The Writing Desk

Stand Up Paddleboarding

Sun, 03 May 2026 00:45:03 GMT

By Lyn Battle.

Reprinted from

SisterShip Magazine September 2020

I have a friend in the military. He uses a lot of these ‘Three Letter Acronyms’ - TLAs, he calls them. “Why are they called TLAs and why do they have to have three letters?” I asked him in exasperation, when he had confused me with yet another piece of jargon… “Ahhhh,” he explained smugly, “Because if they didn’t have three letters then they wouldn’t be TLAs...” (Insert eye roll here!)

So what the heck is SUP?!

I had seen this term crop up a lot. Turns out it is probably easier to fit on the marketing blurb than the full mouthful of ‘Stand Up Paddleboard’.

People from cultures as far apart as Peru, Hawaii, and Indigenous Australia, have been using boards or rafts to walk on water for hundreds of years, but it is Hawaii where surfing evolved into what we now know as Stand Up Paddleboarding.

From a sea kayaker’s point of view this seems like a contradiction in itself – although I have seen incredible photos of crazy people standing upright in their kayaks and paddling the turbulent waters at the aptly-named ‘Bitches’ tide race off the coast of Wales…

SUP however, manages to look like a very serene, dignified activity. The marketing blurb usually shows images of slim girls in well-fitting bikinis or moderately muscled blokes in boardshorts, all languidly poling their boards along in a steady, rhythmic action, much like the gondola guys in Venice. It looks easy; it looks relaxing; and it’s supposed to be ‘really good for your core’. I’m into Yoga so I know what my ‘core’ is, and I know I need to use it a lot in my Eskimo Rolling while sea kayaking. I decided I would have to give this SUP a try…

Easier said than done. I live on a small offshore island in Australia’s remote Gulf of Carpentaria. No SUP hire or school up here. But we go to the mainland once or twice a year and usually spend a month living on our motor catamaran Trim cruising the Whitsundays, so I checked out the possibilities for lessons; lots of opportunities at Hamilton Island and Airlie Beach where we call in for fuel and supplies. However, the weather sucked that trip, and each time we were in port, the strong winds had cancelled the SUP hire/classes.

Funnily enough, it was months later, at a Yoga Retreat in Bali, Indonesia, that I got my chance!

Due to the higher cost of flights from Cairns on weekends, I flew to Bali a day early and opted to stay on the coast at Sanur, before joining the girls at the Ubud retreat centre.

I researched online and found a SUP school quite near to my accommodation. Lessons were held in the early morning, before the sea breeze picked up. I emailed the owner, Jankie, and explained my situation. “You’re going to a Yoga Retreat? Then you might like to join my wife for SUP Yoga at sunset when you arrive!”

“But my SUP lesson is not til the next morning?” I pointed out, “I might spend a lot of time on the board in ‘Child’s Pose’ or worse, falling off – wouldn’t that be disrespectful?”

“SUP Yoga is fun! Not serious… Falling off is part of the fun!” he assured me.

Hmmmmm...Talk about ‘In at the deep end…’

I walked through the maze of Balinese backstreets and eventually found the courtyard with a stack of giant boards and paddles of varying length, a locker for my gear, and a tiny, smiling Balinese girl called Nita, small but sturdy I just knew she had a rock solid ‘core’ and would not be falling off HER paddleboard…

After introductions, I followed her to the beach and stood in awe of my schoolyard – the tide was low and the smooth sea stretched to the horizon, which was a frothy white, and I realised the background roar was not traffic or jets bringing more Aussie tourists, but the waves crashing on the offshore reef, where surfers were practicing their skills. Kite surfers were zipping back and forth across the flat water and I had to drag my eyes from the spectacle of it all to focus on the row of bobbing boards that Nita was pointing out to me. Several large chunky paddleboards were tethered to the beach, and she chose two of them that were facing each other. There was nobody else booked in for SUP YOGA this evening, so I had a free lesson on top of the paid experience, as Nita was a patient and encouraging Yogi, keen to share her craft (pun intended!).

