PAGE 52 NAVIGATOR - Amazon S3 · 2018-08-26 · When the war began, six boys from the two families enlisted together: all four cousins and two of Josephine s brothers. Of her cousins,

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November 2017 COASTAL LIVING 41

Two golf-gorgeous destinations right on the sea PAGE 52

Where to go now on the coast

Camp Cecil, Baja

California Sur

THE GUIDE

Vacations That Will Change

Your LifeThe secret to a life-changing

trip is simple: sharing that

experience with someone you

love. Follow three journeys

made magical because of who

came along for the ride

THE GUIDE

42 COASTAL LIVING November 201742 COASTAL LIVING November 2017

NAVIGATOR | THE GUIDE

ISLA ESPÍRITU SANTO, BAJA CALIFORNIA SUR

SHOWING A SISTER

A WILD WORLD OF WATERIT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY NO to a sea lion pup. Especially when he

gazes right at you with his big brown eyes and a half-pitiful,

half-hopeful tilt of his soft, sweet face. This is what I think to

myself as I sit on the royal blue edge of our idling panga, a 22-foot

outboard chariot that has skirted myself and my sister up the

coastline of Mexico’s Isla Espíritu Santo to a protected sea lion

colony. Dangling my flipper-clad feet in the chilly Sea of Cortez, I

wait for the rest of our crew to suit up in neoprene. The pup makes

a dozen half-moon passes around my flippers, popping his face up

every 20 seconds or so and begging me to join him for an under-

water playdate with those eyes. Those irresistible eyes.

This is our second journey to the colony during our stay at

Camp Cecil, a luxury tent resort on one of the island’s tiny,

unspoiled crescents of sand. We made our first attempt the day

before, only to call off the swim at the last minute due to unusually

strong winds and currents. Alan and Yovani have generously

brought us back for another go and are patiently waiting for us to

hop in, but Katherine, arms folded tightly across her chest and

lower lip poking out like I haven’t seen from my little sister since

we were kids, remains rigidly glued to her seat inside the boat. I’m

beginning to worry that swimming with the sea lions, the funda-

mental reason why we’re in Baja in the first place, might not

happen. Will temporary discomfort—the water feels awfully cold

even on my wetsuit-covered ankles—stand in our way?

Not for me. “It’s now or never,” I say as I shove off the side of

the boat and sink into the quiet world under the surface.

I’d been planning my return to the Sea of Cortez for nearly 20

years, ever since I fell in love with the contrast of its teal-turquoise

waves lapping at the base of rose-gold desert cliffs—and with

how simple the world becomes when you set your schedule by

the rhythm of the sun—during a monthlong National Outdoor

Leadership School course. The only question was when to make

the trip, and with whom. Because I’d first been romanced by the

region while traveling with strangers, I was determined this time

to share its seductive magic with someone I love.

So when my sister told me she’d been wanting to travel to

a place where she could dust off her snorkel from her marine-

Sea lion sunning on Isla Los Islotes

The view from Camp Cecil

Frigate bird rookery

GET HERE From Los Cabos

International Airport,

travel about an hour

and a half to Todos

Santos, where

Todos Santos Eco

Adventures (which

operates Camp Cecil)

is based. Plan to

spend at least one

night on either end of

your journey to Isla

Espíritu Santo in this

magical Baja town.

STAY HERESleep (and eat) like

royalty at the all-

inclusive Camp Cecil,

a safari-style luxury

camp on Isla Espíritu

Santo. Rates start

at $275 per person

per night; tosea.net.

In Todos Santos,

Los Colibris Casitas

serves up delicious

breakfasts and

million-dollar views

of the town’s palm

tree grove and the

Pacific Ocean from its

hillside perch. Rates

start at $95 per night;

loscolibris.com.

Steele (right) and her sister, Katherine

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November 2017 COASTAL LIVING 43 November 2017 COASTAL LIVING 43

Butterfield and Robinson’s Bears & Whales Family

Adventure takes you and your clan into the wilds

of British Columbia for eight days with sea lions,

orcas, and grizzlies. From $9,495; butterfield.com.

Circumnavigate Iceland with Natural Habitat

Adventures & World Wildlife Fund’s 11-day

’Round Iceland trip—by private bus, 4 x 4 vehicle,

airplane, and excursion boat—for an immersion in

this island’s natural splendors, from humpback

whales and puffins to geysers and glaciers. From

$14,795; nathab.com.

