Once we had boarded, El Capitán started the outboard engine, the crisp smell of gas and exhaust mixing with brine-scented sea air. The girl untied us from the dock, and we backed out of the slip into the harbor’s waterway and headed out to sea.
Our first destination was Pelican Rock, where the boat stopped a hundred yards from shore and dropped floating diving flags. We snorkeled for about half an hour in calm turquoise water teeming with colorful, exotic fish.
The older man didn’t leave the boat but his hot little woman did. (Do I sound catty?) I noticed that she swam unnecessarily close to Andrew, occasionally “accidentally” bumping into him. When she wasn’t next to him, she looked like she was posing, even provocatively adjusting her swimsuit underwater where anyone with a mask could see. I did my best to focus on the sea life, but the blonde insisted on taking center stage.
After we were back on the boat, Andrew said, “Do you know what the most terrifying sea creature out here is?”
The blonde, I thought. “This sounds like a game show question,” I said. “Sharks.”
“Hammerhead sharks,” the blonde said, inviting herself into our conversation.
“Squids,” Andrew said. “Every year, the Humboldt squid comes to the Baja peninsula to feed. The fishermen call them diablo rojo, the red devil. They grow as long as nine feet and they’ve been known to grab people from the surface and pull them under.”
“You’re making this up,” I said.
“Nope. I watched a documentary on it.”
“I watch documentaries too,” I said. “I saw one on beavers.”
Andrew started laughing.
“I’m not kidding. I did.”
“I . . .” He shook his head. “So the film crew sent a cameraman in the water at night wearing a Kevlar jacket.”
“What’s a Kevlar jacket?” the blonde asked. “Is that like a Gucci jacket?”
I barely suppressed my eye roll.
“It’s a bulletproof vest,” Andrew said. “And then they waited for the squid to come. The squid have the ability to change their color to match their surroundings, so they’re virtually invisible until they’re on you.”
“Like a stealth squid,” the blonde said.
“Exactly,” Andrew said. “Only when they’re in a feeding frenzy, they flash red and white. The squid attacked the diver and penetrated his vest with its beak.”
“Squid have beaks?” I asked.
“Humboldt squid have very sharp beaks. They resemble a parrot’s beak, except they’re black and the force of their bite is more powerful than an African lion’s. They can bite through metal. And their eight tentacles have more than a hundred suction cups, all lined with razor-sharp teeth.”
“This is terrifying,” the blonde said.
“To make it worse, the Humboldt travel in schools of more than a thousand squid. At night you can see hundreds of tentacles sticking up out of the water, like agave plants.”
“What’s an agave plant?” the blonde asked.
“It’s a succulent,” I said, reminding her of my presence. “With long, sharp, painful spines. You would not want to be stabbed by one.” I noticed Andrew grin. “They use it to make tequila.”
“I like tequila,” she said, moving a little closer to Andrew. “I didn’t know they made it from squids.”
Andrew didn’t bother to explain.
“Is this squid thing real?”
Andrew nodded. “Completely.” Then he turned to me and held out his hand. “If my fingers are the legs, the beak is right here,” he said, touching the center of his palm. “When they attack, they come at you like this.” He put his hand in front of my face.
“This sounds like something you saw in a horror movie,” I said.
“Just look at how much you learn being around me,” Andrew replied.
“What are you talking about?” the blonde’s sugar daddy asked, finally noticing how much attention his woman was giving to Andrew.
“Squids and agave plants,” the blonde said.
“Agave,” the man said. “That’s what they make tequila from.”
The blonde leaned toward Andrew. “That thing sounds like a monster.”
“It gets worse,” Andrew said. “The squid dragged the cameraman down nearly sixty feet before the rope he was tied to broke him free of the squid’s grip. The squid was so strong that the diver dislocated his shoulder and his wrist was broken in five places. Had the beast gotten its beak around him, it could have amputated his hand.”
“Thank you for not telling me any of this before we snorkeled,” I said. “I’m not getting back in the water.”
“You don’t have to worry. The Humboldt only feed at night.”
“That sounds like the name of a horror movie,” the blonde said. She pressed her leg against Andrew’s. “They Only Feed at Night.”
She’s talking about herself, I thought.
Andrew shifted away from her. “And they only live in deep waters,” he said to me. “So you don’t have to worry about them close to shore.”
“I’m still staying on the beach,” I said.
From Pelican Rock, our boat sailed to Land’s End, the tip of the Baja peninsula, with a pungent ride past a sea lion colony, then on to El Arco de Cabo San Lucas, the famous stone arch.
“Every four years or so, the tide changes enough to create a walkway under the arch,” Andrew said.
“Can we walk through it now?” I asked.
“No. Probably next year.”
We stopped momentarily at the beach, where El Capitán made an announcement. “Friends, we are now going to Playa del Amor, also called Lovers’ Beach. It is very nice sand and calm and good swimming. Next to it is Divorce Beach. It is not so calm, and it has dangerous rip currents. I recommend that you not swim there. Let that be a lesson to you.”
Everyone laughed. “I’ve learned that lesson,” I said.
Andrew nodded. “Ditto.”
“I will pull the boat up on the shore, and you will exit from the front of the boat. The clock time is nearly eleven. I will be back to get you at the same place I drop you off at four o’clock. Remember, our boat is the ABBA. Please do not miss the boat or make your fellow passengers wait for you.”
The boat pulled into the beach until its hull was on sand and we made our way out over the bow in single file. I made sure we disembarked after the blonde. I didn’t want her following us.
The sand was immaculate, soft and warm, framed by beautiful large rock formations that rose from the sand like sculptures.
Andrew carried our things over to a vacant space about thirty yards from the water, where we laid out our beach towels and rubbed each other down with sunscreen. We spent the next two hours at Lovers’ Beach swimming and snorkeling, but as the crowds grew, we moved over toward the less populated Divorce Beach to sunbathe and eat our picnic lunch in privacy. We also ate ripe mangoes and drank passion fruit juice from local vendors. It was a lovely way to spend the day.
Our boat arrived back at Medano Beach as the sun began to set. The blonde and her man were waiting for us on the dock. They invited us up to their villa for drinks, which the woman pointed out on the mountain. Their villa was nearly half as large as the entire complex we were staying at. Andrew thanked them but politely declined their invitation, explaining that we were on our honeymoon.
“Congratulations,” the man said. “I hope you remain on Lovers’ Beach for as long as you can. Divorce Beach is expensive.”
The blonde said nothing but looked at Andrew hungrily.
“Honeymoon?” I said as we walked away.
“I was just trying to refuse them politely,” Andrew said.
We ate a simple dinner at a small bar called the Baja Cantina, where we had seafood chowder in sourdough bread bowls, coconut shrimp, and, my favorite, fish tacos.
It was dark when we arrived back at the condo. I was sunburned and tired but happy. The condo was cool and I was glad that the air conditioner had been left on.
I took a quick shower to get the salt and sand off my body, then met Andrew out on the patio. The moon glistened on the water like in a Van Gogh painting. The air was moist and comfortable.