Una Via

I didn’t believe it for a minute.

I mean, come on; it was Cancun for God’s sake, a city as about as hazardous as a park bench. So as my family and I walked to a restaurant near the lagoon, I was convinced those “Danger: Crocodile Zone” signs we kept seeing had to be some kind of wink-wink photo op for dumb tourists already juiced on a bucket of Coronas and a week’s worth of sunshine. And I totally got the joke: smiling and half-cocked, some moron would hug the sign while an equally be-slathered gringo snapped off a couple shots to email back home to relatives in Minnesota still shoveling out their coal bins. They’re nuts, they’d say between stamping their feet and blowing into their hands to stay warm. And then they’d smile; jealous.

Granted, at just an arm’s lengths away to the right, the mangroves did seem a little dark and creepy, and Grace and Sophie kept complaining about being tired. “But smell the air,” I said. “The salt water!” Lisa finally turned to me. “Chris, they must have put these signs here for a reason. The street lights aren’t very bright, either,” she said squinting, holding Sophie’s hand.

“Are you kidding? A taxi here is more expensive than in New York City! No way we’re shucking out 10 bucks for, like, a three minute ride!”

“But I gotta pee!” said Grace. “Where’s the restaurant?”

We stopped for a second and clumped together. I looked out into the mangrove, between roots as thick as human arms rising up and out of the water. All was quiet.

“Let’s keep going. Come on. These signs are bogus. I mean, think about it: why would they let people just walk along a path next to a lagoon that was infested with crocodiles,” I said, already knowing the answer.

We’d been living in Mexico for half a year, and had already witnessed our fair share of remarkable nuttiness: they still let people blow off sticks of dynamite in the street when some saint was celebrating a birthday or whatever, and if you lost a couple of fingers, (or maybe a whole hand), then hey, life’s about choices, isn’t it? One time, we watched in genuine awe as a group of young girls sped by us while standing in the back of a pick-up. There were, like, 7 of them. Standing. At 40 mph. A cop drove by and didn’t even blink. And when the truck disappeared down a hill and into a tunnel, the girls all squealed like it was just another ride at Six Flags. Yet one little bump and they’d be tossed like shrimp from a wok. You think the United States in the land of the free? Come down to Mexico and see why our daughters continually complain how we don’t let them do anything cool and dangerous like the Mexicans do. It’s exhausting.

When we arrived at the restaurant they sat us outside, over the water. We asked our waiter about the crocodiles.

He shook his head thoughtfully. “They didn’t put those signs up until, I think, the third attack.”

“Third attack,” I said.

“Yes, it was the homeless man. He was sleeping with his dog in the grass back there.” He pointed in the direction we had all just come from. “Croc first took his poodle, then came back and took the man’s hand, a piece of his leg.”

Oh god,” Lisa said.

Sophie was swizzling some lemonade out of her straw. She was about the size of a Dachshund.

I looked down into the lagoon we were now seated over. The water was deep and clear, and lit up like a pool. And then, as if on cue, a 10-foot croc swam slowly, soundlessly out from under the deck and into the center as if he didn’t have a care in the world. iPhones started flashing from other patrons nearby. I heard a woman gasp.

Our waiter wasn’t too impressed. “Oh, I haven’t seen him in a while. You know, last Christmas, a couple was sitting directly at the table you’re at now, holding a chicken breast over the railing at a croc, and the thing leapt straight up to grab the meat. It was terrifying,” he said, laughing.

I chugged my glass of wine as if it were Gatorade, which in some ways, I guess it really was. My daughters wanted to follow the croc, to run around the deck of the restaurant and see if we could catch another glimpse. So we stood up and hurried over to the far rail, and I leaned out into the blackness and scanned the surface.

“I see it,” said Sophie.

“Where, where?” I craned a bit farther, trying to focus.

“No you don’t,” said Grace. “You’re lying.”

“Nope, never mind. It was just a stick. Or a leaf or something,” Sophie offered.

“Yeah, right,” Grace said, picking at a sliver atop the railing.

I kept looking, but I knew it was gone. Or worse, it was hiding at the bottom, waiting us out. I then realized I was leaning pretty far over the railing. For the first time that night, I felt afraid.

Afterward, meal over, we called a cab. It was the most satisfying three minute ride of my life. I looked out at the mangroves as we cruised by and felt like the moron I was initially mocking. I looked over at my daughters, gently patted Sophie’s leg in apology. She looked up at me and smiled.

“That was good pizza, Pop,” she said.

I smiled back. “Yeah, it was.”

When we arrived at the hotel, the cabbie told me $10, so I gave him $20. He turned to make change but I waved him off. “Keep it,” I said. “I owe you.”