Hell, it turns out, is a flash in the road near West Bay, named for a swatch of spiky, tortured, black, ironshore that looks like midday in the garden of evil.
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This final soft-blue morning, I catch a fishing boat named Heavenly Hooker and head out to find the scene of the slime.
Though not a deep cave, Peter's has its share of fairy tale beauty and spelean riches. The flowstones look like melting cake icing; the cave coral like popcorn; the draperies like strips of bacon.
Over the years I've caressed many of the Caribbean gems, but never a set like the Cayman Islands.
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