My camel cried (with relief) when I left: She let out a humpback-wail

 "You're doing WHAT when you go to Mexico?" my husband asked.

"What are you doing when you go to Cabo?" asked Savannah.

You know who didn't question me? You know who didn't scoff? You know who didn't demean my dream?

Sydney. That's who. WITHOUT question, she simply booked the excursion while I spent a month defending my choice.

"Camels are not indigenous to Mexico," Savannah (now a naturalist, apparently) pointed out.

"How exactly are you planning on getting on and off said camel?" Brad wondered, trying to plant a seed
a doubt in my mind, "You have trouble getting out of bed in the morning."

But I'd read the literature. Watched the informational video. Discovered and then latched onto a Bucket List activity that I'd never even ONCE in my life considered but was now going to accomplish. I, Amy Mosiman, was going to spot whales while perched majestically atop a stately ship of the desert.

Brad and Savannah laughed their heads off.

When Sydney and I arrived at our resort, I admit to feeling that I might have fallen for the hype. I might have been a bit naive.

Naive? Me?

We'd unintentionally but happily landed in Cabo at the height of whale season. Unfortunately, we soon learned that any whale sightings that we might have indulged in occurred at sunrise before the arrival of the daily migrations of cruise ships anchoring in the Sea of Cortez that herds them down the shoreline. A 6:30 am whale wake-up call was NOT in the cards for Syd and me.

So, as we drove to our excursion, I tried to ready my heart for, as my more skeptical family members described it, "a low-rent, back-alley, camel carnival ride." 

I was worried.

I wasn't wearing closed-toed shoes. "They don't care about what's on your feet," my husband tried to assure me (too late there now, buddy), "They only care what's in your wallet." What if my camel didn't like me? What if, like my stunt airplane debacle, there was an undisclosed weight limit? And, of course, the same worry that plagued me throughout the entire trip...what if I'm sex-trafficked? 

These worries, etched in the sand by my own anxious hand, were quickly dispelled by the first warmly enthusiastic wave of our new friend, Pepe. "Mi familia!" he shouted, gathering us together like a mother hen and shoo-ing us out of the heat to a shadowed pavilion. As we eagerly waited for our fun photo-shoot with a Bactrian camel, Pepe entertained us with camel-related trivia. Sydney and I, raised in a rural county boasting more cows than people, were more than ready to apply our bovine knowledge to this new environment. Four-chambered stomachs? Please. Cloven hooves? Child's play. We didn't even blink when Pepe, asked about a camel's retirement, teased his familia by telling us we'd find out at lunch after our ride.

Our photo shoot was magical. Our camel, the lovely Lolita with eyelashes for miles, graciously accepted our admiration while we posed for pictures while the camel train was being assembled. I let out a sigh of relief when I spotted the staired-platform that would put me camel-high in order to straddle and then sit in the saddle. Many of our familia were allowed to pair up on their camels. As Sydney and I climbed the stairs, Pepe smiled broadly at me, clasping his hands. "Senorita! It would give me such pleasure if you would ride Pepe's favorite camel!" He yelled in Spanish to the compound and a young man quickly added a sturdy addition to the train. A quick review of Google translate revealed Pepe's shouted request: "Hey! We need a load-bearing camel out here!"

My hurt feelings were quickly out-weighed by the pain of my suddenly over-extended pelvis. I glanced back at Sydney, trotting along on her little dromedary named Natalie whose pronouns were nice/nasty. "Not gonna lie, I'm not sure my hips can handle this," I told her when, finally, to my great relief, they disengaged and I could settle comfortably in the saddle. I quickly fulfilled another Bucket List item by singing "Sally the Camel" while RIDING a camel. I was disappointed that others didn't join in. I'm sure they would regret that later. 

Weaving around cacti and nettles, we were soon at the beach. I heard Sydney gasp and looked back to see my daughter, atop a camel, arm outstretched,pointing...at an oasis? A middle eastern market? A band of desert raiders? 

No.

A whale.

I sat, periscope-straight, eyes locked on the Pacific. "Another one! Mom! Look!" Sydney bellowed. Our Wyoming County roots rose to the surface. So many whales...like counting cows in a field. The excursion photographer had quite a time with us. "Look at me!" he shouted again and again, "The whales will still be there!"

Too soon, we were back to the staired-platform and Pepe was watching me mentally work out my strategy for dismounting. He was ready. I swung my far leg over, planted both feet firmly on the platform, prayed that my load-bearing camel didn't sway, and pushed off his furry side. Pepe met me with a firm handshake, helping to hoist me up. Score! I waddled  off with dignity like a bow-legged, derriere-dragging duck.

"Mi familia!" Pepe shouted, ushering us over to the little open-aired pavilion that housed the restaurant and bar. He wowed us with his tamale-making skills and then conducted a tequila-tasting seminar. By this time, Sydney and I were well-versed on this process and did the Mosiman family name proud. 

We were, of course, heart-broken to say good-bye to Pepe and our camel friends. "Let's make this quick and not milk it out," I whispered to Sydney as we waited to hug Pepe as he helped us board the truck to take us back. "We don't want this to become a drama-dairy."