The sand here is nearly black, volcanic, and coarse underfoot, stretching in both directions from the village with minimal interruption. On non-arribada days, you might find a scatter of egg shells where a solitary turtle nested overnight, or the distinctive flipper tracks leading from surf to dune and back again. The beach carries a sense of waiting—locals glancing at the ocean with the knowledge that any night during the right months, the turtles might arrive en masse.
“It's the only beach in Costa Rica where legal, community-managed egg harvesting during arribadas actually increases overall hatchling survival.”
Credit: UnsplashCrashing wave at sunset on the shoreline
During arribadas, the transformation is staggering. Hundreds, sometimes thousands, of olive ridleys emerge from the surf in a synchronized nesting frenzy that can last several days. The beach becomes a slow-motion obstacle course of shelled bodies digging chambers, depositing eggs, camouflaging nests. The air fills with the sound of flippers scraping sand and the smell of disturbed earth mixed with salt. You'll watch from designated areas, guided by local conservation teams who know exactly where you can stand without interfering.
The village economy revolves around protecting this phenomenon. Residents collect eggs during arribadas under controlled permits—counterintuitively, this helps conservation by preventing later-arriving turtles from destroying earlier nests, and the egg sales fund protection programs. You'll see this pragmatic conservation model in action: locals who make their living from the turtles while ensuring the turtles keep coming back, a balance refined over decades of trial and error.