We started off learning how to get onto the board. Easier than getting into an inflatable dinghy! I was surprised just how stable the big board was, and Nita started us off with some seated poses, keeping our centres of gravity low to begin with. As I settled ‘into the moment’ and closed my eyes, the swaying board bobbed around on its tether like a sailboat tugging at its anchor, eager to set sail. It was interesting ‘grounding’ on water and yet it made sense, as our bodies are about 60% water and though our initial reaction is to feel nervous and afraid of falling in, gradually, I became aware that the foam sandwich beneath me was part of the whole system, and I was part of the ‘sandwich’ and there was, after all, barely a metre of water beneath the board.

Then we knelt on the paddleboard for some ‘Cat/Cow’ stretches; with four points of contact, it still felt pretty stable, even though the beautiful evening had now brought out the speedboats and water-skiers who whizzed by rather close for comfort, rocking the board alarmingly. We closed our eyes and zoned them out, Ommm!

“OK, very good, let’s try some standing postures!” Nita grinned at me as she posed like a tiny ballerina.

She pointed out the lines on the board and where to place my feet for best balance position. I stood up warily, wobbled, balanced, raised one shaky leg and PLOP! over I went, with a splash, into the warm water, quite refreshing really, and no harm done. An opportunity to practice climbing back onto the board, a couple of steadying breaths, and I was briefly a warrior poised for action!

Gaining confidence (and clarity?) we went for Headstand – “You can do it!” Nita encouraged me, “if you go over, you won’t hurt yourself, you will just land in the water and learn your limits!” Oh I was so keen to go upside down, but I’d only done it against a wall on land and the fear of failure was stronger than my confidence; what if I hurt my neck before the Yoga Retreat even started? So, my little kicks got me some air but didn’t get me fully upright and I chickened out, promising to come back to Bali another time to try again.

We finished up with the most awesome ‘Savasana’ I’ve ever experienced, lying back on our boards, hands trailing in the water, rising and falling with the evening tide, oblivious now to the other water users, the sunset warm on my face, totally at one with the ocean, Namaste.

After that awesome start, I felt like a Pro when I sauntered back down to the beach next morning for my actual SUP lesson. The other students were a mother and her three teenage daughters from the Netherlands, first time for them too. Jankie expertly gauged what size paddles we required, then our instructor Tommy showed us the basic stance and paddle strokes while we were still on shore; how to balance, how to turn, how to surf (we all eyed each other with a raised eyebrow at that one).

We carried our craft into the water and climbed aboard. Tommy soon had us kneeling on our boards, poling along the shallows against the light breeze, gazing at the corals and sea stars below, in spite of his advice: “Don’t look down!” Then he got us to stand up – oooh! He made it look effortless, but there was definitely a technique to bending those knees at just the right time as you lean forward into that paddle stroke.

Like everything, practice is key. We had a few ‘girl overboard’ situations but it was easy to clamber back on and our loyal little group stayed together close to shore while our instructor gazed wistfully at the reef break… alas, this group of students was not ready for that yet! We had a lovely hour or so paddling back and forth, with mum going to the top of the class, declaring it: “Wunderbar for the core!”. She had three gorgeous teenage daughters but she herself could easily have passed for their older sister and had obviously looked after her own ‘core’ - she was certainly the poster girl in the well-fitting bikini. My husband chuckled at the photos later as I was the only one in shorts and long sleeved rashie!

Picture above : Lyn and friends at SUP lesson Sanur, Bali. Can you guess who’s who?

MEXICO TO THE MARQUESAS: And the Intertropical Convergence Zone

Sun, 03 May 2026 00:20:22 GMT

By Cheryle Matthew

Reprinted from SisterShip Magazine

June 2019

We crossed the Pacific for the first time in 2009 on our previous yacht Sea Dove , a Savage Oceanic 42. The weather was glorious for the whole trip, and we were spoiled with 15-20 knot trade winds, sunshine, and blue skies. The toughest part of the trip was deciding which book to read next and what lure to put on the fishing line. However, our trip was cut short as we had to race home for family reasons.

