Florianópolis has changed its name once and its economy at least twice. Desterro, as it was called when the first fort walls went up in the 1680s, kept Portuguese officials busy and fishermen busier; the capital took the name Florianópolis after Marshal Floriano Peixoto around the end of the nineteenth century. Oysters and lace paid the bills for generations. Local tech parks and universities built something else entirely, and the same gale that once annoyed sailors turned out to suit surfing, which brought travellers by the planeload. Today a glass tower on one corner and a wharf cottage on the next share the same block, and near the bridges traffic backs up for a kilometre or so. Step into a side lane and you might find a woman selling warm pastel out of a tin box. Walking off the flight at Hercílio Luz, the first thing you notice is warm, salty air carrying eucalyptus and a trace of grilled queijo coalho. Hibiscus spills over walls in aqua and custard yellow. Lagoa da Conceição is a shallow green bowl ringed by hills, and on breezy afternoons kitesurfers cross the sky overhead while paddleboards wobble near shore. Village life runs slow here: craft beer bars, tattoo studios, padarias turning out excellent pão na chapa, pousadas hidden in gardens beneath banana leaves. Head east toward open water and everything sharpens. Wind combs the dune grasses, the Atlantic arrives cold, and you're properly awake within a minute. Most people rent a car at the airport once, then leave the rest to the island. Hard to argue with that. Where you sleep shifts the whole mood of the trip. Surf hostels around Praia Mole have tin roofs, hammocks strung between posts and breakfasts that amount to cake, fruit and very strong coffee. Somebody leaves a guitar on the sofa, and everyone knows when the tide turns. North at Jurerê Internacional, the polish arrives fast: serviced apartments with pale stone floors, infinity pools that reflect the sky, sushi counters and cold caipirinhas with a small ceremony attached. Ingleses and Canasvieiras suit families, with mid-rise blocks close to the sand and kids building empires out of buckets. Ribeirão da Ilha, down south, wins on charm: azorean houses with lace curtains beside oyster farms, and guesthouses smelling of clean linen. In Santo Antônio de Lisboa the oyster shacks glow at dusk and the water turns the colour of old pewter. A pousada with a veranda is worth 200 reais extra. Breakfast there, with mango and papaya and coffee served before ten, beats any marble lobby. The beaches are the reason anybody comes, and the island has more than forty of them. Joaquina on the east coast is the famous one, a wide amphitheatre of pale dunes where boards hiss down the slope and surfers compare stories out past the break. It can be crowded, macho and dazzling at once, especially when a swell runs and the lifeguards earn their wages. Next door, Praia Mole has a softer name and plenty of attitude, backed by rounded green hills and divided between surfers, volleyball players and people who came to be seen in sunglasses. Barra da Lagoa feels more local, with a canal where fishermen still pole wooden boats and kids leap off the bridge. The water there runs gentler, which suits nervous swimmers. Walk north and the sand stretches quieter, the sort of place where a stray dog adopts you for an hour and a fisherman sells oysters he opened with a knife older than you. For the postcard version of Brazil, Canasvieiras and Jurerê up north are the ones. Canasvieiras is lively, Argentinian-accented in high season, with calmer water and beach tents where waiters jog across the sand balancing shrimp and fried cassava. Jurerê is the manicured one, a little theatrical, umbrellas lined up in rows on a summer afternoon while the bass from a beach club carries out over the water. Some visitors love it and some sniff that it isn't authentic, but the sea stays clear and green-blue either way, and by late afternoon the light falls gold and everybody looks briefly beautiful. Ponta das Canas and Lagoinha are gentler alternatives, good for long swims and slow lunches. Brava, reached over a dune path, feels wilder: all wind and white foam, with a restaurant scene that rewards the climb. The south and west hold the beaches with a bit of mystery to them. Campeche is broad and open, often breezy, popular with surfers and with football games at low tide. From Armação, a sandy footpath leads to Matadeiro, a fishing beach that still smells of nets and grilled fish, small and fringed by rocks and wooden boats. At the right tide you can wade through little pools like a child with better balance. Further on, Lagoinha do Leste is the real adventure. There's no road, only trails through Atlantic forest where capuchin monkeys crash through the canopy and the cicadas drone like static. Then the trees open, the lagoon appears as a dark teardrop behind the dunes, and the ocean roars beyond. Bring twice as many biscuits as you think you need. Swim first and worry later. Timing matters more than people admit. High summer, December to February, is hot, humid and social, with temperatures often in the high twenties to low thirties Celsius and water warm enough to stay in for hours. It's also peak price, peak traffic and peak odds of a thunderstorm rolling in after a flawless morning. March to May suits many travellers better: the worst heat softens, the sea stays swimmable and rain comes in dramatic bursts rather than endless drizzle. September to November is another fine window, with spring flowers, cleaner surf on the east coast and fewer people circling for parking. June to August turns cooler, sometimes genuinely brisk when a front pushes through. Surfers wear thicker wetsuits, whales are sometimes spotted offshore, and the light turns crisp. Carnival means chaos with sequins, and Easter and the July school holidays get busy too. Pack for wind, sun and sudden change. Reef-safe sunscreen isn't optional, because reflection off white sand finds every missed ear. A light jacket helps even in summer, when evenings by the lagoon turn cool, and a warmer layer if you come in winter. Hiking shoes for Lagoinha do Leste and the dune crossings; sandals are fine everywhere else. Cash is handy at small beach bars, though cards work widely in town. Learn a few Portuguese phrases and use them badly with confidence: bom dia opens doors, obrigado smooths them, and a smile at a bakery counter turns a queue into a conversation. Renting a car gives freedom if you'd rather not depend on buses that arrive when they arrive. Scooters are popular, buses cover the main routes well enough, and ride apps work in the busier areas. Food belongs to the beach day here, not to the evening afterthought. At a simple shack, order pastel de camarão and watch it blister in the fryer, then squeeze lime over everything like you mean it. Oysters from Ribeirão da Ilha arrive fresh, briny and faintly sweet, best with lemon, hot sauce and bread to catch the liquor. Moqueca, fish stewed gently with tomatoes, peppers, coriander and dendê oil, bubbles in a clay pot and tastes like the island in edible form. For something quick after a swim, try tapioca crepes stuffed with cheese and shredded beef, or açai so cold it makes your teeth ache. Caipirinha is the obvious ritual; ask for a caipiroska if cachaça fights back. In the evening, Lagoa da Conceição hums with bars where reggae, samba and indie rock leak onto the pavement. Chasing every beach in one trip is the usual mistake. Pick a base and let the island arrange the rest. Mornings are for east-coast surf and coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in. Middays drift into lagoon swims, market stalls, naps under a fan and long lunches that ignore the clock. Afternoons belong to hidden coves and dune walks and the kind of sunsets that make strangers go quiet. You'll leave with sand in your bag and a restaurant you swear you'll return to. Floripa doesn't shout for attention. It keeps offering one more beach and one more path through the hills, and the taxi to the airport costs about 90 reais.