Find My iPhone

by Megan Burkhart (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Bahamas

I didn’t expect to jail a thief during my sophomore year spring break trip. Like most high school girls, I was looking forward to a relaxing tropical vacation. One blessed week of fun in the sun with my parents and best bud, Lindsey. Unfortunately, crime never takes a vacation. It was halfway through our vacation, and Lindsey and I set off for the beach just the two of us. The place we rented for the week was nestled in a gated community of colorful, pastel houses. Neat, sandy paths lined with bushes led to a private beach. The short walk brought us to the shoreline where the waves lapped gently against the sand. To our surprise, the beach was deserted. Sharing a smile, Lindsey and I spread our towels, popped on the sunglasses, and soaked in the sun. After five minutes, Lindsey and I took a quick dip in the water, and when I glanced back toward our towels, my stomach dropped. “Lindsey, where’s my bag?” Hers was still sitting on her towel, but my pink polka-dotted bag had disappeared. We started searching the area and decided to head back to the house. Along the path back, we noticed a splash of pink in one of the bushes. It was my bag, and it looked as if someone had tossed it. I picked it up, but I already knew. My phone was missing. They left everything else, even my bag of Cheetos. An awful taste filled my mouth. “Lindsey, my phone is gone, and I didn’t have a passcode.” We hustled back to the house. Lindsey called my parents, who had gone out with friends, and told them what happened. Meanwhile, I grabbed the iPad I shared with my dad and pulled up the find my iPhone app. No luck. The thief had turned off my phone. All we could do was wait, while the panic and anxiety gnawed at me from the inside out. When my parents arrived and got the full story, they were upset, but also glad to see us both safe. Thankfully, my parents’ friends had a DEA agent as their neighbor, and he took our information to the police. The next day, the iPad pinged, alerting us to my phone’s location. We went straight to the police station and showed them. One officer told us to get in our car and follow him. We followed the cop as he wove in and out of traffic going around sixty miles per hour in a thirty-five. My parents were baffled. Lindsey started taking a video. We were on a high speed car chase to catch a thief, or at least, as close to one as you can get on an island. The location ended up being a sketchy electronics store on the other side of the island. My dad and I went in with the cop, and beneath the glass cases I saw pirated DVDs for sale. The owner said he didn’t have the phone, but a guy had come by trying to sell it. He realized the phone was stolen and said he wouldn’t take it. We were back at square one, or so we thought. Two days later, my dad got a call from the police station. They had my phone, and we could come pick it up. I was thrilled, especially since we were flying out the next day. At the station, the cops gave me my phone back. The case had been ditched, and the phone wiped clean, but at least I had it back. The police told us the guy who stole my phone had been working with a well-known murderer on the island that they’d been trying to catch. Both were arrested thanks to my lack of situational awareness. As we left the station, I couldn’t help but feel a bit in awe of all that had happened during the week. It wasn’t the trip I expected, but maybe it was the trip I needed. That was six years ago. Since then, this story has been told countless times in my family—because it’s not just a trip, it’s a memory. And that can never be stolen from me.