By Mark Jolly

updated 2:55 p.m. ET April 14, 2008

By the time I drive into Mazunte, it's nearing the golden hour, and the late-afternoon wash of light beckons me to the sea. For three days now I've been scuttling from one location to the next, exploring the Oaxacan coast and pondering how I will ever, seriously, be able to brave the waters of this perilous part of the Pacific — which impishly touts itself as the Costa Chica, the Little Coast. I throw my knapsack into a beach shack and wander down to the waves.

In truth, the shores of this tiny village have been fine for swimming during the past few months. Only now, as the season slips into the stormy months of fall, has the ocean started to stir again. But at least, I realize as I get tossed about in the surf, there's not a single tourist anywhere along the mile-long bay; just a few fearless Mexican kids (who cast themselves into the swell as if it were their own private wading pool), some fishermen fixing their skiffs, and — wait, what's this?

I glance back at the beach and see that a dozen people have suddenly collected, jostling, pointing. The waves drown out their words, but I can tell there's excitement in the air. With great effort I paddle back to land and find, between them and me, a large turtle waddling along the sand. The crowd, now double in size, moves to let the visitor find space, and peace, to lay her eggs. They know the routine. Yet still more staring and pointing, more waiting and wonder. By the time I'm all dripped dry, the turtle has had enough and, without laying her eggs, has stolen away into the sea. The commotion, it seems, was too much for her.

Let's hope she can get used to it: Word is slowly starting to spread about the lesser-known Pacific Mexico. For years, the 70-mile coastal strip of central Oaxaca — the nexus of the Costa Chica — has been in the shadow of its flashier, noisier neighbors to the north: Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, and even small-town Zihuatanejo. Beyond the loyal coterie of international surfers and middle-class Mexicans, this seaside stretch between Puerto Escondido and Huatulco is still unknown — despite its spectacular string of beaches and its rich biodiversity (more olive ridley turtles hatch here than anywhere else on earth). I have come looking for a blissed-out Mexican beach dream, and — owing to a confluence of socio-geographical seclusion, government mismanagement, and singular surf breaks — it just may exist.

Or, rather, they may exist. Along with a burgeoning number of the cognoscenti, I am drawn to a handful of coastal towns, each an expression of someone's idea of unspoiled Mexico. My personal favorite is Puerto Escondido — a simpatico enclave that's grown beyond its surfer roots, with no big-brand hotels and no town planning, into one of Mexico's most naturally winsome beach towns. Then, a two-hour drive southeast, is Huatulco, a sprawling resort zone without the crowds. And last, midway between the two — lining the coastal dip in the map that's known as "the belly of the whale" — is a clutch of isolated villages anchored by the boho-chic communities of Mazunte and San Agustinillo (think yoga retreats, turtle tourism and secluded virgin beaches). Simply put: These are a lot of flavors for a little coast.

To realize the dream of Oaxaca's jeweled shoreline, it's worth exploring the reality of its isolated and embattled land. The coast has stayed anonymous because it's hell to reach: The 180-mile road there from the state capital is an eight-hour white-knuckle ride through jungle and mountain (though a daily flight connects the two in 40 minutes). What's worse, recently there were riots in Oaxaca City. What started as an annual teachers' strike for better wages escalated in the summer of 2006 into barricaded protests against the state governor, Ulises Ruiz (who's been accused of diverting millions of dollars toward suspect "public" projects). The police moved in, the violence turned deadly (claiming the life of an American documentarian), and the world media branded the evocative Mexican city a no-go zone.

Julien Capmeil / CondeNast Trave Browsing in Mazunte.

Oaxaca is still hurting. Since the most recent disturbances, in July 2006, the capital remains a shadow of its former vivacity by day and ghostly quiet by night. The coast, meanwhile, has suffered by association — despite being totally divorced from any of the troubles. "It hit us terribly," says Robin Cleaver, co-owner of Puerto Escondido's most venerated hotel, the Santa Fe. "But the truth is, we've had long cycles of bad luck. Just look at what happened in the '90s." By which he means the Mexican peso crisis of 1994; the Zapatista rebel uprising of the same year, which threw neighboring Chiapas into turmoil, and whose restive image spilled over onto Oaxaca; and 1997's Hurricane Pauline, which slammed dead-on into Puerto Escondido and still ranks among Mexico's deadliest. Add to that the fact that this is the country's second-poorest state (after Chiapas) and you have some idea of why the Costa Chica remains off the radar.

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