A Rather Bemused Turtle

“I’m off to snorkel.”

“Ok.”

“Are you coming?”

“mmm… probably not. I’m gonna read for a bit.”

In fairness to Ollie, who doesn’t fly for seven hours on a ridiculously overpriced British Airways flight simply to lie on your bed and read?

Like a good friend, I left Ollie to his own devices (a brand new kindle to be precise), donned my trunks, collected my snorkel and skulked out. Staring into the azure sky that hovered, almost merging into the sapphire sea below, distinguishable only by the gentle sparkle of the lapping waves, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to stay inside and read.

Although in fairness, I knew very well.

We were in Bermuda, slightly randomly and unexpectedly, at the exceedingly generous offer of a friend. As a result, we had arrived knowing next to nothing about what to expect. I knew it would be hot however, for some reason it hadn’t sunk in. Perhaps the fact that it was in the Middle of the Atlantic, considerably further north than the Caribbean that had tricked me into expecting a slightly more exotic Cornwall. I clearly wasn’t the only one, as both Ollie and I were completely unprepared for just how aggressive the Bermudian sun could be.

Addendum

The word for something that is from Bermuda, is Bermudian. I don’t like it. It feels too clunky and I strongly feel there should be an alternative. Bermusian perhaps? With the S pronounced how the French pronounce J. You know “Je voudrais du Jambon.” Bermujian.

I appreciate that Burmese is taken by the Burmese. Although technically Burma is called Myanmar now so maybe that’s worth a court case? Or a little war?

Or we could just call them the Bemused?

“Hi, I’m Harry and I’m Bemused.”

“Mmm, where is this wine from?”

“It’s good isn’t it? It’s Bemused.”

“Have you seen Harry, he’s acting as if he’s from Bermuda?”

“He’s a Bemusing chap!”

Ha.

I think that would be quite fun.

End of Addendum

Truth be told, Ollie was reading in his room for two reasons. Firstly, it was unbelievably hot, and his room had air conditioning. Secondly, Ollie could be compared to a badly barbecued sausage: charred on the outside and thus feeling slightly raw on the inside. Within 18 hours of landing in Bermuda, (bearing in mind that we landed at 19:00 and it is dark at night) Ollie was so burned that when he walked through the door, I expected two more Ollies to follow in quick succession, such did he resemble a London Bus (in both size and colour.) Lying in the dark under the cool caress of air conditioning as the heat of the day began was actually not a bad idea.

I, on the other hand, affectionately (I think) described as MokoCocoa in colour by the London Bus himself, had not been so easily floored by the sun. And I was not going to sit inside and read when I was a 3 minute walk away from paradise.

For just around the corner was a very small bay. Compared to some of the more well known bays on Bermuda, this one was tiny, and not particularly attractive. 5 metres from the road, and covered in debris deposited there by a recent storm, in looks alone it was the rebound-girlfriend of beaches. But like human beings, in my opinion, beaches are best judged by what is hidden deep within. For the character of the ocean itself is not flaunted in golden sand or crystal clear waters, but by what lies under the surface. And this delightful little beach, Bailey’s Bay to give you it’s full name, had character a-plenty. Just beneath the inviting dazzling azure were treasures to be cherished.

But as with most treasure, it is not easily accessed. Just beyond the thin strip of sand that masqueraded as a beach are plenty of jagged rocks draped with the kind of sea weed that likes nothing more than to send you to a watery grave, as slippery as a well-oiled politician, just close enough to the surface that even swimming over the top of them is an option that is fraught with the danger of receiving an unwanted caesarian. Seeing as I was keen on having a natural birth, the first time I navigated these waters, I was considering throwing in the towel, (actually, probably Ollie’s towel), and getting out. I’m glad that I didn’t, for further out, beyond the old railway bridge that would have once upon a time introduced a miniature steam engine into the the scene, was a stunning array of marine life.

Protected by a reef, this bay oozed a tranquil calmness. The water was a pleasant warmth, refreshing yet comfortable, and almost crystal clear. A myriad of fish surround the swimmer, one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, fish that would have undoubtedly tasted superb in batter and other fish that would have been better seared over an open fire. There were minuscule fish the size of Donald Trump’s brain, and huge fish, the size of his ego. There were timid fish that shied away from any movement and there were fish that brimmed with confidence, occasionally taking a cheeky nibble from my toes and asking me out for a drink having only just met. In the distance, iridescent, not a description that I use lightly, parrot fish nibbled on the rock, given away by a scratching sound that travelled a surprising distance under water. Stunning is too weak a word to describe their colour; Joseph’s coat would have looked like a Primark hoodie in comparison to their gorgeous plumage-like scales. Their face was a deep red, merging into a soft purple on their cheeks. Their neck was a bright tangerine orange, becoming crimson and then merging, somehow, into a dazzling emerald green. In the light they shimmered, never a consistent colour, eternally beautifying the ocean. Others were a dazzling blue, bright as the Bermudian sky at times, and a deep royal blue at others. With every stroke you took toward them, they edged sensitively away, obviously timid but at all times looking as serene as Ms Williams. Venus obviously.

