There should be a law forbidding TV stations from hiring women as weather forecasters. The night before flying into Cabo, I'd focused all my attention on shapely Monica, not the graphics she was pointing to, that red blotch spiraling its way up Mexico's western coastline. I might have heard the words "--and sustained winds 115mph or higher . . . landfall in Baja." But when she gave the camera a wide smile, I wasn't listening.

If I had, I might have canceled my trip. Instead, I blew into Cabo early Saturday night, a full day before Hurricane Odile. Sunday was bright and warm as I sat drinking potent margaritas on the patio of the Riu Palace Resort with some of my colleagues, all firefighters. Fifty of us, including wives and significant others, had flown in from Chicago for our Captain's wedding. It was also my first vacation in four years.

I was one of the few who had come alone, but Elena and Excuela, two lovely Mexican waitresses, weren't shy about flirting. Also, my buddies had quickly pointed out the bikini-clad women lying on their backs by the pool.

Both Elena and Escuela rolled their eyes or waved dispassionately at the gathering clouds if someone asked, "El huracan?" I figured, if the natives could ignore its coming, so could I.

Early in the afternoon, the hazy skies changed drastically. Legions of black billowing clouds marched in, choking the sun completely. Playful breezes morphed into disquieting gusts that rapidly grew in strength. As the ocean crept furtively closer, surf swept up the beach to lash the raised stone terrace where we sat. In minutes unhurried breakers swelled into gigantic rollers that slammed onto the beach. White sand spewed in wide arcs and unfettered cabanas cartwheeled aimlessly until they collapsed. Bent almost to the ground, palms knelt in fealty like knights before their baron.

Abruptly, a gust ripped the huge yellow umbrella from our table and hurled it across the patio. Others followed.

As gales slammed into our derrieres, we all raced across the patio. Slashing rain pummeled our faces. Once inside, I stared at the frantic staff struggling to batten down shutters and lash doors shut. The howling wind relentlessly battered the walls, windows, and roof. I heard glass shatter, wood moan then splinter. Feeling impotent, I scuttled into the lobby with the other guests.

When the power went out, a concierge in broken English urged all guests to seek shelter in their rooms. We scurried like blind mice through a maze of hallways.

My roommate Eric and I somehow found our room. When he tried to use his cell phone, he couldn't find a signal. After pounding on neighbors' doors, we learned nobody's phone worked.

The room was pitch dark, so we had little choice but to lie in bed. I stared at the curtained window, listened, and grew paranoid. I knew what strong winds could do: tear down live power lines. Fires might result. I shuddered when I considered all the flammable material in our room and others. A storm this destructive could also block all the emergency exits. If a fire broke out, people would panic.

"Keep trying your phone, Eric. I gotta see what's going on downstairs."

"Roger," he replied, and I left.

Fortunately, I found the hallway empty. Taking the stairs, I checked all the emergency exits as I worked my way toward the lobby.

I was checking a fire door on the second floor when a young woman hailed me.

"Please . . . help me."

The hallway was smothered in shadows, and I could barely see her. I strode toward her as quickly as I dared.

"You hurt, ma'am?"

"No, but I--I could have been." As I approached, she stared at me wide-eyed. "Three young Mexican men vandalized this hall. See?" She pointed at broken lights and a shattered camera hanging from the ceiling. "I'd heard something break outside, opened my door, and spotted them doing the damage. They saw me, screamed, and charged like bulls. I--I slammed the door in their faces."

The woman, thirty-ish, wore white shorts, a red gift shop t-shirt, and flip-flops. A chestnut pony-tail hung loosely over her left shoulder as she leaned against the door. She didn't have that panicky demeanor I'd seen far too often in victims. On the contrary, she seemed pretty calm.

I looked at her skeptically. "Why'd you open your door just now? That was foolish."

A smirk licked her lips. "I saw you through the peep hole in the door, you were alone . . . and you didn't look scary."

I stifled a grin. "Want to come with me? I'm heading for the lobby to see what's what."

She gave me an appraising look that was not unwelcome. "Are you one of those firemen I've seen . . . and heard . . . all day?"

I nodded.

"Good. Then I feel safe." She took my arm. "Lead the way, Mr. Fireman."

I grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

The lobby reminded me of Chicago's O'Hare airport whenever travelers are stranded by the weather. Dozens of guests sprawled anywhere they could find a dry spot. Rain cascaded from multiple cracks in the stucco ceiling into buckets the staff couldn't empty fast enough. The doors and windows were now barricaded.

