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No. 93: Wild Beaches

I am a huge fan of wild beaches. When Superman and I lived in Washington, D.C. our favorite weekend getaway was backpacking and camping at Chincoteague Island in Virginia with the wild horses. We were both happily reminded of that wonderful beach when we took a wrong turn the other day in Martinique and ended up at Macabou.

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The translation for wild beaches in French is plages sauvages—savage beaches—which in my mind captures this beach exactly.

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As I am currently addicted to the American television series LOST (yes, a decade after everyone else was), stepping onto the beach at Macabou was like stepping into the world of Jack Shepard and the evil Benjamin Linus. There was even the cliff where Hurley attempted suicide.

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The waves were vicious, the wind was roaring, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The shore covered mostly with dry plants washed in with the tide, we had to hike in about 15 minutes to find a tiny bit of sand among the fierce vegetation.

Completely alone, it was as if no one else existed. Beautiful. Undisturbed. A small slice of heaven on Earth.

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