The sea changes like a model’s face.

One moment it is smooth as glass all the way to the horizon, the meeting of water and air straight as a pencil line drawn by laying a ruler down. The horizon is so straight that you believe the world is flat like old explorers thought and imagine theIr fear as superstitious sailors neared the edge of the world, as they knew it. 

On good days, the water is turquoise, clear, and you can see white sand twenty feet underneath blue waves.

Palm trees move in the wind like a sea of jungle ants scavenging on the jungle floor. Leaves in the canopy move all directions and it is difficult to see what direction the wind comes until you look at the slant of the trunks.

It is no lucky accident Mayan royalty built their retreat here.

They couldn’t duplicate what they saw, but they could pay homage.

 

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