It started with an idea, as most bad decisions often do. I’d just gotten my scuba diving certification and had been exploring the depths off La Jolla Cove, chasing a thrill I’d only begun to understand. But this time, I wanted something different—something more adventurous. A group of guys from the squadron and I decided to head down to Ensenada, Mexico, to a spot called La Bufadora. It was famous for its blowhole and stunning underwater rock formations. I was the only certified diver, which meant one thing: I was responsible for securing the gear.
Back then, you couldn’t get scuba tanks without a certification card, so I handled that. I rented tanks and gear for everyone, enough to turn us all into Jacques Cousteau for the weekend. With some extra cash left over, I made a personal purchase—a shiny new speargun. In hindsight, arming myself might’ve been the first of many mistakes.
We drove down to Ensenada and found a cheap hotel—a rundown place with two cramped rooms and beds that had seen better days. The kind of place where you could hear your neighbors breathing through the walls. But it was a bed, and we didn’t plan to spend much time there.
That evening, we ventured to a local bar called Froggies. It was a dark, lively dive filled with music, laughter, and cheap booze. The kind of place where you could forget yourself for a night. I spotted two blonde women at the bar and, in my overconfident state, decided to charm them.
The rest of the squad hit the bar, and one of them, McDaniel, introduced me to something I’d never seen before: a giant margarita bowl. It was a concoction of toxic proportions, a Long Island Iced Tea served in what could only be described as a punch bowl with straws. We downed one, then another, and before long, the blondes were forgotten, and I was no longer standing.
From that point, my memories blur. I blacked out right there at Froggies, face down on the bar. Rather than taking me back to the hotel, the guys decided to keep the party going, dragging me from bar to bar. By the end of the night, my brand-new shoes had holes worn through the toes from being dragged across the pavement.
At some point, we ended up in a dry creek bed—a shallow arroyo. McDaniel stumbled and fell face-first into the ground, splitting his lip wide open. Blood was everywhere, and while the guys scrambled to help him, they left me behind. I staggered to my feet and noticed a glow in the distance, up on a ridge. Fueled by booze and misplaced bravado, I climbed the ridge and found a group of locals around a firepit.
They were standing near the back ends of old Volkswagen Beetles, drinking and laughing. In my drunken state, I called them every foul Spanish insult I could think of. I kicked dirt at one of them, and for a moment, they just stared at me, baffled. Then I turned to leave.
That’s when I heard the footsteps—seven of them. They surrounded me. I raised my hands and taunted them, swinging wildly and missing by a mile. When I tried to kick one of them, I tripped myself and landed flat on my back.
No time was wasted. They kicked me like I was a soccer ball—ribs, back, chest, legs. One of my friends, Mike, ran up and tried to intervene, but he was punched in the face, and they stole his leather jacket. Finally, Jim Taylor, another squadron buddy, dragged me out of there, yelling, “Stupid American! Stupid American!”
I was the first one up and just before I stumbled out of bed, I noticed I was still wearing my jeans. My body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder—sore and stiff—and then I saw the worst of it. The bed was soaked. I’d pissed myself, not just once, but multiple times. A literal pool of urine. Disgusted and still groggy, I rolled out of the wet mess and staggered into the tiny bathroom. Everyone else was still passed out, oblivious.
Peeling off my soaked jeans was a process in itself, sticky and revolting. As I caught my reflection in the mirror, I noticed blood streaked across my back. For a split second, I thought I’d been stabbed, but the memory of being dragged across the dirt by Tyler came rushing back. The bruises were already forming—dark splotches spreading across my ribs, neck, and back. My face, thankfully, had been spared the worst of it.
Still slightly drunk and reeling from the night, I climbed into the shower. The hot water hit me like a slap to the face, washing away the filth but doing little to clear my spinning head. After what felt like forever, I toweled off and decided it was time to rally the troops for our dive. But when I went to open the bathroom door, it wouldn’t budge. Locked.
Still drunk, still sore, and now irritated, I took a step back, braced myself, and kicked the door open with all the grace of a wrecking ball. The door crashed open, nearly flying off its hinges, the noise echoing through the small hotel room.
