La Manzanilla, Mexico

A hundred kilometers north of Manzanillo, and 200 km south of Puerto Vallarta, lies the little fishing village of La Manzanilla (Little Apple). Situated at the south end of Bahia Tenacatita, a l0 km wide horseshoe shaped bay opening onto the Pacific, and home to 500 or so fisherfolk , shopkeepers and retirees – much of the village is built upon a rock outcropping, adjacent to a 5km long sandbar whereon are a couple of primitive coco-palm shaded campgrounds squeezed between the ocean and a large mangrove lagoon famous for its caiman (alligators).

Marnie and I first saw La Manzanilla in Jan ’90 – long before sewers and sidewalks were installed, and a most funky little place it then was. In early December ‘96, much of the village was smashed one mid-morning following a large underwater earthquake with epicenter about 12 km due west, followed by three tsunami waves, said by villagers to be 10, 6, and 3 meters high respectively. It being daytime, the residents had seen the water rush out of the Bahia after the earthquake, and knowing it would be coming back in with a vengeance, had grabbed their families and headed for higher ground.

The sandbar was nearly deserted at that time of year; a few parked rigs were washed into the lagoon – one full time Mexican camper, located near the mid-point of the sandbar, noted the oncoming wave and knew that there was no time for him to make it to safety so he shinnied up a high coco-palm and watched his camp wash into the lagoon, which itself emptied back out into the ocean in another 20 minutes. Thinking that was that and climbing down, he then noticed the water continue to recede on out of the bay, so up the palm he went again and saw the second wave pass under him – and later the third. He likened the experience to being perched on the rim of a saucer of water, with the saucer being tilted back and forth and its contents sloshing from one side to the other.

[Sometimes when we camp on that sandbar adjacent La Manzanilla, so close to the booming surf that at high tide the camper shudders a bit in the night, the stray thought of nocturnal ocean surges does sometimes arise.]

Marnie and I had heard of a fresh spring back up in the hills, so hiked out one morning to find it. Entering a gravel arroyo at the upper end of the village, we followed a dry creek bed upward and inland for 3 or 4km, traversing several fincas (farms) and making sure to refasten wire gates along the way so that livestock would not get loose. By this point we had ascended a couple hundred meters, and were able to have a good overlook of the bay, with the island pinnacle of ‘Father Time’ in the distance. The creek bed was by now becoming damp, soon there were standing pools and later a rivulet connecting the pools.

Following the rivulet upwards, we came to our destination, a little grotto with a waterfall dumping from a higher plateau into a clear pool about 10meters in diameter, about 2 meters deep at the center and, we later discovered, very cold. A school of tiny, tiny fish watched the two of us undress for our skinny dip – we tossed them some broken crackers to divert their attention, and jumped in. The shock was akin to falling through lake-ice back home, and I didn’t have to worry about the little fish nibbling my parts because the parts had instantly hibernated into my body in search of warmth.

When we climbed out of the pool, re-robed and sat warming in a patch of sunlight arcing through the grotto canopy, we observed huge butterflies descending and arising over the pool on light thermals – huge, white, pie plate sized creatures. Knowing that in telling this tale we would need proof of the size of these gigantic beauties, we took this picture wherein you can see me pointing the butterflies out to my Eve.

….. until next time, Adam

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