Monday, May 12, 2003Today, we said goodbye to Staniel Cay and made a wavy track between a mine field of hazards, through a choppy cut, and into the deep blue water of the Exuma Sound, a welcome change after three trips on the Bank. Winds were predicted to be ten knots and seas at two to four, so we opted for the express route to Georgetown.
Originally, I planned on bypassing this cruising mecca. I thought it was a big city. It’s not. After pouring over cruising guides and charts, I realized that the popularity of certain spots is directly related to important factors, like a good safe harbor, an easy approach, the fact that it is on the way to somewhere else, and the availability of amenities like fresh water and fuel. So we decided not to be different just to be different and added Georgetown to our route.
We had fifty-seven miles to go, our longest leg since Bimini to Chub. The day seemed endless, to our left nothing in sight but deep blue, then light blue sky patched with a few thinning cumulous clouds. To our right was a long string of islands. They looked like the wavy stroke of a paint brush—sometimes fat, sometimes thin. The line tapered to nothing as we neared the end of one island, then started again with the next. Approaching a cut, we could see the white caps formed by the cross-currents, as water from the bank rushed out to meet the stronger water of the sound. Fighting the current, as we passed, we caught glimpses of the flat turquoise water on the other side. Most of the islands were uninhabited, except for an occasional small settlement, or a large house high atop a hill overlooking both bank and sound, most likely the winter home of a wealthy American or Canadian.
I passed the time by reading to Wayne. Like many cruiser-friendly establishments, the Yacht Club provided a free book exchange. There we found Waikzen’s “Water & Light,” a true story about a man who went to Grand Turk to dive and find his “underwater self.” From page one, we were captivated by the writing and the subject. When the author mentioned a fish he’d seen, we stopped and looked it up in our field guide.
Later when I started to get hoarse, we just stood and stared ahead, mesmerized by the continuous motion.
“Are you happy?” I asked Wayne.
“Very,” he replied, “but I’m still wondering what I’m doing here. It’s one thing to talk about doing it, but quite another to actually
be doing it.”
Like Wayne, I felt a long way from home. I took the wheel while Wayne napped and drove the last few hours, hearing nothing but the steady hum of the big engines, floating over each wave as if in a trance.
I find myself throughout the days writing this journal in my head. Today was no different. Comparing the incessant surge of waves to the passing of time may be trite, best saved for corny poems, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the metaphor. I analyzed it.
Like time, these waves have no beginning and no end. They pass by me like the moments of my life. If I go too slowly, I’d drift wherever the waves take me. If too fast, I’d miss enjoying everything around me. Instead, I move at a moderate pace, purposely, but trying to savor each moment. Maybe I can get a job at Hallmark when this trip is over, I thought. Wayne’s snoring was interrupted by a snort. I turned. He looked so peaceful. I hoped to get all the way to Georgetown before he woke up.
Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for him? I checked the GPS. This is soooooooooo boring, I thought.
Georgetown’s huge harbor looked inviting as we negotiated Conch Cut, and made a turn to port. The harbor lies between Great Exuma where we would find Georgetown and a string of barrier islands, the largest of which is Stocking. The anchorage runs along Stocking Island’s seven miles of sandy shore, then makes a right turn reaching a mile to Georgetown proper. At Stocking you can find Hamburger and Volleyball Beaches, so named because of activities organized for and by boaters. They share information on an informal “Cruiser’s Net” each morning on the VHF radio. At Regatta time in March, over 600 boats crowd into this harbor, and it’s elbow to elbow in the stores and bars. But the season is now drawing to a close, so there were only about fifty boats scattered in the expansive anchorage.
Stocking looked like a great place to anchor, but once again we dropped the hook as close as possible to town, due to our unreliable dinghy. And it was a wise choice, too.
TuesdayThis morning when we headed in for our first visit, we were not a hundred yards from our boat, when the motor stalled, and we had to row in. Luckily, the current was in our favor, guiding us under a small bridge. It spanned a manmade cut into a large round lake, encircled by the streets of the town.
Georgetown aimed to please with its well-stocked grocery, marine, and hardware stores, free trash disposal, and free water. The water turned out to be brackish, but you could buy reverse osmosis water. There were cyber cafes, eating and drinking establishments, as well as numerous free dinghy docks that were very well maintained. There was an airport, if you were meeting up with someone from the states, taxis, scooter and car rental for exploring the island, and a Customs and Immigration office for checking in or extending your cruising permit.
