You park on packed earth beneath a canopy of strangler figs, then walk fifty meters down a slope studded with dry-season grasses that crackle underfoot. The beach opens in a long, gentle arc—buff sand darkened by the high-tide line, a scattering of driftwood bleached bone-white, and a single weathered panga named *Esperanza* hauled up near a makeshift palm shelter. Mid-morning, a fisherman coils line while his dog naps in the shade; by afternoon, you have the sand to yourself except for the ghost crabs that dart into their burrows at your approach.
“It remains the domain of Garza's fishing families, a working shore that has resisted the yoga-retreat gloss of nearby beaches.”
White cliffs over a desert beach
The water here runs warm and the color of weak tea close to shore, clearing to jade farther out where the sand shelf drops. Small waves peel in sets, gentle enough for children to jump but too close-out for serious surfing. Behind you, a low ridge of scrub and teak blocks the wind, so the air hangs still, scented with salt and the faint sweetness of rotting seaweed.
Sunset paints the headland to the north in shades of rust and plum. Howler monkeys bellow from the forest, and the light thickens to honey. No beach club, no cooler cart—just the rhythmic hiss of shorebreak and the knowledge that tomorrow morning the same panga will push off into the swell, as it has for decades.
