While searching for the perfect beach, one traveler finds unexpected pleasures along the way.

By Drew Limsky

At the Tikal ruins in Guatemala, my partner Chris and I hired a driver to take us into Belize. After having crossed the border, we were hot, dirty, and in no mood to look for transportation to our ultimate destination: Placencia, which was reputed to have some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Our driver, Rodrigo, was worried about getting back across the border before it closed at 8 o'clock, but our offer of $100 enticed him to stick with us.

After stopping along the Hummingbird Highway at a fabled swimming hole called the Blue Hole, we made good time working our way down the coast. The nicely paved road turned red and dusty as we looked for signs for the Inn at Robert's Grove, which was due south of Seine Bight, a Garifuna fishing community. Seine Bight was not the charming village the books described, but rather a shantytown with slapdash wooden huts perched precariously on stilts, and children walking around in dirty clothes and peeking out of windows without screens or glass.

"Are you sure this is where you're going?" Rodrigo asked us. "It's just a few miles down the road," I said, not wholly convinced. At one point, he hung a left and stopped at a one-room shack that looked like it was about to tip over. "That's your hotel," he said. He waited a beat, then laughed at his little joke. So did we, nervously.

Back on the road, we saw slivers of ocean fly by between the huts. In Guatemala, we'd swum in beautiful lakes, but to me, a tropical vacation means the beach. I was getting impatient to dive in. Meanwhile, the van's tires were churning up gravel, and Rodrigo seemed fearful for the well-being of his vehicle. But when we pulled into the driveway of Robert's Grove, Rodrigo stopped scowling. There was a delicate wooden archway marking the entrance, a trickling fountain, bougainvillea growing everywhere, and a tennis court visible through the flowers. We got out, unloaded our bags, gave Rodrigo his fare and all the rest of the Guatemalan cash we had left. He smiled broadly and drove away.

The inn's owners, Risa and Robert Frackman, have done everything possible to achieve a sense of luxury on this edge-of-the-world destination. Our room on the second floor was expansive and charming, with a king bed, cathedral ceilings, and—unique for this part of the world—a European-style air conditioning unit with a remote control wand. Our deck had a hammock and an ocean view. One night, Chris and I enjoyed a 360-degree sunset from a rooftop Jacuzzi until a flash storm caused us to make an end-run for the room, but aside from that, the weather was fine—hot and sunny, with tradewinds working their magic at night.

There were two colorfully tiled pools just steps from the sand, which was a good thing, because there was some sea grass in the ocean. The town of Placencia rests at the very tip of the peninsula, so one afternoon Chris and I set out for it. We walked along the beach instead of on the road, because we were also hoping to find clearer water to swim in along the way. We quickly realized that the water in front of our hotel, while not optimal, was the most appealing on this part of the coast.

Brown seaweed was deposited in large clumps all along the shore on the way to town, hardly our beach paradise. Swimming was unthinkable, and my vision of a perfect tropical beach was sinking fast.

We'd walked nearly an hour when we discovered the Turtle Inn, a resort composed of luxurious one-bedroom cottages and two-bedroom villas owned by Francis Ford Coppola. The place seemed more than a little influenced by the setting of Apocalypse Now, with Balinese-style thatched-roof accommodations set on the beach. The staff of Belizean boys were costumed, somewhat jarringly, in bright-blue Balinese garments. We had delicious Italian-style shrimp dishes for lunch and met the manager, who told us that rooms were available.

The town of Placencia was disappointing. We saw meager structures on either side of an unremarkable path, the concrete sidewalk touted by the Guinness Book of World Records as the world's narrowest "street." Some of the buildings included a few inexpensive hotels we had spotted on the Internet and had considered staying at. Needless to say, we were happy with our choice of Robert's Grove.

Belize is one of the world's great diving capitals, so we ventured out on a snorkeling excursion run by the Rum Point Inn, a modest but clean-looking assortment of beach cottages. After a pleasant 45-minute boat ride, we arrived at Laughing Bird Caye, where a friendly and knowledgeable guide led us on an undersea journey of brilliant purple coral, dense schools of tiny translucent fish, and perfect conches half buried in the sand.

Because we'd been so impressed with our lunch at the Turtle Inn, we decided to check in for a couple of nights. There were two kinds of accommodations: one-bedroom cabanas and two bedroom villas. The units were surprisingly affordable; we met a couple from New York who had found their beachfront cottage on the Internet for $149. The hotel's posted rates weren't much steeper. Our villa had a screened-in living space and a dining area outfitted with handcrafted furniture. On either side of the living area was a bedroom wing that led to a large bathroom, which in turn opened up to a private outdoor shower set in a Japanese rock garden. We used organic soaps with names like Honey Oat and Orange Swirl for our showers in the sun. Unforgettable.

The hotel drew an international set, many of whom had also stayed at Blancaneaux, Coppola's inland eco-lodge in the forested Cayo section of the country. A hotel driver took us there for $100 each, a sum we thought was pricey. The road was in poor shape—we lost a tire, and had to wait by the side of the road for another Blancaneaux driver to pick us up.

The costly, arduous trip was worth it—lots of star-quality at this place, where the textiles in the gift shop were marked, "Hand-selected by Eleanor Coppola." We were awarded Coppola's own villa because nothing else was left. (Coppola's villa at the Turtle Inn is also available for paying guests.) It had decks on several levels, an outstanding view of the Privassion River falls, a long dining table, presumably for those Coppola family weekends, and even a Coppola family portrait on the wall (including Nicholas Cage and Sophia Coppola). We took a picture of the picture. The nearby swimming holes formed by the river were glorious, and we took a hike that was a little long for my taste, but we were rewarded with a hyperbolically billed 1,000-foot waterfall that tumbled dramatically into a natural pool that we had all to ourselves. It wasn't a beach, but it was still wonderful.