royal naval Dockyard, Bermuda
It’s September, and the Bermuda heat is stifling. I stand on a balcony aboard the Norwegian Breakaway at King’s Wharf, and gaze across at the Royal Navy Dockyard, trying to imagine how grueling it would have been for the slaves and British penal colony convicts who built this place.
These days tourists can run for cover into one of the air conditioned shops along the pier, but in the early 19th century, workers in leg irons endured sometimes crippling heat, humidity, and swarms of insects, while carving and hauling huge limestone slabs across the expansive yards. One can’t help but feel close to their weary spirits while staring out at the abandoned fort, now a museum, and adjoining Casements prison today.
At the museum entrance to the grounds, I am told I can wander freely, but that there is no admittance to the prison, which is under construction. It will eventually become another attraction for the British Maritime Museum. Happily, I’m not deterred for long, as my curiosity won’t allow me to obey the rules, especially when I spot a long, unmaintained path leading up to the prison. I’ve already explored the Keep, discovering various displays of exhibits and artifacts, so I’m ready for more.
I step onto the prison path, peering around, and when no alarm bells sound, I proceed. Glancing down at my meager flip flops, I realize that perhaps I should have thought out my day a little better, but this wandering off the beaten path thing wasn’t planned. The best things in life never usually are. 
A wearied-looking man appears, walking up out of the ditch toward me. He is wearing baggy, worn blue jeans, and a dirty white short-sleeved t-shirt. This is a bit startling, and I admit to being struck with a hint of panic that is immediately overtaken by my overactive writer’s imagination. This is it. I always knew it would happen this way. My unsolicited wandering has finally landed me in a life and death situation. I will be dragged down into the ditch and killed. The Breakaway crew will make a noble attempt to locate me before having to finally pull up anchor and sail back to New York. I will become the stuff of cruise ship legend, another horror story that pops up when future cruisers chat about their upcoming vacations. They won’t remember my name; only that I left the ship for the day and never returned.
“Are you a local or a tourist?” the man asks.
In spite of the fact that he is about to murder me, I am flattered that he might think I am a local.
“I’m off the ship,” I answer, glancing back toward the Breakaway and hoping this might help my case, “I was hoping to go into the prison for a look.”
“Nobody’s allowed,” he shakes his head, wiping the sweat from his brow, “I’m on the construction crew.”
“Oh,” I reply with some relief, grateful to know that my life expectancy, at least for the next few minutes, has just increased considerably. Then I summon up my best disappointed tone of voice, “Thanks anyway.”
I turn very slowly, giving him ample time to take pity on this wayward wanderer who really can’t cause any trouble, can she? I hear him speak up, “Well, I guess you could go up there if you want. I think somebody left the gate open.”
I swing back around, smiling.
“But if anybody asks, I didn’t give you permission!” he warns, “And be careful. If anything happens to you up there, nobody would find you for a while.”
Hmmm. Sounds dangerous, I think excitedly. This is why my mother worried about me every time I stepped out the door as a kid.
“If you climb to the top,” he suggests, “You’ll get a view that no other tourist gets to see.”
And less chance they’ll find me anytime soon after the fall that breaks my neck, I surmise, but okay. Now we’re talking.
I thank him and make my way along the rampart toward the open gate, the thrill of what I might be about to discover rushing through me. I can feel the grin plastered across my face. As I walk, I look up to the top of the old fence that still runs along the path. The large curls of barbed wire must not have been enough of a deterrent for the prisoners who began occupying Casemates in 1962; shards of broken glass have been embedded in cement along the top of the fence as well.
Finally I reach the gate. I stop and glance around, amazed that no one else has been as daring as me. I listen for sounds of life, but I only hear the distant whir of scooters carrying tourists off to snorkeling adventures and shopping trips. Meanwhile, I’ve found the best possible excursion I could hope for, and it’s only cost me the price of admission into the museum.
I run my hand along the limestone wall as I step through a doorway and climb the crumbling stone steps. I pause and take a deep breath. It’s surprisingly cool inside the tiny stairwell, a relief from the unrelenting sun. I imagine the prisoners would not have been able to stop here as I have, and they certainly would not have marveled at the architecture, but I do. I feel as if I’m exploring a medieval castle.
Remembering the workman’s suggestions, I continue upward, making my way to the top of the stairs. I have only the silent souls of the long-forgotten prisoners and before them, the Royal Navy marines who once occupied these walls, to accompany me.
The top level resembles what could have been an exercise yard, though I can’t believe any convict could have done anything to deserve such punishment. The sun beats down. There is no shade. Then I turn and see the view. My impromptu guide had been correct. It is breathtaking.
I look back along the dusty path I ventured along to get here. Beyond it, the sprawling remnants of the Dockyards, and farther still, the blue Atlantic ocean, where I can almost see the monstrous convict hulks anchored just off shore, waiting for the men to return after a long day of hard labor.
Off to the right lies a collection of shops, the tiny mall I recently walked through easily identified by the twin stone clock towers rising up from it.
I scan along the tops of the lazy palm trees waving toward the pier, where the Breakaway waits patiently for passengers to return from their sightseeing. It dwarfs everything nearby, and its sheer size seems out of place here.
The heat finally takes its toll, and after snapping some final photos, I reluctantly escape back down into the stairwell and out onto the path.
The workman has disappeared.
Still bursting with excitement at my little adventure, I don’t notice until I’m back in the cabin that the only souvenir I’ve collected is a thick layer of dirt covering my feet and legs. Somehow, I don’t mind.