We're going East

by Laura Spiers (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Cayman Islands

I Didn’t Expect to Find. From the little I knew, I was skeptical. An island whose economy is fuelled by the financial services industry, Grand Cayman is perhaps not the first choice for a Caribbean-bound explorer seeking an archetypal tropical paradise, typified by lush, virgin landscapes and a sense of tranquility. Still, nothing could check my excitement as the plane flew in to land. Limitless ocean gave way to a proliferation of green. A swooping left-turn brought the mangroves into view, pools of spilled mercury simmering far below. The plane settled onto the runway, the morning heat casting a veil of gauze over the tarmac. My dad was there to collect me, having moved to the island only a few months ago; this was my first visit. It became apparent that we ought not to linger in Georgetown. The territory’s capital plays host to an average 1.5 million cruise goers per year, and could have been fashioned by Walt Disney. Shocks of candy-coloured buildings touting T-shirts and cigars were swarmed by thousands of tourists, a frenzied horde with a six-hour shore-slot. My suspicions were confirmed. But, rather than turning in to the city centre, my dad rolled the car around to face the opposite direction. He looked at me. “We’re going East”. We drove. The traffic thinned, and the crowds dropped away. Soon, we were the only ones, on the only road that reaches around the East End of the island. The sea rushed up to meet us on the right, flame-blue, licking at the road’s frayed edges. The coastline is protected by ‘ironshore’, the familiar term for the rock which is spongelike in appearance, but extraordinarily sharp. On the most exposed corner of the East End, we passed the ‘blowholes’, a cut of coastline where the waves have blasted their way through the rock, forming a series of geysers which catapult seawater high into the air. We stopped to eat at a fish-fry on the beach. We ordered whole snapper, fritters, and sweet onion, served up in lurid hues of polystyrene, peach-pink and lemon. Inside the reef, the sea was immaculate, a blanket of sunlit cerulean. Herons fidgeted in the shallows, lizards twitched in their sun-sleep on an unoccupied bench. Fishermen, knee-deep in the water, were gutting their catch on a nearby jetty, tossing their offcuts into the sea. Opportunistic rays careened in the current, waiting patiently for scraps. Beyond the reef, the sea was a seething, muscular mass. A recent storm surge had whipped the water into a frenzy, the cotton-froth of the breaking waves bubbling and brimming. We continued driving, skirting the Northside, its sheer coastline plummeting into untouched foliage, buttery-green and lustrous. Then, abruptly, we ran out of road. Having circled the island, we had arrived at Rum Point, and were facing West once more. This final limb of land, an outstretched hand reaching into the sea, exposed the ocean in all its glory. Standing at the furthest point of the long pier, I felt as if I were held to the land by a fraying thread, embraced by the horizon on all sides. The sea was transformed by the setting sun, rolling from dusk-blue into violet. Sound dropped away, the hushing of the waves coaxing us into quiet. The last rays of light flooded the sky with impossible orange. The sight was joyous, beyond words. I didn’t expect to find that feeling.