We rushed through the Pacific in less than three months on that first trip and sold Sea Dove as family commitments dominated our life for the next few years, but that is a story best left for another time. We later bought Sea Nymph in Los Angeles with the intention of sailing the South Pacific again.

Had we tempted fate? Should we have been satisfied with our first dream run?

This second crossing was as different as chalk and cheese. We left from the Northern Hemisphere this time and had to cross the intertropical convergence zone (ITCZ) to reach the Southern Hemisphere. We left the Mexican coast at Cabo San Lucas on a southwest heading to 10 degrees north where we had planned to cross the ITCZ at right angles and then set a course to the Marquesas Islands.

The ITCZ, known by sailors as the doldrums or the calms, is a band of unsettled weather encircling the earth where the northeast and southeast trade winds converge. This band of disturbed weather moves and meanders along the equator and can vary as much as 120 miles in a 24-hour period. The weather patterns in the ITCZ can form and dissipate in less than 24 hours. Seas are usually moderate-to-small but can be confused since they can come from any direction or several directions at once. The area is characterised by doldrums, squalls, and torrential rain. Conditions change regularly and the best laid plans can go astray with the changing weather patterns. Sounds terrific, doesn't it?

Leaving Cabo San Lucas and the Mexican coast our plan was to remain north of the ITCZ for as long as possible. Our course mimicked the shape of a giant squashed letter S. We wanted to make the most of the northeast trades and the further west we travelled the thinner the band of ITCZ would be. Here we would cross into the southern latitudes and pick up the southeast trades. We had been talking to three other yachts on the radio in the Sea of Cortez as we made our way from La Paz to Cabo San Lucas and agreed to stay in radio communication for as long as we could. Sea Nymph didn’t have a HF radio and due to the added expense of buying and installing one, we opted to purchase a Satellite phone instead for weather reports that we would download to our laptop along with emails using the MailASail program. This meant we wouldn’t be able to join in the HF Community Radio Sched which would keep us in radio contact with sailors on the same route. Once we were 20-30 miles away from them, we would lose our VHF signal.

We left Cabo San Lucas and the Mexican coast with southwest winds. Our first two days and nights out were most uncomfortable with confused seas due to the cape effect, and the wind was on the nose. As we hadn’t been out in the ocean for some time, we were both feeling a bit under the weather and exhausted so on the second night we hove-to for six hours and felt much better for the rest and three hours sleep each. We then picked up the northeast trades on April 30th and the entire scene changed. It was superb trade wind sailing with the mainsail out and a poled headsail as we cruised along nicely at around six knots. Bruce and I are conservative sailors, and we generally reef our main at night and furl the head sail a little depending on the conditions. We feel it best to reef when it’s still day light rather than having to do it with increased weather conditions in the middle of the night. For the next week the sailing conditions were terrific, we made good mileage each day and our spirits soared as our bodies adjusted to the movement of the boat and we found comfort in the routine of long-distance passage making.

About a week out from land, we were joined by up to six large booby birds. They were constantly trying to land on the boat. If they had been content to sit on the deck or railings that would have been fine, but they were determined to land on the top of the mast with all our masthead instruments and antennae. The numbers increased on dusk, all desperately seeking a perch for the night. We shone the spotlight on them and sounded the foghorn to scare them off. This went on for at least an hour every evening for about a week. Occasionally they would try at night but would fall off the spreaders or the radar dome as the yacht rolled. Our concern was suffering damage to the mast head instruments including the VHF antenna, wind speed instruments, or navigation lights. After a week they gave up and disappeared as quickly as they had first appeared.

