About 20 miles south of Cancun, Mexico, on a stifling summer day, Tom Iliffe squints over a limestone ledge and into a giant pool of scuzzy, brown water. Despite the heat, he’s wearing a wet suit that covers everything but his blue eyes and white goatee. A spool of bright-orange nylon line and an assortment of mesh bags carrying glass test tubes, plastic caps and measuring devices dangle at his side. Below, the water temperature is roughly the same as the air. He jumps.
“This water is about as refreshing as piss,” he exclaims with a playful smile after coming up for air.
For almost 30 years, Iliffe has made a pilgrimage more or less annually to the Yucatan Peninsula, sharing the plane ride with throngs of Jimmy Buffet-loving “Parrotheads” and spring breakers bent on partying. Although they all arrive together, their paths diverge at the airport. Iliffe is here ...
