Surrounded by the turquoise waters of the northwestern Caribbean Sea, the Cayman Islands are made up of three beautiful yet diverse islands.
Grand Cayman is the biggest, flashiest, and the one that Hollywood loves to mention. It is home to a thriving financial industry and welcomes close to half a million people each year. Its sandy beaches and warm waters are picture-perfect.
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Ninety miles away lie the “sister islands” of Cayman Brac and Little Cayman.
Cayman Brac’s distinct limestone bluff rises majestically out of the sea. Covered in various tree species and speckled with mysterious caves, it is home to hundreds of birds. From the western tip of Cayman Brac you can easily see Little Cayman, an island with less than 200 inhabitants.
Each island truly has its own unique personality.
It’s been three years since my husband and I relocated from the “big” island of Grand Cayman—population 60,000—back to one of the smaller “sister islands”, Cayman Brac with a population of just 2,000. We left here 20 plus years ago after the birth of our first child, and now, decades later, it feels like we’ve stepped right back into the rhythm of small island life.
Returning has felt like a homecoming in the truest sense—while the world beyond our shores has changed in ways both big and small, this little rock has remained largely the same. Apart from finally moving past the era of dial-up internet, the heart of the island—the way of life, the people, the deep-rooted sense of community—hasn’t skipped a beat.
That being said, there were a few things that did take some getting reacquainted with… things that make small island life what it is…
For starters is the need to wave at every single car you pass. It’s one of those charming quirks of this place that I’ve always loved. There aren’t many cars on the road, but every one you see sends a little finger wave your way, a simple gesture that adds warmth to even the shortest drives. It’s not just a habit; it’s a silent acknowledgment that we’re all in this together, living life on this tiny rock in the middle of the sea.
Then there’s weekly grocery shopping trip or should I say odyssey! Fresh produce is a luxury that comes once a week when the barge arrives—assuming the sea is calm enough for it to dock. If not, well, you learn to make do with what you have.
In the past few years I’ve had more than one unfortunate encounter with slimy veg. You take what you can get, and if you want the freshest produce possible, you show up at the store as soon as the barge has been unloaded.
And it’s not just produce—certain staples can be surprisingly hard to find. The island has a handful of small grocery stores, but locating something as basic as butter or eggs can feel like an all-day scavenger hunt. Greek yogurt? That’s wishful thinking. If you’re really craving something specific, you either wait until your next trip to the big island or learn to live without it.
Social life on Cayman Brac comes with its own unique style. Privacy is more of a concept than a reality here. You can’t just slip into the local watering hole unnoticed.
Everywhere you go, you see familiar faces, and those faces have all the time in the world for a cold drink and a long chat. Whether you’re in a rush or not, expect to linger. Conversations flow as easily as the tides, and there’s no such thing as a quick stop anywhere. You don’t just “run into” the store—you run into people, and with that comes the expectation of conversation.
But there’s something beautiful about that too. It forces you to slow down, to be present. In a world that’s become obsessed with efficiency and getting things done as quickly as possible, small island life reminds you that sometimes, the most important thing you can do is stop and talk. To check in on someone. To swap stories. To simply exist in the moment without worrying about where you need to be next.
One thing that I get asked about a lot is crime and security on our small island. Back in the day, we never locked our house, and I don’t think we even owned a set of keys to the place we rented. Cars? Left unlocked, keys still in the ignition, with no second thought about it.
Not much has changed. There’s an unspoken trust among neighbors, a level of safety and comfort that’s almost unheard of in the outside world.
I remember mentioning this to a friend from a big city once, and the look of sheer disbelief on their face was priceless. “You don’t lock your house? Ever?” they asked. Nope.
Never have (well maybe when we go on vacation), probably never will. And yet, I’ve never once felt unsafe.
Believe what you’ve heard—“island time” is real, and everything moves slower—because really, why rush?
There’s no need to hurry through a meal, a conversation, or even a simple task. You learn to embrace the slower pace, to live in the moment instead of racing through it. Even on the “big” island of Grand Cayman everyone is in a rush to get somewhere, do something, check the next thing off their never-ending to-do list. Here? Time stretches. The days feel longer, in the best possible way.
And then, of course, there’s the sea. No matter where you stand, the vast, endless blue is never far from view. If by some rare chance you can’t see it, all it takes is a two-minute walk or drive to be reminded that you are, quite literally, surrounded by ocean. The waves are a constant soundtrack.
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The sea isn’t just a backdrop here—it’s a constant companion, shaping the rhythm of life. Fishermen head out at dawn, kids learn to swim before they can read, and storms dictate travel plans. The ocean is both provider and gatekeeper, giving us fresh fish one day and delaying our groceries the next.
One thing that amazes me is the island’s collective memory. People remember everything —faces, stories, the way life was all those years ago. The welcome we received was nothing short of heartwarming. Smiles, hugs, invitations to share a meal or a drink—as if we never left. Visitors are treated the same. There’s something deeply comforting about that, about being remembered and embraced so warmly after so much time passed.
And then, there’s the quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t notice until you’ve lived without it. No traffic noise, no leaf blowers droning on, no sirens in the distance. Every so often, you might hear the hum of a scuba tank compressor, but it’s short-lived, soon replaced once again by the soothing sounds of the waves or the occasional pop of a beer top being cracked open.
It’s a quiet that allows you to hear things you might not otherwise notice—the rustling of palm trees in the breeze, the distant call of a seabird, the gentle lapping of water against the shore. It’s a quiet that settles deep into your bones, a reminder that life doesn’t have to be loud or chaotic to be full.
Of course, small island living isn’t perfect. There are challenges, sacrifices, moments of frustration.
There are days when you’d give anything for a decent cup of coffee, when the lack of variety feels suffocating, when the slow pace tests your patience. But then, just as quickly, the sea reminds you why you’re here. The people remind you. The sunsets, the fresh salty air, the way time expands instead of contracts—all of it reminds you.
Small island living isn’t for everyone, but for those of us who know, it’s a privilege. If you’re lucky enough to live it, you’re lucky enough.
Sincerely,
