Packing and Unpacking

Levera Beach stretches before us in a large wide curve, but we can’t see it in the darkness. It is ten o’clock at night. We follow the guide’s red flashlight over uneven sand and clumps of seaweed. The waves sound large crashing to our right. Up ahead, a leatherback turtle is digging a two-foot, four-inch hole in the sand to lay her eggs. It is Mother’s Day, and I am thinking about what we bring and what we leave.

At the northern end of Grenada where we stand, Levera beach curves around the 450-acre Levera National Park. Our evening there started earlier with a visit to the pond and mangrove wetlands, which cover most of the national park. We climbed into the observation tower and watched tarpon rising in the pond. They are heavy-jawed, silver fish the size of a third-grader and make big splashes. In the past few weeks, Sam had two opportunities to wrestle these fish on sturdy hooks, thanks to an avid fisherman and good friend here.

Around the pond, red mangrove trees reach their leggy stalks into the clear, tannic water. Andrew pointed out their seeds, which begin sprouting while still held on the parent tree. When they drop into the water, they have a headstart—roots and a shoot—and grow readily. Like all wetlands, they filter water and protect shorelines and harbor many species. Andrew had been studying and birdwatching in these habitats for months.

We left the mangroves and pond for a Levera Beach picnic. Surprisingly, our kids consented to eat peanut butter and jelly/nutella sandwiches yet again. When we arrived at the beach, we recognized the view of Sugar Loaf Island. It is a favorite subject of local artist Doliver Moraine.

Before visiting Levera Pond, we had visited Doliver at his studio, which sits along a dirt road, surrounded by his sculptures and paintings on plywood. He welcomed us, especially since Andrew had visited him on a hike the week before. We chatted about Doliver’s work and how he sells it at galleries in town, how Maurice Bishop who was a nice guy and gave long speeches without notes, and how the government built him a new little house since his old one was rocking on its stilts. When not chatting, Doliver paints. He paints Grenadian scenes and fish and people in his signature style, capturing movement and character in few brush strokes.

He does portraits, often many portraits of the same person, such as Maurice Bishop. We added one of his Bishop portraits to our collection, and also his version of Mona Lisa, which seemed both un-Grenadian and completely Grenadian, and either way I could not stop looking at her because her expression was inscrutable and maybe she was derived from Leonardo da Vinci or maybe I saw her on the bus yesterday.

So we sat down for our beach picnic with our minds full of mangroves and art. We sat at the same picnic table where we would later wait two hours in the dark, salty wind for turtles to arrive on the beach.

Which is where we are sitting when the news of a turtle’s arrival comes from researchers up the beach. We dutifully stay behind the guide on our way up the beach towards the red flashlights that seem very far away. We are rewarded long before we reach the red flashlights. The guide stops and throws back his arms. He has spotted something unexpected: the tracks of newly hatched turtles across the sand.

Helpless, we coo in delight when he finds one baby doing its lift-flops across the soft sand. It seems impossibly tiny. It flaps and flaps, going faster when the sand becomes wet and smooth. Then the ocean reaches out and takes it.

We bobble down the beach with each footfall landing at different heights in the sand, walking even more cautiously behind the guide now that we know baby turtles could be crossing. Later, the researchers will scan the area and retrieve struggling baby turtles. They will hold them only temporarily and release them on the sand, though, so they imprint on this beach and begin their journey properly. And so they know where to return.

Leatherback sea turtles return to lay their eggs on the same beach where they hatched. They are the largest turtles on the planet, weighing 500 to 1500 pounds. When we finally approach the female leatherback on the beach, she looks like a boulder. Her size is an astonishing contrast to the wee hatchling.

She is using her hind flippers to dig a hole two feet, four inches deep. Then she lays her round, glistening eggs. I can hear her grunt-breaths as she lays the eggs. The research crew reaches below her hind flippers to remove the eggs into a bucket. They will immediately relocate them up the beach where they’re less likely to wash away than the unstable site she happened to choose. These turtles are endangered; we can’t risk more loss of turtles than what happens when they drown in fishing equipment or lose access to crucial nesting beaches.

