Not once did my hope falter. Even as I checked the forecast by the hour to see if the storm cloud image on my phone’s weather app had magically disappeared, I was determined to find the most diamond in the rough beaches in Texas. My weekend pilgrimage to Barton Springs was becoming lackluster. I needed an escape. Naturally, the weather had other plans.
I’ve always loved the beach. I find deep healing in the waters of the ocean, and I return to them time and again for relief. I grew up going to South Padre Island with my family. When I graduated from high school, my friends and I drove to Padre on our own. After college, during a family vacation to Maui, I was practically forced out of the ocean to make our departure flight. During my summer living in Los Angeles in 2022, I’d make the 45-minute trip to Malibu any chance I could. All of which is to say, I may be a bit of a beach snob.
For years I’d been wanting to create a route in my home state of Texas that hit multiple beaches over a long weekend. Think the Pacific Coast Highway, but with managed expectations. Because of the miles of wild coastline, driving right up along the shore isn’t possible. On my road trip, I passed fields that resembled the ones from that one scene in Interstellar where Joseph Cooper and his kids veer off into stalks of corn to chase a drone. I spotted charming post offices and imaginatively named roads and waterways—Little Chocolate Bayou, Old Potato Road, Schwings Bayou, Cowtrap Lake. Whether or not the sun was shining seemed to matter very little, I came to see.
Along the way I gathered insight on the Texas coast, generally through trial and error. If someone tells you to visit Riviera Beach, don’t; the beach doesn’t exist. If there are dunes on any beach you visit, do not walk on them, no matter how smooth and irresistible they look. It’ll cost you up to $500 in fines. If a beach in Texas doesn’t explicitly state that you can swim, it’s probably meant for fishing. Fishing reigns supreme out here—there wasn’t a time I didn’t see torsos sticking out of waist-deep water with long fishing lines in front. And be warned: Some of the beaches farther down the coast are easier to navigate with four-wheel drive.
I found that you can indeed make a beach hop happen in Texas if you have pure intentions in your heart. The skies cleared just enough for me to enjoy a swim or a stroll—except when they didn’t. And I was still able to find ways to maximize my beach time during the rain. Each beach had its own weird personality. Some I didn’t even swim in; others provided more than I could’ve ever imagined.
El Jardin BeachSeabrookThe Locals’ Beach
En route to El Jardin, if it looks like you’re in the wrong place, you’re in the right place. Behind the wheel of my GMC Terrain, I was the minority among cargo trucks as I passed large petrochemical and manufacturing plants. It may feel like you’re about to clock in for your shift, but really, you’ve almost arrived at the cute, coastal neighborhood where El Jardin is hiding.
I almost felt like I was intruding on this little community beach. Curtains of rain poured down. Still, I ventured out of the car to scope the place out, whipped by the wind and sprinkles of rain. I knew getting into the water wasn’t a particularly good idea. Instead I walked to the end of a rocky jetty, where a runoff tunnel with a wooden perch above it was labeled “The Talking Spot” in what seemed to be Sharpie. I imagined how nice a conversation at sunset here would be, and when I closed my eyes, I could feel Zuma Beach, in Malibu. Pro tip: Lean into the delusion.
Entry fee: $10 for adults; $5 for children; free for residents.
Amenities: Covered picnic benches, a playground, and two very spacious porta-potties.
Bonus feature: A shower spit for rinsing off.
East BeachGalvestonThe No-Frills Beach
Located at the very eastern tip of Galveston, this beach was empty when I arrived . . . or so I thought. The walkway up to the sand was out of a Nicholas Sparks movie: a trodden path lined with wooden posts and overgrown grass sprinkled with a few yellow flowers. The trek is long enough to create a grand reveal when you get closer to the end of the trail, finally catching a glimpse of the sand littered with sargassum as far as the eye can see.
East Beach is neighbors with Beachtown, a new development with a Charleston, South Carolina, meets Truman Show vibe. Excavators were moving things around a little farther down the beach from where the walkway spits you out. A Margaritaville is being built next door, and the surrounding streets have names like Seabreeze, Shiraz Passage, and Positano.
