Topless in Tulum

At dinner I hear the sad tale of Veronica, who was awakened at 11:30 one night and told she had to switch rooms: A pair of guests, whose reservations had been lost by the hotel, had just arrived. I also meet Debbie, who is leaving four days early. She has a modest but cute palapa with a big window from which you can spy a speck of beach, but she says, "I thought sharing a bathroom meant next to the room, not across the resort." On the other hand, Amy, who was also advised she'd be sharing a bath, has bagged a room with a private bath. I retreat to my room and talk myself down off the ledge by remembering the amazing vacations that began nightmarishly. (And it works: The next day, Melissa offers me Debbie's palapa. It's tiny, but it's all mine, and that night my new kicked-back life kicks in: For the first time in ages, I sleep through the night.)

That first evening, we sit in a circle by candlelight in the thatch-roof yoga hut and introduce ourselves. There are 22 of us, all women except Greg. It's a lean crowd, yet most say they've come to jump-start a fitness plan. Nobody mentions losing weight. The most memorable line is delivered by Melissa, who says, "We're not the Four Seasons," as a way of encouraging us to roll with the punches if the power goes out or the food, based on what's available locally, isn't what we want. "We're going to push you to the edge of your comfort zone because that's when you grow." (Given my room, I'm already there, I think.)

The next morning, I'm awake before daybreak, so I throw a fleece over my nightgown and go down to the beach to watch the sunrise. One of the resort's three lovable Mexican mutts comes and lays her muzzle in my lap. A brisk offshore breeze is keeping the mosquitoes at bay, and as I watch the dawn paint a vivid pink band above the horizon and below a brilliant white crescent moon, my spirits brighten, too.

In truth, the setting is bewitching, a Gilligan's Island clutch of half-timbered, thatch-roof palapas framing a palm-shaded courtyard. Strung with hammocks and dotted with comfy low-slung wooden beach chairs, the courtyard is a refuge from the rooms: Everyone brings a book, falls into conversation, and never reads a page. The massage huts are on the beach, and wave-whoosh is the rubdown soundtrack. At night, oil torches on stakes and chunky candles light the way to the rooms.

Our days quickly settle into a pleasant routine: yoga on the beach, then a breakfast of fresh fruit, yogurt, amaranth, and eggs. (The food at all three meals is delicious--so good that I don't mind the menu's repetitiveness.) A fitness class or an excursion fills in the morning, while the afternoon is largely free for massages, journal writing, or basking in the sun. There's a yoga, Pilates, or belly dancing class before dinner and sometimes a tribal drumming one after, taught by Melissa's brother.

Three treatments are included in the weekly rate: two massages, plus the group Mayan mud ritual on the last day (more on that later). About the half-dozen massage therapists, I hear nothing but praise. I have a competent rubdown from an Israeli who lives in a tent ten minutes down the beach. Another day, Chandree, a reiki practitioner, chants and hums her way through an excellent treatment. Later, she tracks me down to recommend some stretches for a mobility limitation she detected in my shoulder. I also book a facial, administered by one of the fitness instructors, who grew up in Sweden giving and receiving facials regularly. It's mild (no extractions) and pleasant.

In the first morning yoga class, Erika sets the tone for the week. When she can't keep her tank top rolled up to demonstrate a pranayama (breathing) technique, she simply peels it off. Easy for her: She's 27 and a dead ringer for Katharine Ross in The Graduate. But a couple of hours later, when I wander back down to the beach, I find that half our group has followed suit, their pasty-white breasts lined up like so many fried eggs on a short-order grill. At 53, I am way past the sell-by date for this, but infected by the camaraderie and finding comfort in the seclusion of our beach, I mutter, "No fool like an old fool" and shuck off my top, too.

This presents a dilemma for Greg, who wants to be part of the group but doesn't want to intrude on our little show. However, when he sees how casual we all are about being topless, he joins us. (This is the only thing about Bikini Boot Camp that will make my husband ready to enlist.)

As the week winds on, our real goals begin to emerge. One woman has just quit smoking and hopes this week away will help make it stick, while another is going cold turkey on sleeping pills. One is contemplating ending her marriage; another's divorce became final a month ago. There's surprisingly little talk of husbands or kids; this week is ours, and we revel in it. Among the beach reading, I spot His Needs, Her Needs: Building an Affair-Proof Marriage and He's Not That into You. Despite all the baggage, this is an extraordinary group of women, every last one articulate and interesting. There is no bad seat at dinner.

On Wednesday at lunch, Melissa comes up to Amy and says brightly, "This is your room change day." An arriving couple has taken over one of the oceanfront rooms, setting off a domino effect that sends Janelle into Amy's room, Amy into a tiny concrete single where Melissa's brother usually lives, and Melissa's brother into who knows where. Amy's new digs are nearly windowless and right by the parking lot. Dumbfounded, she doesn't even put up a fight. (According to Melissa, Amansala has since streamlined its reservations process so this "almost never" happens.)

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