Sheta Boca

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We travel to Sheta Boca for a walk on the wild side.  Sheta Boca means seven inlets, each carved out of limestone and different from the other. The trek is about 10km with views of the coastline for the entire venture. We arrive early at 0900  and are surprised that we have the entire nature reserve to ourselves.  A sleepy man takes our money and is not able to make change, so we tip him reluctantly.

The sea beckons and we spy a bench in the distance. We begin our journey.  Within minutes the sky opens up, and we quickly look for shelter in a cave.  How fortunate to wait out the storm.  Nearly as soon as the rain begins it stops and we start again with the added bonus of mud and slick trails for a level of difficulty.

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We are mesmarized by the power of the ocean, watching it gain momentum to a peak and then crash into the shore.  Its timed and in my mind I hear Leonard Cohen’s,  Hallelujah.

There is a hodgepodge of stairs,  some rock, some wood, some stone and a curious plank with small sticks to keep it from being a slide.  We adjust our gait and are mindful of falling.  We are more careful for the potential risk.  How different from home where our every step has the expectation of safety and if we do get hurt, then another structure is erected quickly to make certain it never happens again.

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We find a sandy beach littered with cairns.  It is always curious to see these structures, a proof that someone was there, when really it only matters to them that they were.  On closer inspection we discover that this beach is where the turtles lay their eggs, a sign asks us not to put stones on the beach as this would make it more difficult for the sea turtles.  Curacao is a surprising place with relatively few rules.  There are no posted speed signs, no smoking signs or any of a dozen like signs that exist in Canada and become invisible with their frequency.  This sign stands out and yet has been ignored.  I’m annoyed.  We decide that we will remove rocks and at least do our part for the sea turtles. We attack the homage to Sheila and feel better for our efforts.

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We have saved the best for last as we journey to our final destination, Boca Pistol.  Here water builds in a cavern, then like a sealed pot, blows, spewing water up to 30 feet in the air.  We watch this for a long while getting excited when we know that the water will shoot high.  We are not alone and like fireworks the oohs and awes surround us.  We take photos and videos and finally are sated, leaving our choice spots for new arrivals.

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We walk away from the water opting for a loop that has not been defined.  We can see Mount Christoff in the distance.  Our shoes fill with mud as we trudge along.  I think about the view of water that we gave up in favour of the backcountry.  It is beautiful with its many cacti, small lizards and large hills.  We find our way back to the beginning surprised that several hours have passed since our start.  Like the best excursions, it seems like days have passed for the experience that we now carry, though minutes as we gathered that experience.

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Klein Curacao

We set our alarm and wake in the dark for our long journey to the other side of the island. We leave ourselves extra time for getting lost and found. Soon we are in a snarl of traffic,inch  worming our way as locals dart in and out jumping the queue aggressively jockeying for position. The clock tocks, our extra time bitten away as we stand still. We worry we will miss our sailing time, though there is nothing to do but inch along. 

We arrive at the dock, frazzled and late, though have forgotten to factor in “island time,” as we chill waiting for our departure. Our boat is a catamaran, the crew personable. We see flying fish, they are startled by the boat as it jumps the waves and they fly several meters before crashing into the waves 
Klein Curacao or little Curacao, an island some 30 nautical miles from Curacao. It is uninhabited though a few structures exist for fisherman and day trippers from Curacao. The water is calm where we dock though the other side of the island the water beats aggressively against the rocks, its shores littered with boats who lost the battle against the sea. There are locals, Joe the turtle who swims around the catamaran, his daily work and a dog named bikini who unties string bikinis adding an aerobic factor for tourists. 


The Island, historically was part of the slave trade, where sick slaves were quarantined before coming to Curacao proper. I think of this time and imagine the horror of their travel to arrive at this 1.7 km island. What must they have thought? There are many that are buried on the island, their final stop. It is a dark history. 

We have a choice of snorkelling to the beach or arriving in style in a boat. We opt for the latter.  The boat ride is quick We disembark into the sea and cross the coral to arrive, our feet sinking into the thick sand. The water is beautiful, every colour of blue represented. We snorkel lazily in our search for fish, our efforts rewarded immediately. 


We set out to explore the island. We walk to an abandoned lighthouse and marvel that the dilapidated structure can be explored further. There are no signs, no fences, though we are sharper for the lack. We cross on a narrow board suspended between two sections, and carefully make our way. The drop wouldn’t kill us, though it would hurt a great deal. We climb to the top of the lighthouse and view the island, spying shipwrecks in the distance. 

We walk to the nearby shipwrecks and wonder of the day when they docked here permanently. There is much garbage strewn, likely from the wrecks, though the volume added by tourists. It is a shame.


We return,the remainder of the day has a routine. Snorkel,dry off and repeat.


Our trip back is under sail, the ride gentle rocking us to rest.  As we near Curacao, the sky opens up and we are soaked arriving on the dock like drowned sewer rats. Shivering we get back in our car, turn the heat on and begin our long crawl back. Rush hour traffic has waited for our return. 

Beach hopping in Curacao

We walk a few steps from our resort to a secluded lagoon. The approach is steep, marred with potholes though it matters little. We did not come to Curaçao or this place for paved roads. The lagoon is flanked by steep cliffs on either side with a jewel of water in between. The beach is sandy though at waters entrance there is coral hard on our tender feet. We are forced down to stop the pain and float into the sea. We lazily snorkel,  the sun on our back and search for fish. Our efforts are rewarded as colourful fish swim into our view.  We are reluctant to leave the lagoon, dreading the pain from the coral. We scan the beach, find a sandy approach and walk erect out of the lagoon.

We are informed of a beach where it is possible to see turtles. The roads are a haphazard affair, the signage arrives at nearly the last minute.  The beach inviting, the sea beckons.  We stand on the pier and everywhere we see turtles large and small.  A burly man next to me shouts excitedly to his friend, “look baby turtles,” then catches himself and tries to play it cool. A young family shows the turtles for the first time to their son and immediately I think of our grandsons at home and imagine their excitement. There is no playing it cool for me as I climb into the sea for a chance to swim with them. The water is silty, the after effects of a storm many miles away. We see no turtles through our snorkel masks. It matters little, we are swimming with the turtles sight unseen. 

We travel further and discover another beach complete with thick white sand. The waves gently touch the shore and then retreat to gain power for the next. It is mesmerizing and soothing. There is no particular place to be, just this experience and then the next to enjoy.