Exumas: Where the Ocean Pauses Time

A perfect divide between sky and sea — where stillness above meets life in motion below.

There’s a moment in the Exumas where the world splits clean in two. Half above, half below — a thin, fragile line that separates the weight of everyday life from a reality too magical to be real. The sea is still, like glass. Above it, sky. Below it, a pulse — the quiet motion of sharks weaving through sea grass, fish darting into the shadows, and rays gliding like slow-moving thoughts. It’s the kind of moment that makes you forget to breathe. And I had my camera in my hands.

I’ve seen the world. I’ve been to the Okavango Delta, I’ve stood in the Alaskan seas, I’ve chased wildlife in the Serengeti and drifted through the Caribbean. But here — tucked in the southeast corner of the Bahamas, a hundred or so miles from Miami — something hits different. The Exumas don’t ask for attention. They just exist. And if you’re lucky, you get to witness them.

This wasn’t my first time. I’ve done this ride before, but something about this trip anchored itself deeper. Maybe it was the way the boat floated, a tiny silhouette against a sky blown out to white, as if the sun itself was trying to erase everything unnecessary. Or maybe it was that damn pig — swimming like it knew it was the main character in every tourist’s photo album. The absurdity of it all is what makes it perfect. You laugh, and then you forget what you were worried about in the first place.

Salt thick in the air. The fizz of a cold beer cracked open with wet fingers. Jet skis idling nearby while someone yells about the disappearing sandbar. You float, or better said, you exist — somewhere between sky and sea. The worries don’t follow you here. They can’t.

And while the Exumas are beautiful, they’re not delicate. There’s something raw and elemental about the place. The way the sun reflects off the white sand until you’re squinting through every thought. The way the ocean changes with the wind, shifting from soft turquoise to deep electric blue in minutes. The way the tide moves like a living thing, erasing footprints and resetting the world over and over again.

We chased sharks for the thrill of it. We lounged on sandbars that looked like they’d been built for us and us alone. We let the ocean rock us into forgetting where we had to be next. It’s hard to overstate how rare that kind of stillness is — not silence, but a stillness inside you. A space the Exumas carve out for anyone willing to slow down enough to feel it.

A lone boat drifts beneath a blown-out sky, silhouetted by the fire of a fading sun.

We came back to this place for family, for fun, and maybe for something we couldn’t quite put into words. Something more than just a vacation. Something closer to a reset. And maybe that’s the power of this place — it doesn’t just give you memories. It gives you clarity.

Now, heading back toward Nassau, the sun on my back and salt in my hair, I should be bummed. I should feel that ache of leaving. But I don’t. There’s peace in knowing this place exists. That somewhere in the world there’s still a corner where the blues are bluer, the skies are wider, and pigs really do swim

This isn’t home. It’s too perfect for that.

But somehow, it still feels like it.