Sean Taylor

It was October 2002, just short of my 18th birthday. The trip was an OP photo/film shoot down to Mainland Mexico. The crew consisted of myself along with their team at the time including Tim Curran, Greg Long, Matt Beacham, Erica Hoessini, Holly Beck and Bron Huessenstamm. The production crew consisted of stylists, art directors, makeup artists, filmers, photographers, directors, location coordinators, cooks, magicians, dolphin trainers, etc ... 29 people in all. Needless to say, it was kind of a big deal.
The first part of the trip sailed along with ease. We were drinking Coronas poolside, eating gourmet meals, surfing fun waves, and just living the dream. Little did we know that it was only a matter of time before that would all change.
Greg Long received a call from his dad in San Clemente informing him of a possible category five hurricane that was set to hit the coast near where we were located. We immediately turned on the news and tried to track the storm. It was a mad scramble trying to figure out what we should do. Stay or leave? We had a lot of work left to get done and OP invested a ton of marketing dollars into this trip. After many heated debates, the ultimate decision was to ride it out, wait for the hurricane to hit and pass, and get on with our trip.
Category five Hurricane Kenna was scheduled to hit 40 miles north of Puerto Vallarta, exactly where we were located. Heavy! We figured our best bet was to drive south to Puerto Vallarta, wait for Kenna to unleash her anger and get back to what we were there for.
We scrambled to get to Puerto Vallarta, checked into the Sheraton hotel, half of us took quick showers, and we were off to begin the festivities. After all, it was my 18th birthday. I wasn't gonna let some stupid hurricane ruin my fun. Kenna was scheduled to hit at 4 p.m. the following day, which justified getting shit-faced the night before. What a mistake!
The following morning I awoke in a blurred haze of chaos and panic, reeking like cheap vodka and tequila. Kenna decided to make its arrival a little early, 8 a.m. to be exact. The next thing I knew, I was looking out the window at 20-to-30-foot waves breaking and surging into our hotel. Everybody was evacuated to the 4th floor and higher. We couldn't have ended up picking a worse hotel to stay in.  We hoped and prayed that the waves wouldn't exceed the 4th floor and that the storm would dissipate.
Let me briefly recreate the scenario: boulders getting swept into the lobby, waves crashing into palapas, sail boats sweeping into the streets, maids crying hysterically, Greg Long raiding mini bars, people looting in the streets, Tim Curran looking for higher ground, and me, wandering around aimlessly, half sober trying to comprehend the situation.
All in all, the entire crew made it out safely. We all lived through an experience of a lifetime. Next thing we knew, we were laid up poolside drinking margaritas and back to doing what we do best, living the dream. I was content with the fact that I had received the sickest birthday present ever and lived to talk about it.