Puerto Vallarta 1991

Puerto Vallarta was (and probably still is) a lovely resort town on Mexico's Pacific coast.

Our hotel was on the beach, and also had a gigantic swimming pool. We arrived late in the afternoon and immediately put on our swimsuits and went down to the pool. It was a lucky choice. The only other guests there at the time were a family of four. Mom was on the pool deck, attending to the infant. Dad was in the pool, playing with the two-year-old boy, who was sitting on the pool's edge. Dad told the boy to stay there, while he dove into the water and began swimming around the pool's circumference. With both parents' backs turned, the little boy decided to follow Dad, plunged into the water, and immediately sank to the bottom. Steve instantly dove after him and pulled him to the surface. The boy was spluttering a bit, but unharmed. At that point, Mom finished changing the baby, turned around, and saw us comforting the boy. Steve handed the child to her and did his best to explain what had happened (He speaks only a little Spanish). All's well that ends well, but I shudder to think what the outcome would have been if we'd decided to just take a nap instead of a swim.

We walked around in town a bit. The streets were paved with the biggest cobblestones I've ever seen, highly rounded with steep grooves between the stones. On our second evening there, I slipped and sprained my ankle. After that, we spent most of our time lounging by the pool.

The beach was nice, too.

One afternoon, we took a bus tour that showcased the lovely tropical scenery.

We enjoyed watching the pelicans dive for fish.
The resident parrot wanted Steve's necklace; he thought it was after his beard.

There's always a cat.