The uninhabited island to the north of the Split rests beneath an impenetrable knitting of jungle, skirted along its borders by mangroves. We paddle a canoe among the dendtritic roots of the mangrove trees in search of elusive seahorses, but find only a black, buzzing fog of mosquitoes on the shoreline. Occasionally, a rickety dock fingers its way onto the island, offering passage into a clearing designed for trash fires and late night boozing away from the rest of the world. We venture inland briefly but find ourselves quickly tangled and tortured by biting insects and creeping vines.
Offshore, protected by the breeze, our view of Caye Caulker gleams with verdant life. Fifty meters from the island, we teeter along in impossibly clear and shallow water. White sand dusts the blades of turtle grass beneath our boat, accented by the occasional burst of burnt orange from a starfish or pink and cream of a conch shell. Upside-down jellyfish bob passively among the ocean floor and blade-nosed batfish drag their impossibly bizarre bodies along the sand in search of sustenance, or perhaps evolutionary guidance.
We glide back to the village more slowly than our departure this morning, absorbing the ruddy sunset on our right and the selva green on our left. Overcome with stillness, LaFleur and I do not speak in those last minutes of daylight, communicating only with the gentle splashes of our paddles dipping into the translucent water below.
