As I stepped out onto King’s Wharf, I immediately felt the hot humid air and the warm ocean breeze. I saw the old abandoned fortresses standing silently like monoliths awaiting other uses, and small European compacts flying about trying to avoid hitting or injuring the multitudes of vacationing pedestrians on motor scooters. I embraced the pleasing fragrance of the several types of tropical flora frequently used for popular perfumes. It was invigorating and empowering to drive along the picturesque coast and through the villages on the many twisting, winding, narrow roads. Stepping on the fine, barely-noticeable pink hued sand of Horseshoe Bay was an assault on the senses. I saw the overwhelming colors, the green palms and ferns, pale pink sand, endless blue seas, and greyish tan and light brown rock formations standing guard over the beach like carved sentinels.  

The other amazing and varied world the island contains is only accessible by means of snorkeling or SCUBA diving: a myriad of fish—yellow angels gracefully flutter between rocks; a lone squirrel peeks from a small hole impishly leaping to another; several parrots (ranging in color and size) flounder  aimlessly among the rocks; two smaller, one turquoise and one sunset  gold over deep blue, one medium colored, a Christmassy green and red, and one large one with an intricate rainbow pattern (this one lumbered to a piece of coral and pecked at it with its beak causing a clunking sound); a small lion glares menacingly from behind a rock, as if daring one to prick its small yet potent spine(I almost do); a school of small blue and yellows dances around coral and rocks as if performing a silent underwater ballet; and large schools of rather homely fish continuously frolic and swarm around corners, trying to find their place in a habitat full of unique life.

Above sea level, the abundantly colored landscape is dotted with palms, a variety of colorful flowers and most prominent of all, brightly painted houses. These many colors mixed with the ocean breeze and the aroma of the tropical vegetation create a feeling of perfection. One starts to wonder if painting a house black or brown in Bermuda is even legal. The sounds of Bermuda consist mainly of pint-size mini-vans honking in warning to other motorists, tourists chatting gaily, turquoise waters crashing into sandstone cliffs in an explosion of foam, ferns rustling lightly in the breeze, and native birds cawing and chirping to the natural beat.                

The roads in Bermuda (due to lack of width, lack of stop signs at intersections, hairpin turns, and ten foot walls surrounding them) contain an aura of danger.

Standing on the peak of the island, one finds oneself near a spotless white lighthouse appearing quite content with its dominant position of grandeur. Looking out over the fishhook shaped island, one sees the bay (inside the hook) filled with sail, motor, and row boats.  To the north is an abundance of palms and other tropical foliage surrounding and overwhelming colorful houses built on little more than an accumulation of dead coral and sandy soil. To the east is the tip of the hook, abounding with palms, ferns, and brightly painted houses built on stable ground, and another lighthouse of less stature, also a fortress from days long passed. To the west is King’s Wharf, consisting of shops, quays, docks, ships, forts (now given more modern uses), bridges, palms, and largest of all – cruise ships which seem to hulk impressively in rather tight berths with an air of disinterest as if unconcerned with such a small island. To the south is a simple sea of green, dotted with houses, separated from a sea of blue only by a ribbon of pink. 

The drive back to the wharf was a blur of many colors, all of which represent this small island. These are my memories of Bermuda, and the more I look back, the bigger the island becomes.