Snorkeling Tortola and Norman Island

On my first cruise out of San Juan in nearly a decade, I revisited mostly familiar islands—Barbados, Saint Lucia, Antigua, Saint Kitts—each still delivering its own distinct charms. But it was Tortola, the lone newcomer on the itinerary, that I most anticipated.

I’d explored Saint Thomas and Saint John in the U.S. Virgin Islands before, but the British Virgin Islands had always remained just out of reach—lush silhouettes rising beyond turquoise channels, a short ferry ride from shores I already knew. Tortola, Virgin Gorda, Jost Van Dyke, and a scatter of smaller islets sit tightly grouped with their American neighbors in what many call the Caribbean’s most beautiful seascape.

Tortola also promised some of the trip’s best snorkeling, so I booked an afternoon excursion to one reef-rich islet. Still, I wanted a feel for the island itself. So first thing after our cruise ship arrived, I hopped into a shared open-air taxi and crossed the island to Cane Garden Bay Beach, several miles from the quiet port of Road Town.

We stopped at an overlook to soak in the sweeping views of Jost Van Dyke, St. John, and St. Thomas before dropping down to our destination—the most popular beach on Tortola. Cane Garden Bay unfurled around us in a wide stretch of sugar-soft sand, gently washed by the surf and framed by the luxuriant green hills that define the Virgin Islands. A handful of sailboats bobbed sleepily in the bay. I rented a chaise and umbrella but skipped the lounging; snorkeling was calling.

Despite the setting’s knockout beauty, I had modest expectations for what I’d see underwater. My research suggested better beach snorkeling farther up the coast at Brewer’s Bay, and the truly great reefs lay offshore around Tortola’s smaller islets—hence my planned afternoon excursion. Still, on a beach attendant’s advice, I swam out to a shipwreck at the north end of the bay, not far from shore.

The visibility was mediocre, but the outline of a long, sunken vessel soon emerged, its skeleton cloaked in bright coral. I snapped a few photos—then froze. Several enormous fish had materialized out of the shadows. My first spike of panic screamed barracudas, but relief followed when I recognized them as tarpon. Harmless, yes—but thick-bodied, four feet long, and likely accustomed to being fed by tour guides. I could not see them coming well in advance, which only made the prospect of repeated scares worse. I turned around and kicked quickly back to shore.

I grabbed a taxi back to the port just in time for a quick lunch onboard before meeting my tour right on the pier. About forty fellow cruisers packed into a catamaran and we set off on a glorious sail—bright sun, calm seas, and pleasure boats dotting the water. Near our destination on Norman Island, just a couple of miles from St. John, we glided past a three-masted windjammer anchored offshore.

Norman Island may have inspired Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. We know it was named for a pirate—and that pirate treasure was once hidden there. Three sea-level caves on the island’s western coast marked our stop and the start of our snorkeling adventure.

I’d hoped this would be the best snorkeling of my week, and it didn’t disappoint. In crystal-clear water, schools of stoplight parrotfish and Atlantic blue tangs swirled around me. The reef was a coral-encrusted riot of color. An octopus tucked itself into a rocky crevice near one cave. Anemones waved gently in the current. I missed the green sea turtle others spotted, even though I was the last one back aboard.

Our second stop was Pirates Bight, the island’s only development. The harbor—one of the safest in the area—was crowded with moored sailboats. A restaurant, bar, and small shop catered to the lucky few who came ashore. Snorkeling from the wide sandy beach was solid: some saw turtles grazing in the seagrass, while I encountered a large school of Caribbean reef squid and a lone southern stingray.

As we boarded for the late-afternoon, rum-soaked sail back to port, the crew fed a resident barracuda they claimed lived under the dock. He was so familiar he even had a name—Kenny. I tried to photograph him from above, but the light’s refraction warped every shot. Was he really a barracuda? Or a tarpon, one of many in the bay? Either way, I was perfectly content to ponder the mystery out of the water away from him.