Bimini Bobidy Boo

Once we left U.S. waters, things went smoothly. We rolled over evenly spaced four-foot waves. Adjusting our course to compensate for the current as recommended by the cruising guides was unnecessary. I kept saying, “Are we in the Gulf Stream, yet?”

Instead of really enjoying the easy ride, I thought about navigation. I was terrified of the shallow waters, coral heads and reefs of the Bahamas. Unlike U.S. waters, beacons to ward boaters off trouble spots, or to mark a safe channel, or to guide us across open water are rare. We will have to depend on our charts, the descriptions in our cruising guides, our electronics, and most important, our eyes. We will supposedly become experts at reading the depth by peering over the bow at the colors in the water, but what happens if we misjudge before we become experts? And the fact that I plotted the waypoint in the guide book onto our chart and the waypoint ended right smack in the middle of the Bimini (the island, not the harbor) did nothing to dissipate my worries.

About thirteen miles out, we spotted the shores of North and South Bimini on the horizon. As we drew closer, Wayne attached a yellow quarantine flag to the antenna. Arriving in a new country, we must fly this flag, until we clear customs. We motored between a long sandbar and South Bimini’s western shore into the harbor, passing a number of small marinas along the way. The waypoint in the guide was correct. Our charts were not. I wondered how that would affect my ability to navigate.

“There’s the Bimini Big Game Fishing Club,” Wayne said. “Get on the radio and see if we can pull up to the dock while we clear customs.”

I picked up the mike and took a deep breath. When we cruised down the Intracoastal Waterway, I used the radio many times a day to call and ask the bridge tenders to let us through, but I was still not comfortable with the radio or the lingo. I couldn’t make myself say “roger,” “negative,” or “affirmative.” I always felt self-conscious. The protocol is to say the name of the party you’re calling three times, then announce who you are. Try saying Bimini Big Game Fishing Club three times in a row without bumbling the words and feeling like a complete idiot.

“Bimini Big Game Fishing Glub…Bibidy Big Game Fishing Club…” I giggled. “Bigity Bim Game Fishing Club…This is the Ella McQuaid. Do ya copy?”

No response--Damn, I thought, I have to do again.

“Bimini Big Game Fishing Clug…” Bibidy Bobidy Boo, I thought.
After no less than four attempts, they answered and agreed to let us pull up to their dock. To my relief and surprise, our landing was flawless, and I puttered around the boat while Wayne took our papers and the $100 fee to Customs and Immigration. There, he encountered a female custom’s official who was so lazy, disinterested, and finally antagonistic that Wayne swore she must have been transferred there from the Motor Vehicle Administration in Glen Burnie. But in spite of the fact that she did not roll out the red carpet to welcome him to her country, we got our cruising permit and our pet permit for Chris without much hassle and without being boarded.

The next order of business was to anchor in the harbor that lies adjacent to the Pan Am Sea Plane runway. There were a dozen boats anchored there already, and we rode up and down trying to decide where we could fit the boat without getting too close to the others, running aground, or being run over by a sea plane. There were no buoys marking the runway. What if we anchored near the edge and the wind shifted during the night? The boat could swing into the path of a plane. Finally, another boater pointed out a mooring ball to us. Standing in his dinghy, he handed up the line and soon we were safe and secure—right in front of the power plant that is really just a bunch of big noisy Cat generators. But the water was beautiful, and today and possibly tomorrow, we plan to explore the place that inspired Papa Hemingway to write Islands in the Stream.

Hemingway put Bimini on the map, attracting sport fisherman for decades. They did a great job of over-fishing. Then, Colombians kept Bimini on the map by dropping bales of marijuana in the water from small planes. These “square grouper” were picked up by boats that made the fast run to Florida. A local who found a bale could finance a new boat, renovate his house, or even the church or school. Although, the coast guard and the Bahamian government finally cracked down on the drug smuggling, there is still evidence of the business, as young Biminite males in brightly colored swim trunks dart around in very fast and new boats. They certainly could not have made their money on this sleepy little island that is said to have more bars than stores.

In recent weeks, while sitting at night in a quiet anchorage or while motoring along, I’ve been reading The Last Marlin out loud to Wayne. The book is Fred Waitzkin’s memoir, a man who spent many summers in Bimini, first as a child, then with his young wife and children. It’s about his relationship with his father, his passion for fishing, and his love of Bimini and its people.

We were anxious to go ashore for a look at Hemingway’s and Waitzkin’s Bimini. While preparing, a man approached in a fishing boat. His skin was as black as a moonless night, and he was shouting something over the din of his outboard. As he drew closer, and throttled down, we finally realized that he was asking if we wanted to buy some lobsters.

“How much?” Wayne inquired.

It took three attempts to understand his answer. “Thirty get ya a dozen.”

“We can’t eat a dozen. We’ll take a half dozen.”

The man roared away, shouting something.

“Where’s he going?” I said. I watched the boat zoom towards shore. “It seems odd that he came all the way over here to sell us lobsters, when he doesn’t have any with him?”

Five minutes later, he was back with a dozen. Perhaps, he understood us no better than we understood him. We relented and bought all twelve.

Later, I was reading the cruising guide again. “Ut oh!” I said, “That’s why he didn’t have the lobsters with him.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I dragged out the word, “lobster season ended three weeks ago.”

“Are you hungry?” Wayne asked.

Trying to destroy the evidence, we fired up the grill and cooked them all, throwing the shells overboard, then shoved down as many as we could (four or five of them). We hid the rest in a plastic container inside a larger plastic container of leftover spaghetti. Chris the cat had lobster for brunch, too.


