Bermuda’s golden hour

Bermuda is a tiny island in the Atlantic Ocean. You may know it from stories of the Bermuda Triangle’s infamous ship vanishings and aircraft disappearances. It’s true the island is visited by thunderstorms and hurricanes, uprooting hundred-year-old cedar trees and sinking yachts to the seafloor. But typically during humid summer days, rainfall — ranging from a downpour to a shower — only lasted a few hours.

Sometimes on those overcast evenings, my friend and I would skip across the harbour to her parents’ boat. Despite the rain, the sun made an appearance, peaking between the grey clouds and casting the waves in pink and sea-green with tips of orange-gold.

It was as though the coral reefs were brought to the surface, arranged in a liquid mosaic. We’d anchor in an empty bay, the rain adding frizz to our hair, and we’d jump into the wavy water. We were mermaids, seals, starfish and girls.

Past the shipwrecked reefs, the clouds always blushed as the sun would begin to set on Bermuda’s golden hour: soft boat propeller hums, tree frog choirs, clinking swizzle cocktails and evening picnics on the shore. The golden hue would hit our sunburnt skin just right and we would become one with the sky.

In the humidity of the day, we barbecued. The parties were big — everyone knew each other on the island. For hours we swam in the pool, gossiping about our crushes with kids we met earlier that day.

In the golden hour, we’d sit on hammocks or by the pier to sip our ice cream soups and eat frosted cakes. And the salt-stained docks creaked as we flipped off their floating platforms, the salt water removing the excess sugar from our lips.

We tried to climb buoys with barnacles and algae on their underbellies, but always slipped-off. We dove under the ginger-coloured waters, bubbles and muted voices swirling in our ears, just to break through the turquoise to hear squeals and laughter.

I still visit those evenings often in my mind, tracing scars on my legs from rock collisions: their shapes defined by the sky dissolving from burnt-orange to dark blue.

When I come to visit, my friends and I pick-up where we left off and head straight to the beach. Pizza in hand, pink sand sifts through our clothes and salty beach towels, and lavender skies make the perfect evening.

We rush into the ocean and hop with the coming waves. We have front row seats to the changing sky, shifting from pink to bronze. We look back on the shore and see our friends splashing in the shallows, while the tide lifts us off our heels.

We live in the setting sun and its sky paintings, our bodies outlined in gold, shimmering from the ocean’s salty coat. And even once the final orange sliver falls behind the ocean, in the navy night the moon ignites bonfires with its own copper touch.

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