The 1956 Chevy (left) that Mac and I drove to and from Acapulco, Mexico. I bought the car, my first car, for $400 in 1965, the year that I turned 21. I kept it until 1968 when I replaced it with a 1968 Volkswagen bug. That's Ed Kinney's Chevy Corvair on the right.
Mac and I packed quite a few clothes--as you might expect--but, we also took many cans of Budweiser. Mac was quite good at tossing down the Budweisers and, I'm sorry to say, that in a few short years that resulted in an early death. But, for now, it's on to Acapulco.
We drove south through Dallas, Texas, through Monterrey, Mexico (where Mac enjoyed his last Budweiser--see photo of Mac drinking the last can--it would be Carta Blanca for the rest of the trip), through Mexico City (where I climbed the pyramids and bought a black obsidian carved head that has graced my desk now for more than 16,000 days) and on to Acapulco where we checked in to the Hotel Costa Azul.
During our first day on the beach, we met and befriended a family of teenagers that had come to Acapulco from Yucatan. They enjoyed practicing their English and we enjoyed sharing our vacations. During our week in Acapulco, we saw them often and shared a few meals. And, for a few years, we exchanged letters but that eventually stopped. (As of this writing, I still have the letters.)
This is the family that we met during our trip to Acapulco--siblings and cousins all from Yucatan. Right rear wearing short sleeve shirt and looking at camera is yours truly--Richard Warner.I have many Acapulco stories--some that I will tell in this and other postings, some that I will not. SCUBA is the subject of this story.
Somewhere along the beach road in Acapulco, I saw a sign that said SCUBA lessons $18. Sounded good to me--I was 21 and needed to learn how to SCUBA dive. A day or two after seeing the sign, I left Mac at a nearby bar that he liked (Mac's idea), asked him to await my return and drove to the SCUBA school pier that extended out into the Acapulco bay. Two Mexican boys about 17 years of age, barefoot and dressed in brightly colored Speedos, understood little or no English but did understood my request, either because I pointed to the "SCUBA lesson" sign or because I held in my hand eighteen dollars "American." They accepted my money, indicated that I should don my swimsuit and then pointed to a chair where I should wait. I silently watched them prepare the shop for our departure and hoped that I was doing the right thing.
Shortly, they loaded three SCUBA tanks, masks, snorkels, fins, spearguns, net bags and a few other things into an outboard motor boat and motioned me aboard. I asked them when the lessons would begin, but, all they did was nod yes and assure me of something they thought I understood but didn't. I took my seat and off we went into the bay. I knew the lessons would begin shortly.
But, no. Instead of venturing out a bit and stopping, we motored at the boat's top speed across the bay and into the Pacific Ocean. Enroute, I saw the cliff where divers performed their death defying dives and high above the water, the house that I had learned during yesterday's bus tour belonged to John Wayne. Heading north along the Pacific coast, I saw much of the Mexican coastline. When our high speed ride exceeded thirty minutes, the word 'kidnapped' visited my thoughts?
Finally, the boat slowed and stopped. One boy threw out the anchor while the other donned his SCUBA gear--BC, tank, fins, weight belt and mask. He indicated that I was to watch him and, then, he sat on the side of the boat and rolled backwards into the water. Duly noted.
Number two then dressed me--BC, tanks, fins, weight belt, mask and snorkel. He showed me the reserve air valve and made sure I understood--when I ran out of air, I was to turn this knob on the back of my tank. Duly, duly noted. Thus ended my SCUBA lessons. Number two donned his gear and urged me toward the boy treading water by the boat. I guess I know how to SCUBA dive.
I sat on the side of the boat, held my mask with one hand and backup regulator with the other, and, then, rolled backwards into the water. While I bobbed in the water, number one worked me over tightening, pulling, turning, twisting, and, within seconds, signalled 'okay' to number two and me. The boy in the boat handed down spears and nets, grabbed his own spear and net and leaped into the water. We all mumbled something in two languages, grinned like we knew what we were doing, shoved regulators in our mouths, positioned our masks, pressed the relief button on our BCs and began sinking slowly into the crystal clear water of the Pacific.
I was entranced! I still see the clear blue water, fish I could not count, a sandy bottom far below and my two friends paddling away and motioning for me to follow.
I did. We swam and I was hooked on diving. Within seconds, any fear that I had disappeared and I was in heaven. I brought up the rear and watched as my two diving buddies speared fish after fish and placed them in their net bags. Only once did I get close enough to spear a round, flat, white fish (Flounder?). My spearing technique, however, was, unfortunately, fatally flawed--I merely turned the fish around, rubbed my hand against his spiny brown back side, pulled quickly away and decided that my forte here was sightseeing. Let the Speedo team collect all the fish they could.
After thirty minutes of seeing and feeling unbelievable beauty, my breathing slowed. I tapped one boy's tank and pointed at mine. They stopped, activated my reserve air, watched to be sure that I was 'better,' nodded 'good' and headed out to seek more dinner. I pointed up toward the boat and tried to mumble, "Shouldn't we be going back?" but they were gone. Breathing easier but thinking I was short of air, I reluctantly followed and the beauty did not end..
Minutes later, they indicated they were through and pointed up toward the boat. I knew that air was low but I really hated to leave this beautiful, beautiful place. (I've been SCUBA diving more than one hundred times since this trip and have never seen water as beautiful as this Pacific shore area just north of Acapulco.) We swam toward the anchor rope and, fifteen to twenty feet below the boat, stopped and held the rope. They pointed to their watches and showed me some fingers. I understood we had to wait for something that, a few years later, I would understand.
Finally, we all climbed into the boat, ditched our SCUBA gear and headed for the "SCUBA diving lessons $18" sign nearly an hour away in Acapulco. I enjoyed the trip back but was disappointed that I couldn't share my experiences with my diving partners who had just visited a world I never imagined but who spoke a language I could not understand.
An hour later we arrived at the pier. I shook hands with my SCUBA teachers (?) and headed for the car. As I was about to get into the car, I glanced back at the boys working on their catch of the day, scanned the beautiful bay, looked out at the white frothing Pacific and told myself, "Wow! I went SCUBA diving!" I hope Mac had fun while I was gone. I'm sure he did.
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Nine years after Mac and I visited Acapulco, I took a SCUBA diving course at the Amarillo YMCA and learned about some of the diving risks that I had taken in Acapulco back in 1965. But, I was 21. What do you do?
