Journeys : In Mexico, Where the Waves Still Win

Written By Unknown on Sabtu, 13 April 2013 | 17.35

Robb Kendrick for The New York Times

The author's son Jeb, 14, on a boogie board in Troncones, Mexico. More Photos »

Planning a return trip to my favorite beach in the world, I was almost as apprehensive as I was excited. The last time I visited Troncones — a town of some 600 people pushed up against the Sierra Madre del Sur mountains on the Pacific coast of Mexico — was five years earlier. At the time, we'd been living in San Miguel de Allende, and we occasionally drove down with our two sons and two dogs. My husband — an avowed "non-beach guy" — and I had come to love this village of farmers and fishermen for its rawness, its drowsy authenticity.

In the intervening years, word got out that Julian Schnabel and Damien Hirst had homes in the area. That's it, I thought, as I prepared for our vacation this past January. I was picturing all the practitioners of extreme cool who had surely followed in their wake. How was it possible that any place could thrive in the oxymoronic state of both newly chic and genuine? I figured we'd better get there quickly before it became totally overrun and turned into just any other beach town.

Our apprehension wasn't helped by a new highway on the way north from the Zihuatanejo airport (this time we flew in from our home in Texas with our teenage sons and, alas, no dogs). We worried the highway was, uh, paving the way for high-rises and Señor Frog's tequila shot contests in Troncones.

Thankfully, when we got off the highway, about 22 miles from Zihuatanejo, we were surrounded by nothing but tropical forest. In town, we found a chicken running on the dirt road in front of the same dusty tienditas and hand-painted hotel and restaurant signs we remembered. There was no trace of the dreaded stalls selling T-shirts and seashell fridge magnets or parasails pulled by boats crisscrossing the sky.

After we checked out our room at Casa Delfin Sonriente, an open-air suite with mosquito-netted beds, we ran to the wide, rock-strewn beach to greet the wild surf that has drawn surfers here for years. The waves are exploding tubes of ocean that make a near-Nascar-decibel crack when they break. Scanning the shoreline, we spotted no Jack-and-the-Beanstalk buildings poking over the palms. Mostly we saw a long smear of vegetation. The few visible structures — homes and hotels — barely showed their foreheads, and many of those low-slung buildings had palapa roofs that blended in seamlessly. None of the houses had an ostentatious feel that suggested it might belong to an international art star.

On the first of what would be twice-daily walks, however, we noticed a large construction site. "Condos," one of the workmen told us. Just as I feared. We later learned that the complex would have only five units and be two stories high. The notion that there were other people — this developer included — who wanted to keep Troncones real was a supreme relief.

As we walked on, we were happy to see lots of dogs, most with their owners, but many out on their own, and all without leashes. For us, the freedom afforded dogs is emblematic of the larger ease here. Dogs are welcome at many restaurants and hotels. Last time, our dogs had slept under our bed and tagged along everywhere.

To compensate for our missing canine wingmen this trip, we made friends with a few dogs on the beach, including a white bulldog that regally surveyed the wave-skimming patrols of pelicans in the morning. In the evening, he'd be out eyeing the troops of horses and riders (often with a colt following its mother) that trotted along the shore.

On our walks — more than two miles round trip — we were relieved to find the beach mostly empty, even at prime-time hours. "It's 4 o'clock, and we've passed what — 60 people?" my husband asked after one outing. We considered this good news, but that night at dinner a man who visits regularly from Seattle said he was feeling crowded. "It used to be there'd only be five people on the beach with you," he said.

Another day at the same pizza place, Café Sol, we met a couple from the Yukon. Over the course of their month in Troncones, they had sampled many restaurants. I asked about the Inn at Manzanillo Bay, whose intriguing menu I had seen online. "It's pricey and a little too fine for Troncones," the wife said.


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