Ampere Sand.

Bridgetown, Barbados — The transparent sea breathes cool kisses to the sun’s rays.

Turquoise and diamonds cascade into the talc.

Tucked away behind the main centre, Bridgetown offers the best free beach within walking distance of a cruise port on this route.

It’s endlessly soft; the water, endlessly clear.

Sail boat masts anchored just offshore provide the exclamation marks on a stunning day.

Ship Shape.

In-spired.

Castries, Saint Lucia — The rope chafes against my leg, leaving waffle-like welts against a sunburn.

It's the price you pay for having always wanted to sit on the net at the front of a catamaran.

The craft slices through the water, spitting up crystals, as a sailboat glides past with the grace of a ballerina.

A solitary sea turtle carves arcs of water beneath its shell.

In the background, the Pitons — a pair of mountainous volcanic plugs — rise up in emerald greens.

In the foreground, too much rum punch.

Bored Walking.

Beach, breached.

Philipsburg, Sint Maarten — We’re encrusted in salt and sand.

A bucket of Carib, tucked at the base of our chairs, keeps us cool. It also gives us a mild floating sensation we can't blame entirely on the mild waves.

Especially after a second bucket appears — with small cups of rum punch.

A serpentine boardwalk winds between Philipsburg's colourful timbered structures, separating restaurants from the beach. Sandwich boards offer a variety of specials, wi-fi and clean bathrooms.

Hawkers rent chairs and umbrellas in an attempt to get you to stay near particular restaurants. Of course, we get a whispered "special deal." Performers dance behind a keyboard, playing reggae and the Eagles.

A day spent at a snail's pace.

Their sounds are softened as my head bobs under water. Music, muffled and caught in a bubble. 

Bright umbrellas line the beach like a rainbow of gumballs. The sun thumps and jerk chicken sizzles on the grill.

It’s a beach day in Sint Maarten, turquoise jewels shimmering around our faces.

We bob in the salt, bathing in the sun.

Bliss.

Colossus of Roads.

Post-colonial.

Tortola, British Virgin Islands — Road Town lives up to its name.


Traffic snakes along the shore road, breathing exhaust amidst a patois of horn blasts.


The city’s name is actually based on the nautical term “the roads,” referring to a sheltered place for ships. As if on cue, we round a corner to sail boat masts rising from the harbour like a congregation rejoicing.

Hallelujah.



For sail.

The area is also particularly well-known for yacht charters.

Stepping into town, we’re greeted by familiar greenhouse smells on an overcast morning. And the slow roast of jerk chicken. Crabs scurry into holes alongside the wavy sidewalk.


Brightly coloured homes hang in the green hills like the flowers that dot so many gardens. A bleached blue postal box emblazoned with the Queen’s crest stands sentry at a lonely corner.


It’s a stark reminder of the monarchy’s faded glory.

Another Brick in the Wall.

Teach a man to fish.

Basseterre, Saint Kitts – The low-slung brick wall sports a message: “No nastiness.”

As we wade through the mild humidity past downtown – where faded British phone boxes stand barren, in an apt metaphor for the former colonial state – and into the community, many walls carry similar slogans.

They call for unity, for the elimination of gender-based and sexual violence, and decry crime with crudely scrawled guns and knives. The city has the highest murder rate of any country’s capital.

Interspersed are gang tags and RIPs to fallen comrades like ‘Beat Boy.’ Like billboards to poverty, the street is filled with the disassembled jigsaw puzzles of rusty vehicles. Many of the pieces are missing, never again to be found.

Back downtown, more memories of the slow fade of colonialism and a traffic officer, who barks at me about jaywalking at an uncertain intersection.

It’s supposed to be a $500 fine. But, I get a pass.

No nastiness today.

Psalms and Palms.

Arch nemesis.

Castries, Saint Lucia – Like most, it’s a palm Sunday in Saint Lucia.

The streets are predominantly shuttered and even the steel sheet-covered Castries Market and Vendors Arcade, built in 1891, has fallen silent, apart from a few scattered tables of clothes and trinkets. The central fountain, sporting a lion's head and a mosaic basin, bears a large sign announcing "No smoking. No Spitting."

Hymns from the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, meanwhile, sway through the breeze in their best Sunday dresses.

They carry with them the colour of the islands.

