Retreat to the islands
Turks and Caicos offer unspoiled hideaways — find them, before the crowds do
The event always ends tragically: All the males die and sink to the bottom of the sea. But the beginning is filled with light, promise and rum punch. And so, on the fourth day after the full moon of September, I boarded a 52-foot catamaran with several others. We set sail under a cotton-candy sky to watch a spectacle with a Grimm’s fairy-tale twist — the mating of the glowworms in Turks and Caicos.
As night fell, all eyes, including those rimmed red from too much sun and drink, turned to the calm waters surrounding Providenciales, on the Caicos side of the country. We combed the dark bay for the electricgreen sparks that signaled the worms’ arrival.
“The more rum you drink, the more worms you’ll see,” said Capt. Rock, as crew members refilled empty cups.
Not long into our watch, illuminated splotches appeared on the water’s surface. Each flash represented a condensed love story: Boy worm meets girl worm. They dance, he fertilizes, and they split. The male then bids the world farewell. “It’s not a bad way to go,” said the captain. “He probably has a smile on his face.”
The coupling ritual, which lasts about 15 minutes, occurs in a specific place — off the northeast tip of Providenciales, or Provo — three to five days after the full moon. Like Odontosyllis enopla, many visitors also stick close to one island. They plant their sun umbrella in Provo, the entry point for all international air passengers, or Grand Turk, the capital and cruise ship port that received more than 900,000 oceangoers last year.
Despite the country’s binary name, Turks and Caicos is not a duo like Batman and Robin. The British overseas territory encompasses 40 islands and cays, including eight inhabited isles, that hang like extra links off the Bahamian chain. The Turks Island Passage separates Caicos to the northwest and Turks to the east. Puddle-jumpers bridge the 22-mile-wide divide; ferries ford the shorter passages; and kayaks span the smaller gaps. And on one tiny stretch between Caicos and Long Cay, I nearly hitched a ride from a passing stingray.
The finder of buried gold
A big red bar divides Provo’s timeline into Before Club Med and After Club Med. The landmark year was 1984, when the country’s first big resort opened, kindling a hotel-building spree and tourist boom.
In B.C.M., the third-largest island was home to about 100 people and one or two modest lodgings. The roads were unpaved, and phone service and electricity were spotty. In A.C.M., nearly 24,000 residents — out of a total population of about 32,000 — inhabit the island with the only international airport. (Caicos plans to add a second facility next year.) More than a dozen hotels, including the families-gone-crazy Beaches, huddle along the 12-mile-long Grace Bay. The Ritz-Carlton is the latest property angling for a spot on the pearly-white-sand strip. If the company succeeds, its 12-story hotel will be the tallest structure in the land.
I stayed at Club Med Turkoise, the pioneer of Provo; the all-inclusive’s dated décor took me back to the early frontier period. The resort sits on the eastern end of Grace Bay, the Meryl Streep of beaches. (TripAdvisor’s 2016 Travelers’ Choice Awards voted it the best of the world’s top 25 beaches.) On my first morning, I stepped onto sand as refined as cake flour and walked barefoot for miles. The overall landscape stayed the same, a pristine spread of ocean and beach. Only the quality of the lounge chairs and the quantity of the aquatic toys varied as I traversed the back yards of the different resorts. I was aiming for Turtle Cove, on the western edge, but turned around two-thirds of the way to rest my tender arches. The following day, I rounded the unexplored bend to meet a modern-love treasure hunter.
On a weekday afternoon, John Galleymore was wading in waist-high water, a few feet from the snorkeling spot. He wore bulky headphones and a longsleeved T-shirt that read, “Lost Jewelry.” He gripped a metal pole in each gloved hand. Every so often, he would scoop up wet sand and toss the debris onto the beach.
The Provo resident manages Bruce Willis’ vacation house on nearby Parrot Cay, but during his downtime, he hauls his metal detector around the island scouring for valuables. His first client was a distraught woman who had lost a family heirloom while sunbathing. He retrieved from the sand the Star of David charm, which her grandmother had worn through World War II. Since that 2014 discovery, John has recovered dozens of tourists’ engagement rings, diamond wedding bands, keys, earrings and necklaces. He also uncovered an early-18th-century Spanish silver coin that he will donate to the local museum and an expensive dive watch that he wears on his wrist.
The pieces “don’t go far, unless there’s a storm,” he said. Speaking generally, “If I know where it is, I can find basically anything.”
Scaling up the fauna
Hurricane season runs from June 1 to Nov. 30, but the offseason slows to a one-legged crawl from late August through September, when islanders take their own vacations. There are pros and cons to visiting Turks and Caicos during this period. On the plus side, you will bump into fewer tourists (a 20 to 30 percent drop from high season), pay lower hotel rates (my Club
The British overseas territory encompasses 40 islands and cays, including eight inhabited isles, that hang like extra links off the Bahamian chain.
Med stay was half off) and swim in calmer seas (winter storms can churn up the Atlantic). The downsides include hotel and restaurant closings, shortened business hours, the threat of a hurricane and a dearth of kayak buddies to accompany you to Little Water Cay.
Big Blue Unlimited organizes eco-tours on Provo and North and Middle Caicos, a pair of bridge-linked islands accessible by ferry. The company had led the only glowworm tour during my September visit (in busier months, several outfitters go out) and arranges guided kayak trips to the iguana sanctuary on Little Water Cay — with a minimum of two people. I signed up in the morning. By late afternoon, they were still down one.
