Jill Robinson

Writer, Photographer, Adventurer

North America

Silence in Xibalba

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Xibalba, the Mayan underworld, is described in the Popul Vuh as a place of fear where the dead had to traverse an obstacle course of bats, jaguars, rivers of blood and rooms of sharp knives. Cenotes, the deep limestone sinkholes scattered throughout the Mexican Maya world, were the gateways to this hellish underworld.

But the idea of diving into a cenote was nearly all I could think about on my recent trip to the Riviera Maya, that area south of Cancun, through the Sian Ka’an Biosphere—along the Caribbean coast.

I’d just gotten my open water diving certification the day before I found myself driving with my dive guide Jose to the Dos Ojos (two eyes) cenote, north of Tulum. As we readied our equipment, I was instructed how to use my flashlight to signal in case of an emergency, and told that I absolutely had to follow the yellow string line through the cavern, staying behind Jose the entire time.

We were to enter the gateway to Xibalba at the East Eye, follow the line through the Bat Cave, and through the West Eye to what was briefly described by Jose as the “crocodile cave” until I raised my eyebrows. No, he admitted, there were no crocodiles there. Even beyond the West Eye, we’d still be underwater for some time. The entire dive, he estimated, would be 45 minutes.

At the East Eye, the limestone walls were illuminated by sunlight and underwater lighting that caused the turquoise water to glow. I slipped beneath the surface, and everything changed.

For three weeks before that moment, my brain was non-stop chatter. I don’t think there was a minute when I wasn’t working out some problem, trying to quiet errant song lyrics, or writing articles in my head.

But when I entered the gateway to Xibalba, all my brain could say for those 45 minutes was “ooooooooooo.” The silence in the underwater cavern was far different than the Caribbean, with the whoosh of the tide surging through the reef and the constant clatter of fish. All I could hear were bubbles, signaling my breathing.

My flashlight illuminated stalactites and stalagmites, fossils, huge fissures in the limestone below (perhaps leading to Xibalba?) and tiny fish. Glowing through the water was such a serene shade of blue that I still can’t find the words to describe it.

When we neared the end of the line and approached the East Eye again, I wanted to trace the route backwards to stay within the quiet azure water as long as I could. If Xibalba is a hellish place, the pathway there is quite the opposite.

River Badassery

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Elaho River rafting

Considering my time with ocean-related sports, I’m surprised that I haven’t carried my interest over to rivers. The only time I’ve ever river rafted was the summer before my last year as an undergraduate, with a handful of girlfriends on the American River. There was little rafting. It was mainly floating with a cooler or two of beer.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to raft the class-IV whitewater of the Elaho River in the Coast Mountains of British Columbia. Our group of two rafts and safety kayak traveled more than 11 miles on two rivers: the Elaho and Squamish. Aside from that, the Elaho Valley has spectacular scenery—from waterfalls to hanging glaciers to vast old-growth forests. It’s often hard to keep your eyes on the river with all the beautiful distraction around you.

My friend Jayme and I plunked ourselves in the front of our raft, pretty much ensuring we’d be thoroughly soaked the entire trip. We powered through rapids named Cheeseball, the Devil’s Elbow, Steamroller and Tombstone. The last rapid had a hulk of a standing wave named Mike Tyson. Despite all the churning water, nobody fell out of the raft.

It was perfect timing to be with a gang of women on a pretty badass river.

Bouncing Back

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Shredding Ajax, or Ajax shredding me

I learned to snowboard something close to 14 years ago. It was one of those sports I learned fairly quickly, and the excitement that came along with it kept me going back to play again and again. I didn’t dedicate enough time to get to more than perhaps an advanced beginner status, but I got to the point where I could do what I wanted and didn’t fall often.

But then other things took more priority during the winter. Time passed, and before I knew it, it had been 10 years since I’d touched a snowboard. What I kept in my mind was the level of boarder I’d been way back when. So when I got the chance recently to refresh my shredding skills in Aspen, I expected to jump right in where I left off.

