SOUTHAMPTON PARISH, Bermuda - Soft and cushiony, with a shade of pink to enhance the dramatic effect, the sand on the beaches of Bermuda is better than advertised. Hemmed in by jagged rock formations and backed by cliffs, the southeastern shoreline, where the finest beaches lie, is a mix of horseshoe-shaped coves filled with tanning bodies and small jewel-like pockets of sand with just enough space to contain a family or two. This sublime stretch of coast serves as the ideal welcome mat for the waves that have rolled some 600 miles from the coast of Cape Hatteras, N.C., the closest land mass to the west.
From beach to forest to cave, under Bermuda’s spell
Catrin Glawischnig left Austria three years ago and leads horseback riding… (STEPHEN JERMANOK FOR THE…)
Look closely at the ocean and you might misconstrue the clear waters as gentle. Yet this often angry surf has thrust so many ships onto the thorny reefs that surround the island that the term Bermuda Triangle was coined. There are more than 350 documented shipwrecks, including Spanish galleons from the late 16th century, Confederate blockade runners from the Civil War, European luxury liners that went down in the early 1900s, and immense World War II freighters. I was inside one of those freighters, The Hermes, 13 years ago when mysteriously I almost went to my own watery grave.
On assignment to write a scuba diving story, I was 70 feet below the ocean’s surface staring at the pilothouse wheel, which was coated in a slick layer of barnacles. I had just made the descent and my tank was close to full. That was until I labored to get another breath and noticed that my tank was on empty. My partner had raced ahead to view the captain’s quarters, leaving me alone. I quickly swam up the stairwell of The Hermes to the upper deck and then surged with all my strength to the surface while slowly exhaling. I still remember the sun pouring down on my head as I popped above the waterline, gagging and sucking in as much oxygen as possible.
I swam over to the scuba boat, crawled inside, and relayed to the outfitter what had just occurred.
“Must have been a faulty tank, mate,’’ he said in his thick Aussie accent. I thought momentarily about tackling him overboard but I didn’t have the strength. I took off all my equipment and soaked up the rays, happy to be alive.
Even though Bermuda is only a 90-minute flight from Boston, I never had the urge to return, until now. I realized I spent so much time underwater on that first trip that I didn’t give the 21-mile-long island a decent chance. On this trip I would sift my toes through the thick sand, content to look at the sea from a distance. I would bike on a former railroad route, horseback ride on a ridge above those pink sands, and visit an underground cave and its deep lake, where stalactites reflect off the watery surface to resemble the city of Atlantis.
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