Swimming in the Sea of Cortez

changes in latitude, changes in attitude.

“Every day is a baptism,” says our friend G, as we paddle around in the calm sea water outside of our Air BnB. The morning here in La Ventana, a funky little town in Mexico’s Baja California del Sur, belongs to swimmers and pelicans. Later, if things go the way most visitors who seek out this Mecca hope, the wind will be cranking and the quiet, glassy water will be filled with wing foilers, kite boarders, and kite foilers having the time of their lives.

I’d suggested this trip over margaritas early on in my “cancer journey." I wanted J to have a stress-reliever for months of uncomplaining care-giving by doing what he loves best. I knew I would appreciate a vacation to celebrate finishing chemo during the respite before the onset of radiation. Our friends G and C were game to join us. Other friends would be in La Ventana the same time as us and there were two sets of friends who live in the area who had invited us to visit.

Party on.

Driving north from the Cabo airport, we passed this commemorative sign and I appreciated its aptness. I crossed into my own personal Tropic of Cancer five months ago, and though I’ve had a relatively easy time of it, there is undeniable collateral damage. I’d prepped for the trip by stocking up on brimmed hats and coverups to drape my body, which had grown more ample during chemo, and also needed to be shielded from the sun in preparation for radiation.

I’d had an immunotherapy session a few days before we left and now, I would be treatment-free for three glorious weeks. I planned to treat the week in Baja like a wellness retreat — morning swims, yoga on the deck, tequila —but not too much because I was watching my sugar intake — and Mexican food, which I had not been able to tolerate during my three months of chemo. I was excited that my body would almost be back to normal.

Oh, the first bite of fish tacos, the first sip of tequila, the first glimpses of Saguaro cacti and pelicans and frigate birds, the first dive underwater in the Sea of Cortez. A dreadlocked white guy was playing guitar and singing old familiar songs around a bonfire down the beach and it was music to my ears. Sensory experiences like these remind you that it’s good to be alive.

But some of us, and by that I mean me, are unable to stay on and appreciate a higher plane. Petty annoyances push their way to the foreground and demand attention.

For me, it was the bloat.

My feet and legs had swelled up on the four-hour flight and my belly expanded. My clothes were tight, my face was puffy. I hadn’t thought to wear compression socks because the flight was only four hours and I had never had a problem with edema in my legs. But the next morning and for most of the trip, the swelling remained.

Despite having dutifully iced my hands and feet during chemo infusions, I had developed neuropathy in my digits - a condition my oncologist said was common and would likely get worse before eventually getting better.

And then there was the joint pain. Walking along the beach was painful; the short hike up to our house almost excruciating.

So much for my body being back to normal. I envied my beautiful travel companions and everyone in the water reveling in the exhilaration of their bodies flying across the water, while I watched, heavy and achy.

But in the morning, swimming in the Sea of Cortez, those feelings subsided. I was weightless and pain-free and experienced my own sense of exhilaration. I’m not known for diving into water but the sea called to me. G was right.

It was a baptism and every day I looked forward to being reborn.

It’s pretty clear to me that one of the lessons I am supposed to be learning from cancer is to let go of vanity. Most (dare I say all) women have this reckoning as they age. The collateral damage of cancer treatment is a chef’s kiss.

I’d resigned myself to the bloat by the time we went to visit friends who live near La Paz. They served us an exquisite dinner to celebrate C’s birthday. It was a lovely evening and a glimpse into one way of experiencing retired life. We were looking forward to continuing the camaraderie over coffee, fruit, and pastries the next morning.

But when I awoke, my eyes had swelled up. I had no choice but to let go of vanity and accept the soothing eye patches our thoughtful and well-prepared hostess proffered. There would be no more contact lenses for the rest of the trip, no eye makeup for evenings out.

When you walk along the beaches of Baja it’s not uncommon to find dead pufferfish washed up on shore, their spiky bodies inflated, their mouths agape. I found them relatable.

When I was the mother of young kids, friends of mine started a band called The Kegels. They performed hilarious songs about life as minivan-driving moms (which resonated with me, since I wrote a book about that). But my favorite song, no doubt because it touched a nerve, was It’s All My Fault.

“Not everything has to be about self-improvement,” J says to me one night before our Baja trip, when, in response to something innocuous he said, I promised to organize shelves or something along those lines.

“You’re alive,” my friend MB gently and wisely reminds me, as I detail my strict exercise and eating regimens that are not working as quickly as I want them to.

When did I fall prey to the hamster wheel of self-improvement and why do I assume that everything my chemical-laden and traumatized body is doing now is somehow my fault?

The majesty of a sunset can temporarily quell unsettling and obtrusive thoughts. Beauty does that.

We visit other friends and I admire the colorful paintings in their humble, yet beautiful home. E, the wife, explains that she painted them specifically to fill the empty spaces with beauty. Later, she quietly takes me aside and tells me that she is a longtime breast cancer survivor. “You’ll get through this,” she says. “And then you’ll go on to have your adventures.”

On our last full day in La Ventana, J and I take a morning walk on the beach. I tell him the neuropathy is better and come to think of it, my joints don’t ache anymore.

Then, I start running, and after several sprints, I dive into the rejuvenating Sea of Cortez. For those brief shining moments, I can see beyond the Tropic of Cancer to a time when my hard-working, resilient body will relax and perhaps find exhilaration once again.

We plan our departure day to include a stop to buy me compression socks. Why am I not surprised that they are sold out at the Walmart in Cabo?

I find them at the airport and we have a last drink to celebrate the quest fulfilled and the vacation we have enjoyed.

A few days later, lying on the table in the radiation oncology center for the simulation that will inform my next round of treatment, I follow instructions and hold my breath.

And I transport myself back to the Sea of Cortez, where I am weightless and carefree.

***

As she often does, Anne Lamott beautifully captures the feelings of disappointment, resolution, and acceptance that come with the limitations of aging and life. Here’s a gift link to her latest, which is a must-read.

We work, love and help others as best we can, gawk at nature, rest. Is that it? Pretty much.

-Anne Lamott

The Best Thing I Cooked Last Week

Ranch Water - by Naz Deravian in NY Times Cooking

“Haven’t you heard of Ranch Water?” my friend K, a cancer survivor asks. She’s recently back from Cabo, where, after one decadent margarita, she turned to this refreshing, low sugar beverage.

It became our house drink in La Ventana, and I declared that it may be my cocktail of the Summer of 2024. We added a touch of agave to take the edge off and went heavy on the lime juice. It’s refreshingly delicious. The gift link above will take you there.