Falling in Love Again

By Susan Tweit

A little over two weeks ago, I woke in La Paz, Baja California del Sur, Mexico, where clouds of neon-bright bougainvillea blossoms hang over courtyard walls, hooded orioles chatter at Anna’s hummingbirds, and the air smells like the aromatic desert and the salty Sea of Cortez.

It was the last morning in a trip that included a week spent teaching a creative writing workshop on Isla Espiritu Santo, “Island of the Holy Spirit,” a place I’ve longed to visit for more than three decades.

I now know it’s as inspirational as its name, a stark wedge of tan and red volcanic cliffs dotted with tree-sized cardon cactus and spiny desert shrubs, an island that falls straight into a rich sea whose waters shade from clear turquoise near shore to ultramarine depths and teem — not hyperbole in this case ­— with life from coral-pink coral colonies to whale sharks as long as school buses.

In our week there, we woke to the sound of waves lapping the shore by our room-size tents with pelicans thwocking the water nearby as they dove for sardines, we kayaked azure swells as loggerhead turtles surfaced nearby, snorkeled among playful baby sea lions, we hiked to shelter caves and pictographs.

We were surprised by flying fish bursting out of the water like stars falling upwards, marveled at dolphins arcing next to our skiff, delighted in rock iguanas sunning and clouds of butterflies hovering over desert wildflowers, we savored delicious meals featuring sweet fresh-caught fish and seafood; we heard canyon wrens’ descending trills in the morning and great horned owls at night.

Oh, and we wrote. We wrote daily haiku, field notes, essays, stories, poems, and book proposals. We wrote to think, to dream, and to set our courses for the new year; we wrote our way into feeling inspired, empowered, and to knowing our voices.

After a week, I left knowing I had fallen in love with the island named Espiritu Santo, a place full of the spirit of life itself, from the tiniest wildflower thriving in the harsh volcanic soils that receive just four inches of rain a year to the immense blue whales that feed off its shores. I left vowing to return and share its magic.

After a very long day of travel beginning in the shimmering light of the desert before dawn, I finally reached Denver, where I fell in love all over again with the two smiling faces waiting for me outside security: Richard and our daughter, Molly.

That night, I told them stories of the island, of La Paz, and the turquoise sea.

“I want to take you there,” I said.

And if all goes well, I will. But now, as Richard snoozes nearby, recovering from his cancer treatments, and Molly has returned to her life in San Francisco, I know that whatever comes, I have all I need.

I am fortunate to have experienced the magic of Isla Espiritu Santo, and luckier still to have come home to the everyday enchantment of my life here.

Copyright 2009 Susan J. Tweit. Originally published in the Salida Mountain Mail.