Chief of them all is the palette of the sea, true to every photograph I’d ever seen: in magazine spreads, on TV, in travel agency ads, social media. Glass green, chlorine blue, dappled all over by shimmering light, rippling always, sparkling, twinkling, never still. Clear as glass, through to the bottom where the sand is a creamy yellow, the coral is ivory white, and the mottled seagrass is a dark, mossy green, swaying gently in the current.
At night, the sea is a different monster altogether. Its inky black waters, laced with ghostly white sea foam where waves crash and bellow, frightens me. The water is so black and the horizon so uninterrupted that I cannot tell where the black of water blends into the black of night, at least not until the first star hangs low in the sky.
Also black and white are the massive manta rays that swoop gently back and forth under the pier dedicated to receive them, where harsh florescent spotlights call up plankton from the deep that seems to be irresistible to these gentle giants. Their backs are speckled and give the illusion of a suede-like texture, and when they widen their mouths to gulp their lips are tinged with indigo blue and the cartilage visible down their throats is the same ghostly white of sea foam. With wingspans of at least 2 to 3 metres, they should be fearsome, but the mild, tender way with which they navigate the waters make them lovable instead.
Other sea-dwellers: parrotfish, which we see everywhere in sparse schools, have electric blue tails and yellow heads, and the two colours gradate in a spectrum across their iridescent bodies. They look very much like a mermaid’s tail in popular imagination. Convict fish, yellow with black stripes going from top to bottom, like the garb of a prisoner or the shadow of bars on one in a cell. Black tip reef sharks, mocha brown all over except for a single ink-black tip on their dorsal fins. All the other fish we’ve seen – though varied in shape and size – are mostly in shades of grey. Even the graceful herons that stalk the shores to snatch at little fish are white and heather grey; when they fan their wings out, some have black tucked in the feathers. One exception: a glimpse of a sea turtle, great treasure of the sea, a dark green shadow. I am dying to see it again.
Upwards, the skies, sparsely studded with clouds. A friendly azure blue in the morning, much like how a child would colour in the sky in an amateur landscape. Over breakfast, this quickly develops into a white hot afternoon, burning the skin and torturing the eyes. Evenings bring respite, and are very beautiful. The setting sun paints the sky in vermillion, salmon and coral pink, and as it dips below the horizon a delicious mauve takes over, graciously handing day over to night. The clouds, inhabiting a spectrum between bone white and pewter, form a gleeful procession – a fish head here, a dragon there, a croissant in the distance.
Skin arrives lily white or sallow yellow, and quickly roasts to a healthy brown.
Sheets are cotton white, promising deep sleep and other pleasures.
The food is thoroughly unremarkable and deserves no mention.
Thankful for this once in a lifetime holiday. ☀️
Medium Delirium 