How Led Zeppelin Saved Me From Myself

The first thing I do after checking into our Akumal, Mexico hotel room is hop into my swimsuit—a Baywatch red one with side cutouts—a little detail I should have probably considered when I was taking part in my two month cake and alcohol stress diet.  I brought a total of three suits—two with cutouts, and a third—a two-piece. Not sure where the forethought was when it came to my wardrobe choices, but it really doesn’t matter because this trip is not about fashion or discovery or adventure; it’s about stillness and rejuvenation. It’s the whole reason we did something completely unfathomable for curiosity seekers—booked an all-inclusive. There would be no exploring the Yucatán, trekking to the Mayan temple of Chichen Itza or snorkeling in Cozumel. Our intention was to do absolutely nothing for eight straight days, since the two years leading up to this had brought about a variety of personal adventures—Covid perhaps being the least of them.  My travel companion, Joy, who I’ve known since I was seventeen, spent a good portion of that time caring for her older sister, who would succumb to cancer. And her job in the Maryland school system during the pandemic had only heightened her stress. I was coming off twelve-hour days in TV production, in probably the most multi-tasked job on a set—script supervising. I had also bought a house in need of renovations, invented a product with a friend and former coworker, and started a business around it—all at the same time. Two years at this pace and I was starting to develop an eye tic and to have borderline homicidal thoughts.  Time off for us was not a desire, it was a necessity. But stillness was not something we were particularly accustomed to, especially not on our travels—Joy having climbed the 440 foot Sydney Bridge and journeyed up to Machu Picchu with me; I having withstood the hate stare of a camel while trying to mount its back for a trek to the Great Pyramids, as well as having goats flung past my face onto a New Delhi train at the start of a pre-dawn journey to Agra and the Taj Mahal. But here we were in Mexico, committed to trying to capture that much needed stillness.  

The Bahia Principe Akumal Hotel is located just outside of Tulum, about an hour and twenty minute drive south from Cancun International Airport, along the Caribbean coastline of the Yucatán Peninsula.  It’s part of a compound that includes two other Bahia hotels—Bahia Principe Tulum, and Gran Bahia Principe Coba, the only one not beachfront. A fourth property, Sian Ka’an (which, unable to pronounce, we kept calling Sean Connery), sits across the highway in a lush, green rain forest setting that left us wishing we had submerged ourselves in a vat of Off! before visiting. All-inclusive gives you access to each property and its restaurants and nighttime shows. 

Joy and I grab our respective beach bags and make our way through Akumal’s expansive open-air lobby, past the impressive Ixim (the Mayan word for corn) statue at its center, representing man’s communion with the Earth.

The sun is unrelenting, the humidity impressive in its oppressiveness. In the short time it takes for us to walk from our hotel room, past the lively pool area, and over to the main beach, we discover beads of sweat making their way along crevices we never quite knew you had. Thankfully, despite the beach being busy, we’re able to secure a couple of champagne-colored lounge chairs almost the exact color of the sand that are amply shaded by the thatched roofing of one of the many two-person palapas.  Our fellow guests are overly generous in sharing their music of choice via small Bluetooth speakers, which lends to an interesting mix of rock, rap, and pop, with a special bonus of the reggaeton pulsing from the speakers of the pool area Zumba class.

