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Escape to Punta Mita for your honeymoon, and learn to surf on some of the world's best-breaking waves for beginners.

From my lounge chair on the beach, I can see the dusky caps of the Sierra Madre Mountains that ring the deep-blue Bay of Banderas. It's my first day on the west coast of Mexico, and I'm surprised at how different it looks from the country's eastern side, where I've vacationed with my husband. The scenery is wilder here—the land surges skyward and dips into low valleys. Cliffs lean into the bay, and waves rush and break against them in sprays of white foam. I'm in the secluded town of Punta Mita, 45 minutes north of the bustle of Puerto Vallarta. Here, there are farms and exclusive gated communities, as well as excellent surfing waves crashing on the shore.

One of the locals' favorite surf spots, a coral reef on which waves break for days at a time, is close to the Four Seasons Punta Mita resort, where I've checked in for the week. The resort uses this famous spot, known as La Lancha (The Reef), to its advantage: Sign up for its new surf package, and the staff will teach you how to surf on the hotel's beach, and then take you to La Lancha by boat so that you can try out your new moves.

For surfing neophytes, Punta Mita is a great place to learn. Since the water is sheltered by those mountains, the surf is relatively calm. While a professional surfer might bemoan the lack of 30-footers, it means that a beginner like myself might actually have a shot at getting up on the board. I've left my husband at home and traveled here to learn how to surf—and I hope that, by the end of my stay, I'll be riding the waves.

A Shore Thing

On the morning of my first lesson, I get up early, shower and head down to the beach. Since I have a little extra time, I stop first at the dock, where the resort's chef is helping guests pick out their dinner from a local fisherman's catch. I watch as the fisherman hauls the sack of fresh seafood right onto the sand—it's an iridescent heap of turquoise-finned parrot fish, coral-pink snapper, spiny lobsters and golden amberjacks. The chef stands by, doling out suggestions and advising on how they could be prepared later that evening. I choose a silvery tripletail (which, he tells me, is similar in taste to Chilean sea bass), and watch as he marks it as mine so that once it's cooked it can be delivered to my dinner table.

I thank the fisherman and the chef, and run a little farther down the beach to where my class has gathered. An impossibly perfect-looking, blonde-haired, golden-skinned couple, who turn out to be our instructors, are introducing themselves: Thai, a California native, and Sebastian, an Argentinean. Thai has us draw the outline of a surfboard in the sand, and demonstrates how to "pop up" onto the board, using her arms to switch from a face-down position on her stomach to the classic surfer's pose—an upright, bent-knee stance, with her front foot at 45 degrees and her back one at 90. We try, albeit awkwardly, to imitate her.

Since it's upper-body strength that propels you to your feet, I'm glad I've been taking yoga for the past year. While I'm no yogi, the transition from lying on the ground to standing up seems very similar to an "upward dog" posture, one of yoga's basic positions. I feel like I have this first lesson down—but can I manage it on a crest of moving water that's headed for the shore?

Surfin' Safari

As our class ends, I decide that watching surfers in action will make it all seem easier. So, as everyone else heads back to the resort to lounge by the pool, I tell Thai that I'd like to check out the town of Sayulita. It's 30 miles north of the resort and is, I'm told, a quintessential Mexican surf hamlet.

Thai calls a car service, and we take off. On the road there, she points out all the surfable waves along the way (there are 23 of them), and explains that each one has its own personality. Some are consistent, while others are fickle. There are waves that break on points, on reefs (like La Lancha) and on sand bars. Some break left, some break right, and others go both ways. According to Thai, surfing is all about learning the pace of the waves. You can learn form and balance, but knowing when to catch the wave—the precise moment when your body challenges gravity and is lifted toward the sky by the force of the water—can take years. For a newlywed like myself, the marital analogy seems clear: Coming to know another person's rhythms is, after all, the essence of what it means to be someone's life partner.

Once in Sayulita, we meander down one of the town's dirt roads toward the water, buying a snack from a rancher in a cowboy hat—a cup of fresh corn kernels tossed with chili pepper and lime. Surf shops selling sunglasses and boards in Popsicle colors sit next to more understated joyerias—upscale artisan shops offering crafts like handblown glassware and chunky wooden jewelry. I can see the difference immediately between the surf shops, which cater to the locals, and the joyerias, which are for the tourists—and I'm glad that I'm here with Thai so I can get a more authentic look at the place.

Thai sees a friend—a dreadlocked surfer from Tahiti, who lives on one of the surrounding hills—and we stop to chat. He says the waves off Sayulita aren't as massive as the Tahitian ones he grew up on. I feel encouraged by his remark; if this really is an easy place to surf, then maybe I stand a chance. I turn my gaze to the sea, leaving them to their surf banter, and watch as the local surfers glide gracefully into shore.

Water World

By late afternoon, I feel ready to try my hand at surfing. The group meets up again at the beach, where we board a boat and set off for La Lancha. As we zip through the water, the wind chills my newly tanned skin. I look at Thai and Sebastian, and I remember something Thai had said earlier: A swell is energy moving through the ocean, which becomes a wave when it hits shore. "So," she'd told me, "you're actually riding the movement of the earth."

I can see the sensual appeal of learning to surf, and I wish that my husband had come with me. For a moment, I can picture the two of us as a surf god and goddess, shaking off our mundane responsibilities. But then Sebastian kills the boat's motor and drops anchor, breaking my brief reverie. I look up and see the towering backs of dark-blue waves. The romance is over.

It's time to get in the water, and I start rehearsing the moves in my mind. Sebastian tosses my board into the ocean.

"Jump!" he yells. I dive in and awkwardly shimmy my body onto the board. I'm stomach-down, with my feet hanging off the end and my arms dangling in the water, ready to paddle.

We're slightly to the left of where the waves are rising, so I have a moment to catch my breath and relax. Sebastian positions us one at a time, and Thai awaits us near the shore. Suddenly, I see Sebastian waving wildly. It's my turn, and I start to paddle toward him. I know there are other—real—surfers behind me, and I cringe, hoping they're good enough to keep away from me. Fortunately, they cruise right around me with ease. Finally, I make it to Sebastian, who turns my board so that it faces the shore.

"Don't look behind you," he says. He wants to determine for us beginners when to "take" the wave. Thirty long seconds pass, and then I feel him pushing my board from behind.

"Now!" he shouts.

Time seems to stand still. I'm wondering if somehow I missed the wave, and then there's this slow, surprisingly gentle heave upward, and I struggle to push onto my feet. Just as I get there, the momentum kicks in. I'm flying—no, I'm surfing—toward the shore. I adjust my feet to balance myself better. I look right, and see my classmates waving and cheering me on. As the wave sputters to whitewash, I gently fall off the board.

On the boat ride back in, giddy from my surf victory and exhausted from a few subsequent wipeouts, I ask Thai if she and Sebastian surf together.

"Of course," she says, "but surfing is very individual. You want your own wave, and to claim your own territory out there." Once again, I see the parallel between surfing and marriage. Like surfers, my new husband and I are embarking on an adventure together, but carving out our own space. I smile—I've learned how to surf and, even more surprisingly, I've learned a little something about relationships, too.