Shark Dive Day Dos

Day Two starts promptly at 4.30 A.M. HOORAY!!! Here’s how my morning went down.

Sander didn’t go to sleep until 11.30 P.M. because he was all hopped up on Shark Dive anticipation (if I ever create an energy drink to compete with Red Bull, or Quintouple Espresso coffee, I’m going to call it “Sander Shark Dive Anticipation” because nothing’s as amped up as an eight-year old like thinking about going shark diving), but oddly at 4.30 in the morning, all that anticipation was smothered in “Daddy, I just want to sleeeeeeeeeep” anti-anticipation. So my morning was comprised of stumbling around trying to pack up all our stuff, worried that the breakfast place was closed so Sander wouldn’t have anything to eat before our three hour bus ride to Ensenada, Mexico (did I forget to mention that our journey to the high seas begins with a three hour bus ride, maybe I forgot to mention it when I forgot to mention that the seats on said bus reclined a luxurious 0˚, good times), deciding to skip the shower (that’s why I always bring my trusty hat), and putting on our magic ear tabs. A quick note about the magic ear tabs (the seasick prevention stickies you put behind your ear), one of the cool side effects is blurry vision. The neat thing here is that I don’t see so good sans magic ear patches, and even the slightest notion that something may affect my vision is more than enough to get a negative placebo affect going. So I put on my patch and spent the next seven hours thinking, “Is my vision blurry because I can’t see well anyway, or is the magic ear patch giving me the business?” So I know that you at home are thinking, “If you can’t tell either way why does it matter?”Well, if I can’t see because of the magic ear patches then I can blame them. If I can’t see because I can’t see, I have no remedy. The good news is that at some point I’ll forget about the whole thing and revert back to my daily, “Hey, everything’s blurry routine.” It’s one of the perc’s of not being overly bright. Anyway, we’re packed and tabbed up, and stumble out to the bus.

As we near the bus, Sander’s want of sleep is crushed under the power of what’s going on. Sander Shark Dive Anticipation won the battle for Sander’s energy and never looks back. I meant he’s running now and talking 100 miles a minute, and I’m loving it. There’s nothing on this earth like the excitement of a child, especially when its your child, and especially especially when its something your doing together. As we head for the bus, he’s saying things like, “sowhere’sthebusdoyouthinkitsherewhatifitsnothowfartotheboatwillweseelotsofsharksilikesharksisthatthebusthebusisthatit.” So we head for the pick-up spot and there’s exactly one very large bus out front. One. But apparently Smart Brain was still fast asleep, and Dumb Brain in a moment of triumph said, “Ho, ho, now while that infernal Smart Brain is resting in his smug slumber, I will strike!” So I walk up the bus and say to the first man I see, “Shark dive?” And the nice man (who later turns out to be the chef) says, “Yes.” So I’m getting ready to load the bags below the bus, when, mid swing, the driver comes out and says, “Enistasa?” Now Dumb Brain goes into battle mode, and “Whoa,” thinks I, that doesn’t sound like “Shark dive.” So I say, “Shark dive?” “Enistasa?” “No, Shark Dive.” “Enistasa.” Now, we’re doing our best Abbott and Costello routine and I’m just looking at him and he’s looking at me. I know he’s not saying “Shark Dive” or “yes,” and I’m thinking, “No way am I getting on this bus, unless I’m sure its for the shark dive,” but really, what else can this bus be here for? The guy is clearly Mexican and has a thick Mexican accent, but that’s not dawning on me while dumb brain has the helm. Now, the chef and some other folks are staring at me smiling, and I’m thinking, “Why are these guys staring at me?” and I start thinking, “Maybe they didn’t understand me.” Or, “What if they don’t know what’s going on?” And, “Why are they staring at me, and what in the world is this guy saying to me? What does ‘Enistasa’ even mean?” And for some reason, I start to get testy. “Is this the SHARK DIVE?” “Enistasa.” “Look, I’m not getting on the bus unless this is the shark dive.” You have to understand the stupidity of this conversation, It’s 5.00 A.M, I was told to meet a bus out front of this specific hotel, there’s exactly one vehicle in eyesight, and it’s a very large bus. It’s not like I walked out of Waldorff Astoria and was told to get a very specific yellow cab at 5.00 P.M. This IS the bus. About now, Smart Brain wakes up, rubs his eyes, figures out what’s going on and sighs, “Its OK boys, I’ll figure it out.” “Excuse me,” says my voice to a newly arrived nice man “Is this bus part of the Shark Diver shark dive?” “Yup.” And just then the driver, makes another move for my bag and says “Enistasa?” “THERE!” yells Dumb Brain, “What do you make of THAT smarty pants brain?” Smart brain sighs again, “Enistasa, friend, is Ensenada.” “Oooooooh,” says dumb brain, “I think I’ll have a muffin.”

