1985 - Sayulita Memories - Evelyne Boren

In the early 1970s the Pacific coast north of Puerto Vallarta still felt like the edge of the known world. The highway ended, the pavement disappeared, and the rest of the journey followed a narrow dirt road that wound through jungle and hills alive with birdsong.

We were visiting friends who insisted we come see a tiny fishing village they had fallen in love with—Sayulita. I remember wondering how special such a small place could really be.

But the moment we arrived, I understood.

The village seemed to open gently toward the sea. A few simple houses stood beneath tall coconut palms, their roofs catching the afternoon light. Fishing boats rested on the sand, painted in bright blues and reds that had softened under years of sun and salt. The air smelled of the ocean and wood smoke, and somewhere nearby a radio played soft ranchera music.

Life there moved at a different rhythm.

In the mornings fishermen pushed their boats into the surf while pelicans glided low over the water. Women swept the sandy streets and patted tortillas by hand in open kitchens. Children ran freely, barefoot and laughing, chasing each other between the palms.

There were no crowds then. No boutiques or yoga retreats, no long lines of visitors with cameras. Sayulita was simply a village living quietly beside the Pacific.

In the evening the whole horizon would turn gold. We would walk along the beach as the sun slowly lowered itself into the ocean, painting the sky in impossible colors—amber, rose, and violet. The waves rolled in with a steady breath, as if the sea itself were alive.

I remember thinking that places like this were becoming rare in the world.

For a moment it felt as though we had stepped into a simpler time, where life was measured not by clocks but by tides, sunsets, and the return of the fishing boats.

And somehow, without quite realizing it, I began to feel that this small village might one day become part of our own story.