you spell yacht

Definition of yacht

A swift-sailing, light, and elegantly furnished vessel, used either for private parties of pleasure, or as a vessel of state to convey princes, &c., from one place to another.

To sail in a yacht.

Nuttall's Standard dictionary of the English language By Nuttall, P.Austin

What are the misspellings for yacht?

What are similar-sounding words for yacht, what is the present tense of yacht.

• In the present tense, the personal forms of the verb " yacht " are:
• - You yacht
• - He yachts
• - She yachts
• - It yachts
• - They yacht

What is the past tense of Yacht?

• The personal forms of the verb " yacht " in the past tense are as follows:
• 1. I yachted
• 2. You yachted
• 3. He yachted
• 4. She yachted
• 5. It yachted
• 6. We yachted
• 7. You yachted
• 8. They yachted

What is the adverb for yacht?

The adverb form of the word "yacht" is "yachtingly" .

What is the adjective for yacht?

The adjective form of the word "yacht" is "yachting" .

Usage over time for yacht:

This graph shows how "yacht" have occurred between 1800 and 2008 in a corpus of English books.

What is the plural form of yacht?

The plural of the "yacht" can be the " yachts ".

What is the singular form of yacht?

The singular of the "yacht" can be the "yacht".

Synonyms for Yacht:

• aircraft carrier
• cabin cruiser
• fishing boat

Nearby words

• Yacca Podocarp
• yacht chair
• yacht clubs
• Correct spelling for yacht [Infographic] | Spellchecker.net
• yacht - English spelling dictionary
• Yacht | Definition of yacht by Merriam-Webster
• Yacht definition and meaning | Collins English Dictionary
• Yacht | Definition of yacht at Dictionary.com
• Yacht dictionary definition | yacht defined

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How to Spell Yacht? (The Correct Way)

Have you ever wondered how to spell yacht? Yachts have become increasingly popular in recent years, and for good reason.

From their luxurious designs to the beauty of the open sea, yachts are a symbol of extravagance.

But before you can truly appreciate the majesty of a yacht, you need to know how to spell it.

In this article, we’ll explore the origin of the word ‘yacht’, different types of yachts, their advantages and disadvantages, and of course, how to spell yacht the correct way.

We’ll also answer some commonly asked questions about yachts and share some interesting facts about them.

So come aboard and let’s explore the wonderful world of yachts!.

Table of Contents

Short Answer

Yacht is spelled with an Y, an A, an C, and a H.

It is pronounced “yot”.

It is a type of recreational boat, usually large and luxurious, and is often used for recreational sailing and cruising.

Origin of the Word Yacht

The word yacht has an interesting origin story.

It comes from the Dutch word jacht, which means hunt.

The term was originally used to refer to a fast, light vessel that was used for hunting or fishing.

In the 17th century, Dutch shipbuilders began using the term to refer to large, luxurious vessels that were used for recreational sailing and cruising.

The term yacht was popularized in the 19th century by the British Royal Navy, who used it to describe their vessels.

Since then, the term has been used to refer to any recreational vessel that is used for sailing or cruising.

Today, yachts come in all shapes and sizes, ranging from small, single-person vessels to large, luxurious vessels that can accommodate dozens of people.

No matter what size yacht you have, its important to remember the correct spelling of the word: y-a-c-h-t.

With this spelling, youll never have to worry about making a spelling mistake when talking about your favorite recreational activity.

Different Types of Yachts

Yachts come in all shapes and sizes, from small, single-person dinghies to large, luxurious vessels that can accommodate dozens of people.

The most common types of yachts are motor yachts, sailing yachts , and catamarans.

Motor yachts are propelled by an internal combustion engine, while sailing yachts are propelled by the wind.

Catamarans are two-hulled vessels that are usually propelled by both the wind and a motor.

Cruising yachts are designed for long-distance travel, while racing yachts are designed for speed.

There are also luxury yachts, which are designed for comfort and style, and charter yachts, which are designed for private cruising.

No matter what type of yacht you choose, you can be sure that it will be an unforgettable experience.

Sailing Yachts

For those who are looking to take their love of sailing to a whole new level, a sailing yacht is the perfect vessel.

These large, luxurious vessels are designed to be able to traverse the open seas in style and comfort.

Yachts are typically much larger than dinghies or sailboats, and are often equipped with the latest in navigation and safety systems, as well as spacious cabins and amenities.

When it comes to choosing a sailing yacht, there are several factors to consider.

Size is one of the most important things to consider, as it will affect the length of your voyage and the number of people that can be accommodated on board.

Larger yachts tend to be able to hold more people and are more suitable for extended voyages.

The type of sailing yacht is also important.

There are a variety of different types of yachts on the market, from luxury sailing yachts to racing yachts.

Luxury yachts tend to be larger and more expensive, while racing yachts are usually smaller and more lightweight, designed for speed and agility.

Finally, when choosing a sailing yacht, you should also consider the materials used to construct it.

Yachts are typically made from either fiberglass or wood, both of which have their own advantages and disadvantages.

Fiberglass is generally considered to be the more durable material, while wood is typically more aesthetically pleasing.

No matter what type of sailing yacht you are looking for, the correct spelling of yacht is “y-a-c-h-t”, derived from the Dutch word “jacht”.

With the right research and preparation, you will be able to find the perfect sailing yacht for your needs.

Advantages and Disadvantages of Owning a Yacht

Owning a yacht can be a truly rewarding experience.

It can provide a sense of freedom and the ability to explore the world around you.

As with any major purchase, there are advantages and disadvantages to owning a yacht.

The primary advantage of owning a yacht is the opportunity to explore new places, from the open sea to the most remote islands and bays.

Yachts can provide a private escape from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, allowing for a sense of peace and relaxation.

With a yacht, you have the freedom to travel wherever you choose, and you can enjoy the comfort of your own home away from home.

However, owning a yacht can be a costly endeavor.

Yachts require a large initial investment, and they can also be expensive to maintain.

The cost of docking fees, fuel, and other maintenance costs can add up quickly.

In addition, yachts require a crew of trained professionals to keep them running safely and efficiently.

Yachts also require a significant amount of time and effort to operate.

