I Got 99 Problems But A Beach Ain’t One

I think my love for beaches was originally fueled by my hatred for wearing shoes. Footwear is a form of slavery, if you ask me.

So imagine my glee when I arrived at Soneva Fushi, a private island in the Maldives with a “no shoes” policy. They actually took my sandals from me, put them in a lovely burlap bag, and I wasn’t to see them until I left. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life than I was on that little piece of paradise.

I like beaches I can walk for hours, if not days—one of my favourite trips involves walking from hotel to hotel along the deserted beaches of Bahia while your bags are transported by dune buggy.

I like beaches where I can walk out for a kilometre without the water climbing past my knees—off the coast of Tanzania the shifting tides create virgin sand bars that appear and disappear within hours.

I like beaches with a steep shelf, that invite curling waves perfect for surf—Nosara, Costa Rica and Playa Escondido, Mexico are both playgrounds I hope to visit regularly for years to come. I like beaches that give way to a thousand colourful fish, like the ones in Northern Mozambique’s Quirimbas Archipelago.

I like beaches backed by dunes (Lamu, Kenya) or hammocks (Tulum, Mexico) or cliffs (Varkala, India).

Whatever your reasons and tastes, I’m sure you’ll agree there’s nothing like a beach, especially when the icy tentacles of February take hold.

When Greg isn’t planning safaris in Africa, you can find him ankle deep in exotic sand (it’s posed many problems for our office cleaning staff).