I settle onto the lounger and follow a server with my eyes as she makes her rounds taking drink orders, doing a variation on her joke that it’s never too early for tequila. The joke’s pretty corny, but I appreciate her commitment to it. Once she wanders off, I turn my attention to the two older women slowly making their way across the sand chatting and laughing, and I wonder if theirs has been a friendship spanning a lifetime. Once they’ve left my eye line, I focus on the little boy trying to make a sandcastle with his dad, only to have it washed away by the tide. They attempt the task once more, only to again have it demolished. I can’t figure out why they don’t just move back two feet. I let out a long breath. Time. To. Do. Nothing. Yup. Mm hmm. Okay, so…how exactly does one do nothing? It’s been so long since I’ve been able to pause that I don’t quite remember how to go about it. Instead of being at ease, the proverb that summed up my household while growing up, “The devil makes work of idle hands,” starts seeping in. I find myself glancing down at my fit tracker— I know, I know, wearing one probably goes against that whole concept of doing nothing. But old habits die hard, and seconds later, I’m unzipping my backpack and pulling out every Apple product available to man — iPad, iPencil, iPhone, iPod (yes, I still have one), along with a novel, journal, notebook, and ink pen. I also pull out my schedule. Time to scroll my social media pages and see what my friends back in the US are baking, outline a writing assignment, read a couple of chapters, and write a to-do list for my return to LA the following week.

Day one of stillness… UTTER AND COMPLETE FAILURE!

Day two doesn’t go much better. Day three, a storm rolls in—the tropical kind that rumbles its displeasure from a distance, only to be immediately upon you, unleashing a force of wind and water that is at once frightening and awe inspiring. Massages fill some of the time, but as I lay on the table with my face tucked into the opening in the headrest donut and the nature sounds of crickets chirping and frogs croaking and brooks babbling and the crisp, clear sound of a flute accompanying them, I find myself–of all things–trying to come up with rap lyrics for a video I want to shoot for a friend’s birthday.  

Day two and three of stillness…CONTINUED FAILURE!

I don’t have much hope for day four. After our buffet breakfast, we use one of the omnipresent shuttles that transport guests to and from the four properties to venture over to Bahia Tulum, but the beach there is smaller and overrun with seaweed, so we head back to Akumal, where we situate ourselves in front of an older gentleman who at that precise moment decides to take us all back on a journey to 1969 by blasting Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.” I’m doing a bad enough job trying to relax on my own, I don’t need the extra help, so, with Jimmy Page’s thumping guitar riff and Robert Plant’s high pitched voice reverberating in my head, Joy and I set off to find less inhabited grounds.  We follow the curve of the land to where the sand is bordered by a two foot sea wall constructed of white and gray coral. There is a rock shelf beyond this coral wall, onto which seaweed washes up and turns red in the intensity of the sun. The waves lash out a little harder here. This part of the beach is unswimmable, so it sees far less traffic…which means…quiet! There’s a small bar housed under a palapa not too far away, so we decide that this will be our spot. I walk over to the wall and become lost in the coral’s intricate patterns, each one so different. Eventually, my attention moves to the white foam forming on each wave as it moves in, and to the black birds hopping from wall to sand, sand to wall, tweeting happily. They seem to prefer this area too, and I feel my lips easing into a smile. And when I accidentally catch a glimpse of my fit tracker, I realize that an entire hour has passed in the space of what feels like only a minute. Nature has cast a spell and put me into a trance. I have allowed myself to simply be for an hour and counting, and that feeling of idleness is nowhere to be found.

Once I allow stillness in, the simplest of actions instantly becomes more meaningful. I visit the water at the edge of the main beach. It is rocky and uneven, and I have to walk carefully to keep balance. Each step is like a tiny personal challenge, and I welcome it. I ease the sole of my right foot over one rock, taking in its smoothness. I’m surprised by the slipperiness of the next, and wince a little a few steps later as I encounter what feels like the peaks of a miniature underwater mountain range. At our buffet lunch, the plantains now seem sweeter, the habanero of the sea bass even more savory. And the words of Bob Marley’s Redemption Song playing softly in the background of the seaside reggae bar really register. But I’m pretty certain that these things have not just suddenly changed from what they were the day before. They have not somehow become better, or more intense. Instead, I’d wager a bet that I’m the one who went through the change—albeit a tiny one. Allowing myself to be present and still has rewarded me with being able to fully appreciate the beauty in the taste, smell, sound, sight, and touch of many of the things I had previously overlooked. So, Led Zeppelin, perhaps I owe you a big thanks.