Bermuda: More Than Just Shorts

I sat down to look at the calendar earlier this summer and earmarked the weekend of July 27th (yeah, I'm behind) as one on which Ed and I should go somewhere. He agreed, though at the time we didn't really consider where we would go or what we would do. I imagined a camping trip, wine tasting on Long Island, or perhaps a tour of Philadelphia or something. I also fantasized about going to Savannah. Ever since reading  Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, I've been dying to go to Savannah. And Charleston is supposed to be very cool as well. On July 23rd, I was thumbing through my calendar again, when I realized that we had yet to plan anything for that weekend. D'oh. Ed and I set to brainstorming, and I brought up Charleston. Airfares, alas, were not nearly as cheap as when John Berendt decided to fly there for the weekend on a whim. "I'll bet it's cheaper to fly to Bermuda," Ed said. I figured he was just making an outrageous comparison, the better to complain about the cost of flying to Charleston. But no, this was an actual proposal, and, as is often the case, Ed was right. Not only was it cheaper, it would take us less time (albeit not much) to fly to Bermuda. "Let's go," he said. And so we did.

To the beach!

We were delayed leaving New York for about an hour, so it was night when we stepped off the plane into the velvety darkness that cloaked the runway. Bermuda is long and thin, and our hotel was on the opposite end of the island from the airport. This meant a 45-minute cab ride across just about the whole island. It would have been beautiful if we could see anything. Our driver chatted away to us in the strange Bermuda accent, which is like a softer American accent except that they say "oo" instead of a long "o" sound. So "road" became "rude," "boat" became "boot," etc. He pointed out proudly that we wouldn't see any rundown shacks on his island. Indeed, unlike many tropical places colonized by the French or British which have large slums and lots of poverty, Bermuda was uninhabited when it was discovered and settled by the British. Its per capita income is one of the highest in the world. The houses, roads, and shops are neatly painted in an array of pastel colors and everything is well kept.

View from our room

I was charmed by the hotel Ed picked from the first moment. We were ushered into what felt like a luxurious but comfortable living room and served complimentary dark and stormies - a blend of black rum and ginger beer that immediately became my favorite drink - then escorted to our cottage-like room which overlooked the ocean. There was a plate of cheese, crackers, fruit, and cookies waiting for us, and we munched on our small patio while listening to the soft wind and the lapping waves. I could hardly wait to wake up in the morning and actually see everything. I left our curtains open a crack.

My alarm went off at six, and I opened my eyes eagerly to see...darkness. Hmph. Apparently we were far enough west that there wasn't as much light at 6:00 A.M. in Bermuda as there was in New York. I woke again 30 minutes later to a much improved scene. Loud, beautiful, yellow birds were swooping around our patio dispatching what was left of the cookies. And the ocean beckoned, tantalizing me with a shade of turquoise I'd never seen before. Alas, before going into the water, I had business to attend to. I was scheduled to do my weekly long run that morning, and had to put in 18 miles before doing anything else. Ed planned to about half the distance I was planning to cover, and he finally dragged me away from the view. The plan was to follow the Railroad Trail, a 21-mile path carved out for the track of the train that used to run almost the length of the island. The train and tracks have been gone for years, but the trail remained and was supposed to be beautiful. Ed ran with me for a bit, then took off on his own. I'd heard that the trail ended and restarted sporadically, and I lost it dishearteningly quickly. Within 3 miles, I was totally lost, running instead along the excruciatingly narrow road hoping to spot it again. No such luck. Cars whizzed by me, and it seemed they were missing me by only inches. I passed a church with a sign on the wall that said, "Prepare to meet thy God." Ok, this was too much. I headed back the way I'd come figuring I'd just go back and forth along the trail I could follow until I got to 18 miles. But the frustration, humidity, and near-death experiences had taken their toll, and so I gave up on the trail and went to the hotel gym. One mile on the treadmill was all I could stand when paradise awaited outside. So I scrapped the run idea and went to breakfast with Ed. Seven is sort of close to eighteen.

Our hotel was right in the middle of this strip of land

Our tiny, private beach!