The town was small and buzzing with activity, as locals, tourist, and bedraggled cruisers milled about the small shops in the downtown area. They dodged cars and trucks that zipped by on the dusty, paved roads. Children in crisply-pressed cotton uniforms, each with a different colored checkered top depending on the school they attended, hung in front of stores eating frozen treats. There were policemen here (the first we’ve seen in the Bahamas) in clean white shirts with epaulets, but apparently crime is of little concern, evidenced by the fact that no one locked their dinghies. The houses were modest by North American standards, but larger than those seen at other ports. Like most of the restaurants and stores, they looked tired, perhaps a sign of an economy that was a bit on a downside.
Our itinerary included trash disposal, acquisition of new spark plugs for the outboard and generator, inquiries regarding disposal of oil, grocery shopping, the search for washers for our leaky shower head, and a visit to the bank for more cash. I spent all of our cash buying gas to avoid a four to six percent credit card surcharge.
First and foremost on our list was spark plugs. We checked at the marina. They had spark plugs, but no cross-reference. They directed us to the garage. It was big. Every rusty shock and tail pipe, stiffened and cracked belt, and various and sundry other part that they’d ever removed from a car for the last forty years was hanging on the wall or tucked on a greasy shelf or stowed on the floor. There were no bays or tools in site. In fact, when we later asked to borrow a pair of pliers, it took a good ten minutes for “Daddy” to find one, as he fumbled through a rusty filing cabinet.
“Daddy” moved slowly, opening a grimy metal cabinet to reveal hundreds of oily boxes of spark plugs, arranged in no particular order. His long fingers quivered, as he pulled out each box. They looked tiny in his hands. He held them close to his nose, and examined each one.
Finally, his son came to our rescue. He was a rolly-polly and cheerful fellow with a wide smile that pushed his cheeks out like two brown apples. He pulled the tattered, dirty cross-reference books from the top of the cabinet, some dating back to the seventies, others in Spanish. He looked up the appropriate numbers while Daddy continued to finger the small boxes. Forty minutes later, we had four plugs for our outboard and a pair of pliers to aid in the installation. No spark plugs for the generator.
The old man gave us a ride back to the center of town in his rattlely pickup. Wayne went to work installing the new spark plugs, while I went to the bank. The bank was closed, and the outboard still wouldn’t start. Dejected, we had lunch and a beer, bought some washers, and canned the rest of our plans. We sat at an outdoor bar called “The Turtle Inn” talking with other cruisers, who later towed us back to our boat, came aboard, and stayed until the wee hours.
WednesdayMost of the day we did boat chores. Wayne worked on the outboard and the generator, and got them both running. Our water maker, however, is making salt water, and we don’t know why.
Late in the afternoon, we went back to town, returned the pliers, and bought me a new hat at the straw market. Then, we walked a couple of miles along the main road out of town to the “Fish Fry.” Here, ten shacks each painted a different color lined the beach. The fare was Bahamian—cracked conch, chicken, ribs, grouper fingers, conch salad, peas and rice, coleslaw and of course cold beer. Due to our frolicking the night before, we opted for Coca Cola.
It was not yet the dinner hour, and many of the shacks were closed. The turquoise one, called the Outdeck appeared to be open and we went in, the screen door slamming behind us. We walked to the counter. A young woman was talking to her boyfriend, another folded napkins. There were no other patrons. We stood there waiting, not wanting to interrupt the conversation. Both women ignored us.
“Excuse me,” I said to the napkin folder, “Are you open?”
Finally the socializer came over and took our order. We waited outside on the deck overlooking the pale, blue green water. The waitress arrived with Styrofoam boxes, and mumbled something about flies, so we went back inside to eat. A couple flies followed us in, but the food was hot and tasty, and the portions more than generous. While we ate, we decided to rent a car the next day to explore the rest of Great Exuma Island.
ThursdayToday, car rental day, we should’ve stayed in bed. I was excited as I prepared for the day. The plan was this—arrive early to pick up the car, stop by immigration to renew our cruising permit, visit the Shark Lady, buy homemade bread from Mom’s bakery, and see the ancient tombs on the south end of the island, then explore the North end of the island, buy local produce, and have lunch at the highly recommended Fisherman’s Inn. We wanted to be back at the boat by three or four to fill up the gas tanks, re-anchor at Stocking and dinghy back and forth to retrieve the reverse osmosis water sold there. Now that I write this, I realize I must have been absolutely crazy to plan such a full day.
Since the car was air-conditioned, we decided to take Chris the Cat with us. He likes riding. We arrived at the car rental facility, located above the bank. They shared the office with Percy Fox (Justice of the Peace, legal document specialist, and real estate agent). It was 8:10 am, and Mr. Fox informed us politely that the car renter would not arrive until 9. No worry, we would go to the bakery and get some bread or pastries for breakfast. But the bakery didn’t have any bread or pastries. Huh? No matter, we would go to the immigration office and take care of our paperwork. But, there was a sign on the door providing a phone number to call. We called the number and learned that the office would open at 9:30. No problemo, we would walk up to where Mom parks her white van each morning at 8:30 to see her delicious pastries, pies, and bread, while giving out big hugs to one and all. But there was no van. So we sat on the wall next to the pink bank, and watched the town slowly come to life.