About 10 days into the passage, we noticed the weather pattern changing. As we sailed west above the ITCZ we saw clouds forming south of us, they were only about five or six miles away and were as black and ominous as imaginable. If they’d stayed put it wouldn’t have been an issue, but they would irregularly move north and give us a thorough drenching. As we neared the position 10 degrees north and 130 degrees west, where we intended to cross the ITCZ, we looked for a gap in the weather and black clouds, decided that there wasn’t going to be any reprieve, took a deep breath and turned south to cross the zone.

I wasn’t looking forward to crossing this particular part of ocean, perhaps I had done too much reading preparation. I was quite concerned; was our new little yacht up to the task? She was far livelier than our previous yachts and this would be the test. We found a problem in the canvas spray dodger; it leaked like a sieve. We smothered it in water repellent spray, but it didn’t last long. It was going to be a wet trip; luckily it was warm.

On the second day into the crossing of the zone 20 pilot whales came to greet us, keeping us company for at least half an hour. We could hear their high pitch whistling noise as they communicated with each other, and perhaps with us. They were about twice the length of a dolphin and looked quite dolphin-like but without the beak. It was exhilarating, and at times breathtaking, as they seemed to play a game of tag with us. They would swim in a circular pattern, coming in smaller groups of five-to-ten swimming about 100 metres behind the boat, then race up to the stern, stop short for a moment then swim down the side of the hull, disappearing only to reappear behind us again. They were coming so close to the windvane that we started to worry they might break it. Just as we were discussing taking it out of the water to be on the safe side, one of the pilot whales did something almost unbelievable. It was a whale with a very noticeable jagged fin, the biggest of the pod, and perhaps the leader. He rushed up with the next group in the tag game and stopped just behind the paddle, which was moving from side to side like a metronome. As we were watching we held our breath as the whale paused only five inches from the paddle and waited a moment watching it, then amazingly he moved his body and nudged the paddle sideways in time with the regular movement of the windvane paddle. That was it, Bruce yelled, and we quickly pulled the paddle out of the water before the pilot whale decided to play with it again.

We sailed for three days through typical ITCZ weather, watching as huge black clouds formed to surround us. Hoping to avoid another drenching we used the radar to aim for the thinnest band of bad weather, changing direction if the clouds looked particularly threatening or if the radar showed them to be large areas of bad weather. When in doldrums we motored and recharged our batteries. One day followed the next, we dodged storms, cooked, read books, and I played with my iPad and Navionics charting program. This was our backup chart plotter and I love it.

We crossed the ITCZ and were welcomed by a rainbow.

This was the first ocean crossing we had made in Sea Nymph and she proved herself a capable bluewater passage maker. My faith in her had grown immensely. Although the ITCZ was hard work, it wasn’t as terrifying as I had expected, we found it just wet and gloomy with frequent squalls to keep us on our toes. The waves weren’t huge, just confused. Our water tanks were topped up with rainwater, all our clothes were washed, and we had the most wonderful experience with pilot whales that I could have wished for, so the ITCZ had some positive outcomes.

Would I do it again? Yes, for sure, but next time I’d like a solid waterproof spray dodger and a dry cockpit.

CHERYLE MATTHEW is a registered nurse. She and her husband Bruce spent nine and a half years circumnavigating the globe. They had regular trips back home to work and top up their sailing kitty and to spend time with their five children and ever increasing number of grandchildren. Cheryle and Bruce have sailed over 80,000 nm together.

How I was slowly seduced

Wed, 30 Oct 2024 04:54:24 GMT

Home is changing: a short story by Anne Barnes

By Anne Barnes (from 'Changing Places: True stories from women on the water' by SisterShip Press 2020)

It happened so gradually I don’t really remember when ‘home’ became a boat, not a house. In the beginning the boat was ‘his’. I was happy that he was happy. I had my own interests and figured he would potter about with his ‘hobby’ while I got on with my terrestrial pursuits.

I did go along occasionally, just for a ride. I sat in the cockpit, looked for dolphins, and then returned ‘home’ at the end of the day considering my tour of duty complete. I took no interest in the maintenance or improvement projects that seemed to provide endless hours of either joy or frustration to my clearly besotted partner. A night aboard now and then was more than enough for me and I scuttled happily ‘home’ to my garden and cheery open fire. My happiness-scales were heavily skewed to land-based activities.

