ANTIGUA AND BARBUDA: In a Tropical Depression?

E: The Environmental Magazine, Sept, 2000 by Jennifer Bogo

AN 80-DEGREE DAY THAT WRAPS ITSELF AROUND YOU, turquoise waters shimmering under a bright tropical sun. It has all the elements of a Caribbean paradise, except for one little thing: there's no beach.

Andy McDonald gestures toward a battered metal wall, the only barrier separating the glassy blue sea from the concrete patio of his hotel, Sunset Cove. Its occupancy rate, once a steady 85 percent, moved optimistically from zero when I arrived. "Beginning in the winter of 1996, all the guests basically checked out and haven't checked back in," says the Antiguan, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. His ankle is broken, but not his ardor for describing the challenges his business and nation now face.

Runaway Bay, where McDonald's hotel sits, was once one of the most idyllic stretches of Antiguan shore, according to locals. But 1,000 feet of sandy beach have since eroded away, including all 210 feet that spanned the length of Sunset Cove. On an island that boasts 365 white-sand beaches, tourists understandably steer clear of a waterfront hotel with no sand on which to spread their blankets, admits McDonald. And a pool rained on by the salt spray of waves crashing against a sea wall 15 feet away isn't very enticing, either.

Hurricane Luis in 1995, blamed with destroying the protective grass banks in front of Runaway Bay, was the first major hurricane to hit Antigua and Barbuda since 1950. It was followed shortly by tropical storms Marilyn and Iris that same year, Hurricane Georges in 1998 and Hurricanes Jose and Lenny in 1999. "Lenny was a serious anomaly," says Keithley Meade of Antigua's Meteorological Office. It surprised everyone by spinning in the opposite direction of the typical storm.

Still somewhat bleary-eyed from a long night of keeping an eye on the country's increasingly erratic weather, Meade points to a chart on the wall where a jagged line shoots upward, indicating that, since 1969, seasonal highs and lows in Antigua have grown more dramatic, while the average temperature has risen about three degrees F during that time. An increase in the frequency of severe weather events is one predicted consequence of a warmer climate, as are the subsequent warmer water temperatures that feed a storm's intensity.

Warmer water may also explain the only five to 20 percent live coral cover in the reefs fringing the island nation, according to a 1996 study by Maya and Thomas Goreau of the Global Coral Reef Alliance. Deterioration of the reefs, which should act as wave-breaking barriers protecting the shoreline from erosion, long preceded any hurricane activity, the Goreaus concluded. Adding to their case for climate change is the fact that the island is upcurrent from all but local pollutants.

I can see the reefs' dark watery shadows just offshore, as my taxi driver Danny skillfully navigates our minivan over deeply rutted roads, beeping enthusiastically at fellow drivers. He occasionally veers off to one side, indicating through the open window some point of local interest--this time one of the small wooden huts that shelters a water pump. The island's original name, which now lives on as the local beer, was Wadadlii, Danny tells me, or "well-water island." It was later renamed Antigua, or "anti-agua," and quite prophetically, it seems. Small climate-induced changes in precipitation will likely reduce the run-off to reservoirs, while salt water intrudes from rising seas. Already, during a 1983 drought, water had to be shipped in from neighboring Dominica.

Once again the van skids to a bumpy halt. "Bet you've never seen this before," Danny says of a field of pineapple, his white grin beaming proudly from behind smooth dark skin. He's right. I snap a picture of one of the fat, healthy fruits. Because more frequent droughts are another ramification of climate change, these pineapples and other island crops, such as mango, avocado, sweet potato and cassava, are also likely to suffer.

I crane my neck to read the maxim "Tourism is Everybody's Business" emblazoned on passing billboards, as Danny recalls for me crabbing with his brothers in the mangroves where now sits Jolly Harbor, a 150-slip marina, resort and golf course. Besides being important marine nurseries, mangroves clarify coastal waters and trap sediment. They reduce the impact of ocean waves and absorb floodwaters. But like at Jolly Harbor, which has been dredged three times, most of the mangroves that once covered the island have already been destroyed, and creeping sea level and development threaten the few remaining stands.

Though decaying stone remnants of sugar mills still dot the island landscape, lingering signs of once-thriving plantations, the island economy has long since been taken over by tourism, which now contributes over 40 percent of the Gross Domestic Product, and employs one-third of the people. More than 200,000 visitors arrive each year, seeking the Caribbean sun and surf pictured on glossy travel brochures. "Tourism is what we have to depend on. It drives our economy," Cynthia Simon, of the Antigua Hotels and Tourist Association, says frankly. It is that reality which makes the prospect of climate change for this island nation, and others like it, especially harsh.