Explore New Zealand’s dramatic, lush, and

unforgettable North and South islands with

Overseas Adventure Travel’s 17-day Natural

Wonders North & South adventure. From $5,695

(including international airfare); oattravel.com.

biology-student days and swim with sea life, I knew I’d found my

Baja traveling partner. The Sea of Cortez, a narrow finger of blue

that separates mainland Mexico from its Baja peninsula, contains

more than 900 species of fish and roughly one-third of the world’s

marine mammals, making it one of the most biologically diverse

seas on the planet. Most of its 37 islands are uninhabited by peo-

ple and are instead home to some of the largest seabird rookeries

in the world. The promise of several days together, completely

unplugged from our devices while plugged into this wild cradle of

life, almost seemed too good to be true.

But Camp Cecil—a “glamping” resort staffed by expert guides

who slip in and out of their roles as naturalist instructors and

attentive hosts with nimble ease—makes good on that promise.

In just two days, we’ve communed with a great blue heron holding

court on our beach, tracked a sea turtle and a school of king angel-

fish across the cove on standup paddleboards, spied on a black-

tailed jackrabbit rummaging through desert shrubbery for

breakfast, and marveled at manta rays’ gravity-defying leaps, their

silhouettes dancing like choreographed shadows on the horizon.

This deep connection to our surroundings has come at no cost

to our comfort. We’ve feasted on fresh fish, produce, and other

deliciousness four times a day (happy hour is considered a meal

here), and slept like kings in quite possibly the world’s most styl-

ishly comfortable safari-style tents. We’ve even had time for

lazing about with a book, a board game, or simply the sound of

waves strumming the beach in a heartbeat-like rhythm.

So here we are on our third and final morning, and I’m once

again smitten by the area’s beauty and simplicity, grateful to dis-

cover it’s as alluring as the Baja of my memories. The one missing

piece is the spark between Baja and Katherine. Drifting into the

silent underwater world, I wonder if her panga intransigence has

less to do with the place and more to do with a sisterly opposition

to my unbridled enthusiasm? Then again, maybe she’s just cold.

Suddenly, a flurry of pink catches my eye. It’s Katherine’s flip-

pers, propelling her down toward a sea lion pup about 10 feet

below the surface. I watch as she slows to a graceful glide, arms

behind her back, until she’s nose to nose with the pup. For a few

seconds they hover, eyes locked on one another like teenage lov-

ers, until they start to dance. He twirls over her back and under

her feet; she mimics the move right back, spiraling around him.

He dives; she dives. He surfaces; she surfaces. When she stops for

a breather, he nuzzles up to her and tugs gently on the edge of her

fin, coaxing her back under the water for another joyful spin.

Back on the beach, hours later, we recount our adventure over

shrimp-stuffed peppers topped with avocado slices. “Did you see

him nibble on my wetsuit?” Katherine asks, her smile bigger than

I’ve seen all week. “He had a crush on you, KT,” Alan says, calling

her by her familial nickname. She’s finally let her guard down, and

she’s euphoric. And while her enthusiasm is infectious, my own

quiet happiness is not a perfect mirror of hers. Nor should, or even

could, it be, I realize. I’m content knowing we’ve each found our

places here, and discovered something about one another along

the way. —Steele Thomas Marcoux

3 MORE WILD TRIPS

Triggerfish

ceviche with

fresh avocado

The softest

of landings at

Camp Cecil

44 COASTAL LIVING November 2017

THE NORMANDY COAST, FRANCE

BRINGING A BROTHER

TO A SACRED FAMILY PLACETHE FORECAST PREDICTS RAIN. Misty, windswept days that

will hover in the high 50s, maybe stretch into the 60s before the

sun dips back into the North Atlantic. It doesn’t surprise me—the

northwest coast of France being more fickle London than tipsy

Riviera in mid-spring. I remind my brother, Patrick, to pack layers

and an umbrella. Now he is no more going to bring an umbrella

than I’m going to bring a bikini, but he’s the youngest behind four

sisters (I am the second), so I have to say it, and he has to hear it.

But even if my weather app had gotten the Normandy temps

right, I’m not sure that I would have packed any differently.

The landing beaches in my mind are gray and sober, a coastline

that holds its history like a cloud that never really bursts. We

are here to trace our family’s footsteps.

Our grandmother Josephine grew up in a steel town in upstate

New York, down the street from her cousins. Four of them

were boys. The two Irish families interlaced through the 1930s

and ’40s, playing sports together and sharing rides to school.

