JALISCO, Mexico — “Oh shit,” Christian said Sunday afternoon in his boat’s cockpit, staring at his phone.
I was about a week into a sailing journey up the Pacific coast of Mexico with Christian, one of my oldest friends. The trip had been all whale sightings, sandy beaches, and cold beers. But then bad news started filtering in from a sailing group chat on WhatsApp, which we scanned while sailing up the craggy coast of Colima.
Sunset in the lagoon behind Barra de Navidad. | Source: Jonah Owen Lamb
Images of burning buses blocking roadways and the hazy, smoke-filled Puerto Vallarta skyline filled the feed. Soon, news started to ripple out of a Mexican government operation about 100 miles inland that had killed cartel boss El Mencho. The killing in the mountains of Jalisco triggered chaos in much of the country, as narcos responded with violence.
Suddenly, I was one of the thousands of other American tourists who had stumbled into a quasi-war zone. When calculating the risks of visiting another country, you rarely weigh the likelihood of a drug cartel vengeance spree unleashing random violence. Tragically, that’s life in Mexico right now.
As the hours ticked by Sunday, Christian’s 43-foot cutter continued to push north through the azure waves. Just off our starboard was Aeropuerto Internacional de Manzanillo, where I was to depart Tuesday. I could see the control tower just past a long stretch of white beach. Christian joked that I could jump out and swim ashore now if I wanted.
After passing a rusted-out tanker that had foundered beneath a rocky cliff, we slowly sailed into the port town of Barra de Navidad. It was ghostly quiet. The usual boat traffic and beach crowds were gone. The only evidence of life was an old man walking atop the breakwater and a few tourists hiding under umbrellas. Christian said he’d never seen it so dead.
By the time we’d set out anchor and settled in the lagoon behind town, it was unclear if I’d be getting home anytime soon.
The Jalisco New Generation Cartel had come out in force across the state of Jalisco and beyond, blocking major roads by setting buses and cars on fire. Even if the roads were passable, some airlines were canceling flights, and the U.S. Embassy directed Americans to shelter in place. Locals were not sending encouraging news either. There was a rumor about two kidnappings in the next town over. It was being called the Jaliscazado, or the Jalisco hunt.
With little solid information, I began hatching contingency plans. I could walk the seven-mile beach to the airport. Or we could sail 250 miles north to Mazatlan in Sinaloa, where another cartel was in control. Or we could wait and see if any taxi would brave the state highway. The safest option was to remain anchored off the coast, with plans to flee at any sign of real danger.
The only action in the bay was at the fuel dock, where a line of white power boats were filling up. One sailor said everything was shut down in town except a single restaurant and a single store with a roll-down door that would open slightly if you gently knocked.
We found solace that night with a group of other sailors on a vessel well stocked with tequila.
Monday
By morning, the lagoon was windless and silent except for a crowing rooster.
A puff of black smoke rose above the mangroves just beyond town, and the radio chatter and rumor mill began. Someone said it was a car burning, theorizing about a makeshift narco roadblock. Others said it was obviously just someone burning trash. Soon enough, the smoke disappeared. My friends and family were checking in and advised us to stay put on the boat.
Our more immediate crisis was mundane: We were running out of food. A friend of Christian’s said a few stores were open in town. So we piled into a dinghy with two neighbors and slowly approached the small dock at the head of the lagoon. A scattering of forms could be seen ashore. Two men mended the dock, and a woman stood silently in front of her empty shop.
Up the road, a friendly man told me that no one was leaving town. He wished us luck. Outside of the tienda, a small line waited in the shade. We shopped in a silent frenzy, bumping into others inside the cramped store, as we filled our basket with as much fruit, tortillas, beans, potatoes, and onions as we could carry.
Back aboard the boat, the radio crackled. A man named Denni, who had shared his cioppino recipe the night before, was looking for me. He was headed home to San Francisco on the same flight Tuesday and said he’d found a taxi driver who would take us to the airport.
I was cautiously optimistic. A woman who owns a bakery in town said locals knew a backroad to the airport that bypasses the roadblock. When I got our driver, Pancho, on the phone, he confirmed that there was a clear road to the airport. I told him I’d wait until the morning to confirm. The U.S. State Department had just issued a fresh shelter-in-place warning for much of Jalisco.
With the help of my wife, I got in touch with an Alaska Airlines worker who tut-tutted about the region, calling it “cartel country.” “Just tell me about the flights,” I snapped. Flights were canceled for Monday, but my 4:30 p.m. flight the next day was on schedule.
Tuesday
I woke before dawn and tried to gather tidbits about roadblocks and risks through Mexican news sites, WhatsApp groups, and social media. When Christian dropped me off at the harbor, Pancho was nowhere to be found. I stood in the heat with my heavy bag. My mind raced for another option.
A burned-out semi on the way to the Manzanillo airport. | Source: Jonah Owen Lamb
A National Guard checkpoint outside the airport. | Source: Jonah Owen Lamb
Denni’s friend said the driver had left five minutes before. Then came a frantic round of phone calls. I finally got through to Pancho and begged him in my best Spanish to come back. He agreed and hung up.
Five minutes later, Pancho’s gray Chevy pulled into the station with a shirtless Denni and a woman from Australia. We sped through an empty golf course that turned into farmland full of banana and palm trees.
Mexican marines patrol Highway 200, which has been the site of numerous cartel roadblocks. | Source: Jonah Owen Lamb
Then we turned onto the bypass road and the bridge across the Marabasco River that divides Jalisco from Colima. We’d come across one of the remains of what Mexican media had taken to calling narcobloqueos. Traffic was limited to one lane because a semi truck with a burned trailer took up the other. The barely recognizable cargo of apples, tomatoes, and potatoes was scorched black.
“Want some tomatoes?” Pancho joked as we passed over the bridge.
A military convoy drove down the road in the opposite direction as we headed to the airport. Just before arriving, we ran into a roadblock where Mexican National Guard soldiers searched our trunk and waved us on. Minutes later, I walked into the air-conditioned terminal, which was full of relieved tourists and guarded by three soldiers in camouflage carrying assault rifles.
A few hours later, my plane lifted off. From my window seat, I could see Christian’s boat safe at anchor. I still smelled of the sea.
The writer boards his flight at the Manzanillo airport. | Source: Jonah Owen Lamb