Scuba, scuba and more scuba.

This is the main reason to come to Grand Cayman, an island that initially struck me as rather soulless. The small capital of this small island, which remains one of the United Kingdom’s few remaining colonial outposts, George Town, has little to recommend it, apart from some interesting statues and tasteful wall murals in a central square. Mostly it contains luxury shops selling to the cruise-ship passengers that stay here from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. on any given day. Every morning, I would sit on my balcony at the Sunset House Hotel and have a coffee, and I found I could set my watch by when the cruise ships (Carnival and Royal Caribbean) came in.

Cruise passengers have a wonderful time in the Cayman Islands. Some shop, some sit on glorious beaches and relax and some snorkel at Stingray City, where many stingrays come to eat scraps dumped by fishermen or squid handed to tourists.

The closest beach to the cruise terminal, Seven Mile Beach, is a strand to marvel at, but its hotels and strip mall-style shops, lining up against the road, left me cold. That said, I am sure a stay at the Ritz-Carlton (AAA Five Diamond) is a sybaritic delight that I would not turn down if offered. A smaller, perfect beach exists south of George Town. Smith’s Cove, also known as Smith’s Barcadere, has a thin piece of beach leading smoothly down to the water between two coral outcrops. It is great for snorkeling and is also the chosen spot for island baptisms.  

But it is for scuba-diving that many people come to these islands, and it was also the reason I came. I had done my Professional Association of Diving Instructors (PADI) course of online study, and on my first morning on this warm island was ready to start the full certification process. This was a two-day operation, which initially included having to swim 700 feet and to tread water for 10 minutes. My instructor, Mike Sutton-Brown, originally an inhabitant of Blackpool in Lancashire, England, was a member of Sunset Divers and a very able teacher. All the skills I needed, and which seemed obtuse when read about online, became simple and relevant when we practiced them in the pool and improved them in the Caribbean Sea, which laps up to the rocky front (that means there’s a reef right there waiting for you) of the resort.

To be certified, divers need to complete four dives of deeper than 20 feet and for more than 20 minutes. My second dive of the day was the only one that I chose to abort, one of my ears refusing to equalize the increasing pressure that comes with depth. Thankfully, the next day I was able to do three dives with no problems, and after that, during Total Sub, I did another 12. Mike showed me how to do each skill, and then he would sign that I should repeat it. If I did it correctly, then there was shake of hands to show that I had passed. Some of the trickier maneuvers included taking your tank and buoyancy-control jacket on and off under water and getting rid of the water that you allow to completely fill your mask (your eyes are smarting a little when you do this), but I was aware all the time that I was breathing, so I did not feel nervous. And then after one last certification dive, I was a fully-fledged open-water certified diver, and that felt good. On the next morning and for another three mornings, I and 15 other divers went out to various sites chosen by our crew leader to experience the wonders of the deep. I have been to 58 countries and love travelling, but it occurred to me as I emerged following my first dive that three-quarters of the world was previously off limits to me. The sea, I instantly decided, is a wonderful place.

I saw Hawksbill turtles and glided after them; spotted a huge green moray eel with its tail stuck through one hole and its head through another; smiled at large hogfish swimming in pairs and as curious of you as you are of them; recognized diamond-shaped southern stingrays accompanied by blue tang fish that were preening them; inspected amazingly shaped coral and sponges; saw an octopus’ sucker-laced leg emerging from a crevice; marveled at juvenile spotted drums and generally had a fantastic time enjoying a huge host of other fish, only a few I was able to name following a careful analysis of a field guide. We swam above reefs, along passages, over sandy flats and close to wrecks. On the seabed we saw Garden eels rapidly popping back into the sand, peacock flounders disappearing into the floor and the large forearms of conch encased in beautiful pink shells. The smile on my face when I emerged, following the standard three-minute safety stop at 15 feet below sea level, I could feel from ear to ear. I love this world.

Then, we would take the necessary surface-interval rest, before going in again, but at a lower depth, which is one of the golden rules of safe, no-decompression diving. Back at the bar at Sunset House we compared adventures, and everyone—and there was an incredible array of people, of different ages, sizes and athletic abilities—was excited that there was a new diver in their midst.

At one dive site called Oro Verde we were told the amusing, although also tragic, story of how it got its name. The Oro Verde is a sunken wreck and very much the stuff of local legend. Apparently, its captain wanted to retire, and he thought retirement might be made easier if he conducted some illegal activity just before giving up work. A certain white powder was secretly stored on board, but very soon the crew discovered the contraband and approached the captain to ask for a share of the proceeds. The captain refused, so the crew “dispatched” him. It was then that things went very wrong for them. They wanted to put the boat somewhere safe to dwell on their next move, but they lacked the captain’s knowledge of the local reefs. The boat grounded, and the panicked crew all drowned. Rumors start to spread on the island that there was an interesting cargo still aboard, and all boats turned towards the Oro Verde. Fortunately, the police reached the site first and confiscated the drugs. This is when the police made its big mistake of the whole error-prone tale.

They took the cargo to the more desolate eastern end of Grand Cayman, wanting to get rid of the drugs before the weekend started. So they they decided to burn them, but before they could, the wind changed direction. Locals joke that still to this day, residents of George Town and Seven Mile Beach, to the west, stand outside their houses and shops every Friday night and wistfully stare eastwards with their nostrils dilated. Any other tales of the sea?