Cancun

I grew up raised by my mother, an only child. I was a latchkey kid who rebelled into a wild teenager for many reasons. She did the best she could, considering all that went down. My mom, Sherry, died on May 28th, 2009; it’s difficult to believe so much time has passed. In memoriam, I’m writing about our first trip to Cancun, Mexico, in January 1989.

During the late 1980s, I was spending more time at home after some tumultuous years. My mom figured it was better for me to party at home than out on the streets. The reasons I originally rebelled dulled. During this time, our relationship improved. I had taken my first plane ride with some surfer friends to Padre Island in 1988 and really wanted to fly somewhere else. My mom loved the beach, so she booked us a package trip to Cancun with flights on Aeroméxico and a hotel on the Yucatán Peninsula, which looked like a backwards seven on the map.

The plane ride had free drinks. Once we were over international waters, age did not matter. I missed out on waiting to turn 18 to drink in Texas since the law had changed to 21 in 1986, although restaurants allowed me to drink with my mom—no big deal. On the plane ride, I drank tequila sunrises until we landed in Quintana Roo. My mom drank fewer piña coladas, but we both had a buzz.

My first time in Mexico, or any other country for that matter, opened my eyes to the world. We took a shuttle from the airport, passed through downtown Cancun, and then it deposited us in the hotel zone. We checked in at the hotel, got some piña coladas, and went down to the beach. The sound of the ocean and the sight of the clear blue water were enticing. Everything seemed cool until some AK-47-toting Federales turned us back. My mom’s demeanor changed, and my curious face dropped when we saw a blue body in the surf. Afterwards, my mom felt firm about staying within the confines of the beach in front of the inclusive resort.

The next day, we explored the nearest ruins. We had to walk past the morning drills of a Federale base camp and into the jungle. Iguanas were everywhere, some as large as farm animals. They would hiss like a prehistoric creature when we got too close.

I wanted to go to Chichén Itzá or Tulum, but my mom just wanted to chill on the beach. We did go downtown and check out the shops to get a blanket, some clothes for her, and a Mayan calendar made of blue stone. The street noise and tourist culture were overwhelming. At some points, children surrounded us, trying to sell us Chicklets (gum). We avoided the underground bars (literally steps into darkness) and stayed with the easy-to-navigate ones. The entire time I drank beer and liquor drinks with no ice, since the water was bad. I even convinced my mom to see a bullfight. She lasted until it got bloody with swords stuck in the bull and begged to leave.

We took an excursion, a drinking boat, to Isla Mujeres (Island of Women), which was a blast. On the ride in the Caribbean, sailors dressed as pirates poured over the side, and we took pictures with swords at our throats. The crew encouraged the passengers to chug a concoction of tequila and something. One pirate asked how I could drink so much, and I said it was because I was from Texas. He nodded like that was a normal reply.

For the rest of our time in Cancun, I searched for sacred spots to feel the energy of the Mayans and shared my mom’s beach time. We discussed important things we normally ignored and got closer. The trip was a cool bonding moment that I look back on with fondness.

We returned two more times before and after my car wreck. The last time was surreal as we saw the Gulf War break out on the hotel television. It changed the vibe. On the way home, the metal plate in my arm set off the detectors because of heightened security. My grandmother died shortly after, and we never went again. For a long time, the Mayan calendar hung on our kitchen wall as a reminder of that pure first trip to another country.

Dean Cade