Candles glimmered everywhere, on small tables, along the front desk, and in rows all across the floor. Although the flickering light blurred faces, the howling storm did not muffle the din of conversations.

I led Jaime (we'd introduced ourselves on the way down) to the front desk where we both listened to the fast-talking resort manager. Despite having to respond to scores of queries in his grit-sprinkled black suit and shoes, he still smiled.

A woman nearby told Jaime he'd been giving updates every fifteen minutes. Yes, there was food enough to feed us for several days, but no running water. Hopefully, power would be restored shortly, but no, there were no back-up generators. And he wouldn't guess how long guests might be stranded.

When I saw my drinking buddies leering at me, I grabbed a flickering candle from the floor and steered Jaime in the opposite direction. We settled on a rumpled piece of carpet that was damp but not soggy.

"Do you have a phone with you, Dennis?" she asked. "I left everything in my room."

I pulled mine from my pocket, but it worked no better than Eric's had.

"Storm probably knocked out the signal towers . . . if they have such things down here," I muttered.

"This is Cabo!" she laughed. "Not some Mexican village inland. They have everything . . . or they did." Now she was frowning.

"Sounds like you did some research on the place before coming," I said.

"Yes! I've taken tours into Mexico three times previously, but to all the big-name mainland resorts like Acapulco and Puerto Vallarta. This would be my first trip to Baja California, and I wanted to know what I was getting myself into." Then laughing, she said, "But Fodor and those other guidebooks say nothing about hurricanes."

A moment later she asked, "Why did you come?"

I told her about the wedding that likely would not happen. Certainly not here . . . now.

"Are you married, Dennis?" she asked, staring blatantly at my left hand.

My jaw dropped.

"We Montana girls are blunt. Have to be. Winters are long and cold, and summers too damn short. No time to mince words."

"I'm single . . . now," I said gravely, not responding to her big smile. "Lost my wife three years ago . . . in a fire. Tried to save her, but couldn't." I pushed my other hand toward the flickering candle and watched her grimace when she saw the burn scar on both sides and up the wrist. "More like it on my back."

Before she could respond, I continued. "I was already a fireman in a small department. After her death I bitterly complained we needed more training. When the village board said they couldn't afford it, I quit. Fortunately, CFD was hiring seasoned firefighters like me. Gave me a raise and much more training, too."

We talked the night away. Jaime was a wonderful listener, very funny at times, and very pleasant company. Monday morning we were drowsy, but anxious to discover for ourselves what damage the hurricane had wreaked. Yes, our resort was hard-hit, but throughout Cabo we saw many razed buildings. Debris and rubble filled the streets, and already looters were ransacking homes and businesses. We returned to Riu Palace to hear stories about guests who'd been robbed when they tried to reach the airport seven miles away.

Little changed in three days. Food ran low, tempers flared, and many people began to panic. Would we ever get home? Would help come from the States? If so, in what form?

Jaime spent hours helping others in Cabo. A jack-of-all-trades, she'd been an EMT, an apprentice carpenter, and a certified physical therapist. She'd also spent two years in Africa as a missionary. I didn't see much of her for two days. I wasn't happy about that, but I found ways to keep myself busy, too. Eric and I made ourselves useful by making sure our badly damaged resort and others nearby were fire-proof.

Then on Friday our group found a way to get to the airport. Someone had miraculously procured six buses, but we'd have to sneak out of the lobby, or there would be a riot.

Before we left, I made my way to Jaime's room and knocked on the door.

"When you looked through that peephole, was I more or less scary than before?" I asked when the door opened.

"Much less." She gazed at the duffle in my good hand. "You're leaving?"

I tried to grin, but couldn't.

"Yup."

She smiled weakly. "I finally got through to my folks," she said, "so I don't feel quite so stranded." Her smile flickered. "I--I'll miss you though."

"You--you mean that?"

"Yup, I do, Mr. Fireman."

Her smile flared as bright as any inferno I've ever seen.

"We're flying out to Phoenix. I--I'll wait for you there since I've two more weeks of vacation coming." I grinned. "Ever been to the Grand Canyon, Montana girl?"

She shook her head.

"Neither have I. Want to see it with me?"

She reached up, threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me hard on the mouth.

"That give you a clue?" she asked, not releasing her grip.

It surely did!