“Back,” he says.
I start to say that I had already figured that much out. We are on a secluded beach, in a remote part of Mexico that I can’t pronounce and couldn’t ever find again. After deciding to skip the wedding drama and elope, we’d left LA in one of Damien’s private jets. We’d left it at a fair-sized airport with Damien’s regular pilot, Grayson, who I presume has taken it back to the States. Damien and I had been chauffeured across the airport in a Jeep, then boarded a small, single-engine prop plane with only two seats and a tiny cargo area. Damien himself had taken us the rest of the way.
Damien explained the switch in aircraft by telling me that the runway where we were going couldn’t accommodate a jet. As it turns out, “runway” was a bit of an exaggeration. The landing strip was little more than a length of packed dirt. I’d been terrified that I would die before we arrived and could take our vows. Damien had been exhilarated.
And while I might have preferred a plane with more than one engine and some asphalt to land on, I wouldn’t have traded the look on Damien’s face for anything. Not the joy I saw as he maneuvered the craft, nor the pride and expectation when we deplaned, climbed into a waiting Jeep, and drove the short distance to the remote—and utterly spectacular—resort.
The property is small, with fewer than ten guests at any time. It caters exclusively to couples looking for a romantic retreat, and from what I’ve seen so far, the owners know their business well. For although our personal concierge told me that the resort is fully booked, neither Damien nor I have seen any sign of the other four couples. Instead, it is as if we are alone on this remote stretch of beach—or as alone as one can be with a staff that caters to your every whim.
I’d seen a map of the property upon arrival last night, and the overall area of the resort resembles a hand. It is set on a remote section of beachfront with five peninsulas that protrude like fingers. Each bungalow occupies its own peninsula, giving it both privacy and a stunning ocean view from three sides.
Though we’d arrived after dark, I’d been impressed from the first moment I saw the resort. But when I stepped into our bungalow and saw the three-sided ocean view revealed by walls and walls of glass, my breath caught in my throat. It was like standing on the deck of a boat with miles of pitch-black ocean stretching toward forever, broken only by the moonlight dancing on the curl of the waves.
Our bungalow is the farthest from the main building, which houses the staff offices, a spa, and a restaurant that rarely has patrons but does a huge business in room service. Even without the breathtaking view, the bungalow is stunning. It features a luxurious bedroom dominated by a huge bed covered in bright pillows of pink and turquoise. A remote control operates a set of blackout blinds that drop the room into complete darkness. Since I see no reason to block the view at night or during the day, I don’t expect that Damien or I will make much use of that technology.
As for the rest of the place, there is a fully stocked, state-of-the-art kitchen, a living room that features an indoor-outdoor fireplace, and a covered patio with a huge two-person lounge chair from which to enjoy both the view and the ocean breeze.
“Do you own this?” I’d asked Damien after we’d arrived and I’d had time to catch my breath. He’d smiled, but then surprised me by shaking his head.
“I almost bought it years ago when it was stumbling,” he said. “I ended up giving the owners a loan to help them get past a hump, do some upgrades, and rebrand the place as an exclusive—and very upscale—getaway destination.”