As I set my bag and towel down, I lathered on sunscreen (if, for some reason, you don’t already know this, the worst sunburns can happen when it’s an overcast day) and then headed in to convene with the waves. I had truly never felt freer, alone in the ocean, the occasional light raindrops making it hard to discern whether I was crying tears of happiness. So free, in fact, that I decided to skinny-dip, swimsuit held in a firmly clenched hand.
The trek back was more like Insidious. I felt what I thought was sand that my flip-flops were flinging onto my legs. I continued walking down the picturesque trail, and once I got to my car, I swiped my hand over the backs of my thighs to shake off the sand. Turns out, my body was completely coated with mosquitoes. I immediately took the Cutter Backwoods spray I had in my bag and doused myself. I couldn’t manage to think about it further.
Entry fee: None.
Amenities: None in the section I went to, but another part of East Beach has restrooms, showers, a cantina, and a variety of other amenities.
All of the writer’s beachcombing treasures.Lauren CastroMatagorda BeachMatagordaThe Embarrassment of Riches Beach
The drive to Matagorda takes you through marshy land, and you start to feel far from any form of civilization. Ever since I read about “beachcombing king” Jace Tunnell and the treasures he finds along the coast, I’d had Matagorda Bay Nature Park, which includes a beach, on my list of must-sees. Until I came here, I didn’t know you could go to a beach and not swim and still have fun.
To get to the sand, you have to walk on an extremely long pier, and this is where things can get a little dicey. You’ll see where repairs have been made to the seemingly never-ending structure, and at the very end, there are missing wooden planks and rickety stairs. If you’re clumsy like me, not even the railings could save you, as they too are wobbly.
Danger was waiting for me on the beach too. I carefully walked the shoreline, hunting and gathering as many shells as possible. Much like with thrifting, it’s all in the thrill of the hunt. As I picked through sargassum and sand, I noticed a few other beachcombers, a fierce look in their eyes and tactics to match. Some carried trash pickers, while one woman pointed from her truck window to show her husband the shells she desired. Then I found my first Portuguese man o’ war. All of a sudden, the warning I had heard earlier on the trip—if it’s pretty, don’t touch it—disappeared from my brain. I proceeded to prod it with a stick until I realized it was still alive, its dark blue tentacles gathered in a neat little pile next to its balloon-like body. It resembled one of those air pillows you get in a package containing a fragile item.
Before leaving for the next stop, I played an elimination game with the shells I gathered, much like on America’s Next Top Model. You can’t be too greedy.
Entry fee: None.
Amenities: Picnic benches under concrete pavilions that look straight out of Dune; clean restrooms. On your way out, stop at Cassady’s Coffee Bar & Cafe for a Sea Biscuit or a Seas the Moment club sandwich.
Whitecap BeachCorpus ChristiThe Overstimulation Beach
After visiting a few beaches on the road less traveled, I craved human connection. Mustang and North Padre Islands have a cluster of beaches close together, within about three to seven minutes’ driving distance. There were multiple people on aux at one time, mostly playing country music. It was welcome chaos at this point in the trip—but I might’ve spoken too soon. The minute my tires left the sand, a rock hit my windshield and proceeded to make a seven-inch-long crack across the passenger side of the glass. Did you know the humidity can make an already bad thing ten times worse?
Entry fee: $12 for a beach pass that can be used at all Nueces County beaches for the rest of the year.
Amenities: Porta-potties and trash cans. Head over to Perrin’s on the Water for Creole cuisine—the blackened-chicken-and-tasso-pasta entrée was a welcome break from sea fare.
Three guys enjoying the calm waves of Malaquite.Lauren CastroMalaquite BeachCorpus ChristiThe Morning-Glory Beach
The beach was bathed in a light pink glow as I watched three twentysomethings giggle and play in the water ahead of me. It was 6:45 a.m., and I’d left the warmth of my seashell-themed bed at Bluff’s Landing Lodge to try and catch a glimpse of baby sea turtles. What I found was arguably much, much better. The sun continued to rise as I sat on a sandy hill (not a dune), complete and utter peace washing over me. I closed my eyes and allowed nature’s sound machine to sweep me away. When I reopened them, I observed a phenomenon that happens when the waves pull back. The backwash reveals pores, and then suddenly little seashells emerge. I watched in awe as a wave retreated, bubbles exposing the holes where seashells now laid themselves bare under the gentle sun.