All that remains is the palms, bent at the waist, sharp leaves like combs, rattling against the blue sky: nature’s percussion.

A Common Wealth.

A tasty tree-t.

Bridgetown, Barbados – The rains have come, ghosting hills that once hid buccaneers argh-mateying through the islands.

The shades of grey are a far cry from the rainbow palettes we’ve seen thus far.

Bridgetown is also one of the few ports we’ve found with a free beach nearby: pink-hued talc, a pillow under toes, ushering in the clearest aquamarine lolling to shore.

This morning, though, we wandered through the historic garrison district amidst women shelling peas and cobblers hammering shoes on cobblestone streets. Small shacks sell beer. It’s a stitch in time.

Christmas trees representing all Commonwealth nations have been sewn into the scene with lazily swaying palms. They’ve been decorated with relevant ornaments made by the island’s primary school children. Styrofoam snowmen, Mounties and hockey sticks cling to Canada’s tree.

Obviously.

For some unexplained reason, China and USA are also represented.

Yes, the latter is covered in footballs and hot dogs.

A Grave Situation.

Things are looking up.

St. John’s, Antigua – We’re greeted by steel drums, snackettes and open sewers that threaten to ensnare unaware tourists.

A few shorebirds salute lazily between equally paced clouds.

Looming above the city, perched on a central hill, stands St. John’s Cathedral – also known as St. John the Divine. Its third incarnation, built in 1847, is immediately recognizable for the two tall towers rising from its roof.

The Cathedral hangs there like a weather-beaten halo.

Over the years, its face has been pockmarked by repeated storms and earthquakes. Windows wink with missing panes.

Broken pieces lay wrinkled on the lawn: doors, shutters and marble tombstones have been stacked like jagged teeth forcibly knocked out. Most are so old family likely no longer visits.

The building’s pain is obvious, and testament to nature usually winning, regardless of faith. Crossing the threshold, however, we’re greeted by rib after rib of light wood pew in high polish.

Despite the punishment the building has endured, its heart is obviously strong.

As the Rooster Crows.

Painting the town.

Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, USVI – Green bumps rise from the turquoise carpet.

They’re jewelled like Christmas trees by brightly coloured houses scattered through the hills with large, rounded storm doors.

The roads, meanwhile, are filled with so many chickens a local brewery has begun naming beers after them. Twenty or so peck around  an alley filled with grain.

It’s conveniently located next to a restaurant called the Chicken Fry.

Shop air conditioning breathes a chill into narrow alleys filled with jewellery stores sparkling with diamonds and other precious stones. They employ a variety of tactics to get you to visit.

“Did you read the news article about wearing open-toed shoes on the island?” one shopkeeper asks, striking a tone of mild alarm. A pause before we realize he’s hoping to create twinkle toes.

“Well-played,” I chuckle. But, not well enough to get me to go in.

Heading back to the ship, a mural outside a housing complex calls to save the reefs.

In what’s likely an apt metaphor, it’s peeling away, too.

In Waves.

The sea is sick.

Sargasso Sea – Blackness heaves beneath us as mountains collapse and re-form with a snarl.

We cleave through 14.5-foot waves, bringing angry exclamations in sprays of turquoise and diamonds that shatter all around.

Beauty lurks in the deep darkness, birthed from violence.

Vignettes from the Deck II: Feeling Blue.

Blue-light special.

Gulf of Mexico – The horizon doesn’t change: a block of blue meets one of a darker hue.

It’s as though we’re not moving, until a shapeless cloud flutters by with a wave.

No more land: just the open sea.

No more time: just the memories of blue on blue, unmoving.

I, the same.

Vignettes from the Deck I: Throngs and Thongs.

The sign in Belize was prescient.

Gulf of Mexico – Because it’s 1972, the ship still has a ‘Queen of the Seas’ contest, where eight women strut and dirty dance around the pool for four male judges.

A buxom blonde plays to the hooting throngs; another claims to have not had enough alcohol to carry-through with the task. She changes the song and suddenly has no issues thrusting her hips to the beat.

A child, meanwhile, cannonballs into the pool.

Sitting poolside, I suddenly feel a rear end twerking against my back as the latest contestant ups the ante.

Last up, an older Portuguese woman with well-lotioned wrinkles that shimmer like the sea doffs her top to the judges. The ship’s contest director jokes it has gained him a trip home tomorrow.

