Nicoya Peninsula

Tamarindo's serious neighbor across the estuary, and the best wave in the corner when a mid tide meets a south swell: fast, hollow peaks over sandbars that hold well overhead. The beach belongs to Las Baulas National Park, where leatherback turtles nest from October to March, so access closes at night in season and the sand has stayed wild. Cross from Tamarindo with one of the estuary boatmen, or drive the long way around. Do not swim the channel: the crocodiles are not a rumor.

The town where half the visiting world caught its first wave, and it still does that job as well as anywhere: soft rolling peaks inside the bay, bath-warm water, a soft-top under every other arm. Schools line the sand and the crowd is part of the deal, but the wave forgives almost everything. The rivermouth at the north end turns on with more swell; it is also the crocodiles' front door, so take the estuary signs at their word and stay out of it at dusk. When the town gets loud, quieter waves wait fifteen minutes in every direction.

Fifteen minutes of washboard road south of Tamarindo buys a beach with a peak for every mood: soft sandbars in front of Lola's for improvers, faster banks scattered along the sand, and an outer reef the locals call Little Hawaii that doubles the size of whatever swell arrives. The mangrove behind keeps the buildings away, so it still feels like a day trip even when the car park fills. Order a coconut at the beach bar between sessions and leave the shade to the resident pig.

The reeling right that stole its scene in Endless Summer II, still breaking over the same shallow shelf of rock. It is a short, intense ride: a steep drop, a barrel if you set your line immediately, and an inside section that collects skin from anyone casual. It wants mid tide and a decent swell; at low it is closer to geology than surfing. The local crew is small, talented and has seen every visitor mistake, so wait your turn and keep your smile handy.

The empty stretch between Negra and Nosara that gathers more swell than anywhere around and folds it into hollow, shifting wedges. On its day it is the best beach break on the peninsula, shared with three surfers and a squadron of pelicans. The currents work hard, help is far, and there is no shop at the end of the dirt road, so bring water, a spare leash and a friend. If it looks like too much from the beach, believe the beach.

Nosara's main event and the most reliable wave in this guide: five kilometers of sand that catch nearly every swell the Pacific offers. The outer peaks hand long walls to longboards and shortboards alike, the inside is one vast forgiving classroom, and the jungle strip behind the dunes means you step out of the trees straight into the lineup. Yoga at four, howler monkeys at five the next morning: yes, it is exactly the cliché, and the cliché works. Crowds are real, but five kilometers absorb a lot of people.

A reef across the mouth of the bay strains the ocean before it reaches the sand, so what arrives is small, orderly and patient. This is where Tico families come to learn, and the beach matches the wave: gentle, unhurried, ceviche under the palms. When the whitewater stops teaching you things, walk north to the rivermouth at Buena Vista for an honest open-ocean peak. Sunset here repairs any flat day.

The end of the dirt road and the reason people brave the ferry: fast, punchy peaks that barrel when the banks line up, with swell nearly every day of the year. The town is one dusty street of surf shops, smoothie bars and quads, and the beach does the real work fifty meters behind it. Dawn is your window; by mid-morning the wind stirs and everyone who overslept joins you. In the green season the road in is part of the adventure: high clearance, low expectations, and check the river before you cross.