The leatherback covers the hole with impressive dedication anyway. She will likely return in a week or so to lay more eggs, and could lay several nests of eggs this season. Then she will migrate—often 10,000 miles—foraging far into the northern hemisphere. Her diet will consist mostly of jellyfish, with mouthparts designed to consume gelatinous prey.

Now, her hind flippers scoop over sand, then pat it firm. When she pounds her flippers down, and they sweep back the sand, you can feel the vibration under your feet. We watch, enraptured. She goes around and around the area. Thick tears pour from her eyes, flushing out excess salt and sand.

Finally, she mimics the hatchling’s locomotion—lift, flop—but slow and lumbering until the waves crash over her. She disappears from the island. Just as we are about to do.

We are leaving in a few days. Unlike the leatherbacks, I do not know if we’ve left anything behind that could hatch into something beautiful. I do know that this island has imprinted upon us. I will feel an instinct to return.

For now, we are packing in the final visits to snorkel the Hog Island reef and to swim in a cold jungle waterfall. Stella’s neighbor friend will join us on both adventures, as she joined us on our adventure to Levera. And to Grand Etang. And Mt. Qua Qua. She is imprinted on our hearts, too.

In the last day, we will pack our actual bags. We will roll up Doliver’s paintings and nestle them among our often-worn T-shirts and carefully selected seashells. What we will bring most importantly, are stories and images. We will carry home questions about what it means to be a person in this world of differing worlds. We will wonder how to live fully and gently, while protecting what needs protected. Thick tears will pour from my eyes as I tamp down our experience, preparing to leave.

We will have attachments to mangrove swamps wrapping around tea-brown ponds. And reefs full of fish we never could have imagined but somehow live there. And boulder-sized turtles who heave themselves onto the familiar, yet little-known territory of beaches to leave something of themselves for the future.

If we have kept our eyes and hearts open, we will arrive home and have some struggle in making sense of home anymore. There will be questions with no answers. We have had such privilege in being guests on this island of beauty and contrasts. We will carry our privilege back into our lives at home in upstate New York with a lifelong opportunity to try to understand what it all means.

For the four of us, there will always be a time before Grenada and a time after Grenada. We are so excited to come home. We will be unpacking for a long time.

Nine Days of Grenada: Day 9

The Reefs

The country of Grenada is actually not just one small island. Grenada is also made up of several other—even smaller—islands, including Carriacou and Petite Martinique. We decide to prioritize a visit to Carriacou.

On a Wednesday at 9am, we climb the stairs to the top level of the passenger ferry called The Osprey. The white plastic seats hold locals and tourists, and the boat is about three-quarters full when it pulls away from the dock in St. George’s Carenage. From our seats, we watch familiar sights passing: BB’s Crabback, Fort George, Esplanade Mall, the cruise ship pier, the stadiums.  

Soon we cannot resist moving to stand at the railing for a better view as the main island of Grenada slides by us. The wind is strong, so we hold onto our hats. Mine folds to look like a pirate. We identify places like the fishing town of Gouyave, the peak of Mount Saint Catherine, and Leaper’s Hill, then we leave the island behind.

The ocean is rough. I absorb the boat’s up and down and rolling movements with my knees. Several seated passengers make use of plastic bags. We are mesmerized by the frequent clusters of flying fish arcing above the water, held aloft for surprising distances by their wing-like fins. We pass Kick ‘em Jenny, a still-active underwater volcano that last erupted in 2017. After nearly two hours, The Osprey pulls into Carriacou’s smooth, turquoise Tyrell Bay.