The steering wheel was on the wrong side of our rented car and a big red sticker on the inside of the windshield reminded us to “Keep Left.” At the immigration building, Wayne collected forms and was told to return after 2. We headed south on the long paved road towards Williamstown. Each time a car zoomed by, Wayne veered to the left into the potholes on the side of the road. He scraped branches and narrowly missed stone walls. I held on to the dash.
There was a new small town every five miles or so, each comprised of twenty concrete houses with faded and chipped paint. They grew smaller and poorer, the further we got from Georgetown. Some houses sported hand-painted signs advertising a grocery or a restaurant, They were shabby-looking, we couldn’t tell if they were open, and we weren’t tempted to stop even though we were starving by this time. Our cruising guide mentioned a restaurant at the end of the road, but when we got there, like everything else, it was closed. Checked another—closed too. So we stopped at a small convenience store which was really just someone’s living room and bought a pack of cookies and a slice of cheesecake.
Our next stop was at the remains of a loyalist plantation. Pulling the car over to the side next to a salt pond, we climbed a loosely packed dirt road to the top where we found an old rusted canon
and a thirty-foot tall Greek style concrete column. At one time, it was used as a beacon to guide ships coming to port to pick up loads of salt. It towered above our heads, white against a blue sky.
To our west we saw the large pale brown pond, its borders encrusted with salt. To our east white caps flickered in the sun on a bright blue ocean.
Back in the car, we cranked up the AC. It seemed a bit inadequate now that the sun was rising high in the sky. Our next stop was to visit Gloria Patience, “The Shark Lady.” She co-wrote a book and we remembered her from a National Geographic special about sharks. In the documentary, she was a spry and slender white-haired woman who had devoted her life to diving with sharks and studying their behavior.
Our cruising guide suggested stopping by her house for a visit. She had turned it into a museum, of sorts. We found her house, left the car running so Chris could enjoy the air conditioning, and walked up the drive past her overgrown garden to her front door. Sea shells were strewn about on small wooden stools. I tapped timidly on the door—no answer.
“Ring the bell,” Wayne whispered, and I looked up and saw a ship’s bell.
“Clang, Clang, Clang.” There was no answer from inside, but we roused the lady next door.
She poked her head out her door and said, “Come roun ta da side door, and goes rie din!”
The screen door squeaked open and we stepped from bright sunlight into “The Shark Lady’s” large kitchen. It smelled sweet and musty. Antique kitchenware hung from the walls and covered dusty shelves. A large wooden table with enough chairs for fifteen dominated the room. A collection of knives hung from the back wall.
“Hello.” I said, then paused, hearing nothing but the sounds of a television somewhere else in the house.
“Hello,” I sang out again “Mrs. Patience?” Still no answer.
“I feel funny,” I whispered as I crept forward.
“Me, too,” Wayne said coming up behind me. We peeked into the living room.
“Come on down,” Johnny Olson bellowed. The room looked empty, but then I spotted her in the corner. She was seated in a worn armchair, staring at the TV, a tray of food in front of her.
“She’s eating her lunch,” I whispered again.
Finally, Wayne walked past me, past a bottle and stoneware collection to where the old woman sat. She didn’t seem surprised to see two strangers in her living room and invited us to sit down. I sat on the edge of the sofa and looked around. There was stuff on shelves, on the walls, in the rafters, and on tables. Family pictures were propped on shark jaws. Old ship parts, old bottles, seashells, plaques, and lord knows what else—I simply couldn’t take it all in during our short visit.
Mrs. Patience had put on some weight since the filming of her documentary. Her tan and freckled skin sagged from her arms in long ridges. They hung over the top of her strapless blue sarong. It didn’t quite close in the front revealing unsolicited peaks at more brown wrinkled skin. She was not wearing her teeth. We introduced ourselves, apologized for interrupting her lunch, and inquired about getting a copy of her book.
“Don’t have no more books,” she grunted when finished gnawling, “Had one copy autographed by the publisher and someone stole it.”
“Your last book?” I said, “How awful! Are you printing more?”
“No. That would cost five thousand,” she said then took a drink of her coconut milk. “They changed all of my stories anyway.”
Mrs. Patience was recovering from a blood clot in her leg, but would be out on the water again in her boat fishing for small fish. She doesn’t go after the big ones anymore.
“I bought this house forty-eight years ago,” she said proudly. I looked up at plaster peeling from a huge wooden beam. “It used to be a one-room post office.”
