A low-slung rib slips free of Portimão’s marina at mid-morning, engines ticking down as the captain points the bow toward a line of honey-colored cliffs. Sea spray sketches the air; gulls wheel like punctuation marks above cracks and arches. In an hour the shoreline begins to read like a carved atlas—arches, caves, stacks—and then the boat eases into a wide mouth of limestone that opens up into the famous Benagil cave. Sunlight pours through a round skylight in the roof and lands on the sand like a spotlight. The sound of the ocean becomes a constant, encouraging presence, daring you to step off the gunwale and cool down in the Atlantic.