An imaginary line runs twenty-three thousand miles around the Earth, connecting Hanalei and Havana, Mandalay and Medina. From our hilltop casita above the Pacific, we imagined seeing its long arc spanning from tiny Todos Santos below us to the Sierra de la Laguna mountains miles away.
We rarely return. There are too many beautiful places in the world to see any twice. This was a rare exception. Six stories above an estuary and an ocean, sit the Villas La Mar—a dozen casitas stacked on a mountain face, each with a clear view of the endless Pacific. Nothing built on the coastline for miles—just fishing boats and gray whales making their steady sojourns against the slow clock of a setting sun.
Driving north from the edge of Todos Santos, we trade cracked asphalt and taco shacks for long dusty stretches of washboard roads. Twenty minutes later, we cross a fence line, make a turn and discover an oasis: the Green Room, a small resort with exceptional cocktails and cuisine.
Driving south the next day, it's the same story: a meandering mile off of Hwy 1 is El Faro (the lighthouse). With a handful of quiet cabanas and an attentive staff delivering ceviches and guac to our floating daybed, it's paradise off the beaten path.
The sun is strong here—an endless summer in March. Beaming atomic energy drenches the towering cacti that surround us, the grove of green palms swaying in the valley below, and the parched roads, steamy with dust.
They say only one in a thousand Leatherbacks is fortunate enough to survive to adulthood, so we felt lucky to witness their release. Dozens of tiny aliens flapping blackly down the beach to face Titanic waves and relentless predators, as two hundred humans cheered and hoped and prayed.
A silver moon sheds her shimmery robe on the shore, revealing reds and orange as she wades into an endless black sea. A thousand stars flicker and pulse, transmitting timeless secrets from hundreds of years ago. Betelguise burns brightly. The Seven Sisters dance for the naked eye.
Crashing with hypnotic arrhythmia, wide waves rolling for thousands of miles suddenly lurch up then splatter on the beach. New sounds take the stage, joining Neptune's boisterous timekeeper: crickets, coyotes, the collecting of dishes as a dinner party winds down. A mile upshore, ATVs race among the dunes.
For a moment, it's quiet.
After the tourists retreat to Cabo and the blue skies fade to black, Todos Santos dresses for the evening. Rustic wooden doors shuttered all day are swung open to reveal breezy courtyards and lush lounges, restaurants come to life, art galleries buzzing.
Not a cloud in six days. For this desert by the sea, the rain never comes. And yet, water is abundant: an ocean and an aquifer provide a bounty of fresh fish, fruits and vegetables for the inhabitants of this magical oasis.
Staying hydrated in a desert by the sea
Designated a Pueblo Mágico by the Mexican government, Todos Santos is among 121 “magical” towns noted for their beauty, historical importance, or natural wonders.
Todos Santos was founded in 1723 by a Jesuit priest as a retreat for missionaries. A century later, sugar had become a booming industry, with eight mills operating at the end of the 19th century. By the time the town's freshwater spring dried up in 1950, the industry had contracted to just one mill, which closed in 1965.
Today, with a population under 7,000, Todos Santos has become a thriving creative community with dozens of galleries, artists, and musicians. In 2008, R.E.M. guitarist Peter Buck made this his home.
On a planet that gets smaller and more connected every day, Baja is still an undiscovered country.
Flying north in Google Maps, tiny towns dot the coast sporadically from Cabo to Tijuana. My mouse traces thin roads like ant trails. Expecting a steady string of settlements, I find instead an estuary. A mountain. An abandoned fishing village.
Dalíesque swirls of oily greys and dusky browns describe a desolate land. Zooming in where the sea meets the sand, empty shores are all that stand. Beaches as majestic as Malibu for thousands of miles...without the hint of man.
© 2026 Jamie Martin