From navigating to cleaning and maintaining the vessel, yacht owners must be willing to invest the necessary time and energy.

Finally, yachts may be subject to regulations that vary from port to port, making it important to plan ahead and be aware of the laws and regulations in different areas.

Overall, owning a yacht can be an incredibly rewarding experience, but it is important to consider all the advantages and disadvantages before making the decision to purchase one.

From the initial investment to the ongoing maintenance costs and time commitment, it is important to make sure that owning a yacht is something that you can comfortably commit to.

With the right preparation and knowledge, owning a yacht can be a wonderful way to explore the world.

How to Spell Yacht

When it comes to spelling the word yacht, its important to get it right.

A yacht is a luxurious vessel used for recreational sailing or cruising, and can range in size from small, single-person vessels to large, high-end vessels that can accommodate dozens of people.

Yacht is derived from the Dutch word jacht, which means hunt, and is often used to refer to a sailing vessel that is larger than a dinghy or sailboat.

The correct spelling of yacht is y-a-c-h-t, and it is important to remember that the letter y comes first.

The y in yacht is pronounced like a long e and is followed by the letter a, which is pronounced like a short a.

The c is pronounced like a k and is followed by the letter h, which is pronounced like a long a.

Finally, the letter t is pronounced like a short t.

When writing the word yacht, it is important to remember that the y comes first and is followed by the other letters in alphabetical order.

Additionally, it is important to remember that the letter y is pronounced like a long e and the letter a is pronounced like a short a.

Following these simple rules will ensure that you spell the word yacht correctly every time.

Commonly Asked Questions About Yachts

When it comes to yachting, there are many questions that arise.

Whether youre a novice sailor or a veteran of the open seas, its important to familiarize yourself with the basics of yachting to ensure a safe and enjoyable experience.

Here are some of the most commonly asked questions when it comes to yachts: 1.

What is a yacht? A yacht is a large, luxurious vessel that is typically used for recreational sailing or cruising.

Yachts come in a variety of sizes and can accommodate anywhere from a single person to dozens of passengers.

They are typically equipped with amenities such as cabins, galleys, and other recreational activities.

Yachts are typically powered by sails, although some may also be powered by engines.

What is the correct spelling of yacht? The correct spelling of yacht is y-a-c-h-t.

The word yacht is derived from the Dutch word jacht, which means hunt.

What is the difference between a yacht and a sailboat? The main difference between a yacht and a sailboat is size.

Yachts are typically larger than sailboats and usually have more amenities and features.

Yachts are also typically more expensive than sailboats.

Additionally, yachts are usually used for recreational purposes, while sailboats are typically used for racing or other competitive activities.

Interesting Facts About Yachts

Yachts are not just large, luxurious vessels used for leisurely sailing or cruising – they have a long and interesting history.

The term yacht is derived from the Dutch word jacht, which means hunt, and was originally used to refer to smaller, faster vessels used for hunting and fishing.

The first yachts were built in the 1600s in the Netherlands, and soon after, the English began building their own yachts.

Yachts have evolved since then and now come in a variety of sizes and styles.

Some of the most luxurious yachts have multiple decks and come equipped with amenities such as swimming pools, Jacuzzis, and even helipads.

Yachts can be powered by a variety of engines, from traditional diesel and gasoline engines to newer electric and hybrid systems.

In addition, they can be equipped with all the latest navigational and communication systems, allowing them to stay connected while out at sea.

Yachts are also a popular choice for racing, and various yacht racing organizations have sprung up all over the world.

Yachts also come in a variety of shapes and sizes, from the sleek and modern to the more traditional wooden vessels.

While most yachts are designed for leisurely sailing, some are designed for more extreme conditions, such as racing around the world or sailing in extreme conditions such as icy waters.

Overall, yachts are an interesting and varied type of vessel that have been used for a variety of purposes for centuries.

Whether youre looking for a leisurely sail or a more extreme sailing adventure, a yacht is a great way to get out on the open water.

Final Thoughts

Now that you know the correct way to spell yacht, you are well-equipped to answer any questions about yachting.

From its origin to the different types of yachts, and even advantages and disadvantages of owning one, you have a better understanding of the nautical world.

So go out and explore the seas in your very own yacht!.

James Frami

At the age of 15, he and four other friends from his neighborhood constructed their first boat. He has been sailing for almost 30 years and has a wealth of knowledge that he wants to share with others.

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The Yacht – The Meaning and the Origin of the Word

In my language there are a few words for a floating object, or a vessel. According to the size and the purpose of the vessel, those words could be translated as “dinghy”, “yacht”, “boat” or “ship”. Some types of vessels have international names, for example “catamaran” or “hovercraft”.

What Does Yacht Mean?

However, when you say “ yacht” in my language, everyone know exactly what it is about. The word “yacht”, unlike other terms, has certain connotations. It always links with something classy, fancy, wealthy, elegant, and even glamorous.

For example, if you say that you have spent a week aboard a sailing boat , the recations of people will be more or less neutral. On the other hand, if you say that your week aboard a yacht was excellent, many people will become jealous. They will imagine you in a scene from a James Bond movie : aboard a massive white yacht in Monte Carlo , having a cold martini (shaken, not stirred)…

I wanted to share with you this language introduction because I found an interesting story about the word “yacht” and its origin. The word “yacht” became an English and an international term after an event that happened a long time ago.

How Do You Spell ‘Yacht’?

This word comes from the Dutch word “jacht”, which means “hunt”. Furthermore, “ j achtschepen” was the name for narrow, light and very fast sailing boats that the Dutchmen were using for intercepting larger and slower boats and ships.

One of the ‘hunters’ was given as a present to the British king Charles II . In His Majesty’s free time this vessel was not used for intercepting. Instead, was using it for fun. That is why the word “yacht” eventually became the term for vessels/boats made for pleasure.

I would highly appreciate comments from the native speakers of the  English and Dutch languages. Especially since I am not one of them. No matter whether this story is true or not, it still sounds interesting to me.

Find out more about sailing quotes and phrases here .

I wish you a calm sea, a fine wind and a strong mast!

