Saving Seven Mile Beach: Between Sand and Sea

A Vanishing Treasure

I want you to close your eyes and picture something. You’re walking down a beach; the sun is shining; a Christmas breeze is blowing. In both directions, the sand stretches for miles. Waves crash into the shore, splashing your legs as you instinctively raise the bag you’re carrying to keep it dry. On the other side, under the canopies of casuarina and sea grape trees, people rest their eyes while children try to knock coconuts off the palms, their long necks provocatively dangling fruit just out of reach.

You can open your eyes.

That version of a beach once existed for those of us fortunate enough to grow up in Cayman. We remember birthday parties at Public Beach, struggling to reach the high benches, eating jerk chicken laced with sand, full moon parties at Calico’s, and New Year’s Eve at Royal Palms.

But that Cayman is gone. And the beach that shaped so many memories is eroding fast. While understanding the causes of this erosion matters, this piece is about what happens next. We can’t keep resting on nostalgia. Seven Mile Beach needs a plan, and the time to act is now.

Built on Shifting Sands

Jimi Hendrix sings, “Castles made of sand fall into the sea eventually.” Here in Cayman, it’s not just metaphor. Over recent years, iconic beachfront spots—Royal Palms, the Marriott, Coral Beach—have all watched the sea creep closer, undermining their foundations. Royal Palms has already succumbed. The Marriott could follow.

We’ve forced permanence on a space that’s inherently temporary. Beaches are constantly changing. They are meant to. Coasts shift with each passing wave, the battle between erosion and growth a constant tug of war. This dynamic nature is at the heart of tropical islands. Coral reefs offshore break waves and deliver sediment to the coast. Hurricanes come, reshape the shore, and move on. Then the beach begins to recover. This cycle was once reliable. Not anymore.

We replaced coconut trees with concrete. Seven Mile Beach evolved from a quiet coastline with small buildings to a strip of aggressive development. Global hotel brands expanded, altering the character of one of the Caribbean’s most iconic beaches. Their developments now sit on fragile ground.

Erosion isn’t caused by development alone—beaches are naturally transient. But where buildings edge closest to the water, the damage is greatest.

Short-Term Fixes, Limited Time

A DHI report prepared for DART recommends beach nourishment: using offshore “sand engines” to feed sediment back into the southern beach, and “sediment traps” in the north to reduce loss. It sounds effective—focused intervention with minimal tourist disruption.

But the plan is temporary—projected to last just five years. And then? The report is silent on next steps. Should development continue? Will larger decks be allowed? Without stronger policy, we risk repeating the same mistakes.

There’s also bias to consider. DHI specializes in engineering projects. DART profits from development on Seven Mile Beach. That doesn’t invalidate the proposal, but it does demand scrutiny.

Biorock: A Living Reef Solution

There is another path. Marine biologist Dr. Tom Goreau, president of the Global Coral Reef Alliance, proposes a solution that restores nature’s role: Biorock reef regeneration. It uses low-voltage electricity to stimulate coral growth on submerged metal frames. The structures quickly accumulate limestone and become “biorocks” that support marine life, resist bleaching, and buffer wave energy.

These projects have already helped restore beaches in Indonesia and the Maldives. They don’t replace nourishment, but they rebuild the very reefs that protect the coast. Goreau has offered to pilot this in Cayman.

The Case for Managed Retreat

It seems obvious that construction along the coast needs to stop—but what should happen to the buildings already there?

In the Caribbean, and especially in Cayman, visitors have come to expect direct access to the sea from their hotels. But direct beach access is a luxury, not a right. Copacabana Beach—arguably the most famous coastline in the world—is lined with hotels and condos set back nearly 200 metres behind a broad public promenade. And yet, it remains packed with tourists. By contrast, the distance from the edge of the Ritz-Carlton to the sea is just 40 metres. The imbalance is obvious.

There’s little evidence to suggest that people will stop visiting simply because their hotel isn’t perched on the sand. In fact, shifting development inland could invite a better use of space. Think back to the old Hyatt. Its lush gardens and water features created a cooling, tranquil buffer between the buildings and the outside world—a luxury in its own right. Reimagining our coastal properties this way could improve both guest experience and environmental resilience.

The greater challenge is not tourism—it’s the legal and financial fallout of walking back decades of beachfront investment. Relocating or repurposing structures along Seven Mile Beach would involve navigating property rights, insurance, and enormous valuations. Few managed retreat models exist for this kind of real estate, though the 2013 case of Oakwood Beach in Staten Island offers one. There, residents successfully lobbied the government to buy their homes and move them out of harm’s way. It worked—but not without disputes over compensation and fairness.

Could something similar happen here? Could government facilitate voluntary buyouts or incentivise relocation? I’m not a lawyer. But I can see the beach disappearing—and I can see that doing nothing is no longer an option.

In the short term, the sand engines described in the DHI report could help prevent further erosion. A carefully managed nourishment programme, preceded by a proper environmental assessment, may buy us a few years of stability. That window could allow time to craft stronger legislation and begin the groundwork for managed retreat.

Alongside this, Goreau’s proposed biorock reef regeneration offers a longer-lasting solution. By rebuilding the reef, we rebuild the beach’s natural defence. One measure buys us time; the other works to restore what was lost.

The path forward won’t be simple. But if we’re willing to rethink what luxury means, accept the limits of permanence, and invest in restoration as well as retreat, we may still have a chance to protect what remains of Seven Mile Beach—for ourselves, and for those who come after.

Before It’s a Legend

If we wait, Seven Mile Beach will become a story. West Bay Road will become a seawall. Ghostly hotel ruins will jut from the sand.

Sic transit gloria mundi—thus passes the glory of the world.

We tried to force permanence on something inherently temporary. It didn’t work. The question now is: will we act to protect what’s left?

Or are we ready to lose it all?