I knew that there would be a fair amount of character-building moments—where I’d have trouble with something that I thought I mastered before. The entire time, I told my instructors that even if I made the smallest amount of progress each day, I’d be happy. Internally, that was a hard goal to maintain. I wanted to be awesome and I wanted them to see. Of course it was unrealistic. Even silly. But that’s what I craved.

The first day at Snowmass was smooth sailing. Even though I had to re-learn things I thought I already knew, it felt fairly easy. So when it came time on the second day to pick a goal, I decided I needed to skip from green runs to blue, so I could visit the pop-up Veuve Clicquot bar on Aspen Mountain near the end of the day. My progress was far from smooth. I fell what seemed like a million times. But I also made a little bit of progress and got to the champagne bar.

When the third day of my boarding refresher weekend came, any amount of progress vanished. I let all the spills from the day before erase my confidence. I couldn’t remember simple things because I was afraid to fall. I wanted to quit.

It took more than a few moments, but I eventually remembered how long it took me to master other sports and activities. I let the bad experience motivate me to get out to Buttermilk on the fourth day and commit to the goal I had in the beginning: Even the smallest amount of progress is a win.

A couple of weeks later, I still have some bruises from my weekend, but no longer a bruised ego. I’m OK with being a beginner snowboarder again, and I can’t wait to get back out there.

Surf Camp Report

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It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve returned from my surf camp in Mexico. Since then, I’ve been eyeing surfboards nearly everywhere I go, looking for the one that will allow me more practice time at my local surf break.

The water’s a little colder here than in the Riviera Nayarit, but there’s so such thing as too cold—just inappropriately dressed. More neoprene solves the problem until I can get to warmer water again.

The Las Olas surf safari experience spoiled me. With an easy schedule every day involving only meals, yoga and surfing, it allowed me ample time to not only focus on my water skills, but also get to know my fellow classmates and why each chose a surf camp vacation. It was clear early on that we all enjoyed good food—as we sampled the restaurants to find the best fish tacos, Mexican hot chocolate and other local favorites.

What made it a successful surf trip for me was the focused attention from our talented instructors. They spent hours in the water with us, and celebrated each success—even if it was as simple as riding a wave just a little longer than the last time. At best, we had a 1:1 instructor to student ratio. When we were all in the water, it was more like 1:2.

A little more than halfway through the week, we took a field trip to Punta de Mita to surf a longer wave and go whale watching. It was a lucky day. We spent time hanging out alongside a mother and her calf, as the calf continuously breached—giving us a huge show. Later, I got the best and longest ride of my week. A little time at the end to lunch on fresh shrimp ceviche and lounge in the sun was all I needed to call that my favorite day.

What’s next? I’m headed to the Santa Ynez Valley for some hiking, horseback riding and Santa Maria-style barbecue. Then, I’m off to Aspen, to see if I can remember how to ski. Later in March, I’ll be in Kauaʻi for Hawaiian culture, outdoor adventure and perhaps a little ukulele shopping. In between, it’s all about the writing, kayaking, hiking—and maybe a little surfing, if I can find the right board.

Surf Safari

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Years ago, when I ran across the promotional materials for Las Olas, a surf safari for women on Mexico’s Pacific coast, the power of one sentence not only grabbed me, but knocked me over the head and nearly dragged me to Mexico.

“We make girls out of women.”

I often joke with close friends that inside, I am 5 years old. But as with many people, that wide-eyed wonder at the world gets clouded when at home and facing daily realities like work deadlines and paying bills. Scheduling a week to play is a dream, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve done it.

Now, I’m finally going. I’m on assignment, so there’s work involved—however this trip, I’m allowing myself more time off to enjoy. The timing couldn’t be better.

Stay tuned for more posts on my Las Olas experience, but likely after I return. Surf’s up!