Sunday, Jul 20, 2008
It was the worst that has happened to us, but a lot of blood later, I'm alive and have seen grace.
Nov 9, 2001 | I have a hole in my favorite hat. The half-inch gash cuts cleanly through the appliquéd letter on the front and the sweatband underneath. The hole corresponds to a new scar high in the middle of my forehead where my hair now grows back stunted. It also corresponds to the most desperate time we have yet encountered on our journey.
We went to San Felipe because it is warm and beautiful when other places are cold and not very beautiful. At times like these, this quiet Mexican village on the shores of the Sea of Cortez in Baja, Calif., is submerged beneath a tidal wave of vacationers who scour the liquor stores for tequila and the fish markets for shrimp. Old abuelas paint their colorful ceramic fish while their bored and weary sons hawk them to the frenetic tourists who throng the malecon -- the seaside street. Little village children, imitating their northern homeboys, gyrate to rap lyrics that blast onto the street from storefront boomboxes.
We also went to San Felipe because we thought our 19-year-old son, who joined us there, would enjoy mingling with his own kind in an exotic locale. As it turned out, what Luke enjoyed most was the opportunity to drink legally. We had not been more than a few hours across the border before he was shitfaced in the back seat of the truck, a six-pack of Corona stowed conveniently at his feet.
We found a deserted beach of golden sand and blue water just south of San Felipe. Aside from a group of young men from San Francisco who were camped in an abandoned building, we had the dazzling expanse of sun and sand to ourselves.
"I don't need to camp right on the beach," I said uncertainly. But my small voice was lost in the ambitious strategizing of the menfolk over the exact positioning of the trailer so as to catch the first rays of the sun rising over water to our front door.
My husband revved up the big diesel and got a running start. He shot around the corner of the abandoned building, skirted one treacherous patch of soft sand -- and landed in another. The tires spun, the truck bucked like a pony and dug in.
More strategizing ensued. Sand was dug out, boards shoved under tires and an alternate escape route planned. Blocking this route, however, was a row of rocks -- large, black rocks with jagged edges. Seeing an opportunity to be helpful, our son Stephen ran over to move them with all the enthusiasm in his 13-year-old heart. I walked up behind to help.
I never saw it coming. My husband did, and he said it was "a killing blow." I only heard an enormous crack, like a hardwood bat and ball, like a nut cracking open. My vision faded to pastel pinks and blues. I felt nothing, but I knew I was falling. "Is the world coming to an end?" I wondered. That, somehow, was a peaceful thought. For that particle of time as I was falling, everything seemed right and well-ordered.
My vision cleared, and I was staring at the sky. The two younger children, Julia and Stephen, were wailing with a terror I had never heard. I struggled to comprehend what had happened and eventually pieced it together from Stephen's anguished, "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."
Luke and my husband came into my field of vision. "How bad?" I asked. Their answers were evasive. Blood was sticky in my hair and was running into the sand.
Get Salon in your mailbox!