Bioluminaries April 9
At Pigeon Point, on the southern end of Tobago, kayaks and paddle boards embark after sunset, paddling against a southerly wind and intermittent rain. The destination is lit by some mysterious flame, on the far shore of No Man’s Land. Not so long ago, Sandals Man attempted to claim this roadless coastline and erect a 900-room temple to the gods of tourism, but Man’s effort failed, for now at least. Tonight wildness holds a slim beachhead.
Like a Carib raiding party, only lacking the requisite nautical and warrior skills, we make the 3-km-crossing from Pigeon Point, crashing over small waves, and into one another, as we endeavor to stay huddled, lest a stray be culled by a speed boat in the dark. A needle-nose fish leaps over my hands, perhaps attracted by the light of our small lamp. My crew mate is shoveling seawater into my lap with each stroke.
A giant pile of flaming bamboo and driftwood marks the sandbar entrance to the mangrove lagoon at Bon Accord. We make landfall so abruptly that a fisherman has to scramble with his rod in the pitch black to avoid collision. The nearby bonfire party ignores our presence. Dozens of young fun-seekers with disposable income have been offered the unique opportunity to wine and fete on a secluded beach with other tourists, ferried by a glass bottom boat called Sugar Lips. It is a mere puddle jump from civilization to a simulated bacchanal of tiki torches, pricey drinks, and deafening soundtrack, Gangnam Style. The kids are ready to experience Tobago! Regardless of the outcome, they are stranded until morning.
Charlie, Megan, and I haul the kayaks over the spit and into the warm brackish lagoon. Immediately, underwater sparks appear. No Man’s Land provides some prime habit for bioluminescent dinoflagellates, phytoplankton that employ the proteins luciferin and luciferase to ward off enemies, but also attracting the curious. In bloom, they draw small predators like the Joshua fish, which attract larger predators, like fish-eating bats the size of small hawks, swooping, darting, locating echoes off the surface.
Paddling inland, the wind calms and the thumping bass fades to background. Pelicans roost in the trees for the night, posing like gargoyles, unbothered by our presence. The pond is tepid and smells of rot. At a select point, along the rooty banks of bitter red mangrove, all but me jump in to deliver the necessary agitation. A whirling display of electric blue animates the swimmers like nebula. I would rather not jump into the lagoon—honestly, who swims in a swamp? Reluctantly, I jump in. I am grateful it is dark because I do not want to see this soupy gunk on my face in daylight. On a moonless night, however, the detritus glitters like the static charge of a Tesla coil, or maybe a head injury.
The next day, at Mount Irvine beach, a young woman sits at the outside bar with a little Trinidadian capuchin monkey on a string, talking on her phone. “He plays with my dog and cat.“ she says. “It is so cute. He plays tricks on them, like when he hides their food. He is more like a human than anyt’ing.“ She cuddles him and feeds him crackers beside her cocktail.
“Not right,“ Lord George says under his breath. “She just wants attention.“ If so, it is working. Across the bar, everyone’s eyes are fixed on the specimen. George glares at the leash.