8 thoughts on “The Yacht – The Meaning and the Origin of the Word”

I looked up the origin of the word yacht, and it said it is a mid 16th century, Early Modern Dutch word from ‘jaght,’ from ‘jaghtschip’ meaning “fast pirate ship,” from ‘jaght’ which means “hunting” + ‘schip’ meaning “ship”.

I like the story of King Charles. It makes sense that that is why a yacht has the definite aura of wealth and pleasure!

Almost but not 100%. Actually the verb ‘jagen’ to hunt goes back to middle high German,i.e. Deutsch not Dutch, and before that it was ‘jagon’ in lower high German. But it seems that it all started with Greek and travelled North.

I guess that mid 16th century, the Dutch word jaght or jaghtschip was the word that got picked up. Not the earlier middle high German word where it came from.

Today it is jacht in Dutch, meaning hunting and it also the word for a luxury sailing boat.

In German Jagd is the word for hunt. Germans use the Dutch or English Jacht or Yacht for the boat.

Did the Germans design the original schooners? I think not! Since some Netherlanders speak a form of the Deutschland language, this word is shared (jacht/Dutch—jagd/German: meaning to hunt). It was the Dutch (Netherlanders) who designed the “flyut” or flute sailing ships, l-o-n-g before any British ever thought of such a ship—and—any German. The schooner grew out of the basic designs of the Dutch flute sailing ship (known for it’s speed). The Dutch economy relied heavily on trade and shipping, and were, thus, cutting edge innovators in ship building. Their engineering skills, was and is, plainly seen in their dike system, as well.

My father built a beautiful wooden replica of the”yacht” referred by the author (“Yacht Mary”) which was a present from the city of Amsterdam to King Charles II of England in 1660. They wrecked the ship a few years later (already too much partying on yachts, perhaps?)

I noticed the plaque that came with the model ship spelled the name as “Yatch” Mary. First, I thought, maybe, it was old English or Dutch spelling but it looks like it was just an error.

Nice, We have made an eplainermovie about this subject!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3HDZHF8w2E

In my head yogurt used to be spelled yoghurt and yacht used to be spelled yaught. Am I completely mis-remembering?

Dear Margaret, you are quite right for the spelling of the word yogurt that used to be, and sometimes still is, spelled with its old spelling yoghurt. However, there are no traces of the word yacht to have ever been spelled as yaught, but it would be best to take an etymology expert’s word for it.

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Home Words yacht

• How do you spell yacht? Correct spelling, definition, pronunciation and synonyms for yacht

Correct spelling for yacht

Do you want to know how to pronounce yacht? You can find detailed information about the correct spelling, meaning and etymological origin of the word yacht on this page. You can also see some proverbs and idioms where the word yacht used.

This word consists of 5 letters and is spelled as "Y-A-C-H-T". It has 1 vowel and 4 consonants.

How do you spell yacht

Typo fix for "yacht" yacht noun How to pronunciation yacht: ˈyät const synth = window.speechSynthesis; function speak(text) { // Create a new utterance for the text const utterance = new SpeechSynthesisUtterance(text); utterance.lang = 'en-UK'; // Speak the utterance synth.speak(utterance); }

What does Yacht Mean?

What does yacht meaning in English A small ship for carrying passengers. Other definitions for yacht The definition of 'yacht' is: any of various recreational watercraft: such as

How to spell yacht

Want to know how to spell yacht , you will find a comprehensive answer on this topic. The word "yacht consists of 1 syllables and is spelled " ˈyät ".

Synonyms for yacht:

There are synonyms for yacht'. Depending on the situation and context, the following words are also often used instead of yacht:

Some words similar to "yacht"

What is yacht in other languages.

• yacht in French:
• yacht in German:
• yacht in Spanish:
• yacht in Italian:
• yacht in Russian:
• yacht in Hindi:
• yacht in Turkish:
• yacht in Japanese:

How many points in scrabble for yacht

The significance of symbolism in literature.

Symbolism is a key element of many literary works, and it can add a layer of depth and meaning to a story that might not be immediately apparent on the surface. For example, in Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter," the red letter "A" that Hester Prynne is forced to wear represents her adultery, but it also represents the idea of sin and its consequences. Symbolism can also be used to convey complex ideas or emotions that might be difficult to express directly, as in T.S. Eliot's poem "The Waste Land," which uses a wide range of symbolic images to explore themes of disillusionment, decay, and spiritual emptiness.

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English pronunciation of yacht

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(English pronunciations of yacht from the Cambridge Advanced Learner's Dictionary & Thesaurus and from the Cambridge Academic Content Dictionary , both sources © Cambridge University Press)

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Phonetic spelling of Yacht

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Meanings for Yacht

yacht captain 0 rating rating ratings Private travel in a yacht 0 rating rating ratings Theodore Hill It is a boat that is commonly used for cruising or racing. 0 rating rating ratings Jamaal Carter motor yacht 0 rating rating ratings Private

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What's the difference between a 'boat' and a 'ship'?

All dictionaries try to avoid the dread lexicographic condition known as circular defining . This is when one looks up a word such as dictionary , sees that it is defined as “a lexicon ,” and, when looking up lexicon , finds that it is defined as “a dictionary.” Given that we spend a considerable amount of time avoiding this sort of defining, it may come to a surprise to some users to discover that one of the definitions for boat is “ship,” and vice versa.

Take to the sea.

This is not actually a case of circular defining, as these seeming examples of synonymy are but one of a number of possible meanings for each word. And we do not define the words in this manner out of a desire to annoy people who love to observe the distinction between these two kinds of vessels. The reason we offer the definitions of “ship” for boat and “boat” for ship is that this is the manner in which a large number of people use the words.

‘What is the difference between a ship and a boat?’ has a good number of answers, but unfortunately most of these are not couched in the type of precise language a dictionary aims for. Sample responses to this question include ‘You can put a boat onto a ship, but you can’t put a ship onto a boat,’ ‘a boat is what you get into when the ship sinks,’ and ‘a boat is the thing you put gravy in.’

If you were to look for precision by asking this question of ten nautically-inclined people in ten different areas it is possible that you would get a wide range of answers, for the exact moment at which a boat becomes a ship varies considerably. We define ship in the following ways: “a large seagoing vessel,” “a sailing vessel having a bowsprit and usually three masts each composed of a lower mast, a topmast, and a topgallant mast,” and “boat (especially one propelled by power or sail)”. Boat has a slightly narrower semantic range, including “a small vessel for travel on water,” and “ship.”