The hotel was located on a skinny part of the island and so had water to choose from on both sides. We started off on a tiny beach that we had all to ourselves. I waded into the water, and Ed had fun taking pictures of me, capturing a particularly awesome shot of my tossing my hat towards the shore so it wouldn't block my face. (Scroll to the end of the post to see it.) Then we had an early lunch, launched the way all lunches in Bermuda should be: with pina coladas. After lunch, we slathered on more sunscreen and rented a kayak. We paddled across the bay and snorkeled around a small island a short distance away from the shore. It was absolutely beautiful. The sand in Bermuda is unlike any sand I'd ever seen. I'd commented to Ed earlier that I was amazed there was any at all; the water is so calm it's hard to imagine it bashing rocks into tiny grains. He replied that the sand is actually coral that has, er, passed through the digestive systems of parrot fish. Oh my... I saw this in action on our snorkeling trip, however, and it was amazing. We could actually hear the crunching sounds as huge, brightly colored parrot fish bit off pieces of coral! We saw pretty striped fish called sergeant majors, fat sea cucumbers, and huge schools of tiny, silver fish. I swam directly into them several times to watch them split and flash around me. There was purple fan coral and huge brain coral. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy snorkeling; it is so peaceful and other-wordly, and I hadn't done it in tropical waters since a trip to Mexico a little over ten years before. I could have stayed in the water all day.

Coral-munching Machine! These guys are almost two feet long.

View from the Vixen: the island and a school of fish

Ed had other ideas, though. His fins were making his feet cramp, and he was anxious to get going on the second part of our agenda: exploring a shipwreck not too far away. We swam back to shore, climbed into the kayak, and headed out to the bow of the ship which was sticking out of the water. The Vixen went down in the late 1800's. It's a popular spot for jet ski tours to stop, and the tour leaders always bring bread to toss down to the fish so that they will swarm to the surface and impress the visitors. We didn't have any bread, but the fish thought we did. Ed and I took turns jumping out of the kayak and snorkeling around the wreck and we were simply surrounded by huge schools of disappointed (and, luckily, vegetarian) fish. The wreck itself was incredible. I thought I'd find it creepy, but it seemed serene. Thousands of fish swam around it, and here and there I could dive down and catch glimpses of the inside, hollowed out by decades in the salt water and illuminated by rays of sun. It was filled with even more fish. It was spectacular. We were pretty worn out from running that morning (even if one of us didn't quite fulfill the intended mileage quota...) and from swimming and paddling around all afternoon, though, and so we decided to head in. I was thirsty, and I could feel my back and shoulders slowly smoldering. The sunscreen I'd slathered on was supposed to be water resistant, but it apparently had been no match for about an hour of ocean swimming. On the paddle back, I ecstatically pointed out a sea turtle swimming along the surface of the water. Ed and I paused to watch it pass, and I babbled about how I'd hoped that we'd see one but had given up and that I couldn't believe it had come so close. (Ed listened quietly while sweating buckets as he worked to make up for the lackluster effort I was putting into the paddling process.) Then I spotted another one! Then another one. Then one more... By the time we were up to five in about five minutes, I was feeling a little silly for having made such a fuss. Apparently spotting  sea turtle off the coast of Bermuda is about as noteworthy as spotting a cloud.

The Vixen

The pool

Back on shore, we sucked down more pina coladas and dark and stormies - in the shade, of course - and then showered and dressed for dinner, which was at another hotel about 20 minutes away. Everything was wonderful, but I could feel tendrils of sadness creeping in because we had to leave the next day. On Sunday morning, we ate breakfast and I found myself staring extra long and hard at the beautiful vistas, verdant plants, and bright flowers, trying to memorize everything. We spent the rest of the morning sipping drinks and reading by the rather glamorous pool. It was harder to leave Bermuda than it has been to leave anywhere I've been for a long time, though it's so vastly different from New York that I felt I'd been there a lot longer than we actually had. I felt morose during the ride to the airport, and grim as I felt the plane's wheels leave the ground.

Still, this was an unbelievably easy trip to make, and it's one I hope we'll do again next summer. We'd have to wait until then because Bermuda's got approximately the same climate as North Carolina, so a winter trip would have to involve less lounging and snorkeling. It's nice to know that no matter how gritty, loud, crowded, and grey it may get in New York, Bermuda's sun and sand are always just a short plane ride away.