Too Many Señoritas
My dad and I gathered our unorganized gear and stumbled out of the Jeep. Both of us had dealt with juggling schedules and flights just to make it this far. He flew in on the red-eye connecting through Guadalajara. And though my flight was direct from Minneapolis to Cancun, my brutal night shift had left me depleted and groggy.
Cozumel, Mexico is beautiful. Sure, the island is nice. But I’m talking about what’s beneath the surface of its perfect waters. We were now headed to Palencar Reef off the southwestern coast of the island. The scuba diving in Cozumel is some of the best in the world. Still waters, abundant sea-life, and a massive coral reef create a diver’s paradise.
Our boat (The Chingilada. No idea what that means, don’t ask) showed up and our captain and dive master began loading tanks and gear. The sun shone bright, the water was warm, and the boat crew had fresh-cut pineapple. Even though we were tired, this was going to be a perfect day.
Right before our boat left the marina, a taxi pulled right up to the pier. Two very beleaguered middle-aged Americans piled out of the vehicle.
“Sorry we’re late,” growled one of the men, orange-haired and sunburned. “Crazy night.”
They hurled their gear into the boat and fell exhausted onto the bench across from me and my dad. As terrible as we felt from our long days of travel, we were a picture of health compared to these guys. I leaned forward and said over the sound of the boat engine, “you oaky?”
A pause.
The other guy took off his sunglasses and groaned with bloodshot eyes, “Too many señoritas.” They were obviously having a completely different Mexico experience than we were.
anthony forrest
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