Malaquite in the morning is the closest one can get to nirvana. Maybe it was the almost-empty shore, or the sunrise, or the fact that it finally wasn’t raining, but I’d like to think there was a larger, more meaningful force at play. I silently bid the boys in front of me adieu, watching as they continued to splash with reckless abandon, blissfully unaware of the backstories I’d given them in my head.
Entry fee: $25 per vehicle.
Amenities: Restrooms and picnic tables.
A dinner well spent at Virginia’s on the Bay, near Fisherman’s Wharf.Lauren CastroSan José IslandSan José IslandThe Animal Beach
After Malaquite Beach, I headed back north up the shoreline to retreat from an impending storm. Once it cleared, I drove to Fisherman’s Wharf, in Port Aransas, where a ferry would take me to San José Island. “If you outwalk most of ’em, you’ll have it all to yourself,” a vacationer from East Texas and a regular around here told me as we deboarded the boat with a few other beachgoers. As we began to walk toward the beach, he introduced me to his sister and his niece, whom he kept referring to as “Little Girl.”
Once at the beach, I encountered more dolphins than people. The farther I walked, the spookier the terrain began to feel, as if the island had been abandoned suddenly. There were piles of washed-up trash but also plenty of shells, creating perfect pockets to explore after taking a dip. I know I boasted that I’m a seasoned beachgoer earlier, but San José gifted me my first sand dollar bounty. Encouraged by my finds, I continued on my walk along the wild, sandy prairie adjoining the beach, where I ran into a little crab, a roadrunner, and a rusty brown cow (yes, a cow!). I kept an eye on my friend from East Texas, knowing he had the port departure times down to a T, as I was constantly worried about missing my only ride back to civilization.
Entry fee: Technically none, but you’ll need to pay the ferry fee of $20 per adult ($10 per kid).
Amenities: Absolutely none. Make sure to use the restroom, grab snacks, and prepare to live off the land before leaving Fisherman’s Wharf. Catch a bite at Virginia’s on the Bay (and get a Hurricane) before heading home.
Pro tip: Buy your ferry tickets at the marina store on Fisherman’s Wharf. The boat can be found behind Grumbles Seafood Co. and departs every hour on the hour from 7 a.m. to noon (with an additional departure at 6:30 a.m. during the summer). Beyond that, you can catch a ride at 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. Return trips from the dock back to the wharf are 10:10 a.m., 12:10 p.m., 2:10 p.m., 4:10 p.m., and 6 p.m.
Joe giving up his catch of the day, a blacktip shark, to a beachgoer and his family.Lauren CastroMagnolia BeachMagnolia BeachThe Quintessential American Summer Beach
Have you ever beachcombed with your toes? Have you ever been on a beach where you could pick up sand to find that the grains were actually little pieces of seashells? I was in seashell heaven. I surveyed the area around me, looking at each shell within reaching distance, completely forgetting I wasn’t in my own world. Flags of various sports teams had been hoisted up on pop-up tent shades, kids were wrestling in the water, and everyone felt like family.
“Yo, that’s good eatin’ man!” said a guy pulling up in a white truck with his family in tow. Another man who was set up at the shoreline with a foldable chair and a fishing pole had just caught . . . something. The commotion happened all at once: Tires crunching over the rocks and shells, the fisherman looking left and right to see whether anyone else had witnessed his success, and the word “shark” being shouted by children in the water, over and over like a flock of seagulls.
I found out the fisherman’s name was Joe, and he was from Cuero, a small town nearby. He had just caught a blacktip shark and suddenly become a celebrity on that strip of beach. He was fishing for fun, letting his catches go after admiring them, but the man in the white truck had other plans. Joe gave the shark to the driver, who was now giddy about his potential dinner plans. Later that evening, Joe texted me to say he had caught a stingray after I’d left. Knowing this now, would I have soaked in that water? Maybe not, but I’m glad I did.
Entry fee: None.
Amenities: None, but you can park your RV on the beach.
Bonus feature: Spotting the 502 food truck was like seeing ice-cold water in the desert. Chicken-fried steak sandwiches, brisket quesadillas, brisket Reubens, and brisket smashburgers were just a few options on the menu.
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