Stella and I wait with our packs at a picnic table in the shade of a Manchineel tree, eyeing the sign warning of its toxicity and hoping it doesn’t rain. Andrew and Sam catch a bus to get our rental car. Carriacou has a useful bus system with routes 11 and up, continued from the main island, but we want freedom to explore the whole island. When they return with the car, we follow our noses to an amazing lunch of grilled jerk chicken along the road.

Our AirBnb house is about 20 minutes up the island in a quiet community about one minute’s walk to the beach. The house is beautiful, opening onto a large deck with cooling breezes. After our noisy St. George’s neighborhood, we relish the tranquility. Both evenings, we drive to explore beaches, hiking through a preserve of mangroves one night, then down a hilly national forest trail the next night. We see a wrecked boat and some guys with huge lobsters. We watch the sun setting in spectacular ways.

On Thursday, we meet a water taxi guide at Lambi Queen Bar & Grill for a ride out to some particular snorkeling sites. We are all a-quiver at the prospect of swimming with sea turtles. At least, I am. The four of us sit on the padded seat in the water taxi, and let the wind toss our hair. Fifteen minutes later, the engine slows as we near White Island, where we snorkel briefly. Then we arrive at the protected cove of Saline Island, where we spend several hours, and I never want to leave. We can already see turtles poking their heads above water to breathe.

Most of the cove is white sand and sea grass. Green sea turtles of various sizes soar through the water. As we move slowly, they allow us to approach. Stella and I linger for twenty minutes watching one huge turtle grazing. She reaches forward with both front flippers, shuts her eyes, then scrapes back the sand to expose more grass. Then she lowers her smooth head and opens her jaw and munches off mouthfuls.

I watch her chew, admiring the geometry of her patterned head and body. I watch Stella as she watches, perfectly still and close but not too close. She floats at the water surface, arms and legs dangling, face alight, breathing calmly through her snorkel. She looks like I feel—a body full of wonder.

When the turtle lifts from the sand, she moves like a meditation. Her flippers perform a ballet. Gliding through the water, she seems fluid herself. We are watching some magic that transforms a solid creature into liquid, unable to be separated from the ocean that holds her. She lifts and tilts and angles her head into the air, then returns to her unhurried choreography underwater.

Meanwhile, Andrew and Sam are checking out a salt pond on the island. It is steaming hot and surrounded by dark tarry quicksand. Sam loses his croc in it, and Andrew drops on all fours after it to distribute his weight and keep him from sinking into it. It’s like something from a movie. They return with pink feet and hands slightly scalded.

Stella and I are oblivious of their peril. Never lifting our own faces above the water, we snorkel towards the edge of the cove. Clumps of coral begin to appear until we are floating several feet above a reef full of fish. The guys join us, and we point out notable fish, especially huge specimens of familiar species like the scrawled filefish. We linger over our first flounder, who lies like a pancake on the ocean floor with both eyes on the same side of it. The eyes are raised onto bumps and look all around. Across flat, tan body are iridescent blue circles, which get brighter when we dive towards it.

When we climb back into the water taxi, there’s a goat on the boat. While we were snorkeling, the driver motored to another island to check on his livestock, so we had an extra passenger on the way back to Tyrell Bay. Livestock is everywhere on Carriacou. In the dry season, they let the goats and sheep loose to forage for themselves on the roadsides and yards. Nearly every ewe has twins or triplets; I walk around answering their small bleats.

On Friday afternoon, we take the Osprey back to St. George’s. There’s barely standing room on the boat, and the ride is much smoother. On the lower level, a crowd around the concession stand buys Carib beers and hot dogs and popcorn, carrying them up the tight spiral staircase past our spot by the railing. Two brown boobies—large seabirds—hang with the boat, perching on the tall antenna and diving after fish. We cheer as one of them catches a flying fish mid-air.

As the light turns golden, we chug back into the Carenage. We disembark into a Friday-evening throng of people going all directions. In moments, the kids and I have jumped onto a bus heading home. Andrew plans to walk home with the fishing rods, but we’re driving off so fast, I don’t have time to let him know. From the bus, I see him craning his head around looking for us. I decide to communicate Grenada-style.