The newly arrived nice man is our guide, an Australian named Luke (Mexico, an Australian, and Great White Sharks. All we need now is to be chased by an inept sheriff for a crime we didn’t commit and we’d have the next summer blockbuster), and settle into our bus seats for the long ride to Ensenada. Sander dives into his nutritious breakfast of chocolate milk and I start wondering how great an idea it is to leave the USA for a Shark Dive in Mexican waters. But these guys are pro’s, I tell myself, this is what they do. Then Luke sidles up and says, “I think we may have a problem.” And discloses that Sander, while a strapping young man, is not anything close to the 5’3” that he’s listed on their chart, and thus they don’t have the right sized wetsuit. I look at the chart and it says, “Sander Elliott, Age 8, Height 5’3” weight, 50lbs.” And here I get worried. Forget that the same chart list’s me as “5’7”,” meaning that they think I only have 4” on my eight-year old, but how many 5’3” eight-year olds are there that you haven’t seen doing guest spots on David Letterman? More importantly, how many 5’3” people weigh only 50 pounds? You’ve definitely seen that kid on Letterman right? I mean, who looked over the sheet? And please, please tell me it’s not the same person in charge of safety checks. Anyway, we settle on the idea that whoever took down the information wrote down what I said in inches, 53, as 5’3”. Great. We’ve just discovered that the horses are out of the barn because someone left the door open. Then Luke says, “Do you think he could fit into that wetsuit?” Looooooong pause here. Is my professional guide really asking if my 4’4” 50 pound child can fit into a wetsuit made for someone 5’3”? As I’m sitting there staring at the man, we have some kind of psychic moment and he says, “Probably not.” Another looooooong pause. I’m thinking that there are dive shops in Mexico that have an appropriately sized wetsuit. “I’ll get another wetsuit from a local dive shop brought to the boat.” “Good idea,” says I. It was like I used the Jedi Mind Trick on him. It felt awesome! I wanted to grab a lightsaber and take on Vader or something. Sander, by the way, has picked up on the whole conversation and is internally freaking out that his trip may not happen, but hiding it extremely well. “What’s he talking about,” he says in his best steady voice. “They don’t have a wetsuit for you,” says Jedi Dad. “But we gave him my measurements.” “Yup.” “What happened, can I still go without one?” “No buddy, its way to cold, but they’re going to get one that fits you, don’t worry.” Here, I’m doing that “hope/lying” dance that every parent knows. In my mind, there’s no way he’s going without a wetsuit, but I also know that we’re not going down without a fight. About 10 minutes later, our guide comes up and says he’s got it all worked out. My Jedi Powers are growing strong.

Now we hit the border. It takes exactly 16 seconds to enter Mexico. No one checks our bags, looks at our passports or asks us any questions. A uniformed guy sitting on a chair looks at the bus. I guess he’s comfortable that it is, indeed, a bus, and he waves us through.

Next it’s time for cabin assignments. Luke recommends the forward bunks for Sander and I. Say’s its where he’d like to be if he were eight, and it’s the biggest room. For you non-boater types, the front, or “bow” or “vomit maker” is the bumpiest part of the boat, and the back of the boat, or “stern” or “mommy arms” is the most stable part. So, being that in some long ago era I must have broken the heart of some impressionable sea nymph who now wreaks her vengeance on my stomach every time I dare set sail on the ocean I’m faced with a conundrum. I want to rest in the mommy arms section of the boat, but the front is larger, and has a better view (allegedly). Furthermore, our guide is looking at me like not only would I be the world’s largest sissy if I didn’t take the front, I’d also be a terrible daddy for denying Sander this wonderful opportunity. So I, being both a father and a guy, nod “Yes” in such a way that any other answer would obviously be patently ridiculous. Hooray for boats!

As we go through Tijuana, I’m struck by how poor it is. I don’t really know what I was expecting as I’ve never been to Mexico, but this town is poor. Admittedly my entire body of knowledge regarding Tijuana comes from an 80’s movie called “Losin’ it” starring Tom Cruise, Cougar from “Top Gun” and the little angry guy form “Breaking Away” (yes, yes, how can any movie starring Tom Cruise refer to any other character as “the little guy?”). See, back when cable had the rights to, like, six movies, they ran them in constant rotation as I laid on the couch and watched them until they burned themselves into my brain. The upshot is that 20 years later, I’m able to draw on them to guide me in my real life. But even I assumed that Tijuana changed since Tom and the gang showed up in 1983, but it hadn’t. I know this sounds ignorant, but I always assumed that Mexico was poor, but just by being a neighbor of the US; it had to be OK, especially at the border. Nope. We drove through parts of town that were barely better than the poorer parts of Belize, except there was infrastructure, lawyer billboards, and electricity. But there were many houses without windows, stuff piled up everywhere, and a general state of disrepair. Also, it’s striking and obvious, but it’s especially odd to see the border fence from the Mexico side. Its kind of interesting to look at, its essentially a series of long concrete poles driven into the ground, with enough space to see through, in fact its almost invisible when your driving, but to small to fit through. I got confused and turned around, so it took me a while to figure out what I was looking at, but when I did, it just hit me in some odd way. This line is all that separates the impoverished citizens of Tijuana from the US. I know the lines not arbitrary as people fought and died for every inch of our border, but if that line were 10 miles to the south, Tijuana would be an entirely different place. I mean, entirely. It must be hard to be on the Mexico side and look through those gaps. Or maybe not, what do I know?

The rest of the drive to Ensenada was quiet and odd. It’s a coastal drive with lots of abandoned looking high-rises promising vacation resort experiences that I couldn’t imagine ever happening. There were not gradients. No easing into poverty or luxury. Here there were huge, expensive high-rises right next to dilapidated restaurants with no windows and grocery stores with no AC. Also, there was a FOX lot where Pirates of the Caribbean and other movies where filmed. I spent the rest of the time wondering where Johnny Depp stayed when he was in town. Driving said Fox lot, in the Middle of Nowhere, Mexico, you could see the Black Pearl and an F-16. Only in Americ-ummm, Mexico, I guess.

Next, the boat…