Sunset Bar & Grill: Watching Jets Over Sint Maarten’s Maho Beach
- Mark Vogel
- Apr 20
- 5 min read
Updated: Jun 17
Beach Bar at Maho Beach in Sint Maarten ✈
While visiting Maho Beach in Sint Maarten, I stopped by the Sunset Bar & Grill just before noon. The open-air building sits only a few yards from runway 10 of Princess Juliana International Airport, close enough that the metallic roar of arriving jets mixes with the crash of surf rolling up the bright sand. From the deck I could see the runway lining up neatly with the turquoise water, an unbroken guide that pulls every incoming aircraft over the beach and camera lenses below.
Inside, the place feels casual but eye-catching. Timber posts and crossbeams are coated in bold turquoise, lemon-yellow, and tangerine paint, while every squat stool seems to wear its own shade of sky blue, lime, or orange. High-top tables are simply planed planks bolted to black metal legs, and the floor is bare concrete showing decades of flip-flop scuffs. Ceiling fans hang low enough to stir the condensation drifting off drinks, and a small stage at one end waits for the two-piece band that usually starts late in the afternoon. From any seat you can look straight through the open railings to the sand and the final approach path beyond.
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“Watching the planes come in never feels repetitive. A distant glint appears beyond Simpson Bay Lagoon, engine noise rises, and landing gear drops as each aircraft levels out above the shoreline.”
Since I keep kosher, I didn’t order any food, but I did grab a cold drink and claimed a stool along the rail that faces the water. Around me, servers carried baskets of jerk chicken and plates of mahi wraps to patrons perched on those mismatched stools, each diner pausing mid-bite whenever engines rumbled.
Before each round of landings I pulled up a flight-tracker app on my phone, refreshing the screen to confirm which jets were lined up on approach and how many minutes they had left in the pattern. The bar makes that step optional, though, because a big surfboard near the rail is hand-painted every morning with the same arrival times. Staff update it with chalk whenever an airline adjusts its schedule, so even if my cell signal flickered I could glance up, see the countdown written in bold colors, and know exactly when to angle my phone skyward for the next pass overhead.
Watching the planes come in never feels repetitive. A distant glint appears beyond Simpson Bay Lagoon, engine noise rises, and landing gear drops as each aircraft levels out above the shoreline. Some float in almost silently, while others sting the beach with a sharper howl that rattles glassware behind the bar. Altitude varies, too; one crew might pass high enough that kids on the sand see only landing lights, while the next dips so low I instinctively duck. Cell-phone cameras rise in unison either way, and the moment the engines spool down on the runway, talk shifts to the next arrival already lining up beyond the hills on the French side of the island.
Between landings I studied the non-kosher menu. Food covers steady beach fare: jerk chicken sandwiches, fresh mahi wraps, conch fritters, and baskets of fries kissed with island pepper. Near the cashier, souvenir shirts reading “I Survived the Jet Blast” hang beside laminated boarding-pass magnets. Prices match what you expect from a Caribbean tourist bar within taxi reach of the cruise pier: beers hover at island standard, mixed drinks sit a bit higher, yet nobody complains because the real value is measured in decibels and adrenaline.
Departures flip the experience. Around four in the afternoon, several of us left the deck and wandered down to the fence line to feel the power of an outbound jet rolling to full thrust. Bright yellow warning signs outline the danger, yet curiosity stays strong. Engine noise climbed to a howl, sheets of sand lifted off the beach, and anything not firmly held took flight. I dug my heels into damp sand and leaned forward as the blast hit - hot, relentless, and disorienting - while sunglasses and sunhats spun down the shoreline. Seconds later the aircraft was airborne, banking left over Maho Village and tracking west toward Puerto Rico. I shook sand from my hair and slogged back to the bar for another round, grateful for the security of that wooden rail.
Timing a visit pays off. Narrow-body arrivals from nearby islands stack up through the morning, while the largest long-haul flights usually glide onto runway 10 between midday and late afternoon. Early evening sunlight paints fuselages gold, rewarding photographers willing to stay until the last light fades. The bar’s website hosts a live webcam, and most hotel TV networks broadcast the same feed, so anyone who likes certainty can check it before committing to the stroll over from Simpson Bay or Cupecoy.
I spent a few hours rotating between the deck, the rail, and the waterline, and the buzz never dimmed. Each approach felt different - altitude, angle, engine pitch, the way trailing wake rippled palm fronds against the sky. Between flights I swam, rinsed off in the outdoor shower, and chatted with first timers who could hardly believe a commercial runway operates this close to sunbathers.
After closing my tab, I clambered down to the shoreline directly beneath the deck. The bar rests on stout concrete pilings, and at low tide a band of jagged limestone is exposed just beyond the last splash of waves. The rocks are sharp and pitted, colored rust-red and charcoal-gray, with shallow tide pools that trap clear water and the occasional crab. I picked my way across the uneven surface until I reached a flat ledge. From that perch the whole crescent of Maho Beach spread out to my left, while the multicolored railings of Sunset Bar & Grill sat above me to the right, glowing in the late-day sun. Sea spray cooled the air each time a set rolled in, and I lingered there long enough to watch one more jet glide past the hotel on the hill and settle onto the runway. Only then did I turn back toward Beacon Hill Road, the bar’s music fading behind me as the shoreline curved out of sight.
I left the shoreline with shoes full of sand and the taste of salt still on my lips, already planning my return. Sunset Bar & Grill isn’t just a place to grab a drink; it’s a front-row seat to a rare intersection of aviation and beach life. The clatter of ice in a cup, the jolt of a low flyover, and the steady roll of the Caribbean surf combine into a scene that sticks with you long after the engines fade. Anyone drawn to planes, beaches, or both will find that a single visit only sparks the urge to watch one more approach, feel one more jet blast, and take one more sip while the runway lights wink against the sea.
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