Acapulco’s cliff divers: 90 years of challenges, rituals and shows

Alejandro Balanzar waits his turn. It’s the last dive of the midday session. His hands are clasped as he stands in front of the sculpture of the Virgin of Guadalupe, which reigns at the top of the cliffs of Acapulco Bay. Here, the sea penetrates the land, leaving a small channel of water between sharp rocks.

The 33-year-old is originally from the Mexican city of Acapulco. He’s been a cliff diver for the past 19 years. Possessed by the music of the ocean and the wind, Alejandro crosses himself and turns to stand at the edge of the void, where he waits for the wave to approach. When it does, it will allow him to take flight.

While he waits, he keeps his gaze fixed on the rough rocks on the shore. Each breath widens his shoulders, before he finally opens his arms and throws himself into the deep, narrow threshold. It’s a dizzying free fall of 115 feet, at 52 miles per hour, only ending when he enters the water. Excess foam spreads out over the waves, which move back and forth.

Alejandro has done the swan dive (also known as the “airplane dive”) and the reverse somersault (or “Dutch dive”) about 2,000 times. But each time feels like the first time. At the moment of falling, he doesn’t feel connected to anything other than fear. Everything mundane disappears from his thoughts, while the sensation of weightlessness prevails. It’s not the flight, nor the impact, nor the height that’s most dangerous for a diver: rather, it’s the invisible depth that awaits. You only have about 13 feet of water before you hit the rocks at the bottom.

Alejandro mentally calculates the temperament of the approaching wave and the kindness of the wind (he knows both well). He then raises his arms, bends his knees and starts running. The tourists — in the blink of an eye — get the chance to admire him as he’s suspended in the air. This admiration is promptly followed by goosebumps; they’re incredulous at the speed of the dive. For his own good, the young man must fall into the water before the waves begin their journey back to the open sea. He knows that he has three seconds, three-and-a-half seconds at most. Any more than that would be lethal.

Alejandro is falling. Tense, rigid, keeping his vertical position, looking straight ahead, aware that, as soon as his body breaks the surface of the water, he must spread open his hands and grab his feet. This is to stop his fall and turn around as quickly as possible, so as to avoid hitting the rocks at the bottom. Risk is his job: the crash against the sea, the sinking weight, the foam bursting out and — two seconds later, to everyone’s relief — Alejandro’s triumphant arm appears, celebrating his survival and the applause.

At 1:30 p.m., a blinding sun spreads its tyranny over the cliffs. Alejandro and the rest of the divers accept the congratulations from onlookers and take photos with the tourists, just as movie stars or elite athletes would do. They’ll all repeat the jump at 7 p.m. — when dusk imposes its share of darkness on the sky — and again at 11 p.m., with a torch in each hand as the only light. Then, pure uncertainty is their only company.

The night jump is a Russian roulette for Alejandro. He relies on luck, because the person at the bottom of the cliffs cannot see the horizon, while the person above cannot see the bottom. Everything is left to intuition, which is responsible for announcing the arrival of the wave.

Like all myths, the myth of the cliff divers of Acapulco is real and hazy at the same time. This tradition celebrated 90 years of risk and charm in December. It’s the oldest tourist attraction in the city that opened Mexico to the world (and to tourism). In the 1950s, Acapulco experienced a time of splendor when — given the beauty of its location and its landscapes that mix the jungle and the sea — it became one of the first tourist destinations in the Americas.

After the photographs, the congratulations and receiving the corresponding tips, the euphoria among the group of divers takes a while to disperse. They talk about the narcotic power of adrenaline and the cushion of the waves, which allows them to fall against the wind with an elegant dive.

Along the shore, Abraham Estrada, 37, points to the slightly yellowish line of saltpeter on the rocks. It marks 15 feet: they’ll never be able to dive with the water below that line. “Of course, I’ve hurt my ankles and knees a few times,” he notes. “And, when I started, I dislocated my shoulder. I can no longer dive headfirst.”

His diving partner — 31-year-old Brando Brian Palacios — is still at his side, exultant. Like 99% of cliff divers, he is following a family tradition: “As a child, I watched my father: how they applauded him and how they asked him for a photo, all of that draws attention. I started imitating him at eight-years-old, first from [six feet, then 16, then 23].... and, at 14, I dared to dive from [115 feet]. The veterans can sense your interest and they correct and guide you. I like that the public recognizes your work. Olympic divers come here and tell us that we’re crazy to dive from 115 feet with only 13 feet of depth. We invite them to do it, but they say no, they say we’re crazy.”

Abraham recognizes that he’s here because of his grandfather, his uncles and his cousins. “But I studied law. I’m a lawyer, I do paperwork at the law firm.” When asked what he likes more — the office, or diving? — he laughs: “I like cliff diving more. Here, they applaud me. In the office, they don’t.”

Both men agree: “When the moment comes, your head doesn’t think about home, children, wife, girlfriend, problems, work. You only see where you’re going to fall, that you’re going to hit the water, that you’re going to spin around in the water. If you get scared, you’re done.”

Almost all the accidents occur at the moment of hitting the water: forearm fractures, perforated eardrums, shoulder detachment. For Abraham, when the dive is over, he says that he feels an enormous sense of satisfaction. “Tell me your greatest pleasure, because this is multiplied by 10. Believe me, we’re all afraid — every dive is like the first dive.”

