The Island We Didn't Get To

Thursday, Dec. 11, 2025

Southern end of the Pearl Islands

A fully deserted island. Except some wild dogs. And possibly a monster. And very likely a witch.

I have hit “the wall”—I’m tired and emotionally worn out. Part of it is the perpetual “no thank you” I’m offering in the face of (a) sugar, (b) salt, (c) beef, and (d) pork—which is about 80% of what’s available on a cruise line. Part of it is the otosclerosis of my middle ear which means I have to say “huh?” all the time and also be slowly driven insane by the rising hum of a ship full of people who infest the only indoor public space on the ship—the lounge—where they have many a cocktail and proceed to shout joyfully at each other.

And partly my fatigue is due to the regret that the surf at the island was considered too big to snorkel, and then even too big to land. So despite getting togged out in yesterday’s rinsed-but-not-dry swimming ensemble, despite painting my face like a kabuki player in zinc oxide, despite making it all the way to the sea door in my life jacket, we were all turned back just as we were about to board a zodiac. I was literally next in line, standing at the door and listening to the walkies of the crew outside on the loading deck as the journey was finally called off. DAMN it.

The day wasn’t a total loss; we did Zodiak tours in the morning of a different island, cruising through water so clear that Lexie saw a barracuda and I saw what I was sure were two turtles but turned out to be a something yellowtail. (Not a tuna, though; whatever the name was, it wasn’t tuna, and ended in yellowtail.)

For me, given how inept I am at not seeing what I’m apparently pointing right at, the high point was the Zodiak driver, David, who was crew and not a naturalist. Lexie pointed out a floating log to me and said “think that’s a crocodile, Pru?” I said—of course—“Definitely. Cleverly disguised to look like a log.” We puttered on and then David touched my shoulder lightly. “I thought it was a crocodile, too,” he confessed.

From that moment on, he and I were of one mind. I pointed at a tangle of  mangrove roots and gave him a significant look. “Snake, right?” “Yeah. Anaconda. A bunch of them.” “Exactly.” We had a fine old time. Everyone else was exclaiming over the birds they were looking at. David and I would peer hopefully into the bushes and then shrug. Yeah. Whatever. I did manage to see the egret—blindingly white in a green landscape.

Apparently, this is where the egrets of Assateague spend their winters. Nice choice.

And this photographic study of a rock is actually a not-too-bad picture of a willet.

Can't see the tiny little willet? Then enjoy the water, the foliage, the whole mangrove vibe.

I’m entertained that a lot of the birds we saw turned out to be species that summer in Chincoteague. I wanted to throw my hands in the air and complain. “I’ve already SEEN that bird! We are old friends.”

The tour was beautiful, though, and very entertaining.

White shirt, white hat, white mustaches. That's Teddy. We scorn this man.

This is a picture of a man we’ve all come to dislike; we call him Teddy Roosevelt because of his bully mustache, but he doesn’t deserve such a good name. He’s a man with no respect for others. While we were all watching the very first lock transit on the Panama Canal, he pushed his way up to our good look-out spot and stopped. Lexie turned and said “You’re blocking my sister’s view, and she was here first,” and he said “Well, move then.” Twig said she was expecting fists to be thrown at any minute; she was so proud of Lexie for defending her view. Teddy glared and wouldn’t be budged…until his wife made him move. Which, typical.

Here's a photo of the dawn from stretch class. It looks a lot like all the other dawns.

Totally tranquil. Every yoga studio envies this view.

And here’s stretch class before it begins.

Barbara and Chip love to get me doing balance poses on unstable surfaces--a bosu or a propriopad. I'm here to tell you, a ship on the ocean's got them all beat!

Finally, here’s a panoramic of the rainstorm we drove into.

Storm's a'comin.

And lastly, as seen at the top of the post, the island we didn’t get to. No Lindblad expedition had ever been here before, so we were a bit of test case. Rumors of wild dogs, a monster, and a witch had been bruited about, which made the lure of this, the southernmost island in the Pearl Islands, more exotic. Apparently the wild dogs was true; the few guests who made it to the island (before being rescued from the surf by the combined determination of our naturalists) reported seeing dog prints in the sand. But no wild dogs for us—and no coral reefs, either. Alas.

Tomorrow the plan is to meet some indigenous people in the Darien Gap, but the cultural outings make me uneasy. Therefore I am going to sleep late! Stay on board! Fully, fully lounge like a sloth! I EAGERLY anticipate this event and hope that everyone else goes ashore and get little native tattoos and hold the hands of eager children. Not me, though.

Twig and Scott are going to take the five-mile round-trip hike to a beautiful pool in the rainforest. I wish them well. I’m sure they’ll see toucans and other wonderful sights. They’ll wade across 19 rivers on the way out and then the same 19 rivers on the way back. It will be a true adventure. And I am SO HAPPY that I’m not going with them!

This, I’m sure, betrays an unadventurous spirit. But TOO BAD; I’m thrilled to have a rest day!