Usage writers appear to have been warning people about these words since the late 19th century; boat appears on James Gordon Bennett’s “Don’t List” in the New York Herald , with instruction to avoid “except in describing a small craft propelled by oars.” However, the distinction between boat and ship had been observed by others well before this.

Mr. Barnes then proceeded to state the distinction between a boat and a ship, and contended that all vessels above a certain tonnage, and which were registered, came under the denomination of “ships,” inasmuch as boats had no register. — The Essex County Standard (Colchester, Eng.), 29 Oct. 1841 ”What do you think, William, is the next gradation?” ”Why, father, is there any thing between a boat and a ship?” ”We are not come to a ship yet, William; we have only spoken of such sorts of vessels as are moved by paddles or oars.” — Isaac Taylor, The Ship, or Sketches of the Vessels of Various Countries , 1834

Despite the fact that we’ve been receiving admonitions about boat and ship for over a century now, many people cheerfully insist on using boat for waterborne vessels of any size. However, few, if any, use ship to refer to small crafts. If you find that you are unable to remember the which is the larger between ship and boat it may help to sing the children’s song Row Your Boat (“row, row, row your ship ” sounds decidedly odd — small oared crafts are almost always referred to as boats ). No matter how many aphorisms we come up with, it seems unlikely that we are going to get much more specific than 'ships are bigger than boats.'

Considering that our language has hundreds of words for different kinds of things that float on the water it is somewhat odd that we should focus exclusively on the difference between only these two. Should you find yourself beset by an angry sailor who calls you out for using boat when you should have used ship you may turn and ask if they know the difference between a xebec and an umiak , a corvette and a wherry , or an argosy and a garvey (the first ones are all ships and the second ones all boats).

The fact that English usage is messy, and has contributed to a use of boat that is somewhat vague, does not mean that there aren't settings where precision is called for. For instance, when you are sailing on someone else's vessel it is polite to always employ the correct terminology. And if you find yourself at a loss about when a boat becomes a ship you should contact your local maritime authority.

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Yacht or yaht?

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We keep on repeating this mistake time and time again! Totally messed up.

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This page is a spellcheck for word yacht . All Which is Correct spellings and definitions, including " Yacht or yaht " are based on official English dictionaries , which means you can browse our website with confidence! Common searches that lead to this page: how to spell yacht, correct spelling of yacht, how is yacht spelled, spell check yacht, how do you spell yacht.

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An Arsenal of Mysteries: The Terrifying Allure of a Remote Caribbean Island

Why had immigrants, seekers and pilgrims been drawn for centuries to the treacherous shores of Mona Island? I set off to find out.

In Cueva Lirio. Even after many decades, the island’s sculptural inner terrain can be difficult to navigate. Credit... Christopher Gregory-Rivera for The New York Times

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By Carina del Valle Schorske

Carina del Valle Schorske is a contributing writer for the magazine. She spent four days on Mona Island, where, among other things, she climbed a ladder made of driftwood to report from a cave.

• March 20, 2024

Every year, I spend a month or two in Puerto Rico, where my mother’s family is from. Often I go in winter, with the other snowbirds, finding solace among palm trees. But I’m not a tourist, not really. I track the developers that privatize the shoreline; I follow the environmental reports that give our beaches a failing grade. I’m disenchanted with the Island of Enchantment, suspicious of an image that obscures the unglamorous conditions of daily life: frequent blackouts, meager public services, a rental market ravaged by Airbnb. Maybe that’s why I turned away from the sunshine and started to explore caves with my friends Ramón and Javier, seeking out wonders not yet packaged for the visitor economy. I’ve been learning to love stalactites and squeaking bats, black snakes and cloistered waterfalls — even, slowly, the darkness itself.

The Greater Antilles and the Yucatán Peninsula form one of the most cavernous regions in the world, and many of these grottos contain precolonial inscriptions. But no other site can match the density of designs found on Mona, a semiarid mesa halfway between Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. The island is ringed by sheer cliffs and honeycombed with miles of subterranean passageways. Most of the inscriptions are tucked away in the so-called dark zone, far from access to the upper world, congregating around rare pools of freshwater. More accessible chambers harbor other histories: an Incan vase filled with gold coins, shards of a Spanish olive jar stained with the oldest wine in the Americas. In one cave, a foreign visitor from the 16th century carved a kind of commentary alongside ancient petroglyphs: “ plura fecit deus .” “God made many things.” I kept repeating the phrase to myself like a mantra, trying to impose divine order on the contradictions of the New World, the only world I’ve ever known.

Mona now “belongs” to Puerto Rico (and thus to the United States), but the island has always retained a certain rugged self-possession, rising fatherless and fully formed from the sea like an American Aphrodite. The archaeologist Ovidio Dávila famously described the island as “a floating fortress”: remote, inhospitable, an arsenal of mysteries. But Mona also teems with life: flowering cactuses, swirling flocks of seabirds, orchids and iguanas and frogs found nowhere else on Earth. Hawksbill turtles from as far away as Panama crawl onshore to nest under the summer moon. Enormous basket sponges and gorgonian corals cling to the sea wall. Many migrant species rarely seen from Puerto Rico proper come close to shore: dolphins, pilot whales, tiger sharks, bluefin tuna, flying fish. Mona’s remote beaches receive tribute from faraway waters, as if this might be the secret center of the world.

But for many Puerto Ricans, Mona is a legendary backwater, the punchline for a whole genre of jokes: Your political enemies “couldn’t even win the mayor’s race on Mona,” the socialists should “go live with the iguanas,” the Supreme Court might consider setting up “its little theocracy” over there. Like Robinson Crusoe, even locals who should know better view this other island as a blank slate for exile or utopia. Of course, Mona wasn’t always an abstraction. Before Europeans wandered west, Indigenous people settled the island as early as 3000 B.C. When Columbus first came to Mona in 1494, there was a community cultivating a marvelous variety of fruits and tubers from a thin fringe of arable soil on the island’s western side. Indigenous people continued to survive on Mona for another hundred years — much longer than elsewhere in the region — taking refuge in the island’s mysterious interior. Since then, the island has hosted a vivid procession of conquistadors, conversos, maroons, priests, pirates, prisoners, guano miners, military men, treasure hunters, scientists and refugees.

