Most visitors never make it this far along the strand. The eastern section requires a longer walk from the main parking area, past the last of the beach bars and into a zone where the only sounds are wind and surf. Dried sargassum forms dark lines at the high-tide mark, and the beach widens into a generous expanse of blonde sand textured by overnight winds.
“The same beach that draws crowds at one end empties completely at the other, divided only by distance and effort.”
Person walking on a sand spit
The waves arrive with more authority here, less sheltered than the gentler western curve. On days when the trade winds blow steady, whitecaps march toward shore in ordered ranks, and spray mists the air with salt. You'll find your own stretch easily—choose a spot near the weathered timber pilings that poke from the sand like sculptures, remnants of some forgotten pier, or settle against a dune where beach morning glory spreads its purple flowers.
Fishermen launch small boats through the surf at dawn, their coolers packed with ice and expectation. By midmorning they're gone, and you're left with a beach that feels wild despite being just a twenty-minute walk from relative civilization. The openness creates big sky views: storm cells visible miles offshore, frigate birds riding thermals, the curve of the coastline extending toward distant headlands.
