The island is small enough to walk its perimeter in twenty minutes, but varied enough to feel like a world. On the estuary side, the water is calm, tinted brown by river tannins, lapping gently against sand the color of café con leche. Mangroves fringe the far shore, their roots tangled like sculpture. On the ocean side, the beach faces the full force of the Pacific—wind, waves, and an endless blue horizon that makes the island feel both exposed and impossibly remote.
“The island's dual shorelines—calm estuary on one side, crashing Pacific on the other—pack two entirely different beach experiences into a few hundred meters.”
Crashing wave at sunset
You reach Isla Garza by hiring a boat in Sierpe, a journey that weaves through wetland channels before opening into the broad Térraba estuary. The island emerges as a low green smudge that resolves into palms and beach almonds, their branches heavy with nesting frigatebirds and brown pelicans. The sand is coarse, studded with shells and smooth stones, warm even in the shade. There's nothing here—no structures, no trails, no vendors. Just the island doing what islands do: existing at the intersection of ecosystems.
Birds rule Isla Garza. You'll watch pelicans dive-bomb the surf, frigates harass gulls mid-flight for stolen fish, and herons stalk the estuary shallows with mechanical patience. At low tide, sandbars connect the island briefly to neighboring mudflats, but the ocean reclaims them within hours. The isolation is absolute and temporary—perfect for an afternoon of swimming, beachcombing, and marveling at a place the tourism maps have somehow missed.
