I had never set foot on an island before. So, I decided to take a solo trip on Royal Caribbean’s Star of the Seas cruise in Cococay, Bahamas. I could feel the bass in my chest as I followed the crowd toward CocoCay’s shoreline, and already my hips were swaying, almost against my will. The moment I stepped on the island, the world seemed to shift. The pier was playing loud drumbeats, the kind of music that doesn’t ask but insists you move your body.
Then I saw the water. It wasn’t just blue—it was every shade of it, stacked in layers: turquoise lapping at the shore, sapphire stretching out toward the horizon, and a pale, crystal-clear rim so sharp I could see straight through to the sand below. My feet, pressed into the white powdery beach, looked like they belonged there, as if I’d been meant to step into this moment all my life. Seashells gleamed just beneath the surface, and for the first time in my life, I understood what people meant when they said the ocean could feel like home.
As I stepped into that blue, I wondered if my great-grandparents had ever seen water like this. I was the first in my family household to touch these shores. My mom always told me her grandparents were Guyanese through and through. My dad even mentioned a dash of Cherokee heritage, but nothing was ever clear. So, when the Star of the Seas docked at CocoCay, I couldn’t help but wonder: was this more than a vacation—maybe I was walking into a piece of my story I hadn’t yet discovered?
The island was alive with energy. Children splashed joyfully in Thrill Waterpark, the largest waterpark in the Caribbean, their screams echoing across the deck chairs. Women in wide-brimmed straw hats walked by, while workers balanced trays of frozen cocktails or pointed tourists toward the beach chairs, humming along with the music as they moved.
And then, just beyond the cabanas, came the sound that could only belong to kids: shrieks. They tumbled out of Thrill Waterpark, a splash-filled playground designed for the little ones. From where I stood, I watched families sprint from ride to ride, their children racing each other up the steps of Daredevil’s Peak—the tallest waterslide in the Caribbean. The climb alone looked like a challenge, but they attacked it with fearless joy. A few moments later, their bodies launched down the slide, and their screams sliced through the island air before ending in a colossal splash. I didn’t set foot inside the park—it was theirs, not mine, but I felt their energy ripple out. It was their pure childhood freedom, and it made me smile to witness it.
While I dipped my toes into the ocean and soaked in the vibes, the people around me were working to keep paradise in motion. That difference between visiting the islands and living through their tourism industry pulsed quietly beneath the surface. At one point, I struck up a conversation with a group of Bahamians working the event, their uniforms crisp even in the heat. “First time here?” one of them asked, handing me a frosty drink beaded with condensation. “Yes,” I admitted, almost shy. “I’m Guyanese. I’ve never been to the islands before.”
Her smile widened. “Oh, you had to come see this for yourself. It’s different when you feel it.” She winked, and the others standing nearby nodded, like they understood the unspoken weight of my words. In that exchange, I felt something beyond hospitality—I felt kinship. The Caribbean has always been a mosaic of cultures, histories, and migrations, and though Guyana sits on the South American mainland, our ties to the islands run deep. Talking with them made me wonder if somewhere out there, I might have cousins or family still living in Guyana—or even here in the Bahamas.
As the day stretched on, I stayed at Hideaway Beach, CocoCay’s adults-only beach. Just outside the entrance, a dance troupe in fairy wings spun across the sand. Their costumes shimmered in bold colors, which the scene stopped me in my tracks. I felt the joy of body and color, the spirit of freedom, the celebration of life, bigger than any single place.
Hideaway Beach was a fantastic place to stay for individuals who are independent or want to spend time with their loved ones. The main beach quieted behind me, replaced by a chill soundtrack carried by the waves. Couples floated in the infinity pool; glasses balanced carefully on the ledges. Hammocks swayed between palm trees, their shadows dancing across the sand.
The water itself is running against my skin. I waded in slowly, the sun blazing against my shoulders, hotter and heavier than it ever feels in the States. A group of older Bahamians floated nearby with their friends, laughing, calling out to me: “Keep walking—it gets better.” They were right. As the water rose to my hips, it loosened into warmth, wrapping around me like my ancestors were waiting there all along.
I let the ocean hold me. Just waves curling around my body. It was as if my ancestors were whispering history to me, making it feel almost tangible. For the first time, I felt at ease. I found what I hadn’t realized I was craving my whole life: peace of mind, passed down like memory.
By the time the sun began to dip low, painting the water in gold, I thought about how much this single day had given me. It wasn’t just the beauty of the beach or the pulse of the music. It was the way the island greeted me, embraced me, claimed me—even as a stranger. It was hearing the laughter of children at Thrill Waterpark, talking with Bahamians who recognized a piece of themselves in me, and then retreating to a beach where I could finally sit with it all. That day, on CocoCay, I learned that belonging isn’t always about bloodlines. Sometimes, it’s about resonance—when a place looks back at you and says, “You are home.”