|Salt flats, salt mounds, Salt Pier|
A few minutes past the airport, I noticed a change in the landscape to my left. The ground looked pink. Large, rectangular pools filled with rose-tinted saltwater stretched for miles inland, and at the seaward edges, the wind tossed clumps of salt up onto the rim like snowballs. The southwestern quartile of Bonaire is one giant salt farm, and we were driving straight past it. In front of us, colossal salt mounds lined the horizon, and a metallic bridge lead across the road to a large pier. The Salt Pier.
|The White Slave dive site, named for the old huts that still|
stand on the beach.
Climbing out of the truck, we each circled back to the truckbed and started putting on our gear. Just a few minutes later, we were waddling into the surf.
|A sea rod (I think it's Pseudoplexaura sp.) at White Slave|
My boyfriend and I swam along the reef, first doing a deep transect, then coming shallower for our return. We monitored our gas consumption and made sure to stay neutrally buoyant, hovering just above the corals without touching them. We kicked and glided and watched the octocorals sway in the waves. It was heavenly.
|Fire corals in the shallows at White Slave|