Cast your luck where the sky is born
When the early autumn rains subside and the hurricane winds diminish to a whisper, look for me in a thatched-roof cabana under the palm trees on a sparklin

When the early autumn rains subside and the hurricane winds diminish to a whisper, look for me in a thatched-roof cabana under the palm trees on a sparkling white-sand beach south of Cancun, Mexico. The sound of the softly unfurling waves is nature’s irresistibly seductive lullaby. 

In the morning, my guide from the fishing village of Punta Allen–an unfortunately dull English corruption of the more descriptive Punta Ayiin or crocodile point–arrives by boat. Tanned and muscular and standing barely five feet tall, he has Maya blood and a Maya heart. His people have lived here for thousands of years. Their magnificent Mesoamerican limestone architecture and hieroglyphs and celestial mapping still echo one of the world’s great vanished civilizations.

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