Loreto was a small coastal town along the eastern edge of the Sea of Cortez (Gulf of California), two-thirds of the way from Mexicali to Cabo San Lucas. It also had been anointed by the Mexican government. Streets laid out, electricity wired in, water pumped and filtered, loans handed out to favored cronies – all the essentials needed to turn a desert into a tourist mecca.
The setting was enticing. Jagged hills covered with dust and dirty cacti rose hard from a sinuous coastline, a bay filled with small islands and calm water. Seals basked on rocks nearby. The sun shone faithfully each day, all day, with just enough shore breeze to keep guests from frying.
Palm trees had been planted throughout the grounds of the one hotel which had actually been finished: the El Presidente. On our bus ride in, we passed several acres’ worth of asphalt streets, lined with sidewalks and streetlights. But no buildings. Getting closer, we saw a two story hotel, unfinished, rebar jutting sadly from the pillars. The recent recession in Mexico had not been kind to the plans for expansion here.
A two room suite, fronting on both the water and the pool was only $100/night. When we checked in, we noticed a lot of staff lounging in starched white uniforms. Half a dozen bell hops jumped to carry our two bags in. Hotel workers were everywhere, but other guests? Not so much. Maybe 250 people worked in the resort; maybe 25 paying customers kept them busy.
We quickly got to know the few others who seemed trapped there with us. There was the couple from West Hollywood, two guys who were always dressed far more formally and gaily then the casual shorts and wrinkly island shirt the rest of us wore. An upper crust Mexican family, far whiter than the staff who waited on them. They traveled with a frightened looking nanny, always scurrying behind, fearful she might have forgotten the kids’ flippers or air mattress.
Cheryl had learned to scuba dive at Catalina back in the ‘70s, had a PADI card and everything. Despite being a fearless aquanaut all my life, I had never tried the sport. It came close to falling into my no-fly zone, the rule that states, “If it’s something where, you make a mistake, you could die, then don’t do it.” Like sky diving, or scaling a cliff solo without a rope.
But she assured me it was safe. So we signed up for the week-long course-plus-daily excursion. A local kid, barely 19, served as the instructor and guide. A re-purposed fishing boat, complete with giant coning tower and reel holders, provided our daily transportation. First morning: introduction to the equipment, and the rules, most noteworthy of which was the complex equation of depth-plus-time which ruled the day. Go too deep or stay under to long, cumulative for the day, and up you come with the bends. Then a trip to the hyperbaric chamber (if there even was one in town) to get all that nitrogen out of your system.
But I was captured by the fun. I have always felt assured in and underwater, with no fear of currents or drowning or losing my bearings. I began to chase fish, and wander among the flapping weeds rising from the shallow seabed. Within a day, I almost felt like a pro.
I say almost, because we shared the boat with a couple from Chicago, Fred and Vesma. They were our age, very late 30s. Vespa claimed to be Lithuanian, although she spoke with a perfect Chi-town accent. She also claimed to be married, or divorced, or separated, but anyway, NOT married to Fred. They seemed quite a pair, however.
Fred had wide set devious eyes, a droopy mustache and days-old stubble, with thick wavy dark brown hair. Not tall, not fat, but a little bit stout, he was either very self-assured, or simply cocky. He and Vesma said they spent a lot of time just flying off together, but both appeared to have substantial enough jobs to afford the trips. She was a paralegal, and he seemed to be linked to some financial field, like commodity trading. He boasted about his history as a diver, and indeed he had one of those heavy diving watches, with multiple screws, buttons, and dials, which could keep track of depth, and time, and alert him to impending doom on any diving day.
So the days generally passed this way: get to the boat by 9, check out the gear, meaning measure the pressure in the tanks and review the day’s events with our guide. Motor for an hour to the selected scenic spot – a jumble of underwater rocks, an island to clamber out on, a sunken wreck, whatever enticed his whim that day. Dive for 30-60 minutes. Eat the gourmet lunch the staff packed for us, usually baloney and cheese sandwiches on white bread, with a bottle of real Mexican Coke to wash it down. Then lie in the sun for a while until it was safe to go down again. Repeat as desired.
Fred kept us all entertained. He usually sneaked a Corona or six onto the boat, even though diving and alcohol are not supposed to mix. He was, it seemed, a festive drunk, happy in the sun wherever. On the one day we could only got out in the morning, he immediately took us to the massive, empty hotel pool. It was over 90F, and the best course of action, he insisted, was to simply drop into the water chest deep, call over one of the endless supply of wait staff, and order a handful of cervezas. Since this was not the rule-crazed US, we could actually keep glass containers with us on the concrete coping at water’s edge. Fred would drop underwater, nuzzle Vesma’s calf, rise up again for another sip, and look around at our palatial surroundings, king of all he surveyed.
(To Be Cont’d)