After a night in Punta Perula on Chamela Bay, we continued southward. We stopped for the day in Tenacatita, or actually just down the road around the bay from Tenacatita. We had Ouest’s second birthday in this bay.
It’s a nice campground, right on the water, with hundreds and hundreds of palms for shade. We hung out, had mud pie picnics, rode the bikes, and went for a hike. The hike occurred while Ali was making dinner. The kids and I walked over to one end of the campground where there is a small river.
It’s just a stream really. Just something to skip across on the way to the beautiful stretch of beach on the other side. There was a log in the middle that we joked was a crocodile and the kids gleefully jumped on it. The crocodile joke came about because of a Berenstain Bear book they read. Papa Bear steps on the submerged log/crocodile, and hilarity ensues.
Anyway, we finished with that and then walked another thirty yards or so upstream. Still playing the joker I ran into the water and grabbed a stick that was pointing up from the surface. That was the croc’s tail, of course, and I was going to throw him into outer space. When that failed the kids brought me coconuts to throw at it. I threw about half a dozen, making big splashes, then turned to grab a large stick to throw at it. When I turned around this time there was a big-old for-real crocodile ten feet away from my crocodile tail stick—staring at us—sizing us up for dinner.
We skedaddled back a bit, stopped to laugh (so as not to forever scar the young ones), and snap a couple of photos while that big dinosaur just looked at me like, “Do you have any idea how lucky you are? Try explaining that one to your wife.”
The kids couldn’t wait to run home and tell Mama about our little adventure. There can be no secrets with kids. I mean, this would have made a great inside joke that only the three of us could have laughed about for the rest of our lives.
All right, all right, I promise that from now on when I see a sign that says, WARNING: CROCODILES, I will take it seriously. Geez.
There’s still a few boats down here. They’ll be heading north soon as well. Only a few more weeks until hurricane season hits.
A few pictures around Punta Perula. It’s a small town, one main road that dead-ends, and not a whole lot going on (that’s actually overstating it a bit).
The owner of the RV park was a piece of work. Eighty years old, gringo with a Mexican wife—he’d been here since at least the 70s. Says he owned a ’64 Travco back in the day. Explained to me that this was basically the best spot in Mexico. Mazatlan is a dump. Puerto Vallarta is a cesspool. Mexicans and sewers don’t mix, he informed me. He also explained to me that Mexicans have no business sense. It was a really enlightening conversation, if not rather one sided. By the end of it I guess we were such good friends that he said we could come back any time and he’d only charge me 150 pesos—ten bucks.
Boca Beach Campground—spaces for 200 or more, but just us and three or four tenters were there.