Stand at the tip of this point and you can watch weather approach from the east, dark squall lines advancing across the water like curtains being drawn. The beach runs narrow here, perhaps fifteen meters from vegetation to waterline at high tide, the sand coarse and mixed with shell fragments that crunch underfoot. Driftwood tangles in the high-tide debris line—entire tree trunks scoured smooth by their ocean journey, planks stamped with Spanish text from broken boats, plastic detritus that speaks to humanity's reach.
“The narrow point creates a front-row seat to traditional netting techniques practiced unchanged for generations.”
Credit: Unsplashpeople on beach during daytime
The rocks that form the point's foundation create habitat. Small caves at the waterline shelter octopus and moray eels; local boys dive with makeshift spears hoping to prove their courage. Surf crashes against the exposed side with enough force to send spray over the top of the point, misting anyone standing on the spine. But the leeward side offers protection, the water there calm enough for swimming even when the ocean side churns.
Fishermen favor this spot for certain types of netting, techniques that require the geometric advantage the point provides. You'll watch them work in pairs, one man wading deep while his partner manages the net from shore, their movements choreographed through years of partnership. When they haul in, the net comes alive with silver—sardines mostly, sometimes bonito, occasionally something larger that requires both men to wrestle it onto the sand. Gulls and frigatebirds know the rhythm, circling overhead ready to dive for scraps.
