Guest author James Greer is back, this time snorkeling off the coast of Cancun. Before his feet ever hit the deck of the catamaran, though, he’s already tangled up in a different kind of adventure. It starts on a shuttle, with two trim, serious-looking guys who seem more Top Gun than tourist. Are they pilots? Special ops? Just bros in great shape with good posture? Greer’s writer brain kicks into overdrive, spinning an international thriller while the rest of us are still rubbing in sunscreen. What follows is part travelogue, part daydream, and pure storytelling gold. Buckle up. The boat may be smooth sailing, but Greer’s imagination doesn’t stay in calm waters for long.
The man sitting in front of me on the shuttle to a harbor in Cancun from our resort in the Playacar area of Mexico’s Yucatan had “The Look.” He was maybe mid-20s, lineless skin, and clear but wary eyes. Next to him was a woman his age, unremarkably pretty, her shoulder-length brown hair falling loosely onto a green sun dress. They chatted occasionally, their words soft and indiscernible. Not English, because…
Because I’m a writer, a professional eavesdropper. I know my craft.
He is a high and tight, a type that… Top Gun Maverick. Shorter on the sides, though, unlike Hollywood’s view of how pilots wear their hair. In front of him, another guy just like him, with sandy blond hair and a couple days’ growth of vacation facial hair. Flight school buddies, squadron mates?
As we rattle along the highway, in my literary mind I’m halfway through the opening chapter of an international murder mystery – “Eduardo sees a flash to their left. His wife pays scant attention but he is a helicopter pilot, one of his country’s elite. He is alive because he sees the entire comprehensible world as an existential threat to his Super Puma…” And, blah blah blah. We are at the harbor just as I’m getting warmed up.
The Salomé, a white-hulled forty-five-foot catamaran, is tied to the end of a gray, weathered wooden-planked pier. We closely follow a guide who is showing us the way, because experienced excursioners know not to lose his coattails. He is also experienced, though a bit harried, continually looking over his shoulder at his brood, encouraging stragglers to keep up. He leads us to a basket where we deposit our shoes, and are invited aboard. This is a problem.
As we have previously discussed (read all about that here) depth perception for me is a dark art. The good ship Salomé is, essentially, two white plastic canoes lashed together. The molded steps are white. Her deck is white. The sides are white. The deckhand lends me a…hand, and I leap tentatively into the abyss. On faith.
The Earthly one, anyway. My foot hits a step and I grab a handle. I’m aboard. I made it! We are directed to the foredeck, the trampoline, for a briefing and before you can say “Pina Colada” we’re underway.
Absent from the group – it was a manageable twenty or so fellow travelers – were the trim young men from the shuttle. A shame. I had a million questions.
We are introduced to the crew as the boat makes its way under power toward a congregation of commercial sightseeing craft anchored amid orange objects in the water. This is the snorkeling portion of our journey which took no more than ten minutes of (perhaps) ten knot passage. Some of the guests queue up, which seemed…
Let’s stay friends, shall we? This isn’t a review. You know, those folks who profess to tell you “The Good, The Bad and the Cliched?” I’m here to tell a story, and my story includes a cloudy morning, a fresh breeze and not feeling like being chilled. Snorkeling in Mexico has evolved, for us anyway, from unstructured and free-form in the early 2000s to wearing actual deployed life vests in the water and surface skimming among a school of the similarly situated in 2025.
I get it. A friend with whom I worked for years once told the story of working, along with his wife, on a Carribean Island as a SCUBA divemaster. They took good care of him, he said, because they kept the business…ahem…afloat. “What in the hell are you doing here?” I asked, aghast. There was always some guy among the group who needed to be watched, needed to be pampered, lest he drown.
I assume the same is true of snorkeling, to the extent that companies are wary of allowing too much leeway to clients. Out in the open water, it doesn’t take much to ruin a vacation.
My wife and I stay aboard and drink entirely serviceable Cuba Librés. I employ the plural because I never held an empty cup in my hand, replenished by a bartender with a tray and the sure-footedness of a hockey goalie. Take the full one as you finish the last.
The on-board photographer was an affable and efficient pro. He moved easily around the deck in the cat-like manner of someone who spends large chunk of the day on a pitching deck. He snapped a number of posed “Now sit cheek-to-cheek” pictures – we bought one – and helped pass a very pleasant half hour waiting for our shipmates to find their way back to us.
Thankfully, the dock at Isla Mujeres was dark wood and my egress was more graceful than the boarding. We were invited into a wonderful beachside restaurant, where we engaged with a wonderful couple from Toronto, Canada. The lunch buffet was excellent. The drinks were excellent (and were replenished with happy regularity). The company excellent. That’s where the wheels came off.
We had four hours to kill. Not big shoppers, we briefly entertained the idea of renting a golf cart and recreating an experience we had in the Bahamas, at Spanish Wells. We’d learned “The Wave” (more a knowing nod and cocked finger) which we would have introduce to the people on this lovely island. Alas… My eyesight is one thing, but after a few adult beverages, there is no way I’m renting a golf cart. We sat on the beach, splashed in the water and had a few more restoratives, for old time’s sake. Oh – the guy who collected the $20 for beach chair rental? He wasn’t into bartering.
Too soon we were headed back to the ole Casa. Our travel companions, good friends we’ve known for nearly two decades, chuckled as the music aboard ship transitioned among the eras. It had stared with “Born and raised in South Detroit” and evolved to a song I recognize only because of shorts on Facebook. You know – Wife: “Does this dress make me look pretty?” Husband: (high anxiety). Cue Coolio, “When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” It was then that my friend wondered aloud if we didn’t adversely skew the mean age aboard…if you get my drift.
With “Gangsta’s Paradise” in my mind’s ear we boarded the shuttle home. High and Tight was aboard. I thought to ask him how his day went, where he was from and what he did when he wasn’t in this paradise. But then, I am also aware of my own limitations…
Would a guy who flew his county’s version of Seal Team Six into harm’s way ever admit who he was to some obnoxious elderly American he didn’t know? All of us who have worked sensitive government jobs have a cover story. My favorite was a friend who told inquiring minds that she taught first grade, living in fear she would someday encounter a real first grade teacher and be “found out.” I might ask the young man and be tartly informed he sold paint at his father’s hardware store. Honest work, to be sure, but in a murder mystery they usually are the victim.
I left him alone. I can fill in the gaps. He’ll love who he turns out to be.
About the Author
James Greer is a freelance writer who lives in Lakewood, CO with his wife Pat, two Portuguese Water Dogs and a cat of uncertain lineage. He and his wife travel extensively, believing that if there is not a beach bar nearby, it is not a destination. It is merely a way point.
Find more articles from James Greer.
Guest Authors
If you’d like to contribute to a blog post, please send me an email at info (at) beachbarbums (dot) com. You can write it yourself of just send me a synopsis and I’ll write it. Probably not as well as you would write it but hey, it’s guaranteed to get posted. Either way, I’d love to feature your story!
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