Tropical Delusion
What if you quit your job . .
Sold everything . .
and bought a small hotel
On the beach

South of Cancun Mexico and down a long
narrow road ending in turquoise blue
water, you will find Soliman Bay. Here is
where most people’s dreams are found, a
small bay, white sand and palm trees, and
a reef just offshore full of fish.

If you are visiting, the dream looks real,
but if you intend on staying the locals have
one bit of advice - guard your sanity. Though
it may not seem possible, this comedy you
are about to read is 99% true. Names have
been changed to protect the innocent.
May you laugh at our expense.

“Paradise killed Walter.” That’s how the story began.
Sherry and I were moving to Mexico to build our dream home on the beach. Fresh from California with Caribbean stars in our
eyes, we were told a story that the locals pass on to all newcomers—it’s told because it’s funny, because it’s history, but more
importantly, it’s told to prepare you for paradise.
We were seated comfortably at a table near the water at Oscar and Lalo’s restaurant, sorting out details with our contractor,
Greg. I dug my feet into the warm white sand and relished the sound of the small waves just over my shoulder. Sherry sat
across from me in a green sundress, a Diet Coke to her lips, while Greg read down a list of items we thought needed attention.
Then he paused, regarding us both with a serious expression. “Have you heard Walter’s story yet?”
We exchanged a glance—we had not. A playful grin swept across Greg’s face as he put down the papers and slowly revealed
the story. We shook our heads in disbelief. Surely the details had been exaggerated.
Walter had been one of the first to build a house on Soliman Bay and live here year-round. This was back before the bay had
electricity, and if you wanted lights or a blended margarita, you needed a dozen marine batteries stored in some damp closet
and a noisy generator to recharge them when they got low. This was when the highway to get here was narrow and dangerous,
and if you needed something other than a screwdriver for tools or wanted to decorate with something more than white paint,
you brought it with you from the States—always asking friends and family coming to visit for a week to smuggle something
in their luggage. Anyone headed here needed to be adventurous, a little tough, and have a reason to stay. Walter, by the mere
fact that he was here, was adventurous. He was tough, without a doubt, and more than qualified in his reasons to stay,
though nobody knew at the time what they were . . .
Tropical Delusion
All Content Copyright  A H Caribe SA de CV 2012
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