a mudslide, rescue his wife, and even recover a buried sand buggy.

But surviving the look on Marie's face?

That's a different kind of adventure altogether.