“Could you tell that man that we got a bus?” I ask the woman by the far window and gesture at Andrew with my chin.

“Hey!” She shouts out the window, getting Andrew’s attention. “She says they’re here on the bus.”

Andrew’s face breaks into a smile of understanding. The woman turns back to me and grins. I’m grinning too. I realize that I haven’t stopped smiling for three days.

Nine Days of Grenada: Day 8

The Rivers

When I raise my face towards the waterfall, the cascading droplets look white against the blue sky. I squint in the spray. Wanting to get right under it, I swim hard until I feel it hammer my head and shoulders. Then, I let the current push me backwards.

I am treading the cold, clear water to hold my place in the large pool. Fern and moss-covered rocks surround the pool, and I’m shouting that it looks like the elven land of Rivendell from Lord of the Rings. I could stay here forever, treading and watching the falling water. Below this pool, the water falls to another pool, where we will also swim. These two waterfalls are the lowest of the Seven Sisters waterfalls. To get here, we hiked down a steep, somewhat muddy trail through part of the Grand Etang National Forest.

Grenada is full of waterfalls since its rivers travel from mountains to the sea over a relatively short distance. Some falls, such as Annandale, Concord, and Mount Carmel Falls, can be accessed with a short walk from the car. Others require some hiking to see the waterfalls.

Ninety-five percent of the potable water comes from surface water, mostly rivers like the ones we love to watch tumbling down the mountains. The National Water and Sewerage Authority has divided the island into twenty-six areas, each with a small reservoir and five-step water treatment facility. Pipes carry the water to plumbed houses, where many houses store a backup supply of several hundred gallons in a plastic barrel.

Just beyond the water reservoir above Concord Falls, we begin our hike to Au Coin waterfall. We follow a path past a small nutmeg plantation. Nutmeg trees bear yellow fruits. Inside the fruit, the bright red, waxy mace looks like it was drizzled onto the nutshell. When you crack open the shell, the nutmeg itself is fiercely aromatic and has a firm texture. Grating it reveals an even more potent fragrance.

We also pass banana trees and some cocoa trees and clumps of callaloo, the heart-shaped leaves of dasheen (an edible starchy tuber) that are often prepared as a soup or steamed greens. The trail winds up into the forest, crossing the river several times.

About an hour later, we can see the top of the waterfall up ahead. I look down at the river tumbling around rocks and see a large crustacean. It seems so out-of-place that my mind does not process it. Then I absurdly wonder if it’s a lobster shell discarded from someone’s picnic. Then I lean down and see some small hair-like appendages rippling along its sides. It’s alive. It is a Big Claw River Shrimp, native to rivers from Florida to Brazil. We are flabbergasted.

To access the Au Coin waterfall pool, we scramble over some large boulders. I step around the final corner and find myself in a mythical-looking place. The rocks curve around, hugging the pool. The water is cold in a good way—nothing on this island has been cold enough to make me feel cold. We swim and explore and eat our usual PBJ’s before hiking back out of the forest.

A brief car ride takes us to the main road, then we park on another side road to follow that same river to the coast. The river ends on a black sand beach. Since it’s a holiday (Good Friday), people are picnicking and swimming and horsing around in the fine volcanic sand, which is very hot on our feet in the mid-afternoon sun. From the forest waterfall to the ocean, this water’s journey is gorgeous.

Nine Days of Grenada: Day 7

The Wisdom

At the St. George’s bus terminal, we load into the number two bus bound for La Sagesse—French for wisdom—a mostly forested property with a boutique hotel and restaurant. Stella and I take the first bench seat, then my sister Becca with her two kiddos, then Sam and Andrew, with Justus in the back row. We swelter, waiting for the bus to fill so it can leave.