Naturally, she wins.

Swinging By.

Christmas in Cozumel.

Cozumel, Mexico – “But amigo, you can drink and drive,” I’m told by the dune buggy rental tout on the main drag.

Knowing that, I’ll definitely stay off the roads, thanks.

Cozumel is a vibrant tourist town, where techno meets mariachi, and where concrete dust from all the construction fills your lungs. As ever, we’re greeted by trinkets and entreaties to visit any number of stores – perhaps even more than at other stops.

Even when it’s obvious you’ve said 'no' 16 consecutive times, everyone feels they’ll be lucky number 17 to elicit a ‘yes.’ It’s a lively spot.

We amble up the coast past a ship run aground and past rocky beaches that have drawn a few snorkelers bobbing in the surf. Languid palm trees curve over bright hibiscus bushes.

Painted into a corner.

Down a quieter back street filled with restaurants and quaint hotels, the air is filled with aromas of baking bread. The sun, meanwhile, has begun to heat up with the intensity of a bucket of chili peppers.

Stopping by Habaneros Bar & Grill, we sidle up to the bar, and onto swings suspended from the ceiling. The beer is cold, and the habanero sauce accompanying the guacamole is hot. Perfect, in other words.

Today, I’ll stick to swinging, rather than driving.

Can You Belize It?

Shabby chic.

Belize City, Belize – Following a 20-minute tender to shore, we are greeted by the storm-beaten planks of tilted houses, bleached and encrusted in salt.

Others are brightly painted masks of the evident poverty. As is so often the case, the port is a party, the town, a separate world.

But then, a large bank of clouds breaks into a smile.

It would be the same from the locals.

A country with a porpoise.

A former policeman points us to where we should explore at the back side of town. Another, sporting a curly beard, spouts local history, hoping to take us on a tour and share his evident knowledge. Prince Charles Perez is apparently a local fixture and goodwill ambassador for Belize, a fact later confirmed online.

A shopkeeper drops the price on a couple local Belikin beers as he lifts the tops for us, and we spend a half hour speaking with a very talkative woman in a spice shop.

Despite the country’s reputation for violent crime, this has easily been the friendliest stop on the trip.

Town and Country.

All around the world, Coke is it.

Santo Tomas de Castilla, Guatemala – Lacy mist hangs over the hills as the sun rises in hazy oranges.

Pelicans flock around small fishing boats, their shovels at the ready.

Walking into town, we are faced by green hills, crowned in white, towering over brightly painted, low-slung buildings that could, from a distance, appear to be flowers painted into the foliage. The greasy air, however, smells of fry oil.

As we wind through town and into the country, we’re regularly greeted by the more Italian-than-Spanish “Buon Dia,” and a tour from the ship rumbles by in a trolley. They wave, later expressing surprise we had ventured out on foot. Why wouldn’t we?

Perro, in peril.

Taxi horns punch the air, seeking fares as motorcycle after motorcycle rattles past; on one, a toddler stands between her parents. Catch-all shops, still barred at this hour, keep us from 1980s-vintage casino kiosks, while young women make tortillas over steel drums set alongside the road. It’s breakfast time in Guatemala.

Walking through the narrow, labyrinthine aisles of the local market, we fold ourselves into booths whose windows are dressed with second-hand clothes, vegetables, sausage links and other fresh cuts of meat. Not a square inch is wasted, as roosters peck under woven baskets underfoot. The air is ripe, but it doesn’t make me hungry.

It was an experience, however, for which I had a thirst: it has been nice to get out from the cruise crowd and its affliction with trinkets and Bubba mugs of rum.

It was a good morning.

Leave a Tender Moment Alone.

The tiny sliver of Honduras we saw.

Roátan, Honduras – Roátan’s green hills lie just beyond our reach.

Instead, we’re stuck in the ship’s atrium, watching the bulbous characters of Wii bowling awkwardly swing their arms on the big screen. Christmas decorations and tropical renditions of carols – Auld Lang Syne on xylophone, anyone? – stand out against the morning heat.

The swells are wreaking havoc with the lifeboats that are to serve as our tenders because another ship beat us to port. Safety trumps all, as it should. And, we're on vacation.

Now we wait, having stood in line for 90 minutes for a pass to disembark today.

We still ended up with only the fourth boat.

