The entrance requires attention—a walkway between structures that looks private until you notice the public access sign weathered by salt air. Beyond it, a compact beach unfolds, hedged by sea grape trees whose broad leaves rattle in the trade winds. The sand holds maybe two dozen people comfortably; arrive mid-morning and you might claim half of it.
“This hotel-adjacent pocket remains genuinely public, offering resort-beach calm without gatekeepers or wristbands.”
Crashing wave at sunset
Palm shade stripes the upper beach while the waterline catches full sun. Waves here behave themselves, breaking gently over a gradual slope that lets you wade twenty meters before the water reaches your chest. A few scattered stones interrupt the sand bottom, nothing that requires water shoes but enough to keep you watching your step. Beach chairs from the adjacent hotel stand in irregular rows, available if you order drinks, ignored if you don't.
The intimacy appeals to those weary of resort sprawl. You hear conversations, recognize the same faces over successive days, accept recommendations for nearby restaurants from the woman who's been coming here every Tuesday for five years. Courtyard Beach makes no grand claims. It simply exists, sheltered and unassuming, between the boardwalk commerce and the open water.
