Extreme Antigua

We should have listened more carefully as we settled into our seats for our circumnavigation boat tour of Antigua. But I was distracted—rattled by last-minute changes to the meeting spot, the start time, and a tense standoff over the condition of my American cash. Yes, I knew there were supposed to be no rips in the bills I used to pay for the trip. I just hadn’t noticed one when my husband and I pooled our money in our stateroom that morning. So I missed the moment when the captain asked the group a question that would soon matter very much: Does anyone have back problems?

Our friend Jackie had joined us on a seven-day Caribbean cruise out of San Juan. For months, we’d planned excursions on each of the five islands we’d visit. Jackie and I both love snorkeling, and she’s fond of recounting her kayaking adventures in Costa Rica and zip-lining triumphs in Roatan. The tour I found sounded tailor-made for her: Adventure Antigua’s Extreme Circumnavigation Tour. A forty-five-foot powerboat. Multiple snorkeling stops. Lunch. Stingrays. It promised thrills—and delivered. Our only real concern beforehand was whether the boat had a toilet. It did. A tiny one called a head.

What we didn’t fully register was this: to circle Antigua, the boat had to leave the calm Caribbean side—where cruise ships dock and tourists bask on sun-soaked beaches—and enter the open Atlantic. As rain slashed down and seas rose, the skipper casually informed us there was no land between us and Africa. If I hadn’t been gripping Jody beside me with white knuckles, I might have reflected on the history of these waters and the slave ships that once passed through them. Instead, I held on for dear life.

I sat next to Jody, vacationing from Ontario, by default—it was the last seat available. My husband Chris and Jackie were seated along the starboard bench with two other passengers. I’d offered Jackie my forward-facing seat under the partial canopy, but she’d declined. As we cleared St. John’s harbor, passengers were instructed to straddle their benches and face forward. None of them yet knew they’d soon be riding something closer to a mechanical bull than a tour boat.

At first, the ride was glorious. We skimmed north along the coast in brilliant sunshine, the Caribbean Sea an impossible blue. Cliffs, islets, and resorts slid past. We passed Prickly Pear Island, home to an exclusive beach club, then Long Island, where Princess Diana once sought refuge from paparazzi before escaping farther north to Barbuda. We paused at Hell’s Gate to photograph a natural limestone bridge, then continued on to Stingray City.

The site was quiet—a small dock in clear, shallow water over a sandbar a mile offshore. As we climbed down the ladder, we were warned not to step on the stingrays. I’d visited stingray congregations before, where dozens of rays swarmed visitors. In Antigua, there were only a few—but two were enormous, the largest I’d ever seen.

Back aboard we blasted straight into a squall.

Rain pelted us. Waves rose fast. Hiding under my towel and clutching Jody, I listened to screams as the boat launched off wave crests and slammed back down with bone-jarring force. One crash lifted me clean off the seat before dropping me hard. For a moment, I thought I’d injured my back. I hadn’t—but Jackie wasn’t so lucky.

By the time we reached Green Island for lunch, Jackie looked like a drowned rat and was clearly hurting. Still, she climbed out of the boat and made it down the beach. When she lined up first for pasta salad and barbecue chicken, I took it as a hopeful sign.

The setting was idyllic: white sand, turquoise water, gentle surf, sea turtles surfacing nearby. But stirred-up sand made snorkeling pointless. Soon enough, we were back aboard, heading into even rougher water.

This was the Atlantic.

Jackie and I had switched seats, putting me forward, straddling the bench and gripping a ladder leading to the covered bow. Waves grew taller, steeper. The skipper throttled and eased the engine in rapid rhythm. One wave loomed so high I shut my eyes. Another tossed Jody onto the floor—thankfully not overboard. Somewhere amid the chaos, it dawned on me that I had no idea where the life vests were. There wasn’t even another boat in sight if we needed help.

Finally, we rounded the island’s southeastern corner, passed the limestone cliffs known as the Pillars of Hercules, and entered English Harbor. Calm. Shelter. Safety. The British Navy had known what it was doing when it claimed this harbor centuries earlier.

The seas were too rough to snorkel at the Pillars as planned, so we stopped instead at nearby Freeman’s Bay, home to moored yachts and two shipwrecks. I helped Jackie—grimacing—into her gear and spotted a pair of green sea turtles.

Our final stop was Rendezvous Bay. The captain held the boat steady beyond the surf as we jumped in and swam ashore. The beach was spectacular: undeveloped, backed by Antigua’s highest peaks, sand so soft it felt like marshmallows underfoot. A crew member swam in with a cooler of rum punch. I even convinced Jackie to take a sip.

The ride back was smoother. Drinks flowed. Banana cake appeared. The Atlantic ordeal faded as we reentered the Caribbean’s calmer embrace. We dropped off passengers at resort beaches before disembarking beneath our cruise ship in St. John’s.

Tips were encouraged. Ripped bills? No problem this time.

I was relieved that Jackie managed to keep to her busy schedule on our cruise’s next two stops. As for my next visit to Antigua—I’ll skip the “extreme” adventure and admire the view from dry land, preferably with a drink in hand and zero waves in sight.