Finding Rhythm on Eleuthera: Beauty, Bugs, and the Truth Beneath the Surface

#6

And so we settle into a rhythm in our little cottage on the ocean. It’s mid-November now, and the days are growing shorter though the temperatures linger in the high 70s. The contrast is a bit disorienting at times—warm, tropical air paired with a soft reminder that winter exists somewhere else—but we’re loving it.

I’m up early most mornings starting the day with a light breakfast and some research. Our travel plans after early January are still undecided, so I spend time exploring possibilities and connecting with a couple people about potential work. By the time Tim gets up, he usually heads to the dock with his breakfast, a book, and his morning workout routine. I do mine inside. Later in the day, we’ll go for a walk together.

Since we planned to be on Eleuthera for six weeks, we rented a car for the first five days and then 2 other stretches of time to get the lay of the land and see it all. We’re staying near one of the three main towns—central enough to head in either direction and explore. Some days we drive north in search of new beaches (there are over 130 on the island!), and almost always, we have them to ourselves. The sand ranges from white to soft pink, and the ocean offers a palette of impossible blues—warm, clear, inviting. We ventured south a few times too, but nothing down there really called to us.

We meet the husband and wife who run the small market at the end of our dusty lane where we carry home giant 30-pound jugs of water. Their daughter and grandson operate the ice cream shop next door, and we learn the husband is also a local preacher. We also meet the family that helps maintain the cottage—lifelong island residents who seem to know everyone and everything. They start popping by regularly, offering help or news or updates… and by week three, this rhythm of surprise visits starts to wear thin.

The couple in the house next to ours have owned it for over 30 years. They’re kind and full of stories, and like most people here, they’re curious about us. Most visitors come for a week or two, so when people find out we’re staying for six weeks, eyebrows raise.

One thing Tim and I share is that we’re not big joiners. We enjoy people, but we don’t need a lot of social interaction to feel connected. We’re content in our own company. We’ll gladly chat for a bit, but once we hit the 20-minute mark, we’re ready to move on. This surprises some folks, especially in a place where community and conversation are lifeblood.

Island time has its charm, but it also has a shadow side. By week three, the small-town vibe starts to wear on us. With only one coffee shop, two restaurants, a bakery, and a popular dining spot three miles away, everyone knows everyone—and their business. There’s a lot of he said/she said. I find myself thinking about how hard it would be to try and reinvent yourself in a place where people hold tightly to who they think you are.

One night stands out clearly for me—I found myself dancing alone on the dock during a windstorm, waves crashing around me. I danced for nearly two hours, wild and free, letting go of everything. It was one of those rare, soul-liberating moments where it’s just you, the elements, and a rhythm that doesn’t come from anywhere but deep within. Of course, the moment eventually shifted when the neighbors next door came out with flashlights to say hello. That’s how it is here—you can get lost in your own world for a while, but someone will always come looking.

Each day has its own flavor. We spend Thanksgiving without football—something I missed—but we make up for it with lobster tails, crab claws, and a box of stuffing mix I find for Tim to give the meal a bit of the holiday feel. Twice we take ferries to other islands and explore them by golf cart laughing our way through tiny towns. One night, we go to a local fish fry, listen to music, and try some new dishes under the stars. Rum cake becomes a daily staple—often our breakfast of choice.

We read. We watch the sea. We breathe.

And then there are the bugs. No-see-ums. Invisible, persistent, merciless. They come out at sunrise and sunset. I had a few issues with them on Nassau, but not like this. At one point, I’m covered in more than 50 bites, miserable, and constantly itching. I try three different bug sprays before finding one that works. Eventually, I adapt—covering up during the golden hours, even though that is our favorite time of day.

The island life also comes with practical surprises. Our cottage doesn’t have a generator, and Eleuthera’s power grid is… inconsistent. Every three or four days, the power cuts out for 4 to 8 hours. If it happens during daylight, we can manage. At night, without A/C or lights, the house heats up and the bugs move in. We’re constantly adjusting. Between the pop-bys, the power cuts, and the slow-drip rhythm of it all, the cracks start to show.

Six weeks ends up being too long. We learn we prefer more flexibility—places we can leave if we need to, environments that don’t feel so fixed. There’s no blueprint for this lifestyle. We’re learning as we go, figuring out what works and what doesn’t.

And so flows our six-week stay on Eleuthera. There are highlights, and there are edges of growth. Moments of “I can’t believe we get to be here in this weather, away from the rain,” and moments of “I need space. I need out.” No matter where you travel or how long you stay, life keeps offering up what you need in order to heal, grow, and rebalance. So I turn toward myself, again and again—as is my practice.

Looking back, I see that this chapter wasn’t my happiest. And that’s interesting because I’m someone who naturally leans toward the bright side. But in hindsight, I realize I was breaking down a lot of old patterns. I’m a planner—and being in this liminal space without our next step locked in felt heavy. I felt the weight of uncertainty, the tension of not earning income right now, the discomfort of doing all the research even though I’d want to anyway. I saw my own contradictions and had to sit with them.

We’re also living together for the first time—and doing so without a stable home base. That creates its own kind of pressure, though I’m fully aware that being “home” would just bring up a different kind of growth.

And so our time on Eleuthera comes to a close. It’s now December 21st. Tim will miss walking out to the dock each morning, that quiet communion with the sea. I was ready to leave a couple of weeks ago and am excited to see one of my kids for Christmas at our next stop as is Tim with his son.

We won’t return to this island, but we’re grateful—for the beauty, the stillness, the friction, the clarity. For the memory of dancing in the wind. For rum cake. For the space to see ourselves more clearly.

Next stop — Belize.

To your highest and best,

Dianna

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