Several people stand outside the bus. The conductor argues with a woman to get inside, but the remaining seats are in the back row. She refuses. It becomes a standoff. Sweat pours down my chest. Stella and I move to the back. With the front bench empty, the bus fills right up. We bounce out of the terminal, and cool air rushes in the windows.

We knock the window forty minutes later and hop out at the La Sagesse Nature Center sign.

In the 1960’s, expatriate Englishman Lord Brownlow built a manor house and gated the entire estate around it, preventing public access to the playing fields, forest, and beach. When Brownlow was abroad in 1975, protesters led by the New Jewel Movement held a trial under an almond tree at the gates of La Sagesse. Maurice Bishop represented the people of Grenada.

Brownlow was convicted for his crimes. The people broke the gates and reclaimed the property. The manor house became the movement’s military base in 1979 and was left in disrepair after the U.S. invasion.

American expat Mike Meranski bought the property in 1987. He restored the manor house and created the hotel and nature center, maintaining public access. The playing fields by the main road are frequently used by schools and other groups. Stella spent the day there with her classmates for her school’s sports day.

To get to La Sagesse beach, we walk about fifteen minutes from the main road down a dirt road. The wide beach spreads in a u-shape, framed by forest. We set up a beach blanket and hammocks in the shade.

A freshwater creek runs from among the trees across the sand to the waves. The younger kids play there all day, building small forts of coconut husks and palm fronds and driftwood. We try to re-apply sunscreen to sandy children.

Where the creek leaves the trees, we stare upstream. It looks mysterious, and I half-expect an alligator to emerge. The water is tannic brown but clear, so we can watch small fish and crabs. Sam reels in a large crab with his handline, slowly, until Andrew almost grabs it. And we yelp as it almost grabs Andrew.

We swim. The waves are perfect for the little kids to ride Sam’s inflatable boogie board, but not quite strong enough to carry an adult-sized body. We try anyway. It feels good to let the waves carry our bodies back and forth.

While the kids play, we place orders at the restaurant, knowing the tendency for food to arrive on island time, but it’s worth the wait. Fish and chips. Fish tacos. Burger and fries. The food is delicious.

On another day, we will revisit this beach with our friends Nate and Sarah and Otto and Margot. Again, the kids will build worlds in the creek. The waves will be even bigger, and we’ll dive through them and leap up into the curl of them. Both days leave us salty and sand-filled and sun-kissed.

It seems a decent compromise for a natural space to accommodate both private business and public use while protecting natural resources.

Unfortunately, the mangroves have recently suffered, being cut down for ultra-luxury resort construction by Range Developments, a Caribbean Citizenship by Investment company. Buy a fancy suite, get a Grenadian passport.

Someone is benefitting from this deal, and it’s not the ecosystems. Mangroves and wetlands protect the delicate boundaries between ocean and land, the rich life-scape at the edge of saltwater and freshwater. They also provide habitat for 89 bird species and endangered hawksbill and leatherback sea turtles.

Someone will enjoy the private plunge pool and world-class amenities in each resort suite, but it will not be the people of Grenada. Although tourism is crucial to this island’s economy, I wonder how this development style will benefit Grenada-born citizens, and if the benefit is worth the cost.

The pattern is familiar and widespread: A naturally and culturally rich place is diminished by developers who claim to value it without understanding it. But it could be otherwise.

As the afternoon wanes, the tide comes up the beach. The sandy creek bed shifts and widens. The glaring sunlight becomes golden. Tired, we skip the bus and hire a taxi for the ride home.

Nine Days of Grenada: Day 6

The Sports

On March 24, we take the bus downtown St. George’s to watch Grenada National Football Team—nicknamed The Spice Boys—play the United States Mens National Soccer Team. We weave through crowds from the bus terminal past the fish market and along the shoreline to the stadium.

Sports are a big deal in Grenada, especially football and track and field. At Sam’s school, they began preparations for their annual sports day about one month in advance. Every day, they practiced marching for the March Past competition, a tradition of British origin where the school houses march in formation to be judged against each other. As proof of my limited world experience, I had never heard of such a thing.