I was busy elsewhere, in the garden perhaps, the first time the boat was hauled out for a bottom scrub. The second time I went along but didn’t do much, I mean, who expects a woman to sand or paint a boat? A house, yes, but a boat? That’s a boy’s toy. By the third haul out I was actively helping, scraping stubborn little barnacles and dabbing antifoul paint here and there. I started to take a little more interest.

I’m not sure when or why I started tagging along more often on trips to the water. Weekends on the mooring or anchored in a quiet bay gradually became more frequent.

I was being ever so slyly seduced; not by my man, not by the water, nor the sky, and definitely not by the boat, but by a combination of them all.

The stillness at night, barely a ripple on the surface of the water. The moon, rising in all her voluptuous, silvery splendour above a silhouetted island, or hanging as a crescent on a black velvet blanket of stars. Dolphins, gliding effortlessly beneath the bowsprit or playing tantalisingly nearby but always just out of camera shot. The warmth of the sun on a winter’s morning, coffee in one hand and a book lying unopened while I sat, content to just ‘be’. The smile of my loved one, as we stood hand in hand on the foredeck, drinking in a sunset as the sky exploded with colour around us. All these elements combined to enchant me, casting a spell that became stronger with time.

Of course, boating is not all dolphins, moonbeams, and sunsets. Far from it.

There were nights when frayed nerves kept me awake as the wind howled through the rigging. Days when the chill of the wind cut through every layer and I struggled to breathe through the heavy woollen scarf I’d wound tightly around my face, only my eyes peeking between it and the thick fleece beanie pulled firmly over my ears. Times when tempers flared and sharp words exchanged as things went pear-shaped, as they do often when you combine human nature with mother nature… and add a boat.

These things only served to strengthen the thread that steadily pulled me seaward. Did the boat seem increasingly smug, bobbing innocently and occasionally tugging at her mooring while we rowed towards her each week? It certainly looked that way.

Weekends were suddenly dedicated to ‘boat time’ and dry bags sat packed and waiting in anticipation for Friday afternoon to roll around. The garden lay neglected. Land-based friends confused by my reluctance to commit to anything non-boat related. “Come to the races with us”, was met with “Sorry, can’t, got boat chores to do”.

Sunday afternoons were filled with gloom and closing the washboards in the cockpit to return ‘home’ became harder. ‘Home’ was no longer ‘home’, but just a house. Somewhere to go in between the real life I had discovered. Somewhere to be endured.

One day in the not-too-distant future, I hope the transition will be complete and the ‘home’ I yearn for all week, will become a reality. In the meantime, I dream, and plan, and endure… and keep that dry bag waiting next to the ‘house’ door, ready to head ‘home’ at every opportunity I get.

Ivy's Escape

Wed, 30 Oct 2024 03:14:36 GMT

A short story by Lanise Edwards

We were well overdue to haul Easter Rose out of the water for antifouling and maintenance. The last time this expensive chore was completed we stayed in a holiday house for three days. This time, with three weeks of hard work ahead of us, we decided to stay onboard. Fortunately, the boatyard in Bundaberg had actual steps rather than a ladder, which made access to the boat possible. A ladder was not going cut it for myself or Ivy, our old Labrador.

The steps were steep and initially Ivy refused to climb them as she could see the ground beneath, this unnerved her. After some consideration we tied shade cloth underneath the steps. Ivy was happy to walk up and down with us following and holding her lead. With that hurdle overcome we began a daily routine of sanding and grinding to prepare the hull for a thorough paint and overhaul. Ivy spent most of her days on a lead sleeping in the cool shade of the boat or on deck as we worked on Easter Rose .

