Into the Land of Salt

Preparation vs. Experience on a Remote Expedition

Luxury travel asks little more than a swimsuit and a camera. Expedition travel demands foresight, grit, and a willingness to be uncomfortable. That lesson came into sharp focus on my first Caribbean assignment: a 16-day expedition to Salt Cay in the Turks and Caicos, where I joined the Shipwreck Survey’s archaeological field school. I thought I was ready, but nothing could have prepared me for the island time forgot.

Chairs on the edge of the Sand Bar in Grand Turk are perfectly placed to catch a Caribbean sunset, and the occasional green flash.
The tiger-striped waters of Endymion Rock hide wrecks and reefs that abound. Our dive boat tossed in the four-foot waves as we explored the remnants of the HMS Endymion below.
The Coral Reef Bar and Grill on Salt Cay is currently the island’s only restaurant and bar.
Dr. Ruud Stelton, of the Shipwreck Survey, prepares to perform photogrammetry of a shipwreck site.

In the weeks leading up to departure, I obsessed over what to bring. Packing for two weeks without easy access to laundry while also cramming in dive gear, cameras, and writing tools turned into a game of Tetris. Weight limits on the small island planes made every ounce count. Dive fins and regulators competed for space with hard drives and underwater housings. By the time my bags finally zipped shut, I felt like I had already survived the first test.

The journey itself was no easier. A late-night drive to New Orleans gave way to long security lines and bleary-eyed airport sprints. By the time I boarded the last of three flights, I had been awake for nearly two days. Still, as the twin-prop plane banked low over turquoise waters and touched down on Grand Turk, anticipation replaced fatigue. I was close.

That first evening, locals drifted over to welcome us. Goggles, a limping island dog, settled in as though she had been waiting for us. Adirondack chairs faced the horizon, and as the sun slipped into the sea, the sky delivered a legendary green flash. The island’s rhythm was already seeping in.

The donkeys of Salt Cay outnumber the citizens, and they are well protected on the island. It is not uncommon for islanders, belongers, and visitors to have front door visitors.

The next morning, after groceries and a museum stop, we boarded a catamaran for the crossing to Salt Cay itself. The ride carried us from shallow reefs into deep blue waters, the chop rising as the island grew on the horizon. Upon landing, the sense of remoteness was immediate. Salt Cay is home to just forty permanent residents, with wild donkeys outnumbering people. A single shop, one restaurant, and a scattering of colonial-era houses speckle the barren landscape.

Salt Cay’s history is written in the shallow basins, or salinas, that dominate the island. From the 1600s through the early 1900s, it was one of the world’s leading producers of sea salt. Slaves and later indentured laborers harvested under a punishing sun, and the island’s product was so renowned that George Washington himself imported Salt Cay salt during the American Revolution. Today, the salinas glisten quietly, visited by the occasional flamingo rather than laborers, but their presence is an unflinching reminder of the past.

The colonial houses built by Bermudians still stand, their weathered facades lining dirt lanes cut through thorny acacia scrub. The sporadic Starlink dish is now present on various rooftops, and AT&T coverage reaches the island, but paved roads and conveniences are still lacking. Golf carts rattle along tracks where thorns can shred tires in an instant. Pa Pollie, the island’s oldest resident, still runs the lone store. Enrique, simultaneously a bartender, garbage collector, and golf cart supplier, seems to be the glue binding the Salt Cay community.

Salt crystals form on the saline’s-tired surface. Once prime
for the picking, the waves now ebb and flow, leaving the
geometric formations of the crystals in constant flux.

On Cotton Cay, remains have been found linking the island to the colonial days of the Early Modern Era. An inland expedition uncovered what was believed to be a paddock or pen for animals.

This French Grunt carefully observes the shipwreck divers from the safety of a coral head off the North Point of Salt Cay.

The clear waters of the Caribbean Sea drive our days. The waters around Salt Cay are littered with wrecks, relics of trade, war, and weather. On checkout dives, the group shook off their nerves and adjusted their buoyancy before descending to timbers and copper sheathing, the remains of a ship long forgotten. Coral sprouted from the wood, schools of fish darted through the gaps, and reef sharks circled at a distance.

The Bermudan-style homes of Salt Cay have stood the test of time and hurricanes, and they serve as a glimpse into colonial life on the island.

As a filmmaker, I faced my own challenges. My camera housing floated awkwardly, making every shot a fight against buoyancy. The salt stung, the sun burned, and dehydration was a constant presence. But each dive revealed new stories: anchors spotted beneath the waves, anchors half-buried in sand, reefs blooming around human history. Salt Cay truly is an underwater museum.

Beyond Salt Cay, we explored Sand Cay, Cotton Cay, and Endymion Rock, each with its own shipwrecks and reefscapes. The diving was exhilarating and exhausting, a test of endurance and focus. Documenting the team’s work meant keeping pace not only with the science but also with the elements.

Evenings belonged to the island and its people. At the Coral Reef Bar and Grill, Antonia served fried conch and peas and rice, hearty meals that refueled us after long days beneath the waves. Locals gathered for beers, laughter, and the occasional karaoke night. Domino games stretched into the evening, and stargazing filled the silences between songs. An evening dip in the harbor waters cooled our sunburned skin.

Salt Cay is self-sufficient, proud, and endlessly resourceful. Its people live simply but are steeped in resilience and community. Wild donkeys wander freely, and chickens scratch at the edges of the salinas. For all its remoteness, the island has a gravity that pulls you in.

Locals gather for beers at the end of each day, and they participate in the weekly games of dominoes and karaoke.

Our dive boat bobs in the lapping waves of the leeward side of Great Sand Cay.

Before this journey, I thought preparation was the hardest part: lists, bags, flights, weight limits. And while those obstacles were real, they paled in comparison to the experience of Salt Cay itself.

Salt Cay is not a place you pass through. It is a place that stays with you. Its history is heavy, its present humble, and its underwater secrets unmatched. I came here to document archaeology, but I left with something greater: the reminder that the most remote places, the hardest to reach, are often the ones that change us most.

No packing list could have prepared me for Salt Cay, the island that time forgot.