Back when our kids were approaching adolescence and honing their skills in the dark art of obstinance, we decided we needed an adult vacation. Mexico was our first choice and we called some friends who were raising their own unique collection of hellions. They agreed in an instant.
Marvin is a software engineer who flies his nerd flag with honor, and Betty is a financial guru who organizes their lives like a crystal lattice. Both bristle with intellect and energy. Marvin prepared for the trip by learning Spanish and SCUBA. Betty researched the history, geography, and anthropology of the Yucatan region.
Kristi and I arranged the hotel and rental car.
The Epicenter
The Cancún resort check-in line was three families deep and we squirmed from the heat while the beer cooler in the convenience center taunted us. Registration was thankfully swift and after tossing our suitcases into the room, Marvin and I dashed downstairs for beer.
The young man in a crisp white shirt swiped my resort-issued card for payment, smiled and said, “Gracias, señor Eppis.”
“Sorry, what?” I asked.
Marvin tried his card. Same name – Eppis – not his. We canceled the charge, paid in cash, and returned to the main counter for replacements.
“Señor Eppis is lucky we’re honest.” Marvin said.
Later, cold beers in hand and satisfied that all was right with the world, we sat on the patio with relaxed wives and curious Iguanas and started what we hoped would become the trip of a lifetime.
Sun and sand
We spent our first child-free day in years on the soft sand under the warm sun. It was a simple day – playing in the surf, lying on towels, resting in deck chairs, sipping margaritas, and maybe just a wee bit of napping. No soccer games, study sessions, or sibling drama.
Marvin and I tossed the towels in the bin as we left and our waiter called out: “Gracias, señor Eppis.” One of us was still an imposter.
“Lo siento” – I’m sorry, the nice young lady at the front counter said. She gave us new cards and señor Eppis was safe once again.
Guns
Early one morning we piled into our rental car for a day trip to the Mayan ruins of Cobá. Betty directed us to load the trunk with enough gear and supplies for a military deployment.
We took the coast road south and turned up Highway 109 to Cobá, swerving to avoid potholes, and passing farm trucks loaded with so many workers they wobbled like drunken sailors. The entire trip took almost three hours, and we were thankful to finally be off the dusty roads, sipping lukewarm Cokes purchased from the parking lot vendor.
Cobá is a fascinating Mayan archeological site. The ruins are remote, but for the adventurous and athletic, can be a truly extraordinary experience. Betty brought her fancy camera and plenty of research notes and turned out to be a splendid photographer and guide.
The largest structure in Cobá is the pyramid of Ixmoja. It is 138 feet high (42 meters) with an imposing slope of 120 very tall and shallow steps, many that are chipped and uneven. A thick rope is firmly anchored to a stone bulkhead at the peak and stretches all the way to the base. Unlike most pyramids, visitors here are allowed to climb.
Marvin and I raced each other up the side while the ladies carefully worked their way, hand over hand, up the sharp steps. The view at the top was 360 degrees of jungle as far as the eye could see. It was breathtaking (more so for Marvin and me, pretending not to be winded). We delighted in Betty’s tales of the ancients, as we gazed at the ruins, imagining we were with them in the magnificent era of their kingdom.
We drove home via the inland roads and passed homemade signs urging us to visit their amazing cenotes – small lakes formed from land collapsing into the underground aquifer. Enamored with the idea of a cool dip, we turned down a dirt road toward a trio of cenotes offering relief from the insufferable dust and heat.
The winding road was peppered with potholes and bumps and we became increasingly nervous, eyes peeled for some sign of civilization. We rounded a sharp corner and found civilization in the form of three uniformed soldiers standing by their jeep holding assault rifles tightly across their chests. One man held his palm outstretched, demanding we stop.
“SHIT” we cried out in unison.
The Federales were stern as they motioned for us to exit the vehicle. One searched the car while we stood helpless. They opened the trunk, sighed at the sight of Betty’s survival gear wedged in place and proceeded to remove one item at a time, dropping them in a pile on the dusty shoulder.
