Spring of 1998, Playa Los Palmas, Mexico

By Cindy Fey

I last talked at God on the beach at Los Palmas. It was nine years ago. Randy was drowning in front of me, unreachable, the riptide pulling him beyond a promontory, out of my sight.

Brent and Serena had run to climb the southern cliff to see if they could keep him in view. I had to stay here in the shallows, watching. I paced and wept, angrily, fruitlessly, my shins struggling through the surf.

“I’m not asking for anything! I’m just talking here!” I shouted in my head. “I’m just talking!” Furious at my own weakness and panic.

One cubic foot of water moving at 4 miles an hour packs a 66-pound punch.

A few minutes earlier, a man from Todos Santos had approached us as we stood in a tense cluster of three, watching Randy in the rolling waves, trying to decide if his splashes and movement could still be called swimming. Serena translated: the man had a strange feeling that morning that pulled him to the beach. He watched Randy with us.

“Cinco muerte,” he said, and he pointed to the top of the cliff to the south. There stood a small white cross against the sky. I had not noticed it before, or, like so many symbols in this foreign landscape I was drifting through, I had given it little thought as significant to the lives of actual people.

The man told Serena he was going for help. He will need to hike though the palm oasis to reach his truck, then bump laboriously over 2 kilometers of twisted ruts, boulders scraping the low metal innards of his truck, before reaching the main road. Town will take 5 more kilometers after that. The man was a stranger to us.

We could still see Randy in the water. I could pretend - I was tempted to pretend - that there was no emergency. We could still see him in the water.

Then Randy raised his arm. And the other. Brent and Serena ran to climb the cliff.

In recent months, my flirtation with the idea that prayers are no more than thoughts had begun to calcify. But at this moment, I felt more sure of God’s capriciousness than His absence.

I bristled at the layers of His joke: Randy, a strong man, a strong swimmer, son of a preacher man, splashing around on the first day of vacation. My past that had lain dormant this week suddenly loomed before me - vacations have been cruel to my family.

A strong swimmer. A few minutes before, he had barreled straight out into the waves, alarming me the moment he passed me in the shallows. Yes, the water was seductive, with sparkles of suspended sand you could reach for but never capture.

But the waves felt strange and strong here in this bay. The surf rose from my knees to my shoulders in quick, thrilling surges. When it lifted me off my feet, I gasped with a laugh. And Randy had passed me like one of the four by fours that blare past the cautious drivers on the straightaways of shoulderless Highway 19.

I could no longer see Randy. The waves had carried him beyond the southern point of the rocks.

The agony ended suddenly. Serena scrambled back. “He’s OK! He’s on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.”

I scrambled, often on all fours, after her. The beach side of the cliff is a climbable slope, if you don’t look down. There are scratchy brambles, ankle-breaking piles of smooth and round rock, gull guano, the dried remains of tiny vermin bones and fish.

Once at the top of the cliff, the view and the buffeting wind take your breath. The sun poured on us, spilling down in a sparkling trail over the sea. We looked over the edge, and I saw him! Perched on a boulder no larger than a closet, surrounded by exploding surf.

How did he get there? How will he get out? There would be no climbing here. The wall fell away below us. The surf was too loud, and he was too far away to hear our screams.

The white cross looked so much larger up here. Below, it sat a coffee can painted blue and white, filled with desiccated flowers.

The angel from the village returned. Todos Santos has no police force, no ambulance. So he brought the only other help available: a truck full of soldiers. The men were all dressed in faded green shirts and pants. Each carried a rifle slung over his back.

Serena talked to them. The men hiked to the top of the cliff, took a look down, conferred. A couple climbed back down to the truck to retrieve a rope. Serena and Brent and I exchanged glances.

Now that Randy had found safety, we were just along for the insane ride. The gringo mood turned giddy. Brent peeked over the cliff. He mimicked aiming a gun at Randy, then recoiling. Randy mooned him back.

I dared to look down a little bit later. He was sitting on the rock, bent over, his face down on his folded arms. I stepped away from the edge. I felt like I had seen something I was not supposed to.

Later, Randy will tell us that he realized he had to get on the rocks, but he knew riding on the brutal surf could crush him. He said getting pissed was what saved him. “I’m not going to be that guy!” he thought. He dove down under the waves, reaching out for the rocks, and found them.

The soldiers got right to work, lined up on the rope. There was no strategizing. There were no attempts to communicate with Randy. This is just what you do - throw the guy a rope.

Randy told us later that when the rope came down, he didn’t know what to do with it. He just wrapped it around and around his waist and his legs, and held on.

They hauled him up. I could barely see them working against the sun - all was silhouette. No one saw Randy’s ascent. Brent, Serena, and I were trying to stay back out of the way, and the soldiers were all on the rope.

The hardest part came when Randy dangled right at the edge; there was a painful pause getting him off the rope and into the men’s arms.

Then he stood up at the top of the cliff, safe. When he saw me, he cried a little. I couldn’t. I was too amazed. I hugged him.

His hands were battered and bloody where they hit the rocks on the lip of the cliff. One of the soldiers poured alcohol on the cuts. Randy cursed, “Fuck!” at the pain.

I didn’t say thank-you to the sky. The sky does not touch our lives. It remains miles above, blue and implacable.

With both of my hands, I shook the hands of some of the Mexican soldiers and the hand of the angel of Todos Santos, feeling improperly dressed and self-conscious in my swimsuit.

Cindy Fey taught high school in Chicago for eight years. Now she is the student, and her two preschool daughters are the teachers. You can read more at her blog, We All Fall Down.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, January 28th, 2008 | Email This Post

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