Laurie Woelk

My photo album pages show it so clearly. Side by side, the Pink Sand Beach resorts of Harbour Island, Bahamas, and a few steps away, the pastel cottages of Dunmore Town. A photographer’ s dream. A place straight out of imagination, an“ I can’ t believe I’ m here” kind of place. The kind of place visited by royalty and tycoons.

The afternoon is warm and breezy. I leave my husband snoozing on his towel and wander down the beach with my camera. The beach isn’ t crowded, perfect for some good photography. First, some wide-angle views of an endless stretch of silky, pinkish sand, gentle turquoise sea, clouds airbrushed across the sky. Then some zoomedin shots: white lounge chairs under thatched umbrellas, tourists in bikinis and striped towels, bottled water and tall drinks in the shade. Only the sounds of the waves shushing on shore, a few voices drifting by. Peaceful, perfect paradise.

After reaching the end of the pink sand, I go a little further and stroll into Dunmore Town. Here my delight continues. My camera fills with images of a pink church with“ Wesley Church, 1843” above the arched doorway, and another,“ St. John’ s Anglican Church, est. 1768.” Everything in this town is bright and happy: blue and white plantation-style cottages circled with white picket fences, palm trees

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in every yard, red bougainvillea draped over garden pergolas. No vehicles except for the golf carts used by tourists. My shutter clicks continually. Every angle is better than the last.

I continue to wander, around a corner and deeper into a residential area. My camera begins to pick up small changes. The asphalt changes to gravel. A sweet green cottage needs a fresh coat of paint. A picket fence has a few teeth missing, a porch is sagging. There are no golf carts here. Chickens pick at the dust, and a small boy in a second-hand T-shirt, waiting for his mother outside a Pigly-Wigly store, squints at me in the bright sunlight. I notice I’ m the only tourist on this street. Suddenly I feel overdressed in my simple dress and sandals, conspicuous with my camera and long lens. I feel out of place, such a tourist. No one bothers me as I walk, and people smile, but I feel slightly ashamed. For me, this is a photography adventure; for them, an everyday, difficult reality.

The last photo in my album from that day shows a fishing boat resting tranquilly on an orange sea reflecting a sunset sky. It’ s a photo of immense beauty, but one coloured with a touch of sadness for me.

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AUTUMN 2025 | 15