Less than an hour after our flight landed in Cancun, a welcome margarita worked so well that my husband, Walter, promptly fell asleep and drooled into the cushion of his lounge chair. We were spending five nights at Maroma Resort and Spa, a five-star slice of jungle and undeveloped beach on Mexico's Riviera Maya. I burrowed my feet into the floury sand and stared at the lapis waves curling toward the shore. The scene was breathtaking, but the conked-out husband wasn't what I had in mind when I booked this trip.

It was my idea to take a beach vacation. Walter agreed only because we were celebrating my 40th birthday. He hates the heat and in late May -- when the rates were at their lowest -- the coast along the Yucatan Peninsula sweltered.

Maroma was the first luxury resort to be built in the area and now that the coast is bursting with gaudier copycats, it stands out for its restraint. The hotel has stuck to what it does best, which is provide sanctuary. There is no golf course or equestrian center or pillow menu. Children under 16 are not allowed, which was fine with us; part of the reason we were on this trip was because we had a bunch of them at home. Guest rooms have no TVs, although the accommodating staff is always happy to wheel one in along with a selection of DVDs.

The resort clearly has its own ideas about what you should be doing in this kid- and media-free paradise. On our first night, our bedspread was decorated with rose and tulip blossoms arranged to create an enormous heart. Were we supposed to get so caught up in the moment that we'd ruin the staff's careful work?

For most of the five days, we lazed under our oceanside palapa and left the shade only to float across the waves. We read, drank cocktails with lunch and napped until our stress seemed to slide away with the tide. We strolled the grounds, where Yucatan parrots and summer tanagers cawed and chirped from flowering trees. At every turn, couples were loving each other up. The husband of the Italian couple in the palapa next to us couldn't stop rubbing tanning oil on his pregnant wife's belly. Further down the beach, another duo held hands during a his and hers massage under a tent with white curtains that billowed in the breeze.

Maroma worked its spell on us, too, when Walter reluctantly agreed to join me in a spa treatment called a Temazcal. Described as a Mayan version of an American Indian sweatlodge, the experience combines satanic levels of heat with a guided group ritual. Six of us chanted, smeared ourselves with fruit and mud and struggled to not pass out from the stabs of heat blasting from the pile of volcanic rocks.

When the guide instructed us to look at the rocks to find our totem animal, I winced. Not only was the Temazcal physically grueling, but it felt to me like an opportunistic ripoff of a sacred tradition. I thought about bolting, sure my usually cynical husband would follow, but it was pitch black inside and I realized I wouldn't know how to get out.

So I looked into the rocks. A pattern slowly emerged. Was it a horse? A turtle? I wasn't sure, but I knew the guide would ask me so I decided to go with the horse.

Suddenly, Walter's voice broke through the blackness.

"I see a wolf," he said. His voice betrayed not a hint of hesitation or snickering.

The sun was setting over the ocean when we were sent running out from the inferno. Walter dove through the waves and emerged smiling. His face was still smeared with mud. Strings of mango stuck to his hair.

I'm sure Maroma wouldn't use the sight of Walter and me kissing in their promotional materials. But what could be more romantic than seeing my husband of many years in a new light?

Elizabeth Larsen • 612-673-7110