Stingray Island (Photo Credit: DavidWolfePhotography.com)

Today the most difficult decision I have to make is whether I should sit on the alabaster beach and watch the tide crash over a colony of corral reef that I discovered on an earlier dive, or join a group of rowdy tourists on a short boat ride out to the middle of the ocean for the sole purpose of jumping into lukewarm water with hundreds of wild stingrays. 

I sip the strong coffee contemplating my choices until Malik, my resident waiter for the morning, makes an appearance to take my order.  His broad shoulders block the morning sun from my eyes.  Tall and muscular, he moves with an easy grace, handling the small coffee pot and cup as if they were an extension of his large hands.  I ask his opinion.

"You're in Cayman, Mon." He replies in a soft Jamaican accent, although Britain was still the ruling empire of the island.  "Here we do as we wish.  You go see stingrays or watch the tide come in, 'tis all 'da same. They both be here tomorrow."

I have to smile at his carefree attitude, the live and die by the clock mentality of the states now becoming a distant memory.  He leans towards me conspiratorially, "But Malik recommends the stingrays, Ma'am. 'Tis an adventure!" He smiles, his teeth bright against his dark skin, and then disappears into the tall palm trees.

But the entire island is an adventure. A person could be here for a year, and although the island can be driven across in less than two hours, will never really see everything.  Cayman is a cacophony of sounds and a collection of cultures that is rarely seen in one place.

Splashes of color from deep magenta orchids and white ginger lilies are naturally infused amongst the tall, lanky palm trees.  A faint ocean breeze wafts through the air bringing with it the sweet smell of saltwater infused with jasmine, reminding me that I was in the same Caribbean waters where pirates once raided, back in a time when rum flowed as free as water.

Walking through Georgetown, I am hailed with friendly greetings.  A larger-than-life statue of a pirate, complete with parrot and eye patch, stands formidably in a shopping center as tourists take turns taking their picture with him.  Next to the statue is a rum cake store known internationally for their delectable sweets, and I pass it by, determined not to order anything until the last day of my vacation (a promise I already know will be broken by morning.)

 At the end of a long dock, a small cruiser is waiting to take us out to Stingray City, a strand of sand bars that run from Morgan Harbor to Rum Point.  The dock itself seems ready to fall into the crystal clear water at any moment.  Standing at the edge, I watch the brightly colored black and yellow Angelfish swirl beneath my feet.

A baby-faced man with blonde hair bleached from the sun introduces himself as "Diver Dan" and helps me aboard. I choke back a laugh. Glaring, he seats me at the back of the boat and treats us to a short history lesson as we launch.

"We're headed out to the bar,where ships used to clean fish before making their way into port. You, my friends, are able to reap the rewards of hundreds of years of conditioning."  Holding up a diagram, he shows us the parts of a stingray to avoid.  I take careful note of the long stinger at the base of the tale.  "One last thing," Diver Dan continues. "Rays hunt by smell. If you smell like squid, it will eat.  So no squid fights."

I make a mental note not to get hit by the inevitable squid fight that would break out as I glance at the young kids on the boat and struggle into my snorkel gear.  We arrive at the aforementioned sand bar and stare into the turqouise water only a few feet in depth. There is not a stingray in sight. But this site is enough. Then, as the water is baited with buckets of squid, I see the rays moving through the water like a prodigous dark shadow.

"Who's going in first?" Diver Dan asks, oblivious to the approaching danger.

The back of the boat is open and I jump.  I'd rather be the first one in than chance landing on one of the hundreds of large rays quickly approaching the boat.  The water is warm, and I'm waiting nervously for the others to join me as the stingrays begin to swarm around my legs.  

"Uh, guys...." I stutter nervously.

 Marcos, another guide who is much more level-headed than "Diver Dan," jumps in near me as the massive rays flow effortlessly through the water around us.  He hands me one of the small squid, teaching me how to hold it.  I offer it to the nearest 300-pound monster of the deep and it reacts like a puppy, swimming up near me to be petted.  Marcos lets it move up on his chest, alternately moving his arms up and down, cradling the beast's constantly swimming body.  He hands the creature off to me, "Now you..."

And I take custody of the creature, suddenly realizing that I have befriended a 300-pound Manta ray.  I am holding in my arms a prehistoric beast of the deep and, rather than fear, I am quickly overcome by knowing what it is to be in paradise.

The experience is all too short.  We could have stayed on that sand bar forever, swimming with the rays, staking an imaginary claim in the gentle ebb and flow of the Caribbean Sea as if it were our own.  It's an experience that will last a lifetime, though one that I feel may need to be repeated on the morrow.

The sun is setting upon our return, and although I missed the tide coming in, I'm not too late to watch it recede.  Either way, it doesn't matter; it will still be there tomorrow…