Returning to the Ocean

I had been planning my March trip to Mexico carefully. After a winter marked by medical challenges, I was only just beginning to feel steadier. Walking was still difficult—I relied on my poles, and airport assistance had already been arranged. So when I received a message from Alaska Airlines informing me that my direct flight had been changed to a connection, I knew immediately that wouldn’t work.

Fortunately, I was able to rebook onto an earlier direct flight on March 23.

My son Justin drove down from Sebastopol the day before. He spent the night, and early the next morning he delivered me safely to the airport, staying until I was settled into the care of the wheelchair attendant. From there, everything unfolded with surprising ease. The gentleman assisting me even offered to stop for coffee or food, and I chose a sandwich that looked manageable for the flight. That small kindness felt like a good omen.

The journey to Puerto Vallarta went smoothly.

At the airport, my daughter Ariel was waiting. She drove me to the Hotel Emperador, right on the beach in Zona Romántica. I was exhausted—it had been a long time since I had done anything so physically demanding—but I also felt quietly triumphant. I had made it.

That first evening, I stayed in. I still had half of my sandwich, which turned out to be enough. I sat and watched the ocean, the sun lowering itself into the horizon, people gathering for their evening rituals along the beach. It was enough simply to be there. I went to bed early and slept deeply.

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The next morning, I had promised myself a walk along the Malecón.

And I did it.

With my poles, slowly and steadily, I walked all the way to the end and back. It was gentle, pleasant, and quietly encouraging. Afterwards, I sat down for breakfast by the sea—coffee, something simple, and the feeling that perhaps I was returning not just to a place, but to myself.

That day, I walked more than I had in months. I wandered near my old neighborhood, bought coffee to use during my stay, and allowed myself to re-enter the rhythms of Puerto Vallarta at my own pace.

That evening, Ariel joined me to hear my friend Alejandro and his quartet play at Cuates y Cuetes. The music was extraordinary—jazz carried by guitar, violin, saxophone, and bass. There was something deeply familiar in it, something that reminded me of my long connection to this place. I stayed only for part of the evening—I tire easily now—but it was enough.

I returned to my room, content, and again slept well.

⸻

The days that followed settled into a gentle rhythm.

Walking. Resting. Small tasks.

I visited the man who had taken my belongings on consignment when I gave up my apartment the previous year. He surprised me by offering a full payout instead of continuing small payments over time—a kindness that simplified things greatly.

I stopped into a little shop I’ve always liked—La Bodega—and bought a pair of shorts and a beach bag, small tokens of continuity. I had a meal at a favorite Italian restaurant—spaghetti carbonara and even a glass of wine—and walked the short distance back to my hotel under the evening sky.

Each day, I did a little more. A pedicure one afternoon. Ice cream another. Nothing dramatic, but everything meaningful.

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Eventually, it was time to leave for Lo de Marcos, where I had rented a beachfront apartment for the month.

Ariel picked me up, and we drove north. Along the way, we stopped for fresh seafood—simple, delicious, the kind of meal that belongs exactly where it is eaten. By the time we arrived, we were full and content. That first night, we did little more than sit on the terrace, watching the waves and the sunset.

The quiet there is different.

Deeper.

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Soon after, we joined my daughter Laura and her family in San Pancho. They have spent several spring vacations there, and we have made a tradition of joining them.

There were days at the beach, watching the children—now nearly grown—play in the ocean. An Easter brunch at the polo club, a gathering we’ve shared for years. Long, easy conversations. Laughter.

One afternoon, the children held a handstand contest in their pool—three of them, determined and joyful. We served as judges. It was one of those simple, perfect moments that somehow holds more than it seems.

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Back in Lo de Marcos, the days returned to stillness.

Ariel went into town occasionally—for physical therapy, for classes—leaving me on my own for stretches of time. At first, even the stairs felt uncertain. But gradually, I found my confidence again. The beach became manageable. The small town walks, too.

There is a quiet satisfaction in that kind of return.

⸻

Now, my days are simple.

I sit on the terrace and watch the waves. Pelicans glide in long, effortless lines. Other birds—three or four kinds—circle and dive, intent on their own purposes. Watching them, it becomes clear how small one’s own concerns really are.

Life continues, beautifully, without us.

The beach fills briefly in the evenings—volleyball, laughter, families gathering—then empties again by dusk, as if everyone quietly agrees that it is time to go home for dinner.

It is peaceful here.

Perhaps too peaceful for a full life, we’ve wondered. Ariel is considering a house nearby, but the quiet may be more than she wants. For me, right now, it feels like exactly enough.

⸻

I have already asked about returning next year.

The answer was mostly no—already booked—but I managed to secure a few weeks at the end of March and beginning of April.

That feels right.

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For now, I sit, I watch, I listen.

And I am grateful to be here.