In addition to the March Past, the annual sports competition featured track and field events. They held some of the events in the weeks leading up to the actual sports day. Things like shotput, discus, javelin (for which Sam showed some natural talent), and jumping.

For sports day, parents were invited. Andrew and I watched several classic track races around the pre-measured track on the grassy field, then the less serious, but no less competitive races. Sam impressively came second in the sack race and ran hard in the three-legged race. My new favorite—the market race—made each athlete bend to pick up items like coconuts and green bananas laid out on the track, then tuck them in their bags. Points were tallied at the end of the day, and The Lions of Amber won the house competition.

During the last week of term—after exams—there was a nationwide Intercollegiate Sports competition. For three days, athletes selected from each school competed in track and field events held in the Kirani James National Athletics Stadium, named in honor of the first Olympic gold medalist of Grenada. The events were televised and shown live on screens in bars and grocery stores, where people would leave off shopping or checking out groceries to watch a 100-meter sprint or 400-meter hurdles.

On the night of the Grenada-U.S football match, it seems like half the island has shown up. Good smells float from the grill-smoke of street vendors and mingle with the cigarettes and cologne.

As we circle the stadium to the entrance, we walk past flying sparks as workers are still welding together a section of the gate. In general, though, the stadium security is tighter than a month earlier, when we watched a stray dog wander onto the field during an international friendly match between Grenada and Barbados.

Seats fill fast with fans from both countries. Many U.S. fans are St. George’s University students, but there appear to be plenty of tourists among them. Some hold a U.S. flag in one hand and Grenada’s flag in the other. One woman wears a rasta hat with fake locs dangling from it to mingle with her blonde hair.

Grenada’s fans are decked out in red, yellow, and green with Grenada’s flags waving everywhere and more being doled out by the megaphone-bearing DJ in charge of hyping up the crowd. Many hands not holding a flag are holding a beer.

We each have a guess at the final score, with all of us predicting a U.S. win. Andrew and I are wearing our Grenada shirts, though, and cheering for the underdog.

Either way, we are excited to see the U.S. men’s team play its first competitive game since the 2022 World Cup, which we watched late this fall from our home in New York. To our delight, we recognized starting players from the World Cup, such as Christian Pulisic, who sustained a groin injury while scoring the U.S.’ only goal against Iran, and Weston McKennie, who had a strip of his hair dyed red, white, and blue, and memorably toweled off his hands on a photographer before a throw-in during the game against England.

Four minutes into the game, Ricardo Pepi scores for the U.S. At thirty-two minutes, Myles Hippolyte scores a goal for Grenada. The home crowd is ecstatic. The U.S. continues to dominate, though, and the score is 4:1 by half-time.

Despite being a tough game for Grenada, it’s an exciting game to watch with lots of goals scored and several near misses. At the final time, Sam’s guess is correct. The U.S. wins 7:1.

Our kids are among the youngest fans, and it’s almost ten pm. We squeeze past football fans towards an exit. Traffic and pedestrians already clog the streets. Many buses have apparently been reserved as taxis. The bus terminal is empty in contrast to the chaos on the road along it.

We figure that walking might be our most reliable transportation home, so we head that direction. As we walk, we keep asking the drivers of bus-type vehicles, “Number 1? Grand Anse?” We are nearing the tunnel, when the driver of an unlabeled, mostly empty bus replies, “Yes. Grand Anse!”

After we jump into the back seats, the man drives a very unconventional route of loops through the chaos, picking up mostly drunk football fans. To my relief, he picks up a Grenadian woman and her ten-year-old kid, reassuring me that it is a legitimate bus and will take us home. And, despite it being one of the most hard-driven, rickety vehicles we’ve had the pleasure of riding, it makes it out of town and stops right at our street. We clamber out, tired and grinning from all the excitement.