When the war began, six boys from the two families enlisted

together: all four cousins and two of Josephine’s brothers. Of

her cousins, Preston, Robert, and Fritz Niland went to Europe,

and Edward to the South Pacific. In May of 1944, Edward’s plane

was shot down over Burma, and he was presumed dead. Robert

fell on June 6, D-Day, and Preston was killed the following day.

Fritz dropped in by parachute behind enemy lines, but found

his way back to his unit and was ordered home—a move that

inspired the 1998 film Saving Private Ryan. Edward thankfully

turned up alive after spending a year in a POW camp. Josephine’s

brothers, Joe and Tom, also came home.

This part of our history wasn’t something Patrick and I knew

much about growing up. Perhaps it dimmed in the spotlight of

younger wars—uncles and aunts in Vietnam and Korea, which

folded into Patrick and a handful of our cousins leaving for the

Middle East and Africa. It’s as if our story, like so many others,

kept clicking on to the next frame.

We are here to slow the reel and wind it back a little.

It is close to 70 degrees when we arrive at Utah Beach, and the

ocean is as still as a reflecting pool, a shallow aqua ribbon that

dissolves into a field of sapphire. The horizon is pencil thin. From


GET HEREFly to Charles de

Gaulle Airport in Paris

and rent a car for the

four-hour drive to

the Norman coast.

STAY HEREBegin at Hôtel des

Isles in the tiny,

step-back-in-time

village of Barneville-

Carteret. Located

on the western edge

of the Cotentin

Peninsula, the con-

vivial seaside hotel

is a bit off the well-

worn path of WWII

visitors, but the

rural, 30-mile drive

from the inn to

Utah Beach offers

a glimpse at notable

villages like Sainte-

Mère-Eglise, which

was the first to be

liberated in the

war. Rates start at

$138; hoteldesisles

.com. Closer to

Omaha Beach, make

your base the Hôtel

de la Marine in

Arromanches-les-

Bains. Have dinner

at the inn’s restaurant

along the seawall,

and then head out

to the terrace to

watch sun go down

over the Atlantic.

Rates start at $114;

hotel-de-la-marine.fr.

Hôtel de la Marine,

Arromanches-

les-Bains

Ellen and her

brother,

Patrick

Barneville-Carteret

Ellen at the

Normandy

American

Cemetery

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the dunes, we watch a sulky horse and its driver roll by, dodging

only a tidal creek threading a shallow trench to the sea. They are

the only ones on the sand. Webs of barbed wire still weave through

the sea grass, like craggy metal shadows of the German army.

Inside a concrete-and-glass museum built into the dunes,

Patrick peers into a “Duck” amphibious truck while I huddle

around television monitors. The voices of gritty octogenar-

ian soldiers leap from their speakers: Some recount near-

misses with the enemy with all the wit and color of schoolboys,

while others roll through their accounts, slow and thoughtful.

Each seems to credit his success to the bravery of someone else:

another man, another unit.

I ask Patrick about this later over drinks, my question as basic

as it gets. “I don’t understand bravery,” I say. “What do you tell

yourself?” I’ve always felt the grit in our blood. But true courage—

the kind that shocks the nerves and sends you forward into some-

thing hot—feels like a sleeper in my own DNA.

“That’s what training is for,” he tells me, as if that’s all there is

to it. It’s part of it, I’m sure, but not all of it, and I tell him that, as

if I’m suddenly our new expert on bravery.

The next day, at Omaha Beach, we zigzag down an immense,

grassy hill and wander through bunkers, dank and cloaked in an

inch of muddy water. There’s an enormity to this beach, as if it’s

swelled over time to match its foothold in history. When we reach

the sand, I watch my brother turn and look back up at the hill. The

distance between the bunkers and the shoreline is breathtaking.

The Normandy American Cemetery is on the adjacent bluff,

170 acres gifted by the French to bury our more than 9,000

fallen soldiers. This is American soil. On the northern side are

the Latin crosses marking the graves of Preston and Robert. The

grass has worn thin from visitors, thanks in part to a plaque

hanging inside the memorial in tribute. Here, facing this pair of

crosses, is where I feel the famed story of our ancestors falling

away, and I see something different: just a pair of brothers, young

and funny and Irish.

I can’t tell you what Patrick sees. He is a Marine with a Purple

Heart. He doesn’t say much, just quietly cleans the pinecones off

their graves. And as we walk back through the cemetery, he pauses

at crosses that are missing names, where the grass is thick and

healthy and green. I know this is a different place for him than it

is for me, but I’m grateful to walk through it with him.

