Insulated From the World

I left for the coast with the deliberate intention of thinking about nothing.

For six months, I had been living inside spreadsheets, conference calls, and the ambient anxiety of markets that refused to behave. My mind had become a clenched fist. I needed sun, salt air, and the mental equivalent of white noise. The resort promised exactly that—an insulated enclave on a turquoise edge of a warm sea. The brochures used the word “sanctuary.” Friends preferred “completely safe.” The website assured visitors that the property was buffered from the “regional complexities” affecting other parts of the country.

Regional complexities. I admired the phrasing. It turned violence into weather.

When I arrived, everything seemed choreographed for tranquility. The lobby smelled faintly of citrus and polished wood. A trio played light jazz near the infinity pool. The ocean lay beyond like a screensaver—perfect, repetitive, unreal. At check-in, the receptionist smiled with a steadiness that felt practiced rather than spontaneous.

“You’ll find it very peaceful here,” she said.

It sounded less like a description and more like a request.

On the second day, I noticed the helicopters.

They were not close enough to disturb the beachgoers, but they were close enough to register. They moved in disciplined arcs inland, beyond the mangroves and the highway. No one mentioned them. A waiter refilled my glass of mineral water and asked if I preferred lime or lemon.

“Is there something happening?” I asked casually, nodding toward the sky.

“Just routine security operations,” he replied. “The government is keeping everything very stable.”

Stable was another word that did too much work.

That evening, despite my vow to disconnect, I glanced at the news on my phone. A coordinated crackdown, it said. Several high-ranking criminal figures had been captured. Others had been killed. The language was triumphal; the images were unfinished, as if the story itself hadn’t decided what it meant.

The next morning, the beach was more crowded than before. Families staked out territory with towels and sunscreen. Children built elaborate sand fortresses. The resort staff moved with heightened attentiveness, as though politeness were a structural beam holding up the entire property.

I began to see it in their faces: a thin sheen of anticipation. Not fear exactly—more like the expression one wears while waiting for a delayed flight, uncertain whether to sit down or brace for boarding.

At lunch, two couples at the next table discussed snorkeling excursions.

“Everything’s perfectly fine here,” one of the men said, unprompted. “The issues are far from the tourist zones.”

His wife nodded vigorously. “They wouldn’t keep the resort open if it weren’t safe.”

No one had suggested otherwise.

That afternoon, I walked beyond the manicured perimeter to a stretch of public beach. The sand was the same color; the sea followed the same script. But the lifeguard tower was empty, and a police truck idled near the dunes. Two officers stood beside it, scanning nothing in particular.

When I returned, security had added a second checkpoint at the entrance. It was subtle—an extra table, another uniform, a dog that looked more ornamental than alert. Guests breezed through without comment. One man joked about feeling “like a celebrity.”

Normalcy was being maintained through consensus. We agreed not to ask what required so much maintenance.

On the fourth night, the electricity flickered during dinner service. The chandeliers dimmed, recovered, and dimmed again. The pianist did not stop playing. Conversations continued at the same volume, but slower, as if sound itself had thickened.

From somewhere inland came a sharp, concussive pop. Not loud enough to confirm itself as anything in particular.

“Fireworks,” someone said behind me.

“There’s no festival tonight,” another voice replied, then added quickly, “But they love fireworks here.”

The staff’s smiles tightened fractionally. Plates were cleared with unusual efficiency. A manager circulated, thanking everyone for their patience.

“Is something going on?” I asked him.

“Nothing that concerns our guests,” he said. “We are fully insulated.”

The word again. Insulated—from what? Heat? Sound? Consequence?

The helicopters returned after midnight. This time, they hovered longer. From my balcony, I could see faint pulses of light far beyond the highway. My phone buzzed with notifications I had promised myself I would not read. I turned it face down and listened instead to the ocean, which continued its indifferent rhythm.

The following morning, half the staff had been replaced.

Different faces at the breakfast buffet. Different bartenders at the swim-up bar. When I asked where the young waiter with the lime-or-lemon question had gone, the hostess smiled.

“Staff rotations,” she said. “We like to keep things fresh.”

Freshness, too, can be a disguise.

Guests began checking out early, citing vague scheduling conflicts. New guests arrived in equal numbers, wheeling identical suitcases across the marble floors. The pool games continued. The trio played jazz standards. The dog at the security table lay perfectly still.

On my final evening, the sky turned an improbable shade of violet. The resort hosted a beachside dinner under lanterns. The general manager delivered a short speech about resilience and partnership with local authorities. He never used the words arrest, killing, or cartel.

A final helicopter passed overhead during dessert. This time, no one looked up.

We had adapted. The gap between what was happening and what was being said had become part of the architecture, like hidden plumbing beneath our feet.

Later that night, I packed in silence. I realized that I had not decompressed at all. My mind was sharper than when I arrived, attuned to micro-expressions and euphemisms. I had come to avoid strain; instead, I had been studying denial as a living system.

At dawn, I checked out. The lobby was immaculate. The receptionist—new, I was certain—handed me my receipt.

“Did you enjoy your peaceful stay?” she asked.

I hesitated. Through the glass doors behind her, I could see smoke rising in a thin column far beyond the resort’s boundary. No one in the lobby seemed to notice.

“Yes,” I said finally. “Very peaceful.”

She nodded, relieved.

As my car pulled away, I glanced back at the property—white walls, swaying palms, the sea gleaming like a promise kept. For a moment, I wondered whether the unrest had ever been real, or whether it had been another layer of performance, a narrative we all rehearsed to make our calm feel earned.

My phone buzzed again. I looked down.

There were no headlines. No alerts. No signal at all.

When I looked up, I saw the road had split. The driver picked a way without asking me, and the resort was no longer in sight.