Galveston

Galveston is the best beach in Texas because it offers everything from kid-friendly surf to endangered turtles to the freshest catch of the day.

By Greg Marshall

It is a chilly, moody winter morning on Seawall Beach in Galveston. The grackles outside the Kroger across the street are making a racket, and 15-month-old Oscar’s dimwitted minders, not yet fortified with caffeine, want him to stay in his carrier, bundled in his dinosaur coat. Like any insatiable junior adventurer, our son refuses.

He sweeps a chubby hand toward the orange-rimmed vastness at the edge of the world, then at a great blue heron strolling the surf, and wordlessly though not quietly demands to be lifted out of his carrier and let down. Where his parents see nothing in the sand, Oscar discovers clusters of paw prints, likely from a marsh rabbit. A tern cuts across the sky. On the seawall itself, some long-forgotten hand has painted a mural of enormous angelfish. Farther down, the languorous purple tentacle of an octopus rises from dune grass and dried-out shrubs like an ancient leviathan.

My late father, despite working in an office, spent a not-insignificant portion of his life in pink swim trunks and a snorkel mask. He used to say, “Put kids around water and magic happens.” As a teenager, I rolled my eyes and turned up the volume on my Discman. Now I understand the magic he meant wasn’t just for kids. It’s for parents, too. One minute you’re crushing a cockroach in your roadside motel, cursing those rowdy birds outside, and the next you’re following your son toward the freezing surf at dawn, recast as a swashbuckler’s sidekick, coffee be damned.

Later that morning, after we’ve warmed up with eggs and waffles, we meet Will Wright of the Galveston Historical Foundation on the seawall. Despite the hurricane of 1900 and Hurricane Ike over a century later, most visitors don’t think about this 10-mile concrete barrier as hurricane infrastructure. Instead, it’s where people jog, bike, walk dogs, and meet friends. “Galveston’s really weird, and I mean that in all the best ways,” Wright says. “There are so many different ways you can interact with the city, but it all comes back to the beach.”

I’ve only seen a fraction of Galveston’s 32 miles of shoreline. My previous trip here was in November 2012 for a Liza Minnelli concert at The Grand 1894 Opera House. I stayed at the Grand Galvez hotel and remember musing, with an outsider’s know-it-allness, that the city was still in shock from Ike, every sway of a crystal chandelier foretelling doom. The beaches, too, held their share of beer bottles and cigarette butts.

It feels petty to bring up litter in a place repeatedly swallowed by storm surges. I mention it only because I can’t believe how clean the beaches are on this visit. Wright and Elizabeth Walla, the Galveston Park Board’s environmental programs manager, are quick to point to the daily efforts of the board. Funded by the hotel tax, a crew of 36 scours the beachfront every day, including holidays.

“I like to call them little beach fairies,” Walla says. “They start around 5 or 6 in the morning and are usually done by noon, so most people never even see them. Visitors just show up and say, ‘Wow, the beaches are so clean.’”

What surprises people is that most of the debris collected on Galveston’s beaches has washed in, not been left behind, Walla says. Research from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration shows the Texas coastline receives 10 times more marine debris than any other Gulf state, largely due to ocean currents.

During the summer, Walla’s crews manage roughly 2,000 trash cans across the island, sometimes emptying them three times a day. “We’re a city of about 55,000 residents, but we host roughly 8 million visitors a year,” she says. “Keeping our beaches clean isn’t just about tourism; it’s about caring for our home.”

Another group patrolling the beach: sea turtle researchers from Texas A&M’s Gulf Center for Sea Turtle Research. Galveston waters are home to green sea turtles and critically endangered Kemp’s ridley sea turtles. Scientists rescue injured animals, monitor nests, and relocate eggs to improve survival odds before releasing hatchlings into the Gulf. Aspiring naturalists like Oscar earn sea turtle stickers for doing their part to clean up the island. Galveston also sits along the Central Flyway, one of North America’s major migration routes, making it the envy of birders. Each spring and fall, more than 300 avian species arrive to rest and refuel here. Some stay to nest.

The same can be said for surfers, who can now gather at the Texas Surf Museum, recently relocated to downtown from Corpus Christi. It’s a friendly scene, the museum’s manager, Eduardo Hernandez Lopez, tells me. “When you catch a wave in Galveston,” he says, “everyone celebrates.”

To do his part, William “Boog” Cram, owner of Ohana Surf and Skate, sponsors events like dog surf contests to raise money for the pet population. Cram says he is one of very few BOIs—Born on the Island—still around. If you’re an IBCer, you’re an islander by choice. “Galveston is a lazy seaside village,” he says. “I say seaside, but it’s really the Gulf. You hear that quote, ‘Once you’re here, you’re on island time,’ and it’s true. Once you make it over the causeway, you smell the salt air and start to relax.”

Before leaving town, we hit up Katie’s Seafood House on Pier 19. The short drive gives Oscar a front-row seat to a parade of watercraft he’s previously only seen in picture books: shrimpers, a naval vessel, an oil rig. Galveston is, after all, a working waterfront. Its commitment to industry, heritage tourism, and sun-drenched fun makes the beaches here so special. After a day catching waves or rescuing sea turtles, visitors can shake off the sand and check out seafood markets or the Pleasure Pier, a historic boardwalk with midway games and a roller coaster.

We pull into a parking lot patrolled by pelicans. Under a heat lamp on the restaurant’s deck, our waitress gives Oscar a squishy shark toy in exchange for a high-five. With every eye-bulging squeeze of the shark, Oscar throws his head back in ecstatic laughter, already preparing for the moment he’ll bolt for the beach again. Who can blame him? It’s where the magic happens.

