When Corey Andrus stepped outside his Puerto Vallarta villa Sunday morning, vacation mode quickly evaporated.
His flight home to Minneapolis was scheduled for 3 p.m. Bags were packed. An airport car was minutes away. Instead, he saw black smoke rising across the skyline.
“Smoke everywhere,” he recalled. “That’s when we knew something wasn’t right.”
Within minutes, a message arrived from the property manager: don’t go outside. Highways were closed. Rideshares were suspended. Soon after, his flight was canceled.
Violence had erupted across parts of Mexico following the killing of cartel leader Nemesio Rubén Oseguera Cervantes, known as “El Mencho,” in Jalisco state. In Puerto Vallarta, roadblocks and vehicle fires disrupted transit corridors, triggering shelter-in-place advisories and widespread flight cancellations.
For Andrus and his partner, the shift was immediate.
From Brunch Plans to Barricaded Doors
The couple was staying in a villa near Zona Romántica, Puerto Vallarta’s LGBTQ-popular district. After stepping outside briefly, they were told by nearby staff it was a “code red” and to return indoors.
“We locked every door, closed the blinds, turned off the lights,” Andrus said. “Then we started Googling.”
Information was scarce. Official updates repeated a simple directive: shelter in place. Social media, however, filled the void.
Rumors circulated online claiming gunmen would begin targeting people in the streets at 1 p.m. Another post warned hotels would be stormed at 5 p.m. None of it was verified. In the moment, it felt real.
“When you don’t have clear information, your mind goes to worst-case scenarios,” he said.
Silence added to the unease. He never heard sirens. No visible emergency response. As night fell, the streets that began the day with motorcycles and smoke grew still.
“We just waited,” he said. “Phones charged. Lights off.”
The Search for Water
A more practical fear soon surfaced: supplies.
Because they planned to leave that day, the villa had no food or bottled water left. A nearby OXXO convenience store was closed. A gas station at a major intersection was engulfed in flames.
A stroke of luck came via friends from Washington, D.C., who managed to catch one of the last departing flights. Before leaving, they sent their door codes and told Andrus to take whatever they needed.
Inside, there were bottles of water and protein shakes.
“It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get us through,” he said.
The following day brought another jolt, helicopters.
Mexican Marines swept low over rooftops, rattling windows. At one point, Andrus stepped onto the balcony and made eye contact with an armed servicemember inside a helicopter hovering nearby.
“That was scary,” he said. “But it was also reassuring. Finally, there was a presence.”
Community in the Chaos
By Monday evening, residents began cautiously reopening.
Corporate convenience stores remained shuttered, many damaged. Smaller neighborhood shops lifted their gates a few customers at a time. There was no price gouging. No panic buying. Locals limited water purchases to ensure others had access.
“It felt organized,” Andrus said. “People were looking out for each other.”
A restaurant preparing for its grand opening pivoted overnight into a makeshift kitchen for anyone who needed a meal. The menu didn’t matter.
“They said, ‘We have rice. We have noodles. We’ll make something,’” he said. “That was the turning point for us. It felt like, okay, we’re going to be fine.”
By Tuesday morning, garbage trucks returned. Restaurants reopened. The streets looked familiar again — almost too familiar.
“It was surreal,” he said. “You go from smoke and helicopters to brunch in 48 hours.”
Misinformation and the Fight to Get Home
If the violence was jarring, the digital chaos may have been worse.
Flights were repeatedly canceled, Sunday, then Monday, then Tuesday. Andrus said he called Delta more than 20 times trying to secure seats. At one point, he was told planes were being shot down, a claim he never saw substantiated.
“It was misinformation layered on top of uncertainty,” he said.
Eventually, two seats opened on a larger aircraft.
“They were by the bathroom,” he said. “We didn’t care.”
The experience underscored a broader concern: in emergencies, social media can amplify fear faster than facts travel.
“The lack of information was the hardest part,” Andrus said. “You don’t know what’s real.”
An Anchor in the Storm
Through it all, he leaned on his partner, who, in an added twist, had broken his elbow earlier in the trip and was navigating the ordeal in a sling.
“We couldn’t have done it alone,” Andrus said. “Having each other kept things grounded.”
Back in Minneapolis, he sees parallels between Puerto Vallarta and moments of unrest at home. In both cases, he said, neighbors stepped up before institutions did.
“The common thread is people helping people,” he said. “That’s what sticks with me.”
Despite the chaos, Andrus says he never felt targeted as a gay traveler. Retrospectively, he believes tourists were not the focus of the violence.
His takeaway is less about fear and more about clarity.
“We’re safe,” he said. “Puerto Vallarta is safe. But accurate information matters.”
In the end, smoke cleared. Flights resumed. And a vacation turned survival story became a reminder of something quieter: in the absence of certainty, community fills the gap.
