Bermuda’s locals like to describe their island homeland with a pun: “It’s 68,000 alcoholics grasping to a rock.”
But that description isn’t at all accurate. Most of them are also clinging to their golf clubs.
This outcropping of coral and sand of finely field seashells 650 miles east of the Outer Banks certainly has a preoccupation with rum( who the hell is appetizing enough to authorize the attention ), golf( there are more courses per square mile than anywhere else ), and genteel quests like sailing. Its pink beaches are the site of innumerable nostalgic testimonies; its crystal caves are a day trip for mobs of cruise liner passengers.
As one Bermuda native describes the visitors, “It’s the overfed, the freshly wed, and the nearly dead.”
But lately Bermuda has been set upon by a more adventurous people who exploit the natural riches sometimes overlooked between the marquee golf courses and the honeymoon creeks. They’re bounding along jungle ways by bicycle, rock climbing, and doing backflips off cliffs into the turquoise creeks below.