Secret Shores: Discovering Georgetown's Hidden Beaches and Pristine Coves

Richmond Beach exists in that perfect liminal space – not quite forgotten, yet somehow overlooked by the typical tourist itineraries. Located just four miles north of Georgetown's harbor, this crescent of obsidian-flecked sand requires a 20-minute hike through what locals call 'the green corridor,' a dense patch of tropical vegetation that serves as nature's velvet rope, keeping the crowds at bay.

The trail begins inconspicuously behind a small fruit stand on the main coastal road. I nearly missed it myself, despite having studied satellite images before arrival. The proprietor, an elderly woman named Josephine, smiled knowingly when I purchased a soursop and asked about beach access. 'You looking for something special, not something easy,' she observed, pointing to a barely visible opening in the foliage.

The path descends gradually, switching back through stands of breadfruit trees and wild orchids. The sound of waves grows stronger with each step, yet remains invisible until the final turn. Then, suddenly, the vegetation parts like theater curtains to reveal Richmond's dramatic expanse – a half-mile of charcoal-tinged sand meeting crystal waters in a palette of blues so varied they defy categorization.

What makes Richmond truly special isn't just its seclusion but its unique volcanic composition. The sand here contains fine particles of black obsidian that create a striking contrast against the turquoise water. On hot days, these particles warm quickly, creating a natural hot sand therapy that locals have used for generations to ease joint pain.

I spent three full days at Richmond, each morning arriving early with my portable beach shelter that provided essential shade during midday hours. The shelter's lightweight design made the hike manageable, and its UV protection proved invaluable as I documented the changing light across the volcanic sands.

North Point represents Georgetown's most dramatic coastal formation – a series of interconnected coves carved into volcanic cliffs that are accessible only by water or through a challenging descent. This is not a landscape that reveals itself easily to visitors, which is precisely why it has become my favorite corner of St. Vincent's coastline.

Accessing these coves requires either hiring a local fishing boat (approximately $50-75 USD for a half-day) or navigating the steep path from North Point Lighthouse. I opted for both experiences, first exploring by boat with Captain Morris, a third-generation fisherman whose knowledge of these waters runs as deep as the channels between the Grenadines.

'These coves change personality with the seasons,' Morris explained as we motored along the coastline. 'What you see in winter is the calm face. Come back in September, and the sea shows different teeth.'

From the water, we accessed five distinct coves, each with its own character. Pelican Cove features a natural stone arch where frigatebirds nest in impressive colonies. Mermaid's Basin offers the island's most pristine snorkeling among coral formations that have remained untouched by mass tourism. But the jewel among them is undoubtedly Smuggler's Rest, a perfectly protected horseshoe of sand accessible through a narrow channel that pirates once used to hide contraband.

For my underwater exploration, I relied on my full-face snorkel mask which eliminated the usual problems with fogging and allowed me to document the underwater landscape without constantly adjusting equipment. The 180-degree viewing field proved invaluable when photographing the remarkable diversity of marine life in these protected waters.

Two days later, I returned via the lighthouse path – a challenging but rewarding 45-minute descent that should only be attempted in dry weather with proper footwear. The trail isn't officially maintained, which keeps these coves pristine but demands respect from visitors. The effort, however, grants you access to shores that feel genuinely undiscovered – a rarity in today's hyperconnected world.

While my travel ethos typically leads me away from central locations, Georgetown Bay deserves special attention not for seclusion but for its remarkable intersection of natural beauty and cultural heritage. This is where the island's heartbeat is strongest – where fishermen mend nets as they have for generations, where Saturday markets spill toward the shoreline, and where the beach becomes a community gathering space rather than just a tourist attraction.

Georgetown Bay follows a different rhythm than the resort beaches further south. Arriving before 7am reveals a fascinating choreography of fishing boats launching, produce vendors setting up along the northern end, and locals taking their morning sea bath – a tradition that combines exercise, socialization, and what many islanders consider natural therapy.

'The water here heals differently,' explained Ms. Claudette, who I found floating serenely each morning. At 82, she attributed her remarkable mobility to sixty years of daily immersion in these specific waters. 'Not all sea is the same sea,' she insisted, and after joining these morning rituals for a week, I found myself reluctantly agreeing.

The bay transforms throughout the day. By mid-morning, it becomes a commercial hub. Afternoon brings families and after-school gatherings. Evenings – especially Fridays – bring music, impromptu dance, and the island's best street food as vendors set up grills along the seawall.

