June 7th, 2026
From Starfish Beach to Dolphin Bay — two weeks of paddling, hiking, and letting the boat lead the way.
Leaving Starfish Beach always feels like closing a good book. You’re not really ready, but the story is pulling you somewhere new, even if you come back again.
The anchor came up, the engine hummed, and Anima pointed her bow toward Isla Cristóbal. Big Bay. A name that promises exactly what it delivers — nice and protected anchorage, green shorelines, and the kind of quiet that only exists far enough from town.
Into the Mangroves
I launched the kayak the next morning.
There’s a mangrove channel along the shoreline that you’d never find from the outside — you have to know it’s there, or stumble in by accident. Branches closing overhead, roots arching out of dark water, the whole place humming with something you can’t quite name. It’s not silence. It’s fuller than that, interrupted by bids. Every paddle stroke feels like an intrusion you’ve been generously allowed.
I drifted more than I paddled. Some channels deserve that.
The mangroves here are the kind that remind you why you chose this life in the first place — not the marina version of boat life, not the Instagram version. The version where you think you’re alone in a kayak, deep in a tunnel of green, with nothing on the schedule and no one watching — until you look up and realize the sloths got there first.
Isla Solarte: The Quiet Anchorage
Two days later I was moving again.
A quick stop through Bocas Town — provisions, water, the usual — and then out the other side, heading for Isla Solarte. Remote anchorage. Just one other boat, and that one looked abandoned. The kind of place where the silence has weight and nobody is expecting you.
I stayed two nights. Swam in the mornings. Watched the light change in the evenings.
On the first sunset, something caught my eye. A boat motored into the bay — and then simply vanished. Into the mangroves. No dock, no clearing, just gone. I sat with it for a minute, then did what any reasonable person living on a boat would do: grabbed the kayak and went to investigate.
Getting closer, I spotted it — a narrow cut in the mangrove wall. Another tunnel, barely wide enough to notice, leading back to a small cluster of houses hidden completely from the water. One of those places that exists outside the charts, outside the guide books, outside anything with a name attached to it.
I paddled through slowly, looked around, paddled back out.
Beautiful. Mysterious. Completely forgotten by the rest of the world.
And then I moved on. Sometimes a place gives you exactly one good scene, and that’s enough.
Dolphin Bay & the Wonderland Trail
Then south, down to Dolphin Bay.
I’d heard about the Wonderland Trail more than once — sailors talking it up at anchor the way sailors do. Famous trail, they said. Worth the hike. So I went.
They were right.
The trail cuts through jungle on the south side of Dolphin Bay, climbing enough to earn the views, shaded enough to make the climbing bearable. And everywhere along the way, frogs. Green ones with black dots. Dark blue ones. Brown ones. Some so tiny they were nearly impossible to photograph — a blur of color on a leaf and then gone.
Others so vivid and perfect they looked almost painted. The rule in nature applies here as much as anywhere: you can look, but don’t touch.
The plants and flowers filling the gaps between the trees make the whole thing feel like walking through a greenhouse that got out of hand — in the best possible way.
I learned two things on this trail that I hadn’t known before. First: some trees have spikes, and those spikes contain poison. The kind of lesson that sticks with you. Second: the walking palm. A tree that actually stands on what look unmistakably like legs — a tangle of exposed roots lifting the trunk off the ground — and is said to move, slowly, over the years, following the light. I stood in front of it for longer than I probably should have, half expecting it to take a step.
I came back to the boat sweaty, scratched, and entirely satisfied.
Unexpected Visitors
The dolphins came the next morning. No announcement. No reason. They simply appeared alongside the boat — two of them, circling and surfacing with that easy confidence dolphins have when they’ve decided you’re worth visiting.
I grabbed the drone.
There’s something about watching dolphins from above — that fluid, unhurried movement through clear water — that makes the whole scene feel unreal. Like something from a documentary, not from your own cockpit, not at a boat you actually live on.I stood there with the controller in my hands, let the footage roll, and tried to stay calm about the whole thing. I didn’t entirely succeed.
The one thing working against me: the screen on the remote is about the size of a playing card, and the sun had absolutely no intention of cooperating. Squinting into the glare, trying to keep two dolphins in frame on a tiny display — it’s not exactly the cinematic experience the final footage suggests. But somehow it worked. Sometimes the best shots come from barely being able to see what you’re shooting.
The Other Side of the Bay
I spent two more days working my way around the bay. Quiet mornings, long swims, the kind of slow exploring that doesn’t produce great stories but produces something better — a feeling of really being somewhere, not just passing through.
And then the bay was behind me, Bocas Town was ahead, and another chapter was closing the way they always do — gradually, and then all at once.
Almost two weeks. Four anchorages. One famous trail, one short local farm visit, two hidden mangrove channel, and a visit from dolphins several times I hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve but was grateful for anyway.
That’s Bocas del Toro. It keeps giving, as long as you’re willing to stay slow enough to receive it.
Watch the full episode below — the kayak scenes, the trail footage, and the drone shot of those dolphins.
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Cheers
Paul – SY ANIMA