It’s my own private beach.
Never mind that Mexican law does not recognize private beach property.
This is my own private beach.
Silence is golden.
Meditation is on auto-pilot.
The snakes and mice are hiding. I think they only come out at night. In the one hour it takes me to walk here from my already hidden hideaway, I run into one man.
A few dozen butterflies.
Despite the fact that I’ve been to the secret beach before, and two people try to give me pointers to get here, I get lost. The first detour takes me up a sand road to a promontory that gives me flashbacks to the movie vertigo. Although I get dizzy looking down, I can’t deny it’s a breathtaking view. The rolling tides crashing between two mountains and the narrow gap between them swallows up the foam.
On my descent, I realize I have to veer north to get around the mountain to the beachfront. The only way in is through what appears to be someone’s front yard. I pass through the barbed wire and wooden gate and recognize the fencing is almost an optical illusion. The path is public but within someone’s personal property line. I doubt anyone except my beach bum sources have walked this way.
Either the owner of the secret road is an alcoholic, a glass recycler, or planning a master work of recyclable art with empty bottles, cans, old books and boxes, but it’s an interesting roadmap.
Once I find my way up the mountain pass it appears clear sailing. The incline isn’t too steep for me in my flip flops, and the rocky path looks familiar. I’m in the right place.
Then it hits me. Recollection from several years back when I spent the night on my private beach in a trench I dug with my hands in the sand to protect me from the bone numbing winds. I was alone here for nearly 24 hours on a vision quest. This time, it’s hot sun and sand I’m trying to avoid rather than the cold.
The decline. Visions reappear from my vision quest night. It was a shaky descent.
Yet, as I approach it doesn’t look that bad. Then I see the winding walkways are filled with cactus, barbed wire and steep narrow openings. I walk around and scope it out. Instinctively I know I need to backtrack to go down the safest of the declines.
I grab a few small stones and crouch, in case I slide down like a toboggan. I’m getting over an injury and have to avoid pressure on the outer side of my right foot. Not so easy when there are no steps. No pavement. No sand. No flat surface.
I’m about to chicken out and about face, but the sounds of the waves crashing beckon me.
I make it. I remove my sundress, chanclas and vinyl knapsack, and splash in the cool water.
Then as if to prove it really is my beach, and mine alone, I walk 20 minutes in one direction all the way to the first structure. It’s a beautiful white gazebo-like house on a small promontory with the windows and doors open. There is someone inside.
I splash in their “private beach” before I about face and walk the 20 minutes in solitude back to where I left my belongings.
Silence is golden. We all need to listen to our inner silence. To me, this is best done listening to the loud crashing sounds of the waves on my own private beach.