Reflections on Art, SCUBA Diving, and Isla Mujeres
Isla Mujeres, Mexico
Last week, my dear sister of “Snow Much Fun Not Skiing at Sunday River” fame was texting me photos of the white sand beaches, tropical cocktails, and impossibly turquoise waters that I remember so fondly from my own trip to Isla Mujeres two years ago. She also sent a shot of a barrel-chested, sunburnt Brit crowned with a Union Jack bucket hat. He was posing cheekily beneath a tiki umbrella where UK flags flew from the rafters and King Charles coronation placards covered a cocktail table. Blessedly, no royals were being coronated during my visit to Isla, and I was spared such a spectacle.
Isla Mujeres, the “Island of Women,” is a quick ferry ride and a zillion vibe miles away from the 24/7 party that is Cancun. Isla, as she’s affectionately called, is a mere five miles long by 1/2 mile at her widest: a tall, thin lass endowed with an abundance of natural beauty and just enough human embellishments to keep things interesting.
I went to Isla because I wanted to see the underwater sculptures of Jason deCaires Taylor at Museo Subacuático de Arte (MUSA). Frankly, and somewhat embarrassingly, a lot of art either bores me or gets me all “they call this ART?” worked up. My favorite example of the latter is displayed at the Art Institute of Chicago. Nope, wait: I just Googled Red Plank and learned that said masterpiece is currently off-view. No worries, though! Simply purchase a 2x4 (or, if you want to get technical, a 96 1/8 × 22 1/4 × 3 1/8 inch piece of wood) at your local Home Depot, paint it Behr #P180-7 Top Tomato in high-gloss, and voila! An instant work of art for your home, garden, or utility closet.
When I do see art that I like, however, I go over-the-top, Swiftie-level all in. For example, I have visited the MOMA several times to see one painting: Remedios Varo’s The Juggler (The Magician), prowling from one side to the other, then planting myself directly in front of the painting to suss out its seemingly infinite meanings.
As for the the underwater sculptures: I don’t remember how I first learned of their existence, I just knew that I must see them. deCaires Taylor creates haunting and highly expressive human figures, as well as TVs, VWs, and other artifacts of modern life, then sinks them to the ocean floor. Over time, their cement surfaces bloom with and support marine life, serving both as artificial reefs and astounding works of art. IMHO. Rather than risk boring or angering anyone who doesn’t share my eyes-agog reaction to deCaires Taylor’s work, I’ll direct interested parties to this web site (go immediately to the “films” section) and/or this book to see and learn more.
Sculptures at the MUSA are submerged between 10-30.’ I could’ve gone with the snorkeling and/or glass-bottom boat option, but I read that SCUBA diving was the best way to see them. In my aforementioned over-the-top, all-in spirit, I decided that SCUBA it would be, despite never having SCUBAd or even considered SCUBAing. I’d just gotten my COVID shots, flights and hotels were cheap, the Boston weather was miserable, and so, in March of 2021, I flew down to Mexico.
I’m a strong swimmer, I love snorkeling, I could handle this “one hour of training then under the water you go” try-dive thing, right?
Hmm, weeelll. .. I had no problem launching myself backwards over the side of the small boat with an oxygen tank on my back. Descending 20 or so feet underwater during the trial run near an old shipwreck? Not a problem either. I was enjoying watching the colorful fish while hoping I wouldn’t see an eel, until my guide, Enrique, informed me via hand gestures and raised eyebrows that it was time to remove my mouthpiece underwater, clear it, and put it back in. This was, he had said, a safety requirement for snorkeling at MUSA.
Are you fucking kidding me? I thought. There is no way I’m taking this thing out of my mouth. I shook my head no. Emphatically. He gestured again. Emphatically. I shook my head no again. Our battle continued for a few more rounds, until I nodded yes, defeatedly, so that we could go see the sculptures already.
As soon as I removed the mouthpiece, thoughts of what could potentially go wrong underwater—no air sharks no air death no air abandonment no air this is so unnatural no air—flooded my brain, and I freaked out. I flailed my way frantically to the surface, completely forgetting Enrique and the try-dive video’s warnings about surfacing gradually to avoid the bends. When he surfaced a few seconds after I did, Enrique stared at me like I had lost my mind. Which I honestly had for a few seconds.
After getting back into the boat, I informed him that I was not removing the mouthpiece under any water, that I had to see the sculptures, and that absolutely under no circumstances would I dart to the surface again. Perhaps Enrique thought that indulging an unhinged woman was less dangerous to his wellbeing than taking me back to shore, so he told the skipper to set a course for MUSA. The water was quite choppy, and I barfed—twice—en route but, by God, I flipped backwards off that boat, dove, and then, there they were, deCaires Taylor’s Silent Evolution sculptures. My heart beat faster, and, this time, not from fear.
I guess a lot of Enrique’s clients are really into getting their pictures taken in their diving gear. I kept indicating that I wanted to stay in one spot, but my underwater hand signals didn’t work this time because Enrique kept swimming ahead rapidly, then stopping and posing me for pictures. Finally, I risked being left behind—though that was unlikely since I hadn’t yet paid for the diving trip—and refused to follow Enrique. I floated in place so that I could simply be with the sculptures. That minute or two of scrutinizing their facial expressions, observing how the natural was gradually subsuming the manmade, reflecting on the improbability of this surreal place, and experiencing a pop of transcendence just before Enrique came swimming back for me made every moment of that trip worthwhile.
Snorkeling the next day was pure joy from start to finish. Bubbles of laughter rose through my snorkel as I swam with stunning purply-blue and lemon yellow triggerfish and angelfish, species I had admired for years through acrylic windows at the New England Aquarium. Accompanying me on this trip was a family from Mexico City who spoke about as much English as I spoke Spanish—let’s call it 50 words—so we communicated merrily via Google Translate throughout an excellent post-snorkeling lunch of fresh fish and rice. The mother, who was probably 15 years younger than me, was puzzled by my lack of tattoos. She tried encouraging me, via Google Translate, to go with her to get my first tattoo and her 10th or so.
Umm, that’s a “no” in any language.
Like some works of art, some travels aren’t very memorable. Some delight in the moment but fail to make a lasting impression. Some are boring, some make me angry. Then there are those—my trip to Isla Mujeres, works of art like The Juggler (The Magician)—that take root, that, just as those deliberately sunken sculptures have become part of the marine ecosystem, become part of who I am.
Wow--what an adventure! I'm totally with you--taking the mouthpiece out under water sounds terrifying!