Written and photographed by Mary L. Peachin and Norma Frasher
Vol. 30, Vol. 7, March, 2026

Potosí Lagoon, about 20 miles south of Zihuatanejo, infrequently shares the treasure of its beauty. The lagoon is separated from the Pacific Ocean by a thin ribbon of sand and mangroves, a place where fresh and salt water blend together daily.

Edging our kayaks into the water, we admired the sun rising as the lagoon remained calm enough to mirror silhouettes of birds on their morning feedings

Each paddle stroke barely disturbed the water, affording the opportunity to watch a roseate spoonbill lift from the shallows. Its wings were magnified in the early light, pink feathers glowing in front of the muted green, red, and browns of the mangroves. White ibis stepped delicately through the mudflats, their curved bills probing for food. Above them, a pair of ospreys circled, calling sharply while, scanning the lagoon for silver flashing mullet below the surface.

Potosí Lagoon is not large, but it is layered. Mangrove tunnels open into broad, shallow basins, then narrow again into channels where the water darkens and the air cools. Red, black, and white mangroves knit their roots into the shoreline, forming an environment to shelter fish nurseries yet also provide perches for herons who stand as still as carved statues. A great blue heron allowed me to drift within a few yards before unfolding itself and gliding away, wingtips barely brushing the water. Its departure left ripples like the wake of a small boat.

The birdlife is continual and varied. Laughing falcons in high branches can be heard by their sharp cries. Thermoregulating Anhingas perched with wings spread wide, dry themselves in the growing warmth. Pelicans moved in their disciplined formation, gliding low and then suddenly plunging for a fish. They frequently submerge and resurface in what appears like a practiced synchrony. Overhead, frigatebirds traced lazy arcs, their impossible wingspans casting brief shadows that slid across my kayak like passing clouds.

As the sun climbed, the history of the place became easier to imagine. Long before kayaks and cameras, the lagoon was a dependable food source. Indigenous communities fished these waters and carefully harvested the surrounding mangroves to keep the rhythms that kept the lagoon alive. Later, Spanish explorers and settlers recognized its value as well, both as a food source and as a sheltered inland waterway near the coast. The name Potosí borrows from the famous silver mines far to the south, though here the riches were always quieter: fish, birds, and protection from inclement weather.
Paddling deeper into the lagoon, we entered mangroves so narrow that the branches brushed our shoulders. The water became tea-dark, stained by tannins, and perfectly still. Insects hummed softly. Somewhere close, unseen, something splashed—a fish fleeing, or perhaps an American crocodile sliding from the bank. While encounters are rare, their presence is part of the lagoon’s ancient character.

The channel opened suddenly into a wide basin, sunlight breaking across the water. Here, the lagoon offered schools of fish being chased by terns that hovered and dove with precise timing. A cluster of snowy egrets worked the shoreline. They moved their feet as they stirred mud to flush prey. Watching them, it was easy to forget time entirely. The kayak drifted. The paddle rested across my lap. The lagoon did not ask for haste.

By late morning, heat shimmered above the water, and the bird calls softened into a steady background chorus. I thought about how close this quiet world lay to the energy of Zihuatanejo, with its fishing boats, markets, and beaches. The lagoon exists alongside that life, not in opposition to it, a reminder that Mexico’s Pacific coast still holds places where nature sets the pace. Conservation efforts in recent years have recognized Potosí Lagoon’s importance as a wetland, protecting the mangroves and the species that depend on them.

Returning to my launch point, I paddled slowly, reluctant to leave. The spoonbills had returned to the shallows. An osprey hovered, then dropped, rising again with a fish clutched firmly in its talons.

When the kayak touched shore, the day felt fuller than the hours it contained. Potosí Lagoon had offered not spectacle, but depth: a living mosaic of birdlife, water, and history, experienced best at the speed of a paddle. That stillness in the lagoon, near Zihuatanejo yet apart from it, reminded me that some journeys are measured not in distance, but in attention to the variety of the natural beauty it shares.