“What the fuck, James?” McDaniel groaned from the bed, still half-asleep, his voice slurred with irritation. The other guys stirred, rubbing their eyes and glaring at me like I was the devil incarnate.
That’s when I noticed McDaniel had rolled over into the same side of the bed I’d been sleeping on earlier—the wet side. He was lying in the mess I’d left behind. I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. Hard. He had no idea. He must’ve thought he’d pissed himself, and I wasn’t about to correct him.
“Come on, guys, we’ve got a schedule to keep!” I barked, trying to play the role of leader. “The tides aren’t going to wait for us. Let’s get moving!”
The others begrudgingly got up, groaning and cursing as they shuffled to get dressed. McDaniel, however, didn’t move. He just sat there, soaking in my mistake, his face a mix of exhaustion and resignation.
“Let’s go, man. We’re burning daylight,” I said, still laughing to myself.
McDaniel glared at me and waved me off. “Why don’t you guys go ahead? I need a minute. Just leave me the fuck alone.”
I nodded, suppressing another laugh as I turned to rally the others. Inside, I was dying. The poor guy was too embarrassed to admit what he thought had happened. The truth was safe with me. For now.
La Bufadora was as beautiful as they said. The blowhole shot seawater high into the air, and the rocky shoreline begged to be explored. Still hungover, I suited up and prepared to dive. The bruises on my ribs and back were throbbing, but the adrenaline and leftover alcohol dulled the pain.
McDaniel and I were the first to hit the water. The others, battered and bruised, stayed on the rocks, glaring at me with a mix of resentment and exhaustion. As soon as we descended, I loaded my speargun and began shooting at anything that moved. McDaniel gestured at a fish he’d spotted, but before he could point it out fully, I’d already shot it. He wasn’t impressed.
We went deeper, and I lost track of time. At 110 feet, the deepest I’d ever been, I hovered, mesmerized by the green haze and the quiet of the ocean. I shot a few more fish, their bodies floating lifelessly as their guts spilled into the water. It was exhilarating, but I’d made a rookie mistake—I wasn’t watching my air gauge.
McDaniel signaled that he was heading up, but I stayed behind, pushing my luck. When I finally decided to surface, I realized my buoyancy vest wasn’t working. I was stuck, sinking, and panic set in. I frantically inflated the vest, and when it finally took, it overcompensated. I shot to the surface like a cork, my lungs burning as I exhaled to avoid bursting them.
I broke through the surface with such force that I flew three feet into the air before crashing back down. Gasping for breath, I swam to the rocks, where McDaniel was waiting, furious. “You’re going to kill yourself, or worse—me!” he shouted, his voice echoing against the cliffs.
As I neared the rocks, I saw a beautiful fish darting through the water. Ignoring the yelling from the group, I loaded my speargun one last time. I let the wave carry me back, lined up the shot, and pulled the trigger just as the wave pushed me forward. I hit the fish perfectly. Victory.
But as I stood on the rocks, holding my catch, the fish flopped in my hand and stung me across the top of it. It was a tiger fish—venomous. Pain shot through my arm like fire, and within minutes, I was feverish and shaking.
The guys threw me in the back of the car like a sack of potatoes. No one offered water or help. I sat there for hours, sweating and writhing in pain. When the fever finally broke, I emerged from the car, battered, humiliated, and entirely alone. The squadron guys had had enough of me. My first real attempt at friendship had ended in disaster.
The drive back to San Diego was quiet. No one spoke to me, and I didn’t blame them. My body ached from head to toe, and my ego was bruised beyond repair. The trip to Ensenada was supposed to be an adventure, a bonding experience. Instead, it had turned into a cautionary tale.
As I sat in the back seat, staring out the window at the passing coastline, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. I’d survived bar fights, a venomous sting, and a near-drowning, only to lose the respect of the very people I was trying to impress.
La Bufadora had been an adventure, all right—just not the kind I’d expected. It was a lesson in humility, in the cost of recklessness, and in the fragile nature of camaraderie. But most of all, it was a story I’d tell for years to come, a reminder that sometimes, survival is the best punchline.