For photographers, Georgetown Bay offers the richest human element of any beach on the island. I found my compact zoom lens perfect for capturing candid moments without being intrusive. The lens's versatile range allowed me to document both wide contextual shots of beach life and zoom in for portraits when appropriate (always ask permission first – Vincentians are generally friendly but appreciate the courtesy).

Don't miss the southern end of the bay at sunset, when fishermen return with their catch and the entire waterfront transforms into an impromptu market. This is where you'll find the freshest seafood on the island, often sold directly from boats to waiting families and restaurant workers. It's a scene that captures the essence of Georgetown – a place where the ocean isn't merely scenery but the foundation of daily life.

Georgetown occupies a unique geographical position where St. Vincent narrows, allowing adventurous travelers to easily cross from the calm Caribbean side to the wild Atlantic coast. This 'windward shore' offers an entirely different beach experience – one defined by powerful surf, dramatic driftwood sculptures, and a sense of raw isolation that's increasingly rare in the Caribbean.

A 30-minute drive east from Georgetown brings you to Windward Point, where the landscape transforms dramatically. Here, beaches aren't marketed, developed, or sometimes even named on maps. They exist in a natural state that feels increasingly precious in our over-traveled world.

My favorite discovery was a stretch I've come to call Driftwood Bay (locals simply refer to it as 'east beach'). Accessible via a cattle path through privately owned farmland (always ask permission at the small yellow house before entering), this mile-long expanse of sand receives massive Atlantic swells and collects fascinating driftwood formations that no artist could improve upon.

The swimming conditions here demand respect – powerful currents and shore break make this more suitable for contemplation than recreation. Yet the landscape photography opportunities are unmatched, particularly in early morning when fog often shrouds the volcanic headlands and creates a mystical atmosphere.

I spent three consecutive sunrises at Driftwood Bay, each morning carrying my waterproof backpack loaded with camera gear and breakfast supplies. The waterproof construction proved essential when unexpected rain squalls rolled through, protecting my equipment while adding dramatic elements to the photographs. The comfortable straps made the 20-minute hike from the road manageable even with a full load of gear.

What struck me most about the windward beaches was their emptiness. During my multiple visits, I encountered only two other people – local herbalists gathering specific seaweeds that wash ashore after full moons. This solitude offers a profound counterpoint to the community-centered beaches on Georgetown's western shore, completing a coastal profile that feels remarkably diverse for such a small geographical area.

Perhaps the most magical coastal discovery near Georgetown lies just beyond where most maps and guidebooks direct travelers. Byera Valley, approximately seven miles south of Georgetown proper, hides a series of interconnected saltwater lagoons that create what locals poetically call 'the sea within the land.'

These lagoons, formed by ancient lava flows that created natural barriers against the ocean, are accessible only through a network of channels that locals have used for generations. The entrance is deliberately subtle – a small wooden sign reading simply 'boats' next to a modest home on the southern edge of Byera Village.

Here, for a reasonable fee (approximately $40 USD), lifelong resident Terrance Campbell guides visitors through the channel system in traditional wooden rowing boats that have remained unchanged in design for centuries. The narrow vessels are perfectly adapted to navigate the shallow passages between lagoons, some barely wider than the boat itself.

'My grandfather showed me these waters before I could walk,' Terrance told me as we glided silently beneath a natural arch draped with flowering vines. 'Now very few young people want to learn the old ways.'

The journey reveals four distinct lagoons, each with its own ecosystem. The first appears relatively ordinary until Terrance demonstrates its unusual properties by having you float effortlessly in water with salinity higher than the Dead Sea. The second features underwater caves where a unique species of bioluminescent shrimp create natural light displays after sunset. The third and largest lagoon opens to a hidden beach accessible only through this water passage, completely invisible from both land and sea.

The fourth and final lagoon is Terrance's secret – one he shares only with visitors who show genuine appreciation for the previous three. I won't betray his trust by describing it in detail, but I will say it involves a natural phenomenon I've never witnessed elsewhere in my extensive travels.

For this aquatic adventure, I found my waterproof phone case absolutely essential. The touch-sensitive clear case allowed me to document this remarkable journey while keeping my device protected in an environment where water is constantly splashing into the shallow boats. The neck strap provided additional security when leaning over to photograph the crystal-clear waters.