This is the beach that appears in Wajima's tourism brochures for good reason: it delivers consistency. The sand runs pale gold and fine, packed firm enough for walking but soft where the high-tide line marks yesterday's waterline. Behind you, the town maintains a proper infrastructure—changing rooms that smell of chlorine and sunscreen, outdoor showers with functional knobs, a parking lot that actually accommodates the August crowds. Families return annually, staking the same territory they claimed last summer, setting up rented umbrellas in familiar configurations.
“This beach functions as Wajima's communal living room, where generations gather with the ease of people who know exactly what to expect and find comfort in that knowledge.”
Crashing wave at sunset
The water stays swimmable most of the season, the seafloor descending predictably without sudden drop-offs or unexpected currents. Lifeguards occupy their tower from mid-June through early September, scanning the water with the bored efficiency of professionals who rarely encounter emergencies. You'll see swimming lessons near the shore break, teenagers throwing a football in waist-deep water, and the occasional ambitious swimmer stroking toward the floating boundary markers. Beach volleyball nets appear on weekends, and vendors push carts across the sand selling kakigōri—shaved ice drenched in melon syrup that drips sticky-sweet down your wrist.
But everyone times their visit around the exit. An hour before sunset, the beach population shifts, migrating toward the waterline, cameras raised. The western horizon offers an unobstructed view across the Sea of Japan, and on clear evenings the sun descends into the water like a coin dropping into a slot, turning the wet sand copper and silhouetting the distant fishing boats in black. It's theatrical, almost too perfect, yet somehow genuine—a daily performance that never quite feels routine.