Near a rocky outcrop one came across beautiful corals, providing luxury condominiums to most of the characters from Finding Nemo. A puffer fish, ready for a punch up, seemed to guard the same little crevice every time that I visited. Part of me really wanted to scare it to watch it swell like a recently booped nose, however I had recently come to the realisation that puffer fish do not fill up with air, as cartoons like to suggest, but with water, and that were I to prick a puffer fish with a thorn it would not fart around like a ballon. This rather deflating news, coupled of course with a deep respect for creation and the ocean in particular, ensured that I practised self-control.

A bit further away from the coral, I noticed another fish, solitary and still, with a big beady eye fixed upon me. Barracuda. Feared for their razor sharp teeth, to match their razor sharp wit no doubt, I was comforted to notice that this one, though seemingly eyeing me up, was only a juvenile. And without the rest of his gang he was unlikely to do me any harm. I swum away before the rest turned up on their mopeds.

Bailey’s Bay was beautiful, but I had another reason for being here. Every day, without any difficulty, we had seen turtles. There were at least five who lived in the bay, two fairly small ones who were difficult to keep up with and three fairly hefty chaps. All of them were Green Turtles, one of the two species that can be found in Bemused waters. Each day that I had been here, I had enjoyed many happy hours watching them, observing their behaviour, swimming with them, and with the three bigger turtles, soaking up the Bemused Sun in a semi-comatose state. Whilst the two smaller ones were fairly quick, able to power through the water at some speed, it was amazing that they were happy to tolerate my company. The day before, I had spent a good twenty minutes swimming with one, joining it on the sea bed as it fed, well able to reach out and touch it if I had wanted. Spending such a long and intimate time with such a beautiful and endangered species was a privilege that I will never forget.

The turtles seemed to appreciate company!

But alas, I could not find them today. After about 20 minutes of searching, rather half heartedly I must admit, I gave up, and swam towards the beautiful but tiny island that separated this calm little bay from the deeper and more choppy waters of the ocean. Pulling myself up onto the tiny but pristine beach, my own little private island for the hour, I was hit by the heat of the sun. Having spent a good hour in the water, I had forgotten it’s potency. But as I sank into the Andrex sand it was difficult not to succumb to its deceitful embrace. Reluctantly I got up: sunbathing in this heat would be nearly fatal. As I looked back at the mainland I realised just how far I had swum. The road was nearly 300 metres away. I looked towards the houses that sat boastfully on the waters edge. They were small in comparison and there was nobody in sight.

A naughty thoughty crept in to my mind.

I quickly suppressed it. I’m British for goodness’ sake!

I decided to explore the Island instead.

I say explore, but it is difficult to truly explore an island that is no more than 50 metres in length. But explore I decided to do. Coming off the 3 metre beach and swimming to the right, I hugged the rocky shore, in pursuit of critters. Tiny glass fish in large shoals danced in front of my snorkel, mesmerising and disorientating. If you looked closely, even smaller fish and crustaceans could be seen in the sand and the empty shells below me. And stuck to the rocks, almost everywhere, were the shells of large Chitons, strangely beautiful molluscs that I had never seen before, with shells that looked remarkably like they belonged to very little tortoises. I tried to pull one off to get a better look. It refused to budge, stubborn and set in it’s ways.

As I came up, I noticed a delightful little alcove, hewn into the rock by the sea, a seat, nay a throne, to basked upon. I pulled myself up, twisted myself round and lay back. Bliss. This must be how Poseidon feels when he’s not destroying ships or standing in the middle of water fountains. In the middle of the sea, all alone, I could do what a man does best, sit and stare, thinking about everything and nothing, just enjoying being.

I have no idea how long later, it could have been an hour, it could have been ten minutes, I realised that my throne was not nearly as comfortable as I had thought. I also realised that basking here was going to be just as fatal as if I was bathing on the luxurious sand of the beach I had left. Other plans were needed. Entering the water, I decided to avoid the deeper and colder water to the right, and head back around to the bay and then beyond it in the other direction. I swam a bit further out this time, hoping to find the turtles. But they were still nowhere to be seen.

Stillness. The water. The island. The whole atmosphere.

I wonder…?

No! I swam back towards the shore, hooking around the next corner of my tiny private island. Here, mangrove like trees jutted out into the water, their roots a haven for little fish. As I peered above the surface of the water, I noticed two slender but somewhat bedraggled herons sitting on the shore, staring into the water. I stayed still, not wanting to scare them off.

That was until I suffered a miniature cardiac arrest as out of nowhere something splashed into the water next to me and started thrashing around. Having bailed out my heart and hastily removed my mask, I looked down to see a lizard, dazzling and also drowning. It thrashed around frantically, in the same way that I usually swim, finally grabbing onto one of the nearby roots. The herons were, unsurprisingly, no longer with us.