At La Perla restaurant inside the legendary Mirador Hotel, there’s a view of the sea, where a humpback whale is splashing around. In a room adorned with photographs of Elizabeth Taylor and Johnny Weissmüller — as well as iconic divers from the 1950s, such as Raúl García or Javier El Toro — EL PAÍS sits down with Alejandro Balanzar and Lilia Mishelle Nieves. At just 13, Lilia is the youngest diver, but it depends on how you look at it, because she technically started diving at the age of six. She does it on the weekends, but since today is a holiday in Acapulco and she doesn’t have classes, she’s been able to come to the interview with her father, who’s also a diver. “I like that he accompanies me,” she smiles. “He gives me advice and supports me. I train every day to achieve the perfect dive: I’m always looking straight ahead and not shaking. My head is [my] rudder.”

The tradition of diving began in the 1930s, driven by natives of the historic neighborhoods of Acapulco, such as La Guinea, La Pinzona, and La Mira. Fishermen would set out to retrieve their hooks because, around that time, metal was a precious commodity and it was essential to retrieve this work tool. Naturally, they began to challenge each other to see who could jump from the highest point to search for the hook. “The challenge became a ritual,” Alejandro explains, “and the challenge and the ritual became a spectacle, because this area is very romantic. It attracted couples and families. While watching the fishermen challenge each other, people began to throw coins into the water and giving them tips. That’s how the phenomenon took shape.”

“In 1934,” he continues, “the first show took place and the Sociedad de Vardistas y Salvavidas de la Quebrada was founded, which later changed to Clavadistas Profesionales de la Quebrada (”La Quebrada Cliff Divers”). The film boom helped us a lot. The fact that this location was chosen for filming was a revolution.” Alejandro refers to films such as Fun in Acapulco (1963), with Elvis Presley (who didn’t even set foot in the city for the filming), as well as Tarzan and the Mermaids (1948), in which the cliffs and the divers appear.

While speaking about the current situation, Alejandro furrows his brow. He speaks with a nostalgic tone: “We’ve been doing this for 90 years and it’s a difficult time because of the hurricanes, these were serious catastrophes, we’ve had to make a real effort. We’re a civil society organization with directors who maintain order and pull the strings of the group. But we’re the physical force: we do the exhibitions and we maintain the cleanliness and care of the area. You can make a living from this, but those who start are still asked to study. In my case, I have a degree in English Philology.”

“This is a job in which you have to respect the cliff, nature and the sea, because a mistake is an accident — and we’ve all had an accident. And, even though it sounds bad to say it, that’s the true test of fire. When you get hurt, you find out if this really is for you or not. A journalist once told me: ‘You don’t have accidents because you’re professionals.’ I told him: ‘No, we’re professionals because we know that we’re going to have an accident, but we’re still always going to be here.’”

This profession requires dedication and effort. Divers train daily from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. — stretching, conditioning the body, etc. — before the exhibitions. Afterwards, you have to pass anti-doping tests. You have to build confidence and overcome thalassophobia (the fear of deep bodies of water). “There’s always been a female diver in every generation,” Alejandro says. “Now, we have Lilia. Lili is a very young talent: she just broke the record of her colleague, Iris Selene, which was 75 feet. She’s now already jumping from 91 feet, but it would be a mistake to rush her and for her to risk losing her love for the profession. You have to go step by step to avoid injuries.”

“I ask my young colleagues to think about their diving carefully, because one thing is experience and another is confidence. And here, you need both.” Alejandro again names the hurricanes that devastated Acapulco last year. The way in which the city has moved forward is worthy of praise. The current renaissance owes much to the local residents and investors. You can still see hotel complexes like Riviera Diamante being totally renovated. This complex contains iconic hotels like Princess Mundo Imperial — an enormous, pyramid-shaped architectural work in homage to the Mayan temple of Chichén Itzá — and the wonderful and delicately preserved Pierre Mundo Imperial, which was the home of Paul Getty, at one time the richest man in the world.

EL PAÍS accompanies Alejandro and Lilia to eat at Flamingos, a sacred meeting place for divers. It’s a hotel easily recognizable by the pink color of its walls. For a long time, it was the home of Johnny Weissmüller, the American actor who played Tarzan in 12 feature films. And, between 1950 and 1984, it was known as “the hideout of the Hollywood gang,” because the eternal Tarzan of the screens — blinded by the sun and glamor of those years — organized memorable parties, with guests including Cary Grant, John Wayne, Errol Flynn, and even Morgan, the chimpanzee.

Today, Weissmüller’s old vacation spot is in a neglected state. The imposing viewing platform — which the actor ordered to be built facing the Pacific Ocean, with stones arranged like crocodile teeth — would be worth renovating and promoting, because the location is extraordinary.

Cliff diving is a sport, a hobby and — above all — an unbeatable tradition that managed to overcome the end of the glamorous party of the golden years, when legendary films were shot in Acapulco. These included The Lady from Shanghai (1947) by Orson Welles, Missing (1982) by Costa-Gavras, The Young One (1960) by Buñuel, and the classic Mexican film, The Pearl (1947), based on Steinbeck’s novel of the same name. The cliffs have also survived two hurricanes and — like the city — is defined by resilience.

Austrian author Wolfgang Hermann once wrote: “Life is a fluid: it must be kept in balance because, when it spills, it slips away and disappears.” Nothing has changed in the Acapulco cliffs in 90 years. The images of the divers plunging into the water remain etched in the retina. One observes the diver in the seconds before the jump, serious and thoughtful, as if he were watching the concentration of his ancestors, assimilating the risk that lies within. Just like the memory, the cliff has its own distance and — however much time passes — this will continue to be the emblematic postcard of Acapulco.

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