2003 - Found San Pancho- Bob Cole
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In 2003, a realtor told us, “Go north—go to San Pancho.” We almost missed it entirely, ending up in the wrong town before finally arriving. But from the moment we stepped onto that first street, something felt different—we knew we had found the place we were looking for.
In 2003, Susan and I decided to get serious about planning for retirement in Mexico. We had vacationed in Puerto Vallarta for years and loved the area. So we met with a realtor who showed us several properties.
At the end he asked, “What do you think?”
I told him there were only two problems: too expensive, and not nice enough.
He didn’t hesitate. “Go north,” he said. “There are still some good deals there. Go to San Pancho.”
We got on a bus and asked to be dropped off in San Pancho. The driver blew right through the stop. Only later did we realize the sign said San Francisco — which, of course, was San Pancho. Instead, we ended up in Lo de Marcos, which felt completely deserted. We finally found someone who looked at us and said, “Why are you here? You want to be in San Pancho!” so back on the bus we went.
This time we got off in San Pancho and wandered up the first little street. That’s where we met Raymundo — enthusiastic, welcoming, the unofficial head of the San Pancho Booster Club. He introduced us to Geno and Elvia, the realtors. As we walked around town, everyone smiled and greeted us — young and old, locals and gringos, men and women. We immediately felt at home. The more we saw, the more certain we became this was the place for us.
But why?
Let me count the ways.
EntreAmigos then was just a small library on the top floor of an old building near the beach. Nicole had the kids doing art projects right there on the sidewalk. Later, she convinced the government to let her renovate the abandoned mango factory. The community came together — fixing, painting, building — and over time it became what it is today.
There was a one-day backyard music gathering we attended — casual, spontaneous. That simple afternoon eventually grew into the town’s Music Festival.
There was Frank, the turtle guy. He explained how turtle eggs could be sold in Guadalajara for a dollar apiece, so poaching was common. Instead of condemning the poachers, he found them jobs. He educated the children, even giving them dune buggy rides as he checked the nests. Soon kids were saying, “Daddy, don’t hurt the baby turtles,” the way we once said, “Don’t be a litterbug.” Frank helped return more than two million baby turtles safely to the sea.
There were only two beach restaurants back then — Mar Plata and Olas Rico — but we loved Las Delfinas, Chalupa, Ava’s, and María’s.
We quickly learned not to expect things to be “right” in the American sense. Ava’s might be closed because it was her daughter’s birthday. That wasn’t an inconvenience. That was life.
When we bought our place, I’d guess there were about 200 gringo households in the area. No condos. No high-rises. No Las Olas development yet — just streets on paper and open land. With so few of us, we saw the same faces over and over, and acquaintances became friends.
Our son attended the local primary school for fourth and sixth grades. No paperwork drama. No English spoken. He simply joined. One highlight was “Bring Your Machete to School” Day, when the students helped clear vegetation around the grounds.
After school he wandered freely through town — hanging out in the plaza, eating at María’s, volunteering at EntreAmigos. We didn’t worry. The town seemed to be watching over him. When we returned to our small town in Washington, we would never have allowed that same independence. Not because it was larger — it wasn’t — but because it felt less communal. Less trusting.
And there was the hospital — thankfully — when our daughter was stung by a scorpion. They hooked up an IV, administered serum, monitored her carefully for over an hour. When it was over, they said, “You have to pay… $15.”
By 2005, Susan had come ahead of me again, seeing what this place meant before I fully did.
The polo club sat next to the soccer field. You could watch matches for free — horses thundering past while kids played fútbol just yards away. During practice, Dr. Julio would dismount and write out a health certificate so our dogs could travel back to the States.
Veterinarian, polo player, neighbor — all the same person.
Las Olas was still only lines on a map. No buildings. Just sky.
And, of course, there was our little slice of paradise at the end of the road — thanks to Geno.
Insights - Light and Shadow
San Pancho did not stand still.
Las Olas is no longer just lines on a map and open sky. The empty lots now hold houses. There are more cars, more visitors, more languages in the air. The dirt roads are paved. The secret is no longer a secret.
That is the shadow side of discovery. When enough people find something special, it changes.
But there is light, too.
EntreAmigos grew stronger. The music gathering became tradition. The turtle program endured. The hospital is still there. The plaza still fills at night.
What has changed is scale. What remains is spirit.
The San Pancho we found was defined by openness and possibility. The San Pancho that exists today is defined by resilience and community strength.
The light was the simplicity.
The shadow is the loss of anonymity.
The light now is continuity.
Places change. So do we.
What we found was a town becoming itself.
What we see now is a town that has.