Tale of Two Islands

North Padre

North Padre Island is the best beach in Texas because there are few markers of human life, lots of wildlife, and plenty of adventure.

By Julia Jones

It’s just after dusk on the northern edge of North Padre Island when my husband and I see them: deer, staring hypnotically toward the roaring ocean. It’s a windy 55 degrees, and mist is obscuring our view. As we approach, we realize they aren’t deer, after all, but eerie artworks on the dunes. The creatures, known as “dune deer” and constructed out of debris from palm trees, represent what I love about North Padre. It’s a place not concerned with fitting in—not loud or boisterous. It finds its identity in what the ocean can bring.

The inhabited part of the island boasts a strong small town spirit, with locally owned restaurants, souvenir shops, and its own newspaper, Island Moon. There’s even a mini golf spot, Treasure Island, which we’ve frequented on our trips to the coast. But we prefer the simple act of waking up early for a day of lying on the beach and dipping our toes into the waves.

There’s plenty of space to roam on the island’s soft-sand shores, and they’re nearly all open to the public for exploration. Padre Island National Seashore, the longest stretch of undeveloped barrier island in the world, comprises the bottom 66 miles of North Padre—and anyone with a four-wheel-drive vehicle and a day pass to the park can drive the full length.

“It’s a place of constant motion and tension, where nothing is ever fixed and everything is shaped by change,” says Kelly Taylor, Padre Island National Seashore chief of interpretation. “PINS protects that edge in its most natural state.”

Along the national seashore, shell seekers can stop by Big and Little Shell beaches to pick up coveted finds like lightning whelks, sand dollars, and the giant eastern murex. The most daring can make the full trip to the Mansfield Cut, which separates North Padre from its noisy southern neighbor with 125 feet of water. But we prefer a quieter visit, ideally in winter or early spring. That’s when visitor counts are at a low, bird migration is at its height, and the hypnotic coastal wind brings unexpected sights.

South Padre

South Padre Island is the best beach in Texas because it’s the closest thing to paradise in the state.

By Danielle Lopez

South Padre Island is where I experienced my first taste of freedom. The summer after I graduated high school in McAllen, I spent an unsupervised week there with friends. Our days consisted of flying off Jet Skis in the Laguna Madre, experiencing summer romances, and imbibing the things our parents rightly feared. But they knew times like those were a rite of passage.

In the Rio Grande Valley, it’s commonplace to visit the island year-round. With its tropical climate, South Padre breaks the stereotype that Texas beaches are dirty—nothing beats driving over the Queen Isabella Causeway on a clear day when the bay sparkles blue and you catch the dolphins breaching. And South Padre isn’t as sleepy as its neighbor to the north. Here, the waters are bright, the wildlife is abundant, and there’s always something to do.

This 34-mile stretch has served as a popular resort destination since the 1950s. The island sees an average of 7 million visitors annually, including folks from the RGV, Winter Texans, and thousands of spring breakers. Despite its party reputation, the island is generally a family-friendly spot. On any given day, the shores are filled with colorful umbrellas, children running through the soft sand, and people blasting Latin pop from their speakers, often with margaritas in hand.

The island is connected bayside to the delightful town of Port Isabel, home to the historic Port Isabel Lighthouse, the only lighthouse in Texas that you can climb to the top. On Padre Boulevard stand dozens of local souvenir shops, stores, and eateries. The other side of the island faces the Gulf, offering 25 city-managed beach access points, some of which are tied to venues like Clayton’s—known as “the biggest beach bar in Texas.”

“I’ve been to other Texas beaches, but my heart always comes back to South Padre,” says Dennise Villalobos of Visit South Padre Island. She touts the work of local spots like Sea Turtle Inc., the world’s largest enclosed sea turtle hospital. “You really feel a sense of community here.”

Maybe it’s something in the South Texas air—or maybe it’s just the power of nostalgia—but I believe that once you visit this sun-kissed barrier island on the southern tip of Texas, it’ll stay with you forever.

San Jose

San Jose is the best beach in Texas because you can be all alone and surrounded by history.

By Juli Berwald

Although San Jose is a private island, the law requires that the beach remains accessible to the public up to the mean high-tide line. This is why the Jetty Boat concession out of Port Aransas generally makes nine daily trips. You can purchase $20 round-trip tickets ($10 for ages 6-12) at the convenience store at Fisherman’s Wharf. “It’s a great partnership that I hope can go on forever, as long as people continue to take care of the place while they’re visiting,” Ruddock says.

That includes bringing all the water, food, and sun protection you’ll need. Glass and fires aren’t allowed. The boundary of the mean high-tide line—plus, those rattlers in the dunes—means visitors can’t wander inland. And take everything you bring to the island with you when you leave.

After the Ruddocks head off to tend to the island’s concerns, I stroll on, rescuing a few stranded sea stars and admiring the symmetry of a dolphin vertebra. A boat’s helm has washed ashore, engraved with someone’s curlicue initials. Ruddock had said that debris forms the foundations for pioneer plants that eventually develop into San Jose’s record-high dunes. The sun is warm, but the breeze keeps me cool, and I am happy finding nothing more.

Meandering, I reflect on the political titans who had been here and the fate of this low-­lying island on a warming planet. A lightning whelk, Texas’ state shell, jangles in my pocket. Its counterclockwise spiral is found in only about 10% of gastropods. This unexpected twist seems an apt metaphor for San Jose, which was bought with oil money and now supports outsize biodiversity because of that legacy.

I continue picking my way down the beach, marveling at the exquisite shells, the abundant birds, and the thoughts I don’t get to have very often. Just as I am taking myself too seriously, I step on a jellyfish, slip, and laugh out loud. A blue heron is the only witness.