We have nothing booked, so it’s not a big deal for us, although we had talked about taking a taxi to Bananarama Dive & Beach Resort to snorkel the barrier reef. Time is too short at this point.

Oh well, the deck attendant keeps coming by to take drink orders.

A Ray of Sunshine.

Hey, I'm Ray.

Georgetown, Cayman Islands – Waves rise, unique like the snowflakes falling back home.

Just like these moments, they shift and are gone, never to be repeated.

We had to tender to shore this morning, but only received a pass for the eighth boat – we should have lined up earlier. Snorkels in hand, we talked our way onto an earlier tender as we didn’t want to miss the one excursion we had booked.

Especially to Stingray City.

Pulling toward shore in Grand Cayman, it is easy to get lost in the sea of jewelry before us: bands of jade and turquoise spread as far as the eye can see as depths of the crystal waters vary.

Something fishy going on; where are my friends?

Beneath the waves, a neon disco comes to life as the brightest-coloured fish dance past. Dark ones with thin blue stripes down their backs appear as if under black light as I climb down into the brain coral and sea fans. Swirls of orange, yellow and purple pirouette past my mask, which serves as a window into a new world. This is my kind of party.

A large leopard-spotted grouper tucks itself away into a crack, too large to conceal itself completely.

A massive female stingray glides past at the sandbar, gracefully displacing the water around her –  such a ballerina of the seas. More arrive, sploshing themselves onto my hip as I offer squid. Eventually, more than 25 of them flop against us like rubbery wetsuits, their long stingers trailing harmlessly behind. After a kiss and a rub, they slide back to the shimmering sea floor.

I always wrestle with the ethics of experiences like these, which alter the animals’ habits and habitats. But it was a blast.

And I’m reminded of how much I love the sea: silence and beauty.

Mayan Ruins.

"I'm searching for the lesser-known Mexican Buddha."

Costa Maya, Mexico – The sea air, brined in salinity, lightens. The tickle of a breeze offers a whisper against the heat.

Our first port is the purpose-built town of Costa Maya. Build it, and the cruise ships will come, apparently.

It doesn’t mean they should.

The port itself is a theme park of manufactured culture and Chinese trinkets that try to nod to history and to tourist dollars alike: shelves are filled with Mayan masks and sugar skulls.

All are emblazoned with American sports team logos.

It’s almost as though this is the only way we could possibly appreciate another culture. In the distance rests what appears to be a Mayan temple. Water slides protrude from all angles like octopus arms.

Meanwhile, three ships of bleached and beached tourists converge upon the pool at the village's centre, tall plastic palm trees of alcohol in hand. Bars are set all around.

It’s just like being on the ship.

Engulfed.

Making waves.

Gulf of Mexico – The sea rolls by like a reel.

Fishermen, too.

The wind winds in waves as we wake in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, the sun rising in the colour of flamingo wings. It’s warmer, but gusty.

Hypnotic waves follow the churn behind the ship, dissolving into turquoise set against an endless horizon of blue. I keep waiting for dolphins.

And, I'm left thinking of the snow-crowned conifers from one of the absolute best days of my life, 16 years ago today: happy birthday to my favourite young lady. This day's weather is quite a contrast.

Pulling forward, clouds become tinted by our chimney stacks, leaving them yellowed like nicotine-stained teeth. It’s hard not to think of the environmental price of my relaxation.

As waves scatter like static, the beauty in isolation, however, is astounding: we are but a ripple in a giant blotter of blue.

Afloat.

Works for me.

New Orleans, LA – Night oozes over the Mississippi like an oil spill, the shore twinkling like a string of Mardi Gras beads.

With it, a chill, despite only being 5 p.m.

Our ship was 90 minutes late leaving port due to traffic on the river, but we’re finally underway. Naturally, we arrived painfully early to climb aboard.

At least we have a glass of sparkling wine.

Morning in New Orleans was about decisions: The Ruby Slipper Café is known for its eggs Benedict, prepared several ways. The Peacemaker came to the rescue: one biscuit covered in Applewood smoked pork, another in fried chicken. And, naturally, buttery Hollandaise sauce, which is usually something of which I’m not a fan. So smooth, and so rich.

New Orleans is about eating, isn’t it?

“Laissez les bons temps rouler” goes the local expression – roller bags clacking over the broken pavement, we do just that.

Ships ahoy.