‘God made many things’ — so many more than the Old World predicted!

Now Mona is a protected nature reserve, and the only residents are park rangers. Researchers and amateurs alike must apply for a permit from Puerto Rico’s Department of Natural and Environmental Resources in order to travel there. Hunters come to subdue the feral descendants of goats and pigs introduced by the Spanish. Scuba divers wander the reefs.

But the Mona Passage — fast-flowing, shark-infested, one of the roughest stretches of water in the world — remains a troubled crucible of imperial traffic. Every year, migrants from Cuba, Haiti and the Dominican Republic crowd small boats and try to make the dangerous crossing to Puerto Rico, the local gateway to the American dream. Many drown, uncountable bodies at the bottom of the sea. Hundreds wind up stranded on Mona, abandoned by smugglers looking to cut corners on the journey, then deported by authorities within days. Even those who visit Mona for recreation sometimes stumble into the island’s traps. In 2001, a Boy Scout got lost and died of dehydration. Just last month, a hunter disappeared near a well-known cave not far from camp.

Why did these frightening stories seduce me? If so many people were willing to suffer the island’s torments, I figured they must be suffering for something: freedom, beauty, maybe even wisdom. The travel industry sells the Caribbean as a gentle paradise where the workers of the first world can escape to rest at last on the shores of an infinite resort. But Mona remains incompletely mastered, a wilderness where you won’t be welcomed, where it’s still possible to lose your way and lose your life.

“This curious world,” Thoreau wrote, “is more wonderful than convenient,” and his words came to me as I gathered my hiking boots and helmet, laxatives and Dramamine, batteries, baby wipes and safety wardrobe of neon orange. After nearly a year of bureaucratic tribulations, I was finally going to Mona. The two most popular tour companies never wrote me back, so I planned the trip with Jaime Zamora, a freelance guide who had been exploring the island for more than 40 years. But it was better this way. I liked the purity of his passion and his disdain for institutions. Instead of a website or brochure, he directed me to a private Facebook group where he maintained a meticulous archive of old maps, news clippings and personal photographs of artifacts he found on the island: a creamy conch shell with a hole drilled through it, the ornamental handles of a broken urn.

In December, the stars suddenly aligned: Our permits were approved, the seas calmed and we pulled a team together. I crossed Midtown with cash in my coat to wire to a boat captain named Mikey. My friends Ramón and Javier came through; so did my friend Elisa. Our photographer, Chris, would bring his partner, Andrea. Jaime recruited some old comrades: Chito, Manuel and Charlito, the cook. The ecologist Hector Quintero, known as Quique, signed on and suggested we might invite Tony Nieves, who had recently retired from 33 years as Mona Island’s director. Finally, Jaime texted to say the moon would be full for our visit: “In one week,” he promised, “your magic will begin to shine.”

The boats arrived at the pier in Joyuda, on the western shore of Puerto Rico, near dawn. We were relieved to discover that the sea was quiet: “ plancha ’ o ,” the captain said, like an ironed sheet, only this gracious once or twice a year. He warned me not to get the wrong impression: “ Mona no es así .” Still, I could feel it when we crossed into the Mona Passage proper, where the waters of the Atlantic and the Caribbean come together in a cauldron of treacherous crosscurrents. The prow began to jump across the waves, so that we had to brace hard against the railing to keep our tailbones from bruising. I realized I had never been this close to the water for this long — I always approached Puerto Rico from above — and I tried to imagine the first people who came this way, rowing with no land in sight, searching the sky for congregations of clouds, the sign of green things breathing.

Over the last several years, I’d been unlearning the standard narrative about precolonial history. In Puerto Rico, the Department of Education still promotes the tired narrative that the people who greeted Columbus were simple and docile, with a rudimentary culture. But Reniel Rodríguez, an archaeologist, told me that the recent research is very clear: The migrants who left Central America and the Amazon basin to populate our archipelago were great mariners, like the Polynesians, navigating by stars and currents and wind patterns. Over generations of migration, they formed multiethnic polities and maintained vast trade networks: jade from Guatemala, gold and copper alloys from Colombia, jaguar’s teeth from continental jungles. None of these materials arrived by accident. As we bumped along, I wondered what it was like to bring, say, a passel of guinea pigs from Colombia to Puerto Rico in the bottom of a wide canoe.

The oldest carbon-dated evidence of human habitation on Mona dates from about 2800 B.C. They were probably attracted to the island’s majestic underworld. Indigenous mythology names symbolic caves as the great cosmic incubators, giving birth to the moon, the sun and the archipelago’s first people. Mona’s residents filled the caves with signs. The island was never a land of milk and honey, so its importance must have been strategic and spiritual rather than strictly productive: Ovidio Dávila imagines “a meeting point and tribal crossroads,” hosting chiefs and traders, “parliaments and pilgrimages.” The rigor of the journey to Mona conferred a kind of gravity on every human drama that unfolded on the mesa’s barren stage.

It took a long while for Puerto Rico to fall out of view, and hours more for Mona to appear, so that I felt suspended in time as well as space. I could imagine the Spanish ships prowling the Caribbean, snatching people from the Lesser Antilles and the coast of South America to “replenish” their depleted work force. I could imagine the first coffle of stolen Africans that would arrive in Santo Domingo. This passage still teems with human traffic. No one who worked these waters — our captain, the Coast Guard, local fishermen — wanted to talk to me about what they’d seen. Édouard Glissant was right: Even the brightest voyages bring to mind the depths of the sea, “with their punctuation of scarcely corroded balls and chains.”

I had taken off my glasses, foggy from the spray, so at first I wasn’t sure if the smudge of cream in the corner of my eye was just a trick of light. But then Quique pointed in the same direction, and the distant citadel began to shine — first the pale naked flanks of the highest cliffs, and then, slowly, the regions shadowed with underbrush. The island’s shape sharpened: a thin slice of stone floating like a cataract on the dark iris of the sea.