They finished their search and huddled together to talk.
“Let’s ask if they’ll pose with us for a picture!” Betty whispered to me.
“Are you insane?” I said a little too loudly. They turned around and scowled, still clutching their guns.
The leader walked over to us and barked “ustedes pueden ir” – you can go.
We went. Straight back home. Without the refreshing cenote dip. We’d had enough terror for one day.
Margaritas are a good defense against firearms and nightmares, and as we sipped, we speculated that señor Eppis’ would probably be happy to buy us a round.
The Bloodbath
Xel-Há is an enormous aquatic eco-park on the coast of the Riviera Maya, 76 miles south of Cancun. It’s a wildly popular tourist destination where one can swim safely with multitudes of colorful creatures in a natural lagoon.
We arrived mid-morning, paid the exorbitant entrance fee, grabbed some water and darted into the park.
Hiking paths weave like spider webs through the grounds. Birds, lizards, and rodents are abundant, noisy, and hungry. Donning our snorkeling gear we explored the underwater caves and held our breath as we watched the mysterious gyrating cline where the clear freshwater blends with the misty saltwater.
Marvin and I were anxiously anticipating our SCUBA trip the next day. We planned to dive a wall and a shipwreck off the coast of Cozumel, an area famous for some of the finest warm water diving in the world. Anticipating the deep dives was as nerve wracking as the Federales, but snorkeling eased the butterflies.
After a tasty lunch we returned to the meandering paths lined with colorful flowers. We came to a footbridge crossing an inlet where people were lazily swimming. Two boys dived off a rock outcropping beside the bridge and swam across the cut. They were chasing and splashing each other, truly enjoying the water.
The girls had already started across the bridge when I egged on Marvin to try the dive with me. It was several meters high, but in the spirit of adventure he grudgingly agreed. I’ve done some cliff diving before, but the closest Marvin had ever come to diving was a backyard slip ‘n slide with his kids.
I went first and surfaced to watch. Marvin dove with the grace of an albatross, headfirst with legs akimbo. It took awhile for him to come up and when he did, there was blood all over his face. I cried to him in a muffled voice, urging him discretely to turn away from the shore to avoid alarming our wives. He had big gash on his forehead, and we tried unsuccessfully to wipe it clear of the blood.
Sound travels over water like a bullet and when we turned around, dozens of people, including our wives, were leaning from the shore, eyes bugged and mouths agape. So much for discretion.
Eight stitches and one less SCUBA trip later, we slinked into the car and returned home. Marvin and his pride recovered in time but to this day he sports a scar that looks a bit like Harry Potter’s.
The Epic Caper in Our Vacation of a Lifetime
We wanted our final night to be memorable, so we made reservations at the finest, most exclusive (and expensive) beach restaurant in the resort. It was intimate and quiet, with candle-lit tables reaching almost to the water. The waiters were numerous and attentive, delivering us a bottle of Merlot in the snap of a finger.
Making small talk as we salivated over the menu choices, Marvin asked if my card was still tied to the Eppis account.
“I think so.” I had tried to fix it so many times I just gave up and used Kristi’s card instead.
“Oh, really?” one eyebrow raised.
“You’re not suggesting…” I replied, intrigued.
We ordered four lobsters and toasted our generous benefactor with a second bottle of wine. It was the best meal of our trip, drenched in melted butter and guilt.
Indeed the card worked. We carefully surveilled our flanks as we returned to the room, fearing that a battalion of Federales would attack us, machine guns ablaze.
We half-expected to see the charges on our tab the next morning when we checked out, but they weren’t there. We fully expected the charges to show up later on our credit cards, but they didn’t.
I tell myself that señor Eppis was most likely an electronic holdover from a prior week and the resort got stuck with the tab. If not, perhaps he’s a rich socialite and he didn’t notice.
Above all, we hope his vacation was as extraordinary as our vacation of a lifetime.