Amy and I are the same age for two months each year. She turned seventy-three on March 4th, which means we share that number until May 13th, when I step ahead and become seventy-four.
This year, for her birthday, I made arrangements for us to escape to the Pacific coast, to one of our favorite places a short drive away: Mazunte.
From our home outside Oaxaca City it is about three and a half hours by car along the new highway that crosses the Sierra Madre mountains. It took years to build, carving its way through difficult terrain, and when it finally opened about several years ago it almost immediately began experiencing problems—landslides, boulders tumbling down from above. Even now parts of it feel precarious, and Amy becomes nervous when we pass through the steepest sections.
Still, the alternative is a much longer journey on the old two-lane road, just as dramatic with its endless hairpin turns. So we set off early, trusting the mountain gods to let us pass.
Our destination was a small hotel we have grown to love, Casa Ofelia, sitting quietly on the beach. It is cozy and intimate, with a small swimming pool and broad verandas that look directly out to the sea. Not luxurious in a grand sense, but perfect for us—and surprisingly affordable. Over time it has become our go-to refuge on the coast.
The drive went smoothly and before long we were settled in, breathing the salt air.
Whenever we arrive, the meeting of sea and land begins working on us almost immediately. Something in the body relaxes. The rhythm of the waves begins to wash through the mind.
The beach in front of the hotel is usually empty. Only at sunset do small groups wander down to watch the sun slip into the Pacific. It is always a quiet ceremony. The colors shift dramatically, the sea turning shades of aqua beneath the descending orb as it changes from gold to deep red before disappearing. For a few minutes everyone grows still. Happiness fills the air. It feels almost sacred.
The days hovered in the mid-eighties, the nights in the seventies, with a steady breeze moving through everything.
Mazunte itself remains a delight. The town is relaxed, easygoing, and perfect for people-watching. Many of the visitors are young travelers from around the world, drifting through with a distinctly counter-cultural spirit. Amy remarked more than once about how much skin some of the women were willing to display—so scantily dressed they seemed almost part of the beach itself. Outside our hotel at a nearby trail that ends at the beach, a sign reads, No Nudism."
We also discovered a few restaurants we had somehow overlooked on previous visits—simple places along the shore serving fresh fish and shrimp dinners that tasted even better with sand still on our feet.
Swimming in the ocean directly in front of the hotel isn’t possible. The currents there are simply too strong. But just a few minutes away by car there are calmer stretches where I can plunge into the surf, which gives me enormous pleasure. Amy prefers to watch from under a rented umbrella, content and amused.
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The three days and nights passed in a seamless, tranquil way. By the end we both felt renewed. More than once we looked at each other and said how grateful we were to have made the journey.
The drive home was uneventful—no landslides, no falling rocks.
When we arrived back at the house our two dogs greeted us with great enthusiasm, along with Jo, our trusted house-sitter who had kept everything running smoothly in our absence.
And just like that, another small chapter of life had unfolded—sea air, sunsets, and the quiet joy of celebrating Amy.
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