Throwing on my backpack, which was now lightened for having only essentials in it for my short trip to the lighthouse, I set out along the course I had just lately been hiking on. It was about 30 seconds before I realized that this was indeed the correct choice. In fact, this was pretty god damned fun.
I think the scooter topped out at 30mph or so, but I was only confident enough to really do 25 or 26mph on these unfamiliar one-lane roads and pulling aside to let local drivers zip around me. In just a minute or two I was already past the point where I had given up after just an hour of hiking, and I was loving the breeze on my back instead of being soaked in boiling sweat and having my shoulders crushed by a backpack. Five minutes later, I was positive that I would have spent the rest of the night just getting to the lighthouse on foot. At least now I had plenty of time for relaxing. Maybe I should've brought some cervezas out here with me?
Passing through the gate into the Vieques National Wildlife Refuge (ie, former bombing range), I quickly identified the trail to the lighthouse peninsula. Soon I came to a series of warning signs, which screamed bilingually, "EXPLOSION HAZARD! STAY ON ROAD! NO PARKING!"
Next to the gate was also a kiosk (erected by the National Park Service or US Fish and Wildlife Service) to even further inform us that we were entering an area of unexploded naval ordnance. Apparently only the trail to the lighthouse was cleared of bombs, and nothing else.
Honestly I had no idea that there would be even this much infrastructure here for a wilderness trail to a long-abandoned lighthouse, but apparently much had been done to improve tourism opportunities between the departure of the Navy and the arrival of Hurricane Maria, but I am grateful for a bomb-less pathway to walk.
Only walking was allowed past the info kiosk, so I dismounted my fun little scooter and let the vast silence of the Caribbean wilderness swallow me whole. There was also a small remote beach near the lighthouse ruins that I expected to have all to myself...this is another point of Vieques tourism that is highly touted; so many beaches that you can usually have them all to yourself, just like in Michigan.
The Faro Puerto Ferro was begun by the Spaniards in 1896 (making it much younger than I initially suspected), but it was completed as an operational lighthouse by the Americans in 1899. One other slightly disappointing thing is that all Puerto Rico lighthouses appear to be built off of the same identical blueprint.
According to viequesinsider.com, the station was also referred to as Faro Berdiales, after the family who is said to have operated it for the 27 years it was lit. It was abandoned in 1926 after an earthquake damaged it severely, and it has remained officially closed to the public until the wildlife refuge was created in recent times, although I suspect that locals have always come here to hang out.
I was happy to see that the hurricane did not finish what the earthquake started, and hoped that despite the reports that it had been sealed up when the government opened road access to the site, I would be able to find some way in.
I took a slow walk around the whole thing.
Oh look, I'm inside. That was easy.
Actually no, it wasn't.
This must have been the kitchen area:
The ceilings in here are very high, despite how the camera lens might make them look. This is a single-story structure, so I'd say the ceilings are 20' high, easy.
Everything is masonry except the actual roof deck, which is heavy planking laid across large wooden beams.
Here were the stairs to the tower, although I was not entirely sure of the wisdom of using them.
120 years of moist, salty sea air had done a number on them...
I popped out on the roof for a grand view of everything around me.
There's the beach:
Back outside, I decided to take a walk down to the beach nearby.
The cliffs here on this point were pretty high, and waves were crashing against them even on this fairly calm day. It is always a different feeling when I'm at the ocean, because the rhythm of the waves is much slower frequency than the waves back home on the Great Lakes.
This teeny trail carved safely through the foliage (and unexploded bombs) down to the beach.
Ahh...
Still not a person in sight.
I was still super tired and sore from all the walking I had been doing in this hot sun, so I decided to rest here on that palm tree for awhile.
A look back at the faro:
While not exactly Travel Channel material, this beach was good enough for me.
Hey, looks like some sort of a sea cave way over there...
There were a couple other people on each beach, so I didn't stay long enough to take any real photos of them. I was getting hungry, so I headed back to Esperanza to get a decent meal at the cantina.
After that I could check out the big beach at Sun Bay National Park (right next-door to the town, which I had already passed by several times already). Later tonight after dark I could drive back out to Mosquito Bay and try to see the bioluminescent water. Now that I was on this scooter, I had all kinds of extra time to kill.
Not the best photo, but this was an abandoned something-or-other that was on the opposite corner from my hostel:
The blue sign with the arrow says "RUTA DE TSUNAMI." In other words, in case the tsunami siren is sounded, all the townspeople are supposed to use that route to evacuate.
After I was done eating and doing restful type things like changing my socks and recharging my camera, I decided to head on out to Sun Bay on my way to Mosquito Bay before the sun went down. Sadly, the sun was hidden mostly behind clouds now, but at least I was happy that so far the weather prediction of all rain for the duration of my trip was not entirely accurate.
Because of the geology and wave action of Puerto Rico's and Vieques' coastlines, all of the beaches tend to be crescent-shaped wedges of pure sand located in between bookends of hard rock cliffs. It's almost like God subcontracted some feng-shui masters to design them for him while he was busy focusing all of his personal attention on Michigan. Sun Bay is particularly well proportioned, as you can see from aerial view.
As the sunlight began to wane, I kept making my way toward Bahia de Mosquito, the place with the neon-glowing water. You can only really see it at night, and it is recommended to visit it during the new moon, so as to minimize excess ambient light. Luckily for me, it was currently only a day past new.
You can take one of the $55 group kayak tours of the bay, but I didn't think this was necessary, since I knew how to get there on my own.
As I sat there on the edge of the bay (actually more like a lagoon) waiting for darkness, I swatted at the mosquitoes that were starting to come out. I guess Mosquito Bay wasn't just given a randomly selected name like I was hoping. I impatiently swirled my hand in the water on the banks and cast stones into its calm surface (the water has to be disturbed to produce the famous luminescent effect). Nothing was happening. I guess it wasn't quite totally dark yet, but I was starting to wonder how you were supposed to see this. Maybe they don't turn it on until you pay your $55...?
In any case I gave up before much longer so as to avoid getting Zika virus from standing here like a fool, and glumly headed back to my bunk at the hostel without seeing one of the main things that I had traveled to see. I guzzled a Medalla at the cantina and decided to go to bed at a super early hour, and wake up at dawn to go in search of the Playa Centrale Sugar Mill ruins tomorrow, and possibly try the Bunkers Road.
CLICK TO GO TO PART 3
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