On New Year’s Eve of 2006, my friends and I gathered around a fire in San Luis, Baja California, Mexico, looking up at the night sky. Around 11:00 p.m., something unusual caught our attention: a strange cluster of red lights moving in an almost playful manner. They bobbed back and forth, as if trying to catch each other in a silent, celestial game.
These weren’t ordinary aircraft or any earthly phenomenon we had seen before. One red light hovered in place while the other dipped low, weaving a strange pattern. They stayed close to two bright points in the sky that looked like stars—only the closer the red lights got, the stars seemed to pulse and glow unnaturally intensely, until they transformed into something far brighter and more vivid than stars typically appear.
Minutes passed and the stars vanished entirely, followed by the sudden disappearance of one red light. Its vanishing was instantaneous, as if it blinked out of existence. The remaining light lingered briefly, flying around erratically before it too faded away.
Our eyes remained glued to the sky, and after a short while, all the lights reappeared. But this time, they blinked sporadically and kept significant distance from each other. About ten minutes later, those mysterious star-like points re-emerged and began darting wildly across the night sky in chaotic patterns—until they disappeared again, marking the last we saw of the spectacle.
This experience left us both awestruck and unsettled, shaking the boundaries of what we understood about the night sky. The elusive dance of the red lights over San Luis was a haunting reminder of how much remains a mystery in our universe.