The Divemaster
I used to love the fish tacos at this joint. That was decades ago, and the owner Miguel has passed since then. But there was a time when he would soak the tilapia in tequila and habanero butter. And then batter the filets in masa harina before dropping them in a sizzling pan. The tortillas were made from scratch by his grandmother each morning. The fresh cilantro was plucked from a small garden on the roof of the restaurant.
I can still see the planters, but now they’re covered in barnacles. The tide washes over and under them with the passing of the moon. As to the remainder of the restaurant, it’s underwater. So is most of the town.
Even so, the tourists still visit San Pancho. Only now they do it with a regulator clamped between their teeth and an air tank strapped to their backs. I lead divers underneath the rotting bandstand at the Zócalo. Schools of Cape Wrasse, shimmering pink and blue, replace the fruit and vegetable stands that once echoed with bickering and gossip. We swim right down the middle of Tercer Mundo. The happy stray dogs are gone. Now the Avenida teems with Jackfish. They dart past rusted golf carts and café tables and beneath the papel picado flags strung from one side of the submerged street to the other. Sometimes we duck into the cerveceria, and grab for ancient beer bottles still drifting in the murk. My favorite bar— El Mezcalito— it’s now tangled in kelp, but the big old piano is still there. The keys are warped. Divers like me to take their picture as they pretend to play.
I charge $200 a head. I give guided tours of this crime scene. Mine is a story as old as man. Disaster and opportunity walking hand in hand.