On the terrace of our hotel that night, we watch the sun sink

into the sea with a group of Brits we met at dinner—they are on-

the-spot likable, their tone as familiar as if we’d caravanned into

this French village together. We tell our stories, the threads that

pulled us all to these beaches. When I mention that Patrick, like

our grandmother’s brothers and cousins, fought overseas, I see

the shift as clearly as if it were a glass of Calvados being passed

around the group: a convivial admiration for the American soldier.

We talk into the evening, and are joined by a pair of Dutchmen,

who scoot their chairs over from a neighboring table. It’s a clear

night out over the north Atlantic, maybe 65 degrees, and I wonder

again what happened with that bleak forecast. Maybe the Riviera

got hit with a cold spell. —Ellen McGauley

Sail into antiquity for 16 days off Malta and Sicily on the

four-masted Sea Cloud with Lindblad Expeditions and

National Geographic. From $19,400; expeditions.com.

Trace Egypt’s ancient stories along the Nile River on

Sanctuary Retreat’s three- and four-night cruises, along

with seven-night bespoke journeys from Aswan to Luxor

(or the other direction) on a luxury sailing boat. From

$870; sanctuaryretreats.com.

Cycle Greece’s mythical island of Crete in Backroads’s

six-day journey among beaches, gorges, and ruins of great

civilizations. From $4,098; backroads.com.

3 MORE HISTORIC JOURNEYS

Omaha Beach

The tribute to the men of

Ellen’s family, in Normandy



MARTINIQUE, FRENCH WEST INDIES

LETTING A SON CRAFT HIS

OWN EXOTIC JOURNEY “TI’ PUNCH?” It’s a sultry evening on Martinique’s Caribbean

coast, our last. My 23-year-old son and I occupy the tiny balcony

of a pink hotel overlooking the sea. We’re using the dusky light to

play gin rummy at a table that barely has room for the discard pile

because of a portable box of booze, a bottle of cane syrup, a stick-

like aerator called a bois lélé, limes, a knife, and two tumblers.

He’s right: My glass is nearly empty. Adrian suspends his play

to mix me another round of the drink that has symbolized—and

fueled—our four days on this small island in the French West

Indies. But he’s doing more than making sure his mother’s drink

is freshened. Adrian has created this scene as part of a journey

that was his alone to envision. And that’s a change: As a single

mother, I’d always worked hard to create trips that honored his

boyish interests: fishing Canada’s boundary waters, skateboarding

California’s back roads, lingering over exotic cars in Florida. I was

the family’s vacation guru, but the problem is, we mothers often

just keep thinking we know what’s best for our kids, long after

they’re adults. Maybe it was finally time to ask instead of assume.

So a few months ago, I’d texted him: If you were in charge of our

next trip, where would it be?

Two words, he’d texted back. Rhum agricole.

I knew what those words meant, and where they pointed. On a

trip to Martinique with college friends the previous year, Adrian

had marshaled a field trip to Habitation Clément, home to a his-

toric distillery and the fragrant, bright liquor known as rhum

agricole. He’d loved it and had spent his scant budget on a few

bottles to bring home. At his graduation, he’d given one to me.

This was no ordinary spirit. While most of the world’s rum is

distilled from molasses, rhum agricole is distilled from fresh

sugarcane juice in a field-to-still dash that takes barely 36 hours.

This ties the distiller closely to the fields, and in that tight knot

resides the beauty of rhum agricole: terroir. Every sip (particularly

of rhum agricole blanc, the base of the island’s beloved Ti’ Punch)

summons a patch of bristling, green sugarcane. Not only did my

son want to show me Martinique, but also how it tasted.

So we put rhum at the center of our journey, making a circuit

that hit five of the island’s eight active distilleries in four days.

Starting with Habitation Clément on the Atlantic coast, we

Plantation vistas

at Le Domaine

Saint Aubin

Palms,

sugarcane,

and bananas

Tracey and her

son, Adrian

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GET HEREConnect to Martinique

Aimé Césaire

International Airport

in Lamentin from

New York City, Miami,

Fort Lauderdale,

and Providence,

Rhode Island.

STAY HEREAtop a breathtaking

Atlantic peninsula,

Hôtel Plein Soleil is a

sophisticated cluster

of five Créole-style

villas with 16 rooms

and suites (some with

private pools) and a

main house with a

gorgeous restaurant

and bar to match.


hotelpleinsoleil.fr.

Bordering the natural

reserve of the

Caravelle Peninsula

and a short walk from

the beaches of

Tartane, Hôtel French

Coco has comple-

mented its 17 serenely

contemporary suites

(many with private

pools) with lush

botanical gardens

and a splendid

restaurant. Rates

start at $400;

hotelfrenchcoco.com.

