The desert sun was just beginning to warm the dusty roads of Baja California Sur as Isaac, our Uber driver, bounced along the final dirt stretch toward Flora Farms. Somewhere along the jolting ride, Jerry’s iPhone slipped from his pocket, though he wouldn’t realize it until later. Tucked into the foothills of the Sierra de la Laguna Mountains, this 25-acre organic farm felt like a familiar dream. Nine years ago, Patti and I had visited while our 41’ trawler, the Western Flyer, waited at a nearby marina for a weather window to La Paz, part of a cruisers’ rally that ended in Cabo, though our hearts were set on La Paz. Now, joined by our adventurous friends Jerry and Liz, we were ready to rediscover the magic of Flora Farms, a farm-to-table paradise far from the lively beaches of Cabo San Lucas, 24 miles south.
Stepping out of the Uber, we were enveloped by a wave of greenery, a lush oasis against the arid landscape. Lavender swayed in the breeze, its scent mingling with the earthy richness of vibrant flowers. Liz, snapping photos of the herb gardens, grinned and said, “Jerry, we’re eating everything here.” Jerry, patting his pockets, frowned. “My phone’s gone,” he muttered, recalling it was on airplane mode, rendering it silent. Near panic set in, but the rest of us, caught in the farm’s spell, trusted fate would have other plans. Flora Farms wasn’t just a destination—it was a living love letter to sustainable living, and despite Jerry’s growing unease, we were eager to dive in.
The open-air restaurant buzzed with energy as we settled at a long wooden table under a canopy of woven branches. The sangria hit hard, loosening our tongues, though Jerry lingered on distant memories. Why not be in the present, my friend? I thought, watching him. The menu celebrated the land, every ingredient grown in the fields around us or sourced from a nearby 150-acre ranch where animals roamed freely, raised humanely without hormones or antibiotics. Patti and I, ever the culinary debaters, sparred over choices. Patti’s pick, a Neapolitan-style pizza with a charred crust topped with just-picked arugula and heirloom tomatoes, tasted like sunshine. My pork chop, paired with zesty chimichurri, had me declaring, “This is why we travel.” Jerry and Liz ordered a massive chicken breast salad and a 12-inch pizza, but Jerry’s mood darkened. He tried sharing a story about his Arctic adventure, but our excitement over the food and surroundings drowned him out.
For Jerry, the day was unraveling. The missing phone, the lack of attention, and the vibrant setting stirred something deeper. As president of his local Rotary Club, he was used to control, but here, in this foreign land, he felt his age creeping in. The youthful vibrancy of his past seemed distant, and the lively chatter around him felt isolating. Overwhelmed, he stood abruptly, muttering, “I need a minute,” and wandered off toward the fields, seeking solace.
With full bellies and happy hearts, the rest of us meandered to the Flora Farms Grocery, a charming market brimming with ruby-red radishes, golden beets, and fragrant basil. We assumed Jerry would return eventually—I predicted 45 minutes. Jars of house-made jams, fresh-baked breads, and lead-free clay pots lined the shelves. Patti, ever the desert eater, craved a spice cake muffin, while I eyed a sticky bun. Patti, the collector, snagged hand-painted coasters, and Liz grabbed a sourdough loaf. The farm’s sustainability ethos shone through—signs detailed pesticide-free fields nourished by compost and cover crops, free-range chickens roaming five acres, their eggs destined for the kitchen’s legendary brunch. Even last night’s table flowers fed the hens. “This place is doing it right,” I said, and we all nodded, inspired to live a little greener.
Minus Jerry, we strolled to the Shoppes at Flora Farms, a cluster of boutiques tempting us with handwoven Mexican textiles, delicate silver jewelry, and candles that smelled like the farm itself. The grounds were magical, from the Culinary Cottages—straw-bale homes where guests could harvest produce and cook in chef’s kitchens—to the sleek Lofts at Flora with private beach club access. Patti, eyeing the lofts, whispered to me about fractional ownership. “Dream big, right?” she laughed. We learned how founders Gloria and Patrick Greene had transformed this barren plot into a thriving oasis in the late 1990s, sparking a farm-to-table movement in Los Cabos that inspired spots like Acre and Los Tamarindos and birthed the local farmers’ market.
Meanwhile, Jerry sat alone in the Mango Grove, where weddings were held under fruit trees. The weight of his thoughts—aging, losing control, feeling unheard—pressed heavily. But then, a soft voice broke through. “Señor, is this yours?” Isaac, our Uber driver, held out Jerry’s iPhone, found wedged in the backseat. Jerry’s relief was palpable, but it was Isaac’s kind smile and a brief chat about his own family’s farm that shifted something. “You’re here with friends who love you,” Isaac said. “That’s what matters.” Jerry nodded, the knot in his chest loosening. He rejoined us, phone in hand, a tentative smile breaking through.
As we gathered in the Mango Grove, I squeezed Patti’s hand, reflecting on how fast the years had flown since our trawler days. Jerry, now lighter, shared a quiet laugh with Liz, who teased him about his Arctic tale. The bumpy dirt road back to San José del Cabo felt like a gentle return to reality, our next stop the vibrant Cabo San Lucas art walk scene. Flora Farms wasn’t just a place—it was a shared adventure, a celebration of flavor, beauty, and connection. For Patti and me, it was a reminder of our history. For Jerry, it was a rediscovery of presence and friendship. For all of us, it was a day tucked into our hearts like the wildflower bouquets we carried home, blooming with the promise of more adventures together.
Trawlercat Chronicles 