Sailing up the west coast of Central America we reach Mexico, where our endurance is tested with two stops in as many days. The first was Acapulco, glamorous retreat of the stars since the 1970s when visits by the likes of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor made it the most fashionable destination of the time. It's still very popular, and Latin legends such as Julio Iglesias and Ricky Martin have opulent villas on the hillside overlooking the two-mile sweep of the horseshoe-shaped bay. Dali donated a sculpture to his favourite restaurant which sits on the roof, Placido Domingo has another restaurant up the hill, and thats as cultural as it gets. Essentially it's a resort town where you eat, drink and sunbathe, the nightlife being the best around.

The city's other famous attraction is the death-defying divers at Quebrada. This hazardous occupation is passed down from generation to generation, the job being the skill of keeping watch on the incoming waves before choosing the moment to plummet 130 feet into roughly fifteen feet of turbulent water below.

Divers at Quebrada

Tourists like me get to watch this with a gratis beer from the balcony of the Mirador hotel perched on the cliff opposite. The mercury was hovering around thirty-two degrees as we gathered to watch in direct sunlight. Now one of my more attractive attributes, not to put too fine a point on it, is that I sweat like a  racehorse. Having carefully sought shade or a breeze for most of the day I was now caught like a rat in a trap. As the skinny little divers trotted down to the cove the first beads of perspiration appeared on my brow. Much to my dismay they intended to drag this one out, scaling the cliff face, praying at the shrine at the summit before limbering up and generally stalling. When they eventually get going it's pretty spectacular, somersaulting alone, in formation, from different heights until they exhaust all the permutations. However by this time I was as wet as the divers and was perversely glad when it was over and I could retreat to the shade again. Back inside the divers were waiting at the hotel entrance; they are not paid for there endeavours and rely entirely on tips. Fortunately these seem plentiful and enable the divers to have a union and a pension plan, luxuries indeed.

Roughly one hundred and fifty miles up the coast is the small resort of Zihuatanejo (zee - what - a nay - ho). It's a pleasant, compact resort that is still realtively unspoilt. Fisherman operate along the narrow beach, selling their catch at little stalls and whitewashed bars spill onto the sand. This was the first year the big ships were stopping here, and it's to be hoped it can retain it's charm in the face of the demands of a mass market. We had a great lunch of ceviche and fajitas before heading inland to the town of Petatlan, where the markets actually sell souvenirs worth buying, and everyone seemed to have big, genuine smiles. The scenery along the way is mainly plantations of mangoes and coconuts, forests of palm trees growing on the hillsides.

We stopped at a coconut plantation to see for ourselves, and it would be remiss of me not to pass on a few fantastic facts about this shamefully ignored fruit(?). The best technique to crack them open is apparently to attack them with an axe with a look of barely suppressed rage, coconuts from tall, mature trees are more expensive as someone has to climb up and get them, you can hollow out the flesh with an instrument that looks vaguely sexual, the oil is distilled and sold as aftersun, the wood is resistent to the local termites and hence ideal for construction. In fact I would not be surprised if they also use the shell to make a serviceable motorbike helmet, or as landing craft for mice.

In other news I feel it necessary to report on the entertainment. Simon Cowell, amongst others, is wont to compare something mediocre with 'cruise ship' entertainment. Well last night saw Jimmy James, soul survivor from the seventies, take the stage. He was quite brilliant, with fantastic control, range and personality that would put an X-factor finalist to shame. He got a standing ovation.

Three days of sailing now up to San Francisco, where I might try a new tactic of buying loads of cheap pants so I don't have to go to the launderette. I had to go again the other day and it was as dreadful as the first time. Feel my pain.