When we finally moored at Playa Pájaros, I woke up from my precolonial daydream. The beach was covered in trash. Quique blamed austerity: The Department of Natural and Environmental Resources, like all government agencies, has been defunded to prioritize the debt. There wasn’t money, anymore, to service the island properly. The rangers live on the other side, at Playa Sardinera, so our camp — Playa Pájaros — was wilder, both more private and more neglected. I was ashamed of my disappointment, realizing that it revealed some measure of willful naïveté: I knew the currents of the Mona Passage carried seeds and shells from far-off places, so why not shoes, plastic bottles, rubber tubing?

Still, there were hermit crabs and lizards creeping among the sea grapes, as there had been for millions of years, and wild cotton along the edges of the cliffs. Ramón helped me hang my nylon hammock from two sturdy trees, and I thought of the cotton slings — hamaca , an Arawak word — woven by the people of Mona, so finely made that the Spanish set them to work as suppliers for the imperial machine. I had never slept in a hammock before, but after the roughness of the voyage, it felt natural to sway, gently, and I dropped into a deep slumber for an hour, until I could hear Jaime pacing and singing, summoning us to our first cave.

If there had ever been a trail to Cueva Caballo, there wasn’t anymore, and so we had to shake the sleep from our senses in order to climb, almost crawl, through thorned bushes and over jagged limestone up toward the mouth of the cave. I was surprised to find a paved road just inside, punctuated by the rusted remnants of carts and rails. Tony explained how Cueva Caballo was mined for guano in the 19th century, when Western powers realized the nitrates in bat feces made it very good for gunpowder and fertilizer. The workers slept right here, among piles of excrement dredged up from the darkness. Eventually, they went on strike for lack of water. There was still fresh guano in Cueva Caballo — the color and texture of finely ground coffee — and the smell of ammonia saturated the tighter chambers, so that we passed through them quickly and sought out crevices in the stone where we could catch currents of fresh air.

“ Hay un chorro de formaciones ,” Jaime said, and it was true: The walls of the cave seemed to undulate like water, and a glittering white powder frosted the figures, crystallizing in chandeliers and sliding over smooth hills of stone like a gown over the hips of a beauty queen. “ Sorbeto ,” Tony told me it was called, as Jaime moved through the cave seeking his favorite free-standing sculptures and addressing them by his own private names: “ Huevo Frito ,” “ Dragón .” He was looking for “pearls,” the perfect mineral spheres that form over centuries in pools beneath dripping stalactites, especially one particular pearl he called “ La Cabeza, la perla más hermosa de toda la isla .” Tony, subtly competing, told me he had walked through every chamber in these caves — “ to’ completo ” — and was the only one who never lost his way on Mona.

Still, even after many decades, I could see how Jaime and Tony hesitated between branching passageways, retreating into memory’s inner topography before disappearing behind a blind curve. So many of the conversations I caught on tape were merely directional: “ Vamos pa’llá, ” “ No, más adelante, ” “ Y dónde está Javier? ” Cross-talk, muffled laughter. Jaime told me they sometimes stumbled upon the skeletons of goats that died lost in the labyrinth. We learned to listen for one another’s voices.

‘Yo la adoraba,’ he explained helplessly.

In Cueva Caballo, Jaime cried out: “ Se la robaron, Tony! ” When we found him, he was kneeling in front of what looked like an empty altar. La Cabeza — a glittering stone in the shape of a skull on a slender neck — had been carefully decapitated. There was a market for that kind of thing: Manuel said he had seen small-time hustlers selling stalactites on the roadside in the Dominican Republic. Even in the dim light of our headlamps, I could see Jaime’s face turn red, and I was worried he might cry. “ Yo la adoraba ,” he explained helplessly, using the word that blurs the boundary between love and worship. “If I were an Indian, this would be sacred for me.”

The older men in our group often spoke as if they had taken the place of Indigenous people. Jaime wore a necklace strung with three finely polished beads of shell and stone that he took from a cave years ago. Chito analyzed our dynamics as a “clan.” And Quique summoned scientific theories: Had I heard of epigenetics? How Native Americans transmitted the traumas of starvation, displacement and genocide across generations? Puerto Ricans, he continued, must be carrying our own ghosts. I was wary of these analogies, but I could also understand their emotional logic. Our guides had lived through “ el carpeteo ,” the U.S. government’s campaign against the Puerto Rican independence movement, when activists were surveilled and imprisoned, when close comrades turned out to be snitches. They were nostalgic for whatever came before the colonial encounter, when the islands they loved were sovereign. When we got back from Mona, Quique gave me a thumb drive of scientific documents and a short essay he wrote himself, simply titled, “Colonies Are There to Be Exploited.”

I struggled to absorb the intensity of information directed at me. Elisa, often at my side, said it was like standing next to a fire hose. Buried treasure, political intrigue, grand theories, deaths and disappearances. I was missing so much, but at least I could record the poetic names and properties of local plants: tourist tree, for its red and peeling bark, the cactus called snowball for its crown of white fuzz and thorns, the plumeria called alhelí cimarrón . In the mornings when it bloomed you could close your eyes and almost find your way across the island by following its fugitive perfume. Tabaco marino , rolled and smoked, might get you a little high. Chicharrón , higo chumbo , coca falsa . Jaime and Tony often returned to the same refrain: “ Eso es de aquí na’ más .” Only on Mona. Some of these species were immediately striking: The Mona land iguanas were enormous, with the terrible dignity of dinosaurs, and we had to fight them off whenever we took sponge baths by the cistern. Others seemed modest, enchanted only by the spell of our attention.

On the long, hot walk to the ruined lighthouse, Jaime and Tony peeled off, and Chito told me they were tired and had gone to camp. But on our way back, hours later, we came upon Jaime sitting in a patch of meager shade along the road. Our guides had finally found Psychilis monense, Mona Island’s endemic orchid, and Jaime was waiting to introduce us to this natural wonder. Last time he was on Mona, he spent an afternoon searching in vain, but this time — this time, just for us — she had revealed herself and would step into her stardom. Jaime had been so patient, had shown such fortitude, and now he was almost trembling with urgency as he guided us to the spot, off road, that he had marked with his staff so he wouldn’t lose the little flower.