After 10 days on the hardstand Ivy had a good routine and waited for us to escort her down the steps for her morning walk. I guess I became comfortable and secure in the knowledge that Ivy would not attempt the steps alone. l should have known her better. In hindsight it was very likely she had been scheming her ‘great escape’ for several days! This is Ivy’s style, and I underestimated her tenacity and cunning.

One morning I woke early, let Ivy off her lead in the cockpit and ventured back below decks to prepare a well-earned coffee. Still in my mismatched PJs I eventually came back on deck with coffee in hand, noticing Ivy was not in the cockpit. Aching all over from the previous day’s hard work and noticing last night’s shower had not removed residue paint from my hands and feet, I glanced around. Still no sign of Ivy. Surely, she was not brave enough to go down the steps alone? I was mistaken.

As my foggy morning-brain stepped up a gear, I knew I had to act quickly. Our old Labrador was more than capable of sneaking off once my guard was down. And it was. Ivy could not have chosen a worse time! My antifoul splattered body and odd pajamas looked a sight, not to mention my knotted hair also sprinkled with primer and other paint residue.

There was no time to waste, there was a busy road out the front and miles of river and esplanade, not to mention trucks and workmen with forklifts. Ivy could be in danger and oblivious to it. I bolted down the steps without further thought and paced around the large yard peering in every corner. No sign of Ivy. Surely, she could not have gone far? How long had she been gone? I had no idea.

I figured it was early and no one would be around, so I chanced running out onto the road in my PJs. I noticed some workman on the road and asked if they had seen a black Labrador. They glanced at me slightly oddly, I obviously didn’t realise how I looked. They both pointed, stating that she had gone one of two different directions. I was confused and had to take a guess which direction she would head. This meant crossing the road and walking to the esplanade pathway. I scanned up and down and kept calling her name in an increasingly loud, agitated manner, as I became aware that the world was waking and people (normally-dressed people!) were appearing.

Too late to return to the boat, I forged on. Finally, in the far distance, I spotted a black dog near the seafood co-op skip bins. This had to be Ivy. Ivy loves a rotten smell to investigate!

I ran back to the road and towards the co-op. Now many people were present. Some just stared. I must have looked like a madwoman on a mission, covered in weird blue paint with war-like smears of silver primer on my face and in my hair. My mismatched PJs, lack of a bra, and crazed look must have topped it off. I yelled to Ivy as I could see it was definitely her. She froze, and I thought my search was over.

Ivy glanced around, then turned her back to me as if she had no clue who I was and could not hear me. Her hearing is acute; however, she had no intention of stopping or responding. By now I was a woman possessed, frustrated and cranky. I scolded her from a distance and demanded that she, “Come now!” I was infuriated. My voice obviously loud, people enjoying a relaxing morning coffee at the cafe stared. Beyond embarrassment at this point, I was hellbent on catching Ivy before she ate some gruesome morsel of rotten seafood that would result in a very messy aftermath!

I ran quickly towards her, approaching the bins as Ivy snorted, sniffed and kept chewing something revolting on the ground. Still completely ignoring me, she was obviously obsessed with her find. I took advantage and cornered her. Once an arm’s length away Ivy looked up at me as if to say; “Oh I didn’t see you, what’s the problem?” Grimacing I attached her lead and pulled her away from the bins. I had her in my grips and she acted as if she did not have a clue why I was angry or what the drama was!

I marched her back down the road, appearing like an abusive crazy dog owner as I muttered more than a few expletives under my breath. By this time the road was busy, workmen and boat yard staff had arrived. Yachties and locals were strolling by the café, enjoying their morning walks. I wished I could have shrunk into the asphalt as I became excessively aware of my PJ-clad appearance. I trudged back to the boatyard with Ivy.

Entering the yard people were out working on boats. I held my head high and picked up my pace towards Easter Rose , shoving Ivy up the steps and collapsing in the cockpit. It was then that the humourous side of my morning hit me and I began to laugh hysterically. Emerging from the cockpit my husband asked where I had been. I rolled my eyes and replied, “Oh just for a walk!”

