As we headed to BCS, which is how all the hip kids call Baja California Sur (I’m pretty certain they don’t), we actually had a shopping list of underwater creatures we wanted to see, and there was supposed to be a tattoo at the outset if we saw all of them. Spoilers: we didn’t, so no tattoo. The list was composed of whale sharks, sea lions and hammerhead sharks.
I found myself in the dead of night on a plane headed to Mexico, but this time we were headed to the Pacific coast, specifically La Paz, close to the southern tip of Baja California Sur, which, thanks to a pocket dictionary (and not the interwebs) I found out imply means Baja California South, and is usually (on licence plates, businesses and such) abbreviated BCS. Next to me were two other founding members of the D&C. This was going to be a savant mix of road-trip and diving. From La Paz we would take the back roads (I assumed St Christopher would be rather busy) all the way to Cabo Pulmo and then to the Cabos, Los Cerritos (a surfing spot), Todos Santos (where the original Hotel California can still be found) and finally back to La Paz. Our layover in Mexico City was short, we would be in La Paz for breakfast. It did not work out that way.
If you manage to leave the waterfront and the main touristy strip, San Miguel de Cozumel drops its Hard Rock Café, cruise ships and expensive watches façade, and reverts to a real town. Nice and not so nice, clean and not so clean, but real, screw the amusement park.
Well that went quickly.
I’m sitting in an airplane seat again. Exactly the one I had on the way in, 27D. The week just flew by. My wife is sitting across the aisle from me with a red hibiscus flower in her hair, she looks fabulous, I’m curious if customs will say anything about it. The flower I mean.
I sing of your beauty Mysterious Lady of the Sea,
I sing of your beauty Ix’Chel,
I sing of your beauty Cozumel,
We try not to go dive to spots we have visited before, there’s just too much to discover, but some of us really needed a break and the deal was very good (I’m not saying we’re cheap, but you know, thrift and all that). So bags were packed, coworkers were informed, and a taxi, with the worst suspension this side of the gold rush, took us to the airport in the dead of night. It was raining hard as we walked into the terminal, hard enough to wash away all the broken dreams that hang around airports and leave a glistening sheen of silent promises. Orange cones were all over the place, like so many hustlers trying to make the most of what you’ve got. The terminal has been under construction for the last 17 years or so. Someone’s lining their pockets, probably someone called Little Joe but weighs 300 pounds. Welcome to Montreal.