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A tale of two sisters
A Family Resemblance
The flight to Cayman Brac lasts barely eight minutes. Sandy Point -- stunning in its turquoise and white perfection -- is the last we see of Little Cayman, and for a few moments, I question our plan to move on.
Arriving after the morning dive boats have departed, I pick up the courtesy phone in the lobby of Divi Tiara Beach Resort and within 10 minutes a rental car is delivered. We plan to keep it for a day, but soon find that for an island with so little to do, there’s always somewhere we want to go. The car stays with us until we leave.
So here we are, heading for the hills -- or rather the lighthouse at the crest of the bluff at the far east of the island. I take the wheel on the right side (remember, we’re in a British territory) and Erin navigates. “Turn here!” she says, as I overshoot Ashton Reid Road and have to flip a U-turn. She plugs in the iPod and we sing, we laugh, we reminisce about the last time we drove together on the left side while traveling in Scotland, a journey remembered for its rogue sheep, pub lunches, castles and shortbread.
Since we travel together so often, we are used to people comparing us. Our commonalties are inherited: My fair skin is Irish, Erin’s olive complexion is Mexican. We are both insatiably curious about the world; we’re both natural hostesses; and we’re both lucky to have nice legs (a trait we even share with our brothers). It doesn’t take long for us to start comparing the Sister Islands.
Both are long and skinny with their head facing the rising sun and their best dive sites protected on their leeward side. The Sisters provide refuge for an impressive variety (and quantity) of wildlife ranging from the largest colony of red-footed boobies in the Caribbean, on Little Cayman, to the green parrots that live in a reserve on Cayman Brac. And both are natural beauties, little touched by the glitzy development that now defines their worldly cousin, Grand Cayman. But if Little Cayman is the carefree blond whose charisma attracts a community of sun-and-fun expats, then Cayman Brac is the brunette with an old soul. Her population of roughly 1,500 is largely descended from the Scottish fishermen who settled along the north shore in the 17th century . Her spine is unbreakable: The limestone bluff for which the island is named (“brac” is Gaelic for bluff) is the outcropping of an underwater mountain range called the Cayman Ridge, which is responsible for all this awesome diving.
On the way out to the lighthouse, we pull off to check out Peter’s Cave. What we find is a tiny opening in the side of the bluff overlooking the town of Spot Bay. A historic plaque tells us that Peter’s Cave has provided the locals with refuge from hurricanes since 1932. Intrigued by the notion of waiting out a terrifying storm from inside a cave, we step up and duck through the opening. The first thing we find inside are two plastic lounge chairs with the name Starry written across the top in black ink. But beyond the furnishings, we find a string of chambers tall enough to stand in and whose floors are worn smooth.
Back at Divi Tiara, I ask Max the manager if he knows of anyone who has actually used the cave as a hurricane refuge. “That would be Tenson Scott,” he says, giving us directions to follow the north road nearly to the end in Spot Bay. “You’ll find him in his crafts shop – ‘N.I.M. Things,’ it’s called. He’s quite the storyteller, so you might want to form an exit strategy before you go in.”
Later, we find Tenson, just where Max said he’d be. And indeed, while we ask to see piece after piece after piece of the polished caymanite stone jewelry he’s well-known for on the island, he regales us with a string of stories. He includes how his grandfather took his family, including Tenson’s mother, to Peter’s Cave in 1932. “And that’s why I’m here,” he says. He tells us how he’s taken his own family up there to sit out six hurricanes. “Those chairs up there are mine,” he says, “my wife’s name is Starry.”
“Hey, what’s that?” Erin says, pointing to a necklace that replicates these prehistoric-looking slugs in hard shells that we’ve seen plastered all over the rocks. She knows perfectly well that she’s invited a long story.
“That’s a chiton,” he says, “but we call it sea beef.”
The story is told at great length while tangents are identified like place-markers, which he miraculously returns to.
Eventually we move on, stopping first to photograph the intricate silken spider web outside that dazzles in the late-day sun, and then for spicy jerk chicken at La Esperanza. Friday is jerk night on the Brac.
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