Missives from Mexico, Part the Second: Cozumel

We took the ferry to Cozumel, Mexico, during our vacation to Mexico, during which time we did... approximately nothing, and not constructively, either. It was my fault. Even though I had every intention of getting up early to swim, I slept in. Then I finally ran. By the time we got out the door, it was 12:30, and by the time we arrived at the dock, the guide book said the next ferry to Cozumel from Playa del Carmen left at 3:00. I apologized profusely.

Brandi, starting to catch on to this Mexican guidebook nonsense, suggested we try the ferry anyway, since the worst that could happen was that the guidebook was right. She was right; it was wrong. The next ferry left at 2:00, getting us onto the island at 2:00 PM. Plenty of time for sightseeing and even a spot of lunch, right?

Wrong-o, mister. Cozumel is a lot bigger than it looks like in a guidebook (where it looks to be about the size of my palm; how crazy would that be? Each new visitor would have to knock an earlier visitor off). So popping down to the lighthouse was out of the question. Nor could we visit Mayan ruins, since they closed at 4:00. Time drew tight. We finally hired a cab from the port to the ecological preserve, with its cool lighthouse, and he was very nice and somewhat skeptical that we could fit it in, to the point that he called ahead for reassurance that it would be open. He got it, and off we went. Only... by "open" they meant, "open if you got there at 2:00, since after that they kick people out." So we had a 500 peso ride from downtown to the southern end of the island for nothing. Still, our cabbie took pity on us, and offered to drive us on a long loop around the island for 400 pesos. To this day, I'm not sure why he was so determined to make lemonade of our lemons, but I appreciated it. He took us around and I got lots of shots of the island, which, outside port, was exceptionally barren but for a few restaurants clinging to its rocky shores.

Here comes the panorama:

We took lots of photos, and at the end of the day (which came all too quickly), my only complaint was the strange force of gravity that made me look fat in almost every single photo taken of me that day. Blame it on wearing a t-shirt with English on it, an excess of burritos, or the eerie pull of the Bermuda Triangle about 1,000 miles away, but somehow I walked away with a face full of bloat. See it here? My tummy is clearly trying to escape from my clothes, and has conscripted Brandi's forearm in its efforts. Also, the horizon is tilted, but our cab driver can't be great at EVERYTHING. Can he?