Surfer’s (and Shallon’s) Paradise: Sayulita

It was in Mexico that it happened–it finally, unequivocally happened: I decided to leave New York.

Well technically, it happened off the coast of Mexico, in the Pacific ocean, as I wiped out on a wave and technically by “leave” I mean “start seriously exploring the possibility of life in another city.”

I was underwater, upside down and my leash was tangled and pinned one foot behind me. I should’ve been panicking but I was in heaven. HEAVEN. There, in the rough, I was baptized. I surfaced a new woman.

Surfing made me feel more alive than I had in years–at least without wine in my system–and I realized that I would be happy hitting the ocean every single day.

(I promise I’m better than this pic makes me look)

(That’s not true)

I wouldn’t say that I grew up surfing–I first learned in Bali, then tried to go at least once a summer–but I did grow up with surf culture. Everyone  surfed (well, the white kids anyway), even just a little bit. Our high school even had a surf team! Even if you didn’t surf yourself, you wore Volcom and Hurley, you went to the US Open of Surfing in Huntington, you just lived it, the way a preppy doesn’t have to hoist a mass themselves to be part of the nautical set.

I got out of the water and FaceTime’d my boyfriend.

“Baby, we’re moving,” I told him firmly. “To Australia.”

“Mmmm…kaaaay,” he said slowly, trying to decide whether or not I’d gotten into the minibar.

For the second time this year, I was south of the border on a press trip. This time my travel buddy Jen and I were in Sayulita, a sleepy little surf down about 45 minutes south of Puerto Vallarta in the Riviera Nayarit.

Sayulita was like a Cody Simpson song come to life. Happy, bright, colorful, bouncy and beachy, it’s what you picture when someone bumps you on the train, or grey snow sloshes into your shoe and you think Fuck this, I’m out. The town is populated by surfing ex-pats and chill, middle class locals. It’s a far cry from the cartel-riddled border towns or the rum-soaked spring break destinations. If you want to party, you can. But if you want to relax, eat fresh-caught tuna ceviche and be up early to surf, you can do that too.

We stayed at the Grand Velas, a visually stunning hotel but it was absolutely overrun with kids. As a single city girl, kids aren’t my thing. So that’s a definite con on the list, as was the fact that the resort was a ghost town after 7pm (I guess everyone was tucking in their kids!) (lame) and you had to take a shuttle to the sister property next door to access the beach. But once you reached the beach, it was delightful. More than enough lounges and cabanas, with prompt waiters.

Since one can take only so many selfies, Jen and I tried to step up with our game with an oh so balletic cartwheeling photoshoot…

I need to stay in my selfie lane. I look like a crab. #thankspinacolada

The resort had another hilarious pro: jello menus. YES I SAID JELLO MENUS.

But the place was more than just weirdo gelatin confections. It boasted an adorable rooftop bar with a pool that spanned it’s length so you could sip a drink, look 20 stories down or straight out at the magnificent sunset over the Pacific.

And did I mention the spa? Some people are spa snobs but I’m happy as long as someone gives me cucumber water and sort of plays with my hair. I’m a simple woman. But this spa really was delightful, with ,ore than just a tepid selection of magazines to keep you occupied before your massage. They had hot and cold plunge pool and and a Jacuzzi with an “obstacle course” of massaging jets on the walls and floor.

As much as I travel, I’m almost always happy when the plane is pointed in the direction of home. But not this time. I didn’t want to go back.

Go back to what? I asked myself sulkily as I unfurled my hideous winter coat AGAIN. Uh, how about your job, your boyfriend, your friends, your favorite bodega that always holds aside a bag of Tate’s Cookies for you? You know, your life? But in that moment, I wasn’t a creature of logic. I was a creature of the ocean. 

I want to surf every day, I want to eat fresh fruit and fish and be outside. I want adventure.

(beer is good too)

So back to my original idea: start to explore the possibility that life can exist outside Manhattan, New York. This idea had been brewing in my mind, hazy and alluring, for sometime. I really can’t bear another winter on the East Coast, I just can’t. I refuse to spent one third of my life hating where I am, and really, it’s not like the sweltering, gritty concrete summers are much better.

Plus, the other day someone had asked me what’s on my bucket list. I couldn’t think of a thing. At the time, I felt smug, like I’ve done everything I’ve wanted to, but that dissolved into a depressing hollowness–was there really nothing else out there? Then, in Mexico, I realized that learning how to surf–like, really surf–is number one on that list.

But could I ever leave beloved NYC? Where do you go after the greatest city in the world? Maybe the answer isn’t another city at all; maybe the only place to go is the ocean…