In my life, I have been saved at least twice by an angel. Yet when I think of all the reckless, naive, and ignorant choices I have made over the years, I suspect I have been saved hundreds of times. These two moments stand out because I was certain I was going to die or worse and I was saved. No question. The first was in Mexico in 1994, the second on the highway with my daughter around 2010.
In 1994, at age 19, I traveled through Mexico and Guatemala with a friend. We had no experience traveling solo and were operating on a wish, a prayer, and a Let’s Go Mexico book. We had just left Baja, crossing the Gulf to Mazatlán on a huge ship. Somewhere in Let’s Go, we had read that a clever idea was to buy a hammock and, instead of paying for places to stay, ask someone at a beachside cantina or restaurant if we could hang our hammock there. The book mentioned a beautiful, remote area in Mazatlán where this was possible. There was only one bus a day, and it sounded perfect.
When we arrived, the place was full of families and good vibes. A man came up to us immediately, saw our backpacks, and asked if we wanted to store them in a locked room so we wouldn’t have to worry. We thanked him and then asked if he knew who we could speak to about staying the night in our hammocks. He told us he was good friends with the owner and that it would be no problem at all. He said to just wait until it got dark and people started leaving before setting up our hammock.
We hung out by the beach, ate some food, and watched a beautiful sunset. As darkness fell, we realized we were the only women left. All around us were drunk men. The shift in the feeling of safety hit immediately. We looked for any other women and could not find one, not even in the kitchen.
Then walked in this town’s Boss Hog. If you are too young to remember The Dukes of Hazzard, Boss Hog was the mob gangster who ran the town. I call this man Boss Hog because he wore all white, a giant white hat, and carried himself like he owned everything. The way the men around him deferred to him, their body language, made it clear he held exceptional power and status.
Our “friend” who had offered to help with our bags was now conversing with Boss Hog at our table. My friend Dylan was fluent in Spanish and listening to every word.
“You do not want to know what they are talking about, Claire,” she said.
“Excuse me, yes I do.”
“No, you would not be able to handle it.”
“Dylan, for the love of God, what is going on?”
“You really want to know?”
Our friend was selling us to this gangster for weed.
The gravity of what she said hit me like a ton of bricks. We had no allies here. If this gangster wanted us, what could we do to protect ourselves? We were miles away from any civilization. There were no buses. No women. Only surly men who looked like they all wanted their way with us. I collapsed into a prayer. I had learned as a child to be careful with my prayers, to save them for when I truly needed saving. Well, now was the time. I sank inside myself and belted out the loudest prayer I could muster. Please save us. Please help us. Please. Please. Please.
Within seconds, a young man our age came through the threshold of the cantina. Without saying a word to me, Dylan went straight up to him and explained exactly what was happening. He assessed the room and declared he would be our protector. No man would touch us that night. He swore on his dead parents’ lives that he would act with honor.
He felt sincere, and soon we saw him work his magic. I do not know what he told those drunk men, but most of them left. Somehow we retrieved our packs from the locked room and hung our hammocks. He took out a machete and stood guard all night, claiming he was also protecting us from snakes. When we awoke, he was making coffee and breakfast, singing songs. He showed us a picture of his parents, saying that he lived for them now. He was a true angel.
I do not know what would have happened if the gangster had taken us. What I do know is that when I called out with everything I had, help arrived.
When my daughter was four, we set out on an epic road trip. The year before, we had camped in the Redwoods for three weeks so I could learn how to camp as a single mother. Now I felt ready for a bigger journey, and so was she.
As a mother, I knew I had to be more responsible, more cautious. I did the adult thing and had my car fully checked before we left. That was new for me, but I was protecting another soul now. I needed to be vigilant. The mechanic gave me the green light, and we hit the road.
If you have driven I-84 through Oregon, you know it is one of the most breathtaking stretches of highway in the country. We were only a few hours into the drive on our first day when I lost control of the car. The steering wheel went loose in my hands, and the vehicle began to swerve. Terror flooded through me. Everything slowed down. Time stretched thin.
The car spun until we were facing oncoming traffic. A massive Mack truck was barreling toward us, no more than fifty yards away.
I blinked.
The next moment, we were still. On the shoulder. Facing backward. Safe. Alive.
It was silent. My daughter looked at me wide-eyed.
“Mom, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
When I stepped out, I saw the front tire shredded to pieces.
What happened between the moment I saw that truck and the moment we landed safely off the road, I will never know. It felt as if someone lifted us up and set us gently down. I thank every god, goddess, and unseen force that might have been watching over us.
We were protected that day. Of that, I am sure.
Do you have any connections? I would love to hear them!