Within minutes of entering Guatemala (a process that would have been absurdly simple, had the Mexican government not decided to detain one of our British friends for three hours due to a missing piece of paper), Bruce gets a flat tire.

As we attend to this by the side of the road in a patch of jungly shade, a man pulls up on a motorbike and sells us two plastic bags full of ice-cold piña juice for 10 quetzals — our first purchase in a new currency, and the first sign that we aren’t in Kansas (aka Mexico, land of…

Picking my way across the wave-beaten rocks, using three points of contact at all times like a good wilderness guide, it occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have come this way.

I can see Playa Bacocho in the distance — really, it’s not that far.

But on the way back, will the tide trap me between beaches?

I shake my head, let the thought fall away, replaced by a more urgent one:

The turtles are waiting.

Baby sea turtles. Ready to be released into the ocean.

I emerge from the rocks and walk past the beach club where I sat yesterday with my…

Last week, I left out a secret third objective for these two weeks in Puerto Escondido.

Which was: to conquer my fear of surfing.

Or, more accurately, my fear of losing control in the unforgiving crush of the ocean — while learning to surf.

Curiously, I didn’t always have this fear.

As a child, growing up a clam’s throw from the Atlantic, the ocean mostly seemed like a friend: big and brisk and playful, full of amazing treasures; sand dollars and hermit crabs and banded olive shells to rinse off and bring back to Mom for marveling.

I loved the gentle crash of the surf, and I loved going past the breakers — that peaceful place where you could drift…

Congratulations!

If you’re reading this, it means that you’ve OFFICIALLY made it through the first 6 months of 2018.

The year is half over (!), and (putting aside the question of whether or not time actually exists) this provides the perfect opportunity to hit pause and take stock of what you’re doing…

… And whether you want to KEEP doing it.

Because, as the primary narrator and meaning-maker of your story, perhaps you could use a reminder that…

You can inject a plot-twist, any damn time you please!

There is no law that says you must keep doing things the way you’ve done them.

There is no one cosmically peering over your shoulder to make sure that you’re doing…

Fear-based generalizations about different groups of people can promote racism.”

The words gaze up at me, guileless and sincere, from a personal email on my phone screen.

Instantly, they register as true.

And, my respected friend and colleague, a woman for whom I nurture a gigantic friend-crush for her open-hearted, freedom-loving spirit, felt that I needed to hear them — in response to the anticipatory post I wrote weeks ago, about preparing to enter Mexico on a bicycle.

Her words are prescient at a time when the fear for my safety — parroted by so many, and ultimately, embarrassingly, internalized — has completely dissolved, roundly…

After a positively terrifying big-city approach consisting of multiple lane-crossings on highways crammed with jockeying semi trucks in the pouring rain…

We collapsed, soaking wet and deliriously grateful, into a windowless hotel room in the heart of Mexico’s historic capital.

Ten hours later, we commenced trying to cram every major museum (and public building with a mural in it) into our limited 2-day itinerary — a literally impossible feat.

The first day was lovely — featuring a fine breakfast of green chilaquiles where they pour the warmed salsa in front of you so the totopos stay crisp; surprise opera performances in a random salón inside the Palacio de Bellas Artes; and a trip in a glass elevator atop the…

After eight indulgent and glorious days off in Puerto Vallarta and Guadalajara (during which time our muscles and pain-tolerance go COMPLETELY soft)…

Bruce and I learn the hard way that every food-oriented establishment in the Mexican states of Jalisco and Guanajuato close promptly at 5pm.

(Which seems excessive in my opinion, given that the sun stays fuerte until at LEAST 8pm).

As such, at the tail end of an accidental 100km day, nursing aching knees and threadbare spirits and with only a pair of apples between us, we enquire at a random gas station if there might be a nearby restaurante that is abierto at this hora.

The vague promise of tacos leads us south, through a town where every shutter is closed, down a side street to a plaza where the locals apologetically suggest that we ask at the local hotel.

The hotel is next to a cafe, where all the chairs inside are stacked on top…

“Yes, madam, there are NO ferries scheduled for Mazatlán,” the voice on the other end of the line informs me sweetly.

“Until when?” I ask, my gaze shifting to the Sea of Cortez, which we are scheduled to cross tonight.

“There are none,” she repeats.

“What about next week? Or the week after?”

“None to Mazatlán. Only to Topolobampo.”

(Topolobampo, the only other ferry port on the Mexican mainland, is 450 kilometers NORTH of Mazatlán — which means re-routing there would make it literally impossible to meet my parents in time for their visit; requiring us to cover 900+ kilometers in just four days.)

I thank her and hang up, laughing despite myself.

After…