Divorce Beach

The most famous spot in Cabo San Lucas is called Lover’s Beach. It is a narrow peninsula, one side facing the Sea of Cortez and the other tracing the Pacific Ocean. Tour guides joke that the Pacific side is called “Divorce Beach” because, while the Cortez side is swimmable, the Pacific’s swift under tow would drown even Michael Phelps—giving the swimmer's spouse an instant divorce.

Ryan and I kayaked to Lover’s beach. We strolled along the coast line on the Cortez side and walked to the other side to get a peak at the Pacific Ocean. It was beautiful—large crashing waves, masculine rocks, steel blue water, but most notably, skull and cross bone signs everywhere warning against swimming.

Nicknamed the “safety patrol’ by my teasing husband, I didn’t so much as dip my toe into the Pacific ocean. Ryan, on the other hand, decided to walk the coastline as the water crashed over his feet. I screamed for him to stop. I begged him to get away from the water. But he didn’t listen. Instead he turned and smiled at me—rubbing his rebellion in my face.

Then the tide came in strong. It knocked Ryan off his feet. I watched in horror as the water pulled Ryan into the ocean. For a brief second, I thought I’d have to return to the U.S. without my husband. Truly.

But Ryan was able to push himself out of his watery grave and scamper up and away from the next wave.

I was furious with him for not listening to me. I was furious that he scared me so bad. I was furious at him for almost making me a widow. I was so mad at him that I literally could not control my next impulse.

I ran up to him and hit him as hard as I could.

“Why did you do that!” I screamed and started bawling. I marched away from him a found a sandy mound to sit on and pout. At first I just felt angry. How selfish of him to put his life in danger like that. How dare he? I wiped the tears out of my eyes, but more came. I cried for over ten minutes, fully expecting Ryan to come over and apologize to me.

But he didn’t. And then I realized that he was really mad at me. Because I had hit him. Hard. And I’d never hit my husband before.

So I felt sheepish and foolish, knowing that I was probably the one who needed to apologize. But I still felt a little entitled to my anger. So I just sat there and continued pouting.

But Ryan still never came—which is unusual for him. He is always the first to try and make amends. Boy, he must be mad. I guess I’d have to be the one to say sorry.

I stood up and brush the sand off of my bikini bottoms. I wandered around the beach until I spotted Ryan on the “lover’s” side. I walked toward him, my head looking at the sand (and had I had pockets, my hands would’ve been jammed deep inside). I looked up and our eyes met.

“I am sorry I hit you.” I said.

We hugged. Ryan opened my hand and placed a scoop of seashells in my palms. The whole time I’d been sulking and mad, he’d spent scouring the beach for a peace offering. It was cute. It was JUST LIKE HIM to do something nice for the wife who just tried to beat him up.

“Are you sorry, too?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Did it hurt when I hit you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“How bad?” I asked hopefully.

“Real bad,” he smiled and I could tell he was humoring me.

“Good,” I said and we walked hand in hand to our kayak.