WORDS AMELIA DUGGAN
IMAGE: GETTY
There’s a place I walk to each morning when I wake up, jet lagged, at daybreak. I tiptoe from my cabaña, past hammocks and ishermen testing their lines, along molten-silver sands wet from a night-long deluge. I clamber up and over a rock pool. I skirt dritwood exhumed on the last high tide. I follow the snagging coastline, feeling on my bare soles the crisp spines of fallen palm fronds, half-buried in the sand like some giant creature lying in a shallow grave. I walk and walk, and don’t meet another soul, and then it’s there: a mile of rugged, empty beach facing the dawn.