The flower was indeed so little that I almost missed her, a bit of pale silk no larger than my thumbnail on the end of a long bare stem. When I bent the stem toward me to specify her beauty — a purple striped calyx, a clutch of green buds — I was worried it might snap. The tiniest dancer. How strange, I thought, to be so rare and lonely — endemic, endangered, the only flower in the stony field — and at the same time so unremarkable. Or was my own perceptive power unremarkable? My own capacity for feeling? Sometimes, reading research papers on Mona, I was baffled by the effort people made to catalog the most minute phenomena: the scientists in scuba gear who explored a dangerous underwater chamber in order to photograph “the curious case” of a cave-dwelling shrimp called Popeye. But I knew that the argument for protecting Mona depended on the meticulous accumulation of empirical evidence for the island’s singularity. And that love is not love without detail, without risk, without a touch of madness.

I tried to bring the intensity of attention I’d seen among our guides to the library. So much of my formal and informal education had rushed through the conquest of the Caribbean — especially Puerto Rico — as if the Spanish and then American invasions had been so successful that they erased not only the history of those who came before but also the muddy footprints of their own trajectory. Many primary sources confirmed the familiar narrative of unrelenting violence. The archaeologist Alice Samson drew my attention to an inventory of merchandise from Mona: “ grillones con un indio preso ” — shackles with a prisoner attached. But reading the colonial chronicles, I also felt a strange suspense, as if these encounters might have gone another way, as if the future I am living now had not yet been foretold.

Mona’s particular history dramatized the chaos and contingency of those early decades. The island’s location on the route between Santo Domingo and Spain made it a crucial supply station and entrepôt for slave trading. Juan Ponce de León imported roughly 80 captives to ramp up production of pan casabe , the durable flatbread made from yuca that was a staple of the Indigenous diet. Soon, Mona became the breadbasket for the whole colonial campaign: gold mines in Puerto Rico, armadas cruising for slaves, salt and pearls from Aruba to Venezuela. The women of Mona manufactured cotton ropes that might have been used — I can only speculate — to hoist sails, corral horses and bind the wrists of child brides.

But even at this high point of exploitation, Mona retained an ambivalent independence. Very few Spaniards took up permanent residence. Instead they installed Indigenous overseers and left the fragmented community to find its own working rhythm, to sustain traditions and experiment with new religions. Many of these people — colonizers, native islanders and captives from distant territories — would not have had a common language. Together, they had to learn to grapple with their new position at the center of apocalyptic change. They brokered deals with English and French raiders, they formed Creole families and they fled the violence of the island’s coast for caves in the interior, not far from the ceremonial ball courts.

Mona was never abandoned for long. Exiled islanders returned to fish, forage and visit sacred sites as their ancestors did for thousands of years. Sailors sick with scurvy came to gather oranges gone to seed. All through the 17th and 18th centuries, pirates frequented the island, making the surrounding waters some of the most perilous in the Atlantic world. The researcher Walter Cardona told me how Blackbeard, the notorious English buccaneer, used Mona to barrack twice-stolen Africans, reselling them on the black market once they became “acclimated” to hard labor. At the height of the Haitian Revolution, rebels moored ships along Mona’s coast. The island had become both a prison and a sanctuary, contested terrain where empire’s exiles hashed out new identities. In a recent article, Cardona included a photograph that Tony took of a skeleton recovered from Sardinera: DNA testing revealed a young man of African and Arawak ancestry, just a teenager when he died, maybe a maroon himself. Or maybe this was just wishful thinking, my desire for a story with a taste of freedom it.

Something about the photograph — the arrangement of bones, the knowledge that Tony had touched them — made the limits of my reading obvious. I had come to Mona to go beyond the syllabus, and wasn’t it already working? Every feather and every grain of sand seemed like evidence. Every jagged window framing the sea looked like a wound torn open. Even the drooping casuarinas — imitation pines imported from Australia — seemed to lament their own story of displacement and adaptation. But there was one cave on Mona I still wanted to visit. Maybe seeing colonial signatures in stone would help me bridge the gap between the authority of documents and the testimony of the senses.

The entrance to Cave 18 was luminously pale and multicolored: blue, pink, yellow, the skyscape of a Renaissance painting. Right away, we had to bend at the waist, feeling our way through a wide, dim tunnel until it opened into a larger chamber. We were in the dark zone now, so that it wasn’t possible to go without our headlamps. Probably, the foreigners who visited this cave would have had to rely on local guides, the way I was now relying on Tony. I tried to let my senses adjust to the environment. This was my favorite kind of cave — not a cathedral but a chapel, damp and close as a pair of cupped hands. Later, reading Alice Samson’s analysis of Cave 18, I would learn that I had walked past the word “ entra ,” repeated three times in the same crude hand: a 16th-century visitor trying to formalize a route the first artists had established by feel, through the ceremony of repeated gestures.

The first signs I noticed myself were undulating lines traced into the soft, crumbly walls near eye level — “finger fluting,” Tony called it, an Indigenous technique common on Mona, where many caves are frosted with “ sudor de roca ,” as if stone, like human skin, could breathe and sweat. “Careful,” he warned me: It was easier to erase the delicate designs than it had been to create them.

I had just found an Indigenous petroglyph drawn high up on the curving ceiling — a round face with ornamental earrings — when Tony let out a small cry and beckoned me closer. This was the line I’d read about: plura fecit deus . The first word was written in perfect cursive, but the other words were messy, as if the writer had underestimated the effort it would require to inscribe his message. There’s no exact match for the Latin phrase in the religious writing of the period, so Samson suggests we take it at face value, as “a spontaneous response” to the cave itself. “God made many things” — so many more than the Old World predicted! Pineapples, manatees, reefs so thick with fish that boats could barely row to shore. Songs longer than books, clans ruled by women, caves that flickered with a thousand tiny faces peering out from the stone. Even familiar things, like Spanish melons, seemed transformed on Mona, swollen by the relentless sweetness of the sun. Was this not revelation? I tried to imagine landing here after months on a leaking caravel — outnumbered, now, by foreign people, encircled by charismatic foreign signs, compelled to register my wonderment with the sharpened point of a rusty nail.

