The boatman kills the engine and you drift the final meters onto sand so pale it looks imported, though it's simply the powdered remains of shells ground fine by waves that lose their aggression in the cove's protective embrace. You step into ankle-deep water the temperature of bathwater and clarity of air, watching your toes magnify beneath the surface as small fish investigate your intrusion.
“This cove exists as a complete microenvironment sheltered by rock arms that transform open Caribbean into a private saltwater pool accessible only by sea.”
Tropical island lagoon from above
The rock walls curve around you with intentional geometry, as if designed by an architect who understood the human need for enclosure without confinement. Sea grape trees crown the upper rocks, their round leaves rattling in the breeze that somehow reaches into this protected space without bringing the open-water chop. You can hear waves breaking on the outer coast—a bass rumble reminder of the Caribbean's power—but inside the cove, wavelets lap the sand with the gentleness of lake water.
You spend the afternoon moving between three activities: floating in the central pool where the water deepens to maybe eight feet, exploring the rocky margins where crabs conduct their sideways business, and lying on the narrow beach where the sand holds heat like a thermal blanket. The boatman will return in three hours. You have no desire to count the minutes.
