Belize - Glover’s Reef
Glub, glub.
On Sunday, January 11 we set sail for Glover’s Reef — and the boat ride? Utter chaos in motion. One hour plus of airborne bobbing, slamming, and dramatic sea-surfing. I was convinced the captain had confused our vessel with a roller coaster. Thank goodness for Gravol — my stomach owed it a debt of gratitude.
But oh, was it worth it. Every splash, squeal, and queasy moment melted away the second we hit that reef: crystal-blue water, kaleidoscopic coral, and fish putting on their own Broadway show. Seasickness, schmee-sickness — adventure trumped discomfort. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat (and with an extra Gravol, just in case).
View from the beach. The colour of the water would change from blue to green to turquoise.
My sketch, trying to capture some of the colours of the Caribbean.
Our accommodations and our bathroom?
The shower was a stout bucket dangling from a pole, complete with a dramatic turn-knob that liberated a glorious cascade of room temperature water.
The toilet? A whimsical step back in time. Instead of the polite hum of plumbing, you were greeted by a bed of wood chips doing the sanitation tango.
Primitive? Absolutely. Charming? Undeniably. We went in knowing what to expect, which turned every clanky, crunchy, splishy moment into part of the story. By the end, those humble fixtures felt less like inconveniences and more like characters in our camping saga—unpolished, reliable, and full of personality.
I had my first snorkeling adventure and promptly had aa panic-attack. It was windy, the waves were playing tag with my face, and every gulp decided to be ocean-flavored. John and Graeme were blissfully doing their best fish impersonations; the drop-off boat was dealing with someone else's snorkel saga; Luis, our guide, was doing the “calm-from-a-distance” thing. I was swallowing seawater like a very unhappy goldfish and fully convinced this was the dramatic finale.
I spotted Luis — closest person with a flotation device — and made a slightly frantic dog-paddle beeline for him. He was unruffled, told me to breathe (yes, that thing people forget under stress), and offered the emergency floatation device like a lifeline and a permission slip: hold on as long as you needed. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Clinging to that float felt like holding the world together. Slowly my grip relaxed until it was nothing more than a finger casually resting on plastic. Then, miraculously, I let go. The ocean stopped auditioning for apocalypse and started showing off instead. I floated, stared at the kaleidoscope below, and marveled.
After that, the trip turned into a buffet of choices: fishing, snorkeling, relaxing — pick your own seaside mood. I picked “look, no panic!” and happily sampled a little of everything.
One morning we set out with Graeme, John and other guested wanting to try out our luck fishing. Our “rig” was gloriously low-tech: a spool, a hook, some weight, and either shrimp or conch meat—classic pirate economy. We dropped our lines until they kissed the ocean floor and waited.
Not long after, Graeme struck gold—well, silver and scaly. He hauled up the first fish and wore the grin of a man who’d just remembered where he left his lucky socks. That was Graeme’s lone triumph for the day. John, on the other hand, seemed to be on a first-name basis with the fish population and pulled up about five. Everyone was getting in on the action—everyone except me. I had a different vocation that day: official fish paparazzo. I kept clicking, immortalizing every flop, gleam, and triumphant fist pump.
Above us, frigate birds patrolled like feathered customs agents, eyes peeled for any flying scraps. They hovered expectantly, hoping we’d be generous with the ocean’s tapas. Drama peaked on John’s second try at fishing: Kelly hauled up only the top half of a fish. Yes—just the head and torso, like a seafood magic trick. The captain, unflappable as ever, jammed that severed dorsal into a beefier hook and—poof—twenty seconds later pulled up a barracuda. Instant karma. When he slit the barracuda open, the missing bottom half of the fish was discovered.
Fillets flew like confetti as we prepped the catch, and the cook grilled them to perfection. We didn’t stop at fish—lobsters joined the feast, caught with a spear . No traps, just skill and a bit of theatrical poking.
In the next three photos, Garfield gets down to business, finding, spearing and showing off his lobster.
And Luis showing off his catch.
Good Bye Glover’s Reef. We will be back.