I was alone in the stillness once again.

I couldn’t? Me?

I had noticed that morning that my tan line was so severe that I closely resembled a Friesian cow: very dark in some places, very pale in others. And there was only one solution to that problem. Nevertheless, the solution came with two very challenging questions:

Firstly, where on earth would I be able to tan myself o naturale without risking the unfortunate possibility of being witnessed? Secondly, how was I going to overcome my overwhelmingly forceful sense of British awkwardness?

This little island was the perfect answer to my questions. Out here, all alone, in the still and the quiet of a beautiful bay, at least 300 metres from the shore was my perfect chance.

I had a little think and decided that sunbathing on the beach was still a definite no-no. Even though I would have been a speck in the distance, the beach was visible from the houses that lined the shore, as well as the old railway bridge, that was a popular route for joggers. I didn’t want to be the cause of somebody falling in horror to their death. So the solution was simple: skinny dipping. Swimming close to the surface, the sun would do it’s work in no time.

I swam out to the sea, to a place where I couldn’t touch the bottom (of the sea), and looked around. In fact, I probably looked about me for a good three or four minutes, scanning every millimetre of the coast, making sure there was nobody oogling me. Finally satisfied that my privacy was complete, I slipped off my trunks. Not quite believing that I had actually done it, I looked around again. There really was nobody in sight.

It was a completely baffling sensation. Naughtiness mixed with excitement, with a sprinkling of pride and two pints of crippling self-consciousness were baked together for about ten bizarre minutes. Deciding that my trunks were now a nuisance, I swam over to a nearby moored boat, and deposited them on the side. With the sun becoming increasingly hotter, and the water a truly blissful temperature, I enjoyed swimming as fish must do when they also decide to skinny dip.

And then a noise. One that gave me my second cardiac arrest of the day. A motor.

I had not seen a single person for a couple of hours; for hours the bay had been a blissful eden of solitude. And yet it had to be now, I mean just really had to be now that some poor innocent Bemused person would have to turn up.

I frantically swam to a position where I could see who was coming. Thankfully I realised that this was a bad idea before I swam too inescapably far into the open. If panic-stations is a place then I not only visited it in that frenzied few seconds, but I hurtled through like a runaway train.

It’s funny what enters one’s head when one is in a panic, when one knows that push is actually about to come to shove. Perhaps thought of internet infamy may have sent me into a cold shock. Or perhaps the image of being led away in handcuffs and being made to sit stark naked in a Bemused police car, being interviewed by a Bemused policeman and having to explain my horrendous tan-line, as stark as the US-Mexico border. But it wasn’t. As the spluttering motor grew ever louder, the pit that filled my stomach, blurred my vision and seriously hindered my decision making was the terrifying thought that Ollie Froy might find out.

That MUST not happen.

I glanced to the boat that I had oh so carelessly deposited my swim shorts on just a few minutes ago.

No chance.

Could I hide?

No chance.

Could I play it cool?

I considered my current predicament, thrashing around as God created me in the middle of a bay, with my hair growing greyer by the minute and my heart suffering a paroxysm so violent that it was probably a Millwall fan.

Not much of a chance there either I conceded.

As one often does when in this situation, I hastily amalgamated all three of my horrendous plans to concoct one big frothing pitcher of desperation. I quickly swam to the nearest boat. That was it. That was my plan. I had no idea what I was going to do next, but circumstances dictated that I was not given the luxury of choosing.

In fairness I got to the boat just in time. In all honesty, I’m not quite sure what good that did me.

For within seconds, a small motorised dinghy, driven by a single, middle aged man probably returning from a blissful, almost idyllic journey around the Bemused coast, came spluttering by. As he glanced to his right, he would have seen a lone man, brown in arm, pale in shoulder and red in face, cowering under the hull of a medium sized fishing boat, looking as nonchalant as one can when one does not have any clothes on.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied.

I never saw him again.

And coming up with even that poor excuse for a redeeming feature took some serious soul-splintering barrel-scraping.

Michael Phelps would not have beaten me in a race back to the boat that held my trunks hostage were it not for one thing. As I swam powerfully away (In both body and mind) from my Lady Godiver moment, I heard a small gasp from where I had just been. I turned around to see a small reptilian head peeping above the surface of the water, it’s mouth gasping for air, and it’s little beady eyes forever corrupted, as wide as could be expected for an animal without an eyelid. It was a turtle. It must have witnessed everything. And it was gasping for air.

It turns out that Bemused turtles are good at keeping their mouths closed, because despite frequent visits over the next few days, ollie never found out. And He never will. In his words, “I only read good stories.”

As I swam back towards the shore, I decided that turtles really were the sort of chaps that you’d confide in. They may be judgemental, but slow and serene, carefree and innocent, they are the very definition of harmless.

And then I remembered the Barracuda. Boy that could have been a very different memory…