So I set off alone, in a rented kayak. At Blue Haven Marina, a staff member traced the zigzaggy route. I followed her finger past the docks, along the mangroves, around a speck of land and to the nature reserve. I lazily paddled on water the texture of bubble wrap. I tied up and hopped onto a wooden boardwalk leading to the visitors’ center. En route, I heard a rustling in the dry brush. I let out a startled scream. An iguana with a mohawk of spikes scurried to the edge of the walkway, pulled his body up and over the edge and crossed to the other side. He carried a large piece of fruit in his mouth. Three more iguanas surfaced, and a chase ensued.
In the empty visitors’ center, I read about the country’s largest indigenous land animal. The scaly head count, I learned, is about 50,000, the most robust population in the Caribbean. My self-education was interrupted by the buzz of a boat motor and the slap of feet on wood. The sanctuary guide greeted me and apologized for his absence: He had popped over to Provo for lunch. He offered to show me a pond out back, where the iguanas often loll in the sun like hung over wedding guests. But then we noticed a curtain of rain unfurling across the sky. Thunder rumbled. We retreated to the hut, where, in the spirit of cultural exchange, I introduced him to Tinder and he explained the meaning of “red-eye” (a jealous person). A seaside worth its salt
I am normally a pepper person but I switched shakers to honor the islands’ heritage. During dinner at Blu, at the East Bay Resort, the waiter delivered a plate of crusty bread and a small bowl filled with white crystals. The French Canadian server identified the seasoning as fleur de sel from — “France?” “No, Caicos,” he answered. I crunched down and tasted the Atlantic in Pop Rocks form. That bite also released hundreds of years of history. In the late 1600s, sailors from Bermuda started to arrive on Grand Turk and Salt Cay, both in Turks, and on Caicos. They discovered heaps of salt crusted on the inland ponds and harvested the mineral for the North American markets. The expansion of the cod industry in New England and Nova Scotia increased demand for the food preservative. The Bermudians grew wealthy and established roots on the islands, settling Balfour Town on Salt Cay in 1673, Cockburn Town on Grand Turk in 1766 and Cockburn Harbour on South Caicos in 1840.
In the mid-20th century, Morton Salt crushed the islands’ livelihood. South Caicos folded its saltworks in 1964; Grand Turk and Salt Cay shuttered their businesses a decade later. However, relics of the white gold age still remain — on Salt Cay, the bittiest island of the bunch, a local named Gladys offered me a ride from the airport to town. Puttering along in her golf cart, we passed a series of salt ponds sectioned by low stone walls. Cay-to-table dining
On South Caicos, the last hop on my island skipabout, I biked around large salt ponds inhabited by leggy herons and flocks of flamingos. I veered onto a narrow trail leading to a gazebo and a boiling hole. The natural underwater passage, which links the ocean to the salina, was as still as a glass of tap water.
At East Bay Resort, I signed up for a land tour with Jeremiah Forbes, an islander who mixes local trivia with folksy anecdotes. (Of Hurricane Ike, he said, “I spent the whole night trying to keep my air-conditioning unit in.”) He showed me the abandoned White House on the hill, a 19th-century salt storage structure where Queen Elizabeth stayed during her 1966 visit. And the fish factories that process conch and lobster. And the water-collecting shed where locals without running water can fill buckets three times a week.
I learned that the national music style is rake and scrape, which features a saw, goat skin drums and maracas, and that each island has a national dish. Representing for South Caicos: hash lobster, fried bonefish and grits. Provo claims barbecue chicken and ribs, which Jeremiah derided with “It’s made up.” Many of my questions about the wildlife resulted in a culinary observation — or a recipe.
“Some people still eat iguana, but it’s hush mouth,” he said of the protected reptiles.
“Sea turtles nest on East Caicos and Fish Cay,” he said, adding that some islanders whip up turtle-egg protein shakes.
“Flamingo tastes like flamingo,” he responded to my question about the bird’s flavor.
From Cockburn Harbour, a settlement with crumbling stone homes, Jeremiah drove to the less developed north side. We stopped on a bluff and gazed out at the translucent water. Neither of us said a word. I wondered whether we were sharing the same thought bubble.
“I am thinking about how many lobsters I could be getting,” said Jeremiah, a free-diving fisherman. Wrong telepathic number. In the afternoon, I switched to the aquatic portion of my amphibious tour. Ketyn, who occupied the captain’s chair, steered the boat to a reef nicknamed the Aquarium. I floated beside flashy angelfish and barracuda as long as broom handles. Catrell, the first mate, motioned for me to follow him. We swam to a coral ledge where a nurse shark often lounges. The boudoir was empty.
Ketyn wasn’t giving up on our shark quest. He navigated the boat to Long Cay. A dark shadow — yes, with a fin — appeared a few feet below. We also spied a creature drifting along the ocean floor like a stealth bomber. I pulled on my mask and plunged into the water just as a stingray was coasting by. I hovered a few feet above the fish; we made eye contact.
Before returning to shore, Ketyn swung by Starfish Village, a 5-mile underwater corridor of citrus-hued starfish. I took a quick census — 25 within close range — before we had to leave, so that I could catch my flight to Provo. However, after takeoff, I peered through the window at the water below and resumed counting the stars in the sea.