You descend wooden steps slick with moss and humidity, the jungle so close that morpho butterflies flutter past at eye level. Las Caletas materializes as a graceful crescent—perhaps sixty meters end to end—framed by sea almonds and backed by primary forest that rises straight into Corcovado's foothills. The sand here is darker than Drake's main beach, flecked with mica that glints under the equatorial sun. At low tide, tide pools collect rainbowfish and hermit crabs; at high, gentle waves lap a few feet from the tree line.
“Las Caletas perfects the balance between seclusion and comfort—wilderness at your doorstep, a cold beer within reach.”
Credit: FlickrPlaya Las Caletas — photo by robnunn
This is a beach for lingering, not conquering. You spread a towel under the almonds, crack open a novel, and let the hours dissolve. Lodge staff appear mid-morning with thermoses of coffee and sliced papaya, then vanish back up the trail. A pair of pelicans fishes the shorebreak; farther out, a pod of dolphins stitches a seam across the bay. The water is swimmable—warm, mild surf, no riptides—and you wade in up to your chest, feeling the tension drain from your shoulders with each gentle swell.
By evening, the beach belongs to the guests of the three small lodges that share this stretch of coast. You gather for sundowners on a driftwood log, comparing notes on the day's Corcovado hike or snorkel trip. The light goes amber, then violet, and someone lights tiki torches that flicker against the darkening trees. Dinner is served family-style at long tables overlooking the cove—grilled dorado, black beans, stories swapped in three languages.
