Shoal Bay East is made of the reef it faces. The sand along its two-mile arc is coral, broken down and washed ashore as a powder white enough to hurt your eyes at midday. Nothing on the island dulls that white: Anguilla is a low slab of reef limestone laid down some 20 million years ago, with no mountains and no rivers, and its porous ground soaks up the rain before it can run off. Even after a downpour there is no silt to cloud the water. The fringing reef, a few hundred metres out, breaks the Atlantic swell before it reaches the beach, so the shallows stay flat and glassy over pale sand — a turquoise band that turns cobalt where the coral drops away. Halfway along, the shoreline swings ninety degrees at a corner islanders call the bend, dividing Lower Shoal Bay, which carries the bars and most of the people, from the emptier Upper end.
You can wade waist-deep a long way out before the floor shelves down. Where the sand finally runs out, the reef comes within swimming distance: brain corals in about three metres of water, parrotfish and surgeonfish working the tops, eagle rays crossing the bare sand between the heads. All of it lies inside one of Anguilla's marine parks, so nothing is taken from it. The beach bars are family places on the sand, not resort towers — Uncle Ernie's has been grilling here since 1984, when Shoal Bay had no electricity at all. The sand is less permanent than it looks: Hurricane Irma stripped the beach and its dune back in September 2017, and the sea returned most of it within months. Summer brings the newer nuisance, rafts of sargassum weed that land on this northeast-facing shore — thick some years, barely there in others.