Nomade Holbox

'The sea here is… playful,' offers my 'journey designer', Laura. Back home, Laura’s job title is exactly the kind of thing a hardened urban cynic like me would roll my eyes at. But here, under the soaring rattan canopy of Nomade Holbox’s open-air restaurant, Laura embodies everything I yearn to be. Her hair is slicked back into a chic bun. She looks effortlessly cool in a mysteriously wrinkle-free linen shirt. She glows. When she calls me 'angel', I believe her. Behind her, the sea is tantalisingly clear and still, lapping gently at a stretch of soft white sands. Whatever journey has taken Laura to this little pocket of paradise, I want in.

There’s just the small business of the migraine that’s been plaguing me since breakfast. I’ve been in Holbox for a week, staying on the other side of this laidback, car-free island, but my self-prescribed regimen of naps, all-taco diet, piña coladas and regular dips in the sea has failed to achieve the kind of mellow, toe-to-cranium looseness my body desperately craves. I’ve arrived at Nomade tired, dehydrated, itchy (the island’s mosquitoes can be viciously persistent at this time of year), and with high expectations.

Treatment plan booked with Laura, I linger by the compact twin pools, taking in the scene. A group of boisterous friends is indulging in a spot of performative tanning; beyond them, a row of cormorants perches on stilts jutting out of the turquoise water, drying their dark feathers in the sun. Holbox’s sea shelf is notoriously gentle; head pulsing, I wade out far into the calm, translucent waters, watching pelicans dive-bomb for needlefish. I’m dimly aware of the remarkable beauty of my surroundings. Somewhere, down the white-sand paths snaking through a fever dream of tropical plants, there’s a circle for cacao ceremonies, a 'gratitude tent' for group activities (my inner cynic twitches at the thought), and benches in dappled shade for quiet contemplation. Treehouses tower above, clad in protruding planks of weathered wood, giving them the distinct appearance of a cubist bird’s nest. Once I’ve stumbled back up the vertiginous stairs, I hose myself down on my balcony, blessing whoever decided to equip them with outdoor showers. I briefly consider the day-bed on my rooftop terrace, but the sun-baked floorboards start to burn the soles of my feet. I fumble for the air-conditioning remote, then surrender to a much needed siesta in the blissful shade.

My sanatorium-grade sleep is interrupted by the 'doof doof doof' of house beats, courtesy of a guest DJ who’s taken up residence on the sands for the evening. My inflamed neurons try to muster up some sort of ancient Mayan curse against him, but who am I to deny the boisterous friends their pleasure? Instead, one balcony shower later, I join the evening’s cacao ceremony — step one in my plan to be more Laura. My inner cynic grunts and grimaces, but I ask her to be quiet, just for a moment or two, while our guide chants gutturally and guides us through the introspective ritual. I’m struck by the bitter, unpleasant texture of the cacao, but also by the kind faces of the participants. We release the cacao dregs into the ocean, facing the embers of a Turner-worthy sunset. Back in the ceremonial circle, I surprise myself by expressing gratitude at being alive, and kick-starting a teary communion among the participants. Later, I wolf down a lobster pizzette — the island’s signature dish, here perfectly executed in a wood-fired oven. The DJ is still doing his thing — oontze oontze oontze — and before long I surrender to an uneasy sleep.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning (much like the raccoons skulking around the breakfast tables, hoping for a swipe of your chilaquiles), I hit the first hurdle on my wellness journey. Is it a gust of wind, or a tricksy Yucatán spirit that locks me out on the balcony, with nothing but a tiny towel to cover my freshly showered modesty? I shout down, panicked, at guests coming back from their morning run. 'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,' shouts the man jovially, while his much more helpful girlfriend fetches the concierge to free me from my glass prison. So much for chic and glowing.

I spend the day on the quiet beach, watching the avian ballet from the shaded comfort of my day-bed. Jorge, my genial waiter, keeps my migraine at bay with copious applications of chilled drinks, and a much needed emotional support bag of ice. I move in and out of the water, setting my personal metronome to the rhythm of the waves and the flap of wings overhead. Jorge brings soft-shell-crab baos and cheese-dusted elotes (grilled corn); I hail a beach vendor for a freshly cut mango. Slowly, finger by finger, toe by toe, my muscles begin to unclench.

That evening, the two sisters from the cacao ceremony invite me on a golf-buggy ride to nearby Punta Coco. Our guide points out the Big and Little Dipper, Venus and the Milky Way, then invites us to the water’s edge. Dipping our hands into the inky water, we lift flecks of swirling light to our delighted faces — bioluminescent plankton that, an hour or two boat’s ride away, attracts whale sharks to these rich feeding grounds. I take a couple of tentative steps in the muddy depths, then hazard a few lazy strokes in the pale golden halo unfurling around me. Laura would approve.

Sunrise comes, and with it my last day on Holbox. I join therapist Cuno on the beach for a session that the brochure claims 'harnesses the healing power of water'. His calm, serene manner puts me at ease: my internal cynic has no resistance left to offer. Under the watchful gaze of the cormorants, we wade chest-deep into the sea. I strap floatation bands to my ankles, fit a nose clip on, then lean back into Cuno’s waiting hands. He swirls and stretches me first on the surface of the water, then submerges me into its warm, tranquil, accepting womb. All thought leaves my body — I am at one with my movements, with the sun kissing my eyelids, with the free, gentle play of the water. Cuno hums a lullaby, a soft melancholy tune that speaks of earth, and water, and soaring skies. 'Know that you can always return here, to this place, when you need to,' he tells me — and for a brief, eternal moment, I know I believe him.