We talked a little longer and she told us two more times about the house and the post office, so we politely excused ourselves citing the fact that we had a cat in the car who was probably getting very hot.
Further down the road, we visited what were purported to be “ancient tombs.” We thought they were going to be Lucayan burial sites, but instead we found an old, uneven graveyard.
Huge slabs of grey rock and broken pieces scattered about. Graves were caved in. Headstones were hand-carved and broken. The oldest we found was from the late 19th century. Most of the dead were named “Rolle,” a very common name in the Bahamas, as most are descendants of slaves owned by a man named Rolle. When they were freed, they took his name. As a matter of fact, the actress, Esther Rolle, is one of his descendants. The not-so-ancient graveyard was bordered by a stacked stone wall. We wondered how they were able to dig graves without the aid of a jack hammer, and like our visit to The Shark Lady, I felt like I was intruding on someone else’s personal turf.
Back in the car, it was getting very hot in spite of the fact that the AC had been running constantly. We were starting to sweat, as we headed for the north end of the island. Chris draped over the console and panted. We directed all of the vents towards him. After all, he was wearing a fur coat. This made it even more uncomfortable for us, and we were hungry, too, so we headed north towards the island of Barre Terre. It’s connected to Great Exuma by a causeway. There was just enough time to drive to the Fisherman’s Inn, have lunch and get back to Immigration at 2 or 2:30. We didn’t stop at any more tombs, didn’t look for pothole farms, or locals engaged in traditional boat-building. Instead, we saw abandoned hotels and resorts, rental cottages, and the signs of new construction. A portion of the road ran along the beach, and the wide shoulder was landscaped with sea grasses and big red flowering shrubs.
“Guess they want to make it look like Florida’s west coast for the tourists,” I said. “But it is beautiful,” I finally admitted.
We came to the construction site of a four Seasons Resort, an immense complex with condos, and a golf course. Later, we passed the pretentious gated entrances to “executive-style” housing projects. All of this was slowly encroaching on the small towns strung along the coast.
We finally arrived at the restaurant, stood on the deck and looked out over the aqua water.
A couple sat at the bar. The rest of the restaurant was empty.
“Are you serving lunch?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” the young waitress replied.
“May we look at a menu?” I pressed on.
“You could,” she answered, “but all we got is chicken."
Oh, shit, I thought looking at Wayne. I could see his patience growing thin with this whole excursion.
We drank a coke, and then headed back, stopping at another restaurant along the way, but at 2 P.M., they were no longer serving lunch. The three of us were hot and hungry. I smoothed cold water on the cat’s head, and he let me. The air and the mood in the car was thicker than a Bahama Mama’s waist. Seems Wayne had driven all that way just to please me, and even though I hadn’t insisted, he was now hot, tired, feeling ill from not eating, and it was
all my fault.Back in Georgetown, the door to the one-room immigration office was locked, so we went next door to the Peace and Plenty Hotel for lunch. The place was crowded with tourists. We sat for ten minutes before the waitress approached us, handed us a menu, and walked away.
The fare was American, and the only thing Wayne could eat was a tuna salad sandwich or grilled cheese. We rotate lunches daily on the boat—tuna, cheese, tuna, cheese.
“Oh, look!” I pointed to the menu, “They have a daily Bahamian special.” When the Waitress returned with our iced tea, I asked, “What’s the daily special?”
“No special.”
After lunch, we checked immigration again and were able to extend our cruising permit, before running all of our errands. At the duty-free liquor store, a fifth of Absolut was only ten dollars, and rum was inexpensive, too. We loaded bags and boxes into our dinghy, and returned to the boat. By the time, we got unloaded, it was 4:20. Too tired to continue with our plan to re-anchor and retrieve water, we called it a day.
“We’ll figure out how to get water tomorrow,” I assured Wayne.
My feeling about Georgetown? Although, we found most of the Bahamian people to be happy and friendly, the waitresses and some of the storekeepers provided atrocious service. I can’t understand how Bahamians can talk so fast, and move so slow. When you go into a restaurant they look at you like they’re not sure why you’re there, then go about their business without greeting you. Wayne kept reminding me that this isn’t New York, but I felt that it reached beyond just a laid-back Caribbean pace to a lacksidaisical attitude and just plain bad business. Many restaurants include a 15% gratuity on the check, and I can understand why. And regarding food selection, they had printed menus, but then only one or two items from the menu were available. I’ll be curious to see how Georgetown will change, as vacationers start visiting the huge Four Seasons resort, and travel into town to experience a little local color. I tend to think that Georgetown businesses are going to have to raise their professionalism a notch, if they want to survive. Nonetheless, I’m glad that I got to see the island, before Ronald McDonald raised his golden arches.