Or maybe it was the other way around, and some of the crosses carved into the stone were made by mestizo conversos trying to reconcile competing cosmologies in the artistic language they knew best. Walter Cardona had combed the colonial literature for information on Mona’s Indigenous leaders, and he emerged with a document from 1517 listing every resident of the Sardinera village, many with hybrid names that reflected hybrid lives: Juan Yahagua, Francisco Maguatica, Isabel Bocoana, Luisica Guacoyo. Some of them might have kept visiting old sites of ceremony. Some of them might have shown strangers those hidden pathways and sacred chambers. Some of them might have disappeared together, preferring internal exile to the forced surrender of the island’s secrets.

When I met Walter Cardona in person, he told me he once spent nearly 10 hours in Cave 18, trying to catalog every human mark that was made there. Satisfied after his long effort, he announced, out loud, that he wasn’t planning to return. But the cave wouldn’t let him leave: “Something took me and threw me against the rock,” and he stayed there, pinned and paralyzed, for several moments before he realized he had spoken too soon. This was not a history you could finish. I remembered something I heard Tony say in a documentary: “No one can say they know Mona completely.” He was talking about space — the island’s intricate topography — but I was thinking about time.

Cave 18 is not a diorama, and Mona is not a museum. People still traverse these subterranean passageways in search of things they need: knowledge, freedom, temporary cover. Quique’s uncle was a rumrunner during Prohibition, or so the story goes, storing caches of liquor in caves. Now drug traffickers work the age-old route between South America and the Caribbean, stopping over on Mona to stash parcels of cocaine. And then, of course, there are the migrants: When Elisa and I arrived in Aguadilla, the airport guard told us how his father, a hunter, had stumbled upon a Dominican family in Cueva Negra, seeking shelter from the midday sun, trying to imagine an alternative to turning themselves in.

On the way back down from Cave 18, Tony walked us along Playa Mujeres, a dreamy stretch of white sand where sea turtles come to nest. We spotted the tracks of the animal’s soft, angled fins in the white sand. I took off my hiking boots to soothe my blisters in the surf. This beach seemed so much gentler than Playa Pájaros, I told Tony — and this, he replied, was why so many migrants landed here. Just a few weeks earlier, on Dec. 1, coyotes abandoned a group of 48 Haitians right where we were walking. Hundreds of migrants wind up on Mona every year — when the seas are calm, they come every week — and from all walks of life. There are doctors and ballplayers, mothers with babies and pets. Haiti and the Dominican Republic are both in crisis, Tony told me, and Puerto Rico seems to promise a more dignified style of poverty, perhaps a backdoor to U.S. citizenship.

The rangers at Sardinera gestured toward the graveyard of boats left behind on the island: “This is trash for us.” No one comes to clean up the evidence of Mona’s ongoing role in the underground economy. I walked closer to get a better look. Some had whimsical names like La Niña Coqueta that reminded me of slave ships called Friendship or Hope. The Middle Passage haunts these supposedly voluntary journeys. The rangers told me some coyotes throw menstruating women overboard so the sharks won’t track the smell of blood on the boat. When I see footage of migrants on Mona — lining up for food or singing a hymn in Kreyòl while they wait to be deported — I think of all the rebels, maroons and twice-sold people who made this island their temporary home.

The next day was our last on Mona, and we moved with a strange synchronicity, as if we had been rehearsing all along for a final performance. Like the other people thrown together there, we were beginning to fashion a shared culture of jokes and symbols, rhythms of rest and collective labor. Most of the footpaths through the coastal forest had been erased by recent hurricanes, so we had to open new corridors together, using our feet and knees to tamp down the underbrush and our hands to snap back dry branches. Jaime took me and Elisa to a heart-shaped chamber filled with impossibly velvety sand, talking us through what I can describe only as a matrimonial ritual. “Close your eyes,” he directed. “Can you hear that? The pulsing?” Now, he said, we belonged to Mona. We knew he practiced these lines on other people before, but we didn’t mind. Later, I told Elisa about a pictograph of a bird I’d seen in Cueva Lucero in Puerto Rico, and how Reniel, the archaeologist, identified an almost identical pictograph in other caves in the Dominican Republic. Jaime’s poetic repetitions were like that bird: a technology for creating community among people who might never meet.

That night, the moon was so completely red that it left a trail of blood across the sea. I wondered if the sky was always staging these operatic scenes behind scrims of light pollution. Not a scientific way to think, of course. The moon remained the moon regardless of our position or perception — mostly, if not completely, impervious to our corrupting touch.

But I still thought of all the natural wonders that had faded in the centuries since colonial contact. The chronicles suggest that all of Puerto Rico’s bays once glittered with bioluminescence. The afternoon sky would go dark when massive murmurations of green parrots from El Yunque blocked the sun. It was tempting to imagine they could skim the cream from the Milky Way and drink it. But I also knew that future generations would look back in wonder at what we have now, helpless with rage over what we’ve ruined.

Everyone went to sleep early. We knew that it was unlikely we would return to Mona together, and that even if we did, the island would be different: the infrastructure even more degraded, or worse, privatized. On our way back, there were flying fish, rainbows in the foam, bachata on the radio. Then the police stopped our boat — a reminder that government resources are always directed to limiting, rather than facilitating, the movement of people across the archipelago. I tried to keep Mona in my sightline the whole time, so that I could perceive the precise moment when the island disappeared. Or maybe that wasn’t possible. I blinked. I could already feel the fragile bonds among the people on the boat starting to loosen. I knew such losses were ordinary: Most contact is fleeting, most histories are forgotten. Ramón described Mona as a beautiful ruin, and I couldn’t disagree. The island dramatized every rupture, deepened every longing. But don’t we always make our lives among ruins, run to catch the bus over unmarked graves, cross paths with stateless people? I promised myself that when we landed, I would watch where I walked. I would keep trying to find out where I really stood.

Carina del Valle Schorske is a writer and translator living in Brooklyn. Her first book, “The Other Island,” is forthcoming from Riverhead. Her feature for the magazine about New York City’s Covid-era dance floors won a National Magazine Award. Christopher Gregory Rivera is a Puerto Rican photographer and director based in New York City and San Juan, Puerto Rico.

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