'White sand bakes my feet' – is this secret beach the finest in Mexico?
Nicola Schiff wins our weekly Just Back travel writing contest, and £250, for her account of swimming in seaweed on a secret beach in Tulum.
Stepping on to our hotel’s beach in Tulum is an exercise in fortitude. My toes curl automatically, a visceral reaction as I set foot upon the pervasive weed. The sargassum seaweed clogs the shore and our eco hotel’s policy is to let the algae settle naturally, lightly raking it at times but otherwise leaving it for the wildlife to shelter in. A cormorant cries as it dives into the crashing waves and pokes among the debris for food.
The wind is harsh; it excites the sea which meets the rocks in an angry explosion. Tonight, I will walk home from my street-side tacos and see a huge turtle on the side of the road, perched upon the sandy embankment to lay her eggs. Cars and passers-by disturb her serenity. This is a place where nature is taking back its land.
Yesterday when we arrived, we were deposited at the bus stop at the edge of town. Always suspicious of a local scam, we avoided the taxi drivers (too keen) and those who approached us to point us in the right direction (too suspicious). We stood, baking hot, rucksacks on our backs and walked to the nearest shops. Cars rushed by and dust rushed up my nose. We retreated to a row of shops and stumbled upon the best fried chicken in Mexico.
Upon arriving at our hotel, our hostess plans a tour of the region, barely containing her shock when she hears we have only two nights here. “But… there’s so much to see!” Should we have stayed longer? We grab a taxi to the “secret” beach.
The taxi meanders through a residential district, then down a bare lane. More Mexican dust. We encounter a barrier, some brief words and we’re through. It does not look promising. My mood worsens. We pull up next to a shack, our taxi driver waves at the empty beach ahead… “How long should we spend here?” we ask. He smiles, shrugs – how long is a beach, señora, how deep the water?
It is perfection.
The white sand bakes my feet. A wooden table leans to the side, our plastic chairs sink into the sand. Our shade, courtesy of a palm tree, complements the delight of the sun on my skin. At the shack they are serving piles of ceviche and margaritas. The sea sparkles. Hammocks are stretched between palm trees, the waves lap at untouched shores. I wander towards the water. Dip my toe into the balm. These waves do not crash, they ripple, caress the beach before retreating only to return a moment later to revisit the same delights.
The sargassum welcomes me in. As I swim, my toes curl in delight as the algae strokes my hands gently. I run my hands through the weed. I roll to my back and spread my arms out, floating in luxury.
Perhaps the margaritas helped.
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