The Rock

The boat rumbled to a stop a half-mile offshore, rocked by the stronger waves washing over the reef. Just ahead was Hell’s Gate, a massive chunk of coral rock jutting from the breakers; centuries of wind and water had carved a hole straight through the center of it. I sat on the bow of the boat, taking in the strong Caribbean sun pounding down out of the clear sky – and then I let myself tumble off the side along with the others.

It was maybe twenty yards of swimming until the sea floor rose enough for me to stand tall, one hand gripping half-buried pieces of submerged coral rock for balance against the waves pouring through the Gate. Another ten yards and we could see the fissure in the rock, a jagged path leading into the narrow opening of a cave. We climbed. Inside, the sandy path and low overhangs – this narrow, rocky throat, whistling – opened onto a two-story grotto, circular as a grain silo and honeycombed from eons of weather. On every tidal surge, white foam boiled up from the pool at our feet, connected by an underwater channel to the sea. We climbed, scrambling up the sharp rock – made the top of the overhang, the arch, with its vista of turquoise water stretching to the far Antigua shoreline.

At my desk in New York a few days later the red marks on my palms from the rocks’ jagged teeth are fading into dull clouds. We’re closing the cigar magazine; my skin is peeling around my forehead and below my eyes, from an overdose of tropical sun – yet I haven’t seen any sun in days.