The Reefs
The country of Grenada is actually not just one small island. Grenada is also made up of several other—even smaller—islands, including Carriacou and Petite Martinique. We decide to prioritize a visit to Carriacou.
On a Wednesday at 9am, we climb the stairs to the top level of the passenger ferry called The Osprey. The white plastic seats hold locals and tourists, and the boat is about three-quarters full when it pulls away from the dock in St. George’s Carenage. From our seats, we watch familiar sights passing: BB’s Crabback, Fort George, Esplanade Mall, the cruise ship pier, the stadiums.
Soon we cannot resist moving to stand at the railing for a better view as the main island of Grenada slides by us. The wind is strong, so we hold onto our hats. Mine folds to look like a pirate. We identify places like the fishing town of Gouyave, the peak of Mount Saint Catherine, and Leaper’s Hill, then we leave the island behind.
The ocean is rough. I absorb the boat’s up and down and rolling movements with my knees. Several seated passengers make use of plastic bags. We are mesmerized by the frequent clusters of flying fish arcing above the water, held aloft for surprising distances by their wing-like fins. We pass Kick ‘em Jenny, a still-active underwater volcano that last erupted in 2017. After nearly two hours, The Osprey pulls into Carriacou’s smooth, turquoise Tyrell Bay.
Stella and I wait with our packs at a picnic table in the shade of a Manchineel tree, eyeing the sign warning of its toxicity and hoping it doesn’t rain. Andrew and Sam catch a bus to get our rental car. Carriacou has a useful bus system with routes 11 and up, continued from the main island, but we want freedom to explore the whole island. When they return with the car, we follow our noses to an amazing lunch of grilled jerk chicken along the road.
Our AirBnb house is about 20 minutes up the island in a quiet community about one minute’s walk to the beach. The house is beautiful, opening onto a large deck with cooling breezes. After our noisy St. George’s neighborhood, we relish the tranquility. Both evenings, we drive to explore beaches, hiking through a preserve of mangroves one night, then down a hilly national forest trail the next night. We see a wrecked boat and some guys with huge lobsters. We watch the sun setting in spectacular ways.
On Thursday, we meet a water taxi guide at Lambi Queen Bar & Grill for a ride out to some particular snorkeling sites. We are all a-quiver at the prospect of swimming with sea turtles. At least, I am. The four of us sit on the padded seat in the water taxi, and let the wind toss our hair. Fifteen minutes later, the engine slows as we near White Island, where we snorkel briefly. Then we arrive at the protected cove of Saline Island, where we spend several hours, and I never want to leave. We can already see turtles poking their heads above water to breathe.
Most of the cove is white sand and sea grass. Green sea turtles of various sizes soar through the water. As we move slowly, they allow us to approach. Stella and I linger for twenty minutes watching one huge turtle grazing. She reaches forward with both front flippers, shuts her eyes, then scrapes back the sand to expose more grass. Then she lowers her smooth head and opens her jaw and munches off mouthfuls.
I watch her chew, admiring the geometry of her patterned head and body. I watch Stella as she watches, perfectly still and close but not too close. She floats at the water surface, arms and legs dangling, face alight, breathing calmly through her snorkel. She looks like I feel—a body full of wonder.
When the turtle lifts from the sand, she moves like a meditation. Her flippers perform a ballet. Gliding through the water, she seems fluid herself. We are watching some magic that transforms a solid creature into liquid, unable to be separated from the ocean that holds her. She lifts and tilts and angles her head into the air, then returns to her unhurried choreography underwater.
Meanwhile, Andrew and Sam are checking out a salt pond on the island. It is steaming hot and surrounded by dark tarry quicksand. Sam loses his croc in it, and Andrew drops on all fours after it to distribute his weight and keep him from sinking into it. It’s like something from a movie. They return with pink feet and hands slightly scalded.
Stella and I are oblivious of their peril. Never lifting our own faces above the water, we snorkel towards the edge of the cove. Clumps of coral begin to appear until we are floating several feet above a reef full of fish. The guys join us, and we point out notable fish, especially huge specimens of familiar species like the scrawled filefish. We linger over our first flounder, who lies like a pancake on the ocean floor with both eyes on the same side of it. The eyes are raised onto bumps and look all around. Across flat, tan body are iridescent blue circles, which get brighter when we dive towards it.
When we climb back into the water taxi, there’s a goat on the boat. While we were snorkeling, the driver motored to another island to check on his livestock, so we had an extra passenger on the way back to Tyrell Bay. Livestock is everywhere on Carriacou. In the dry season, they let the goats and sheep loose to forage for themselves on the roadsides and yards. Nearly every ewe has twins or triplets; I walk around answering their small bleats.
On Friday afternoon, we take the Osprey back to St. George’s. There’s barely standing room on the boat, and the ride is much smoother. On the lower level, a crowd around the concession stand buys Carib beers and hot dogs and popcorn, carrying them up the tight spiral staircase past our spot by the railing. Two brown boobies—large seabirds—hang with the boat, perching on the tall antenna and diving after fish. We cheer as one of them catches a flying fish mid-air.
As the light turns golden, we chug back into the Carenage. We disembark into a Friday-evening throng of people going all directions. In moments, the kids and I have jumped onto a bus heading home. Andrew plans to walk home with the fishing rods, but we’re driving off so fast, I don’t have time to let him know. From the bus, I see him craning his head around looking for us. I decide to communicate Grenada-style.
“Could you tell that man that we got a bus?” I ask the woman by the far window and gesture at Andrew with my chin.
“Hey!” She shouts out the window, getting Andrew’s attention. “She says they’re here on the bus.”
Andrew’s face breaks into a smile of understanding. The woman turns back to me and grins. I’m grinning too. I realize that I haven’t stopped smiling for three days.
Beautiful pictures! And how the 2 children have grown!! Thanks for writing your experiences in Granada.