One-Thousand-Steps Beach October 9
Mitchell Trace would make for a good stage name, but it also happens to be the nondescript dirt lane that appears out of nowhere and marks the trailhead to our destination. The maps say this beach is called One-Hundred Steps, although locals dispute whether it is 100 or 1000 stone stairs to the bottom. No matter, there are clearly not enough of them, as the steepest parts of this jungle descent have none at all—just woody roots, a fraying knotted rope, and mud-slicked shale. Shoes are recommended for the scramble, with moderate exposure.
Our first attempt to drive the coastal hill from Maracas was aborted by flash floods across the narrow, twisting North Coast Road. This road can be closed for days at a time when parts gives way under landslides during the rainy season. Today the road holds, although it is strewn with muddy gravel and fallen branches, which leaves us well primed to negotiate the slippery foot trek down the slope to the Caribbean Sea.
The pebble beach sits in a small cove of wild beauty. Beyond its head, and inaccessible, a natural arch is scooped out of the grey carboniferous rock. Shallow caves and low alcoves offer some shelter beneath giant almond trees. In the steady rain, there is not a soul here. The surf is not especially rough, but the cobbles and coarse sand of the seafloor drops away quickly, and the southern current is swift. Sharks are often seen here, which is all I need to know.
As if chased by a marine predator, I hastily climb a headland path through the bitter almond and manchineel trees, the latter of which rivals poison oak for its blistering secretions. Its small upward-pointing leaves glisten with venom, and even dripping raindrops can produce a rash. Merely brushing against a crumbling wall raises painful red bumps on my forearm, like mountain thistle—an instantaneous allergic reaction to which I apply a whimper and elixir of rationed drinking water. Invisible parrots high above in the canopy squawk in ridicule at my pointless predicament. Black-headed Corbeaux Vultures dance about my only escape route in grim anticipation. I am sweating like a manchineel.
Consumed by sharks, we drive over to where the beasts themselves are consumed, in nearby Maracas, the biggest little village on the Northeast Coast, where beach joints are promoting their regional specialty: Shark ’N Bake. Uncle Sam & Sons smells the fried-fishiest, so we grab a plastic table under the tarp. The Bake is a bloated, tortilla-size ball of dough that can be filled with chopped cabbage, cucumber slices, garlic, sticky tamarind, green goop called Shadow Beni (cilantro, water, and vinegar), and, of course, fried cartilaginous fish. I am still afraid of the shark and instead order Aloa Pie, which is an oblong roll of fried dough filled with potato, creamy cheese, and the full condiment assortment.
Lush hillsides bordering the village generate their own clouds, appearing like cotton balls pasted to the saturated air. Then the sky partly clears. The sunny sea at Las Cuevas Beach is suddenly as green as the eyes of the Queen of Argyle. The sand, fine and mocha-brown, serves as pitch for football and cricket played with a bamboo bat and an avocado pit, making baseball seem not quite so silly. Parrots shout from the high canopy. A few dozen fishing skiffs are anchored beyond the breakers, while the gentle surf and extended shallows draw generations of families. It is not hard to imagine that many kids learned how to swim in the ocean right here off this enchanted beach. Nooks and crannies and archways in the weathered cliff add to the childlike whimsey. Despite the recreating crowd, there are plenty of good places to hide.
But not from the sharks of Maracas. Days after our visit, assassins come ashore in small boats and kill a drug lord, his family, and two uniformed cops.