On a spectacular

former plantation

overlooking the

Atlantic, Le Domaine

Saint Aubin’s 30

rooms are situated

among its 19th-

century Créole manor

house, as well as in

villas and cottages.


domaine-saint-aubin

.com. Hôtel Villa

Saint-Pierre’s seven

charming rooms are

steps from the

Caribbean and in

the midst of the

fascinating colonial

ambience of

Saint-Pierre. Rates

start at $130;

hotel-villastpierre.fr.

Caribbean

colors

Petit déjeuner

at Hôtel

French Coco

Vintage ad at

Plantations

Saint James

Hôtel Plein

Soleil

Storehouse

at Habitation

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I learned he was quiet in the mornings not out of unease, but

by nature. And that the sight of local families taking their ease

on a Sunday, in the shady fringe of a beach, made him deeply

happy. While my son was showing me Martinique, in other words,

Martinique was showing me my son.

And so, on this last night, I feel the lesson coming to a close.

Adrian carves a wedge of lime and plunks it into my glass. He

pours a careful cascade of syrup followed by a splash of agricole

blanc. He takes our lélé—with its spidery splay of four legs at

its end—and rubs it back and forth between his palms, agitating

the spirits like a pro.

He makes a matching punch for himself, we clink tumblers, and

get back to playing cards. I break the game with a question.

“Ade,” I say. “Where should we go next?”

Another agricole island? Gaudeloupe? Réunion? But then I

realize I’m doing it again. I need to sit back and wait.

He draws a card. “I’m thinking,” he says. —Tracey Minkin

pushed north to Rhums Martiniquais Saint James in the seaside

town of Sainte-Marie, and then up to the island’s northernmost

tip. There, in a luxuriant, narrow valley at the foot of volcanic Mt.

Pelée, the crimson buildings of Rhum J.M sit like a child’s blocks

scattered in high grass. From there the journey took us south

and west to the Caribbean coast, where we gaped at the elegant

Distillerie Depaz plantation. We ended our odyssey in the warm

hospitality of tiny, family-owned Distillerie Neisson.

Our days were simple. To beat the heat, we rose early for coffee

and croissants—gifts bestowed by Martinique’s status as an over-

seas region of France. Then we hit the narrow, winding road,

navigating past vast fields of sugarcane and bananas, climbing

steep ridges, and descending to pastel towns along black sands.

Abandoning Martinique’s fickle GPS signals for the naive prom-

ise of a brochure map, we got frequently lost, but always eventu-

ally found. At each distillery, we spent hours peering at massive

machinery both antique and modern, getting schooled in the

complexity of turning sugarcane to spirit. We inhaled the heady

hit of evaporated rhum agricole hanging in the storehouse air.

And we tasted everything each indulgent staffer poured for us.

Like pilgrims, we slept in a different place every night—four

beautiful hotels in as many days. Architecturally inspired, we

discussed the history these buildings evoked—from the island’s

colonial past of slavery and cultivation, through its emergence as

a diverse and cultured outpost. We talked work and politics, music

and movies—roaming the conversational alleyways opened up by

time and travel. And we played cards.

And while our raison de voyager was seeing Martinique, I found

myself seeing my son in new ways: spending more time in a sculp-

ture garden than in the ocean, reasoning out the flow through an

antique distillation column, laying out for me the reggae diaspora.

Zicasso’s Wine and Tango Tour of Santiago and

Buenos Aires promises eight days of delicious romance

in Chile and Argentina. From $300 per person per day

(inquire for a custom quote); zicasso.com.

Paladar y Tomar leads deeply immersive luxury food-

and-wine-focused tours in Spain, Portugal, and Morocco,

including itineraries with celebrated chefs Katie Button

and Félix Meana. Prices vary based on itinerary; paladar

ytomar.com.

Chef Ana Garcia’s La Villa Bonita offers culinary-focused

weeks in Mexico, including one based at a sumptuous

villa on the trendy Oaxacan coast. From $2,600 per per-

son (double occupancy); lavillabonita.com.

3 MORE TASTY ESCAPES

Le Domaine

Saint Aubin

Spoils from

Rhum J.M NAVIGATOR | THE GUIDE

DESTINATION INSPIRATION Discover 11 more

bucket-list adventures at coastalliving.com/vacations

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PAGE 52 NAVIGATOR - Amazon S3 · 2018-08-26 · When the war began, six boys from the two families enlisted together: all four cousins and two of Josephine s brothers. Of her cousins,