POSTSCRIPT:

Sadly in 2020 Ivy crossed the rainbow bridge. She is greatly missed.

Reprinted from "Voyaging Pets: True stories from Women on the Water". Published by SisterShip Press and available from Amazon or www.seascribebooks.com

IN SEARCH OF SUGAR BEACH CAVE

Fri, 06 Aug 2021 05:31:15 GMT

Author Janet Howle on a place-based pilgrimage in the Bahamas

One of my goals during my trip to the Bahamas in April (2021) was to visit the cave that is on the cover of UNCHARTED.

That photo used on the cover was submitted by another sailor but I wanted to stand in this place for myself. Many of you may know that a cave—not actually the one on the cover of the book—is a critical element in the climax in the novel.

After checking in at West End on Grand Bahama Island, we crossed to the north end of the Berry Islands and through the cut to Great Harbor Cay (first called Manalapan Island). Now, if you haven’t been there, getting to the marina is in itself is a boating adventure. No matter how good your GPS is, the cut is nearly invisible until you make the final turn outside.

The water is shallow and takes a leap of faith to stay on course. There are markers, sort of. However, hang on, it’s worth it and one of the best hurricane holes in the Bahamas – should you need one.

The marina is all Bahamian. That means a bit rustic, lots of local color, all the cruisers necessities, and an abundance of friendly dock and office staff. From Steve Johnson, general manager, to dock staff including Miko, Quincy, and Kinsley and of course, China, in the office who will take your credit card and answer any and all questions about this remote location including gossip about former celebrities who have hung out here over the years. (There is a Bardot beach, named for…?)

So, my go-to was China. I showed her the book and told her I wanted to visit the cave.

“Dat be Sugar Cave on the east side.” She handed me a map and said, “No problem. Just go to the road, take a left. Don’t take da next left. Dat take you to da town of Bullock’s Harbor. You stay on the road until you find the turn-off to the right, which has a sign Cave, or maybe there not be a sign. You can’t get lost, just one road run da whole length of da island.”

Next question. “Can I walk there?”

Answer. “Da island a bit over 7 miles, probably 6 to da cave.” (At this point she looked me over) “I suggest you rent, yourself a car from Mr. Ramsey. I’ll call him.”

So, a car it was. It wasn’t hard to follow the road, as China said, there is only one. However, it turned out the road to the cave was indeed not marked. The road ended in a cul du sac at the end of the island and if we got that far without spotting it, we’d turn around and search again on the way back. But before we reached the end, we came upon a vehicle stopped in the middle with two locals chatting with construction guys. We decided to ask if they knew the road to Sugar Beach cave.

Answer: “You passed it. There is a road with a sign, marked Cave, or maybe there isn’t a sign.” Had we heard this before? “Well, never mind. Turn your car around and we’ll take you there.”

Sweet. They did lead us to a road—more like a footpath overgrown with weeds—there was no sign, but one of the woman assured us this was the place. She pulled off the road, got out of her car and kindly asked us, “You got shoes? You need to watch the rocks they’re jagged limestone and slippery. (Did everyone think I was old and feeble?) When you come to the beach, go to the left and you see a sort of cliff. Dat be da cave. It be low tide, so you probably can go right in it. Now be careful.”

I digress. I couldn’t figure out how to lock the car but decided it wasn’t in any danger. Who could hide a stolen car on an island 7 miles long and at the widest point, 2.5 miles wide?

Believe me, it was well worth the effort. The beach is beautiful and secluded with water that goes from light turquoise to dark sapphire. A swim would follow, but I was eager to get to the cave which was just a very short walk to the left as promised.

We were the only ones there and I was able to stand in the cave and look out at the scene from the cover of UNCHARTED (minus the sailboat). Then a photo opportunity with me holding the book in my hand. I lingered and took more photos than I will ever need. And while this cave looks out on a tranquil ocean, I could imagine what Kat and Carter felt when they entered the cave on South Andros, not knowing where it would lead.