The drive takes about four hours door-to-door from my condo in Mesa.
I leave my truck there often enough that it just makes sense to shuttle in from downtown Phoenix instead—$60, no parking stress, no airport traffic roulette.
Sometimes, convenience is worth more than saving a few bucks since I go back and forth so often.
I’ve been renting a small room in Puerto Peñasco—aka Rocky Point—for almost seven years now.
Time really does fly when you can’t remember half the things you did while you were there. 😂
I first stayed here as an Airbnb on June 24, 2017, and somehow… never left.
I talked with the owners—amazing people—and asked if I could rent monthly. They said yes, and I never looked back. I’m paying less per month than my HOA in Arizona, so it doesn’t bother me at all that I’m not here constantly.
It’s become a second home, anchored by my Mexican family:
Fortunado (El Jefe) and Lupe—absolute legends.
Some places you visit.
Others quietly claim you as home. 🙋🏻♂️🙌🏻
Lupe is posing with her legendary pozole—made for guests during the Rocky Point rally. I shared the full story and details earlier because this soup deserves documentation.
El Jefe (literally “the boss” in Spanish) is pictured with an old promotional photo they once used in movie theater advertising credits in Phoenix. I call him El Jefe because that’s exactly what he is—the boss man of the Airbnb operation. Between him and Lupe, they run a tight ship.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Like most things in life, my visits to Puerto Peñasco have evolved over the years.
When I first started renting, I was working five days a week and hoping to make it down once a month. A couple of years later, I dropped to four days a week and came more often. There were stretches where I was here every weekend—and other times when months passed between visits.
But I always knew something important:
I had a pad in Mexico.
That alone was enough. I didn’t need to jump on a plane to get my fix. Sometimes it was almost too convenient to escape to Mexico for playtime.
Fast forward to 2024, and I had what I thought was a solid plan—to work part-time from Rocky Point.
I’d just spent four months working remotely in Hawaii, quietly and successfully, so I figured: Why not Mexico?
I went all in.
I set up a proper office.
Installed backup power.
Bought Starlink for internet redundancy.
Covered every possible failure point.
Every base covered—except one.
A backup job. 
I finished setting everything up around Christmas 2023, ready to roll in January.
Then, on February 1st, 2024, I received an email inviting me to a mandatory meeting. Conveniently, this was the same week the media announced layoffs.
It didn’t take much analysis to realize I was toast.
My first thought?
Thank God I have a place to stay.
My Airbnb back in Mesa was rented out for another three months, so at least housing wasn’t a problem.
Sure, I was annoyed I’d invested money in the office—but honestly?
I hated the job anyway. I was just hanging on for healthcare and needed maybe two or three more years.
Instead, I got a decent severance package and six months of healthcare to figure out my next move.
And my next move was the same as it’s always been:
Travel, I just did not need a return ticket this time!
I mounted a 50-inch TV, added a kickass Sonos speaker, and had my laptop and tablet dialed in. Electrically speaking, I was fully operational.
Around the room, I hung my paddleboard on the wall, parked a fat-tire bike, and lined up the golf clubs, snorkel, and fishing gear—all untouched so far. Honestly, just having them there makes me feel younger… and theoretically athletic, if I ever step away from the computer.
I also upgraded the essentials:
a comfy mattress,
a beer fridge (priorities),
an air fryer, microwave, BBQ, and a Keurig.
Small space.
Fully loaded.
Adventure-ready… eventually.
People tell me all the time that nobody wants to travel the way I do.
I take it as a compliment—usually from someone saying it while standing barefoot at an airport security line, looking deeply unhappy. LOL.
What really sticks with me, though, is when people say I remind them of my mom.
She was a simple Ukrainian woman who lived much the same way in retirement. She spent her later years in a small trailer in Yuma, did most things herself, and answered criticism with a philosophy she perfected over time:
“If they don’t like it, they can kiss my ass.”
Mom was lucky enough to live the snowbird life for over 15 years, and she made it to 84 doing things her way. That seems like a pretty solid blueprint to me—so yes, I take the comparison as a compliment.
I miss you every day, Mom.
And just to be clear—I’m bragging, not complaining. 