Thursday, April 24, 2003

North Bimini is seven miles long, and 700 feet at its widest point. Yesterday, we walked most of it. The streets were littered. An occasional shabby pickup wound its way through pedestrians and golf carts. We ambled past tired-looking pink, blue, and yellow houses, past tiny stores and restaurants with funky and faded hand-painted signs.

“Looks a little different than Miami, doesn’t it?” Wayne said as the toe of his sandal sent a beer can rolling down the dusty road. We wandered into a cemetery and read epitaphs on erratically arranged and lopsided head stones.

As a reward for all of that exercise, we visited some of the drinking establishments, including The Compleat Angler, named after Izaak Walton’s 17th century classic. They claim this was Hemingway’s favorite spot. He must have liked skunked beers. That’s what Wayne got and the bartender was rude when Wayne brought it to his attention. There’s a Hemingway Museum of sorts on the way to the john. The walls were dark wood and covered with pictures, clipped magazine and newspaper articles, and samples of Hemingway’s writings, some in his own hand.

That was yesterday, and today we started up our water maker for the first time, and as I write, I can hear the quiet rhythmic whirring of the reverse osmosis pump, as it turns salt water to drinking water. Later, we’re having lobster pizza for lunch.

Saturday, April 26, 2003

Sometimes, it rains in Paradise. Winds have been high (15 to 25 knots) these last two days, as a front moved in from Florida. Yesterday, we could’ve headed down to our next stop, Gun Cay (pronounced KEY), but we are glad we didn’t, because anchorages there are not recommended for bad weather, and that is just what we had this morning.

We have spent much of the last two days doing odd jobs and lounging around the boat reading. What a pleasure to have the time to read for hours!

Our only excursion off the boat was to take Chris to visit land. I lowered him into his black canvas tote and felt the gentle resistance of his head as I zipped up the top flap. He yowled like a banshee during the short dinghy ride.

“It’s alright, Chris,” Wayne said gently as he patted the cat through the sides of the bag.

“Merrrrooooow,” he cried out.

Once we landed, he quieted as we walked down the narrow dusty road to the south end of the island. Here, we released him next to a small graveyard and a rocky beach. This point of land, ocean on one side, the entrance to the harbor on the other, would be idyllic, except the locals use it as a dump.

I walked the perimeter, head down, eyes scanning the beach, stooping to pick up bits of sea-glass, shells, and small rocks that I might one day polish. Wayne and Chris walked the interior, Chris stopping to poke his gray nose under an old sink or a pile of rotting wood, then hurrying along to catch up with Wayne. They slipped into the cool shade of a small grove of pine trees, long needles crunching under Wayne’s feet, only to find that it was infested with mosquitoes. Within thirty minutes, Chris was overheated and began to pant, and was perfectly content to sprawl near our feet and simply look around.

And so we sat, the three of us, on the edge of the junk yard, breathing in the sights and sounds and smells of the sea, the crash of the surf, the cries of gulls. We smelled the salty air and watched the play of light in the translucent crest of a wave just before it topples.

Note: It is now six years later, and those treasures found on the beach and many more like them remain unpolished. Wayne and I were cleaning out a closet last weekend and found boxes of them, each wrapped in a tissue. We put them in a plastic bag, went to Boca Chica Beach on Sunday morning and returned them to the surf, as we walked along the water’s edge.

Back to 2003…

On the way back to the dinghy, we stopped at Yama Bahama’s Restaurant and Bar for some carryout conch fritters. It was dark inside, except for the afternoon sun slanting through the open door. As our pupils adjusted to the light, we saw four or five metal tables draped with yellowing plastic tablecloths. On the right a long bar stretched to the kitchen entrance. The only other patrons roosted on vinyl-seated bar stools, leaned over their beers, and bantered with the proprietor, Yama Bahama, a soft-spoken man in his seventies. The dingy walls were covered with memorabilia from the days when he was the Bahamian Middleweight Champion.

Some of us dream about being famous. The only thing I ever really wanted to be was a star, but being a jack of all trades, master of none, and maybe just a little lazy about practicing, made my dream unobtainable. Yama Bahama had his fifteen minutes, and now he was standing behind a bar in a dingy restaurant talking the same talk with the same talkers every day. And here we are, living Wayne’s dream. I wonder if it will meet his expectations. I'm along for the ride--to support him. But I could be happy at home, retired at 49, planting a vegetable garden and working out in the gym.

Back at the boat, we made our first cubes in the icemaker. Wayne had installed an inverter that changes DC current (12 volt) into AC (110 volt) specifically for this purpose. This may not sound too exciting, but try living without the little devils for a few weeks. I love my ice cubes, and even though I live on a boat, I sometimes want to be, if not a star, at least a princess.

Just before dusk, when the flying bridge blocked the sun from the deck, we baited our bottom rigs with bits of three-day-old lobster. Releasing the bail, I heard the kerplunk as my sinker hit the surface, and watched as it plummeted out of sight, bait trailing behind. Chris, expectant, sat on the gunwale peering into the water. Wayne felt a strong tug on his line, pulled the rod back to set the hook, then reeled in the first of many small mangrove snappers. Each time we pulled one in, Chris pranced about, his long tail pointed to the sky. He meowed as he did his “I-love-to-fish” dance.

I caught a small, orange squirrelfish. “Perfect for live bait,” Wayne said as he shook it off the hook into a five-gallon bucket of water.

While Wayne rigged a heavier rod, our cartoon cat stood on his hind legs and batted at the fish as it swam in circles around the bucket. And when we weren’t looking, he ate most of our bait, then stalked a flock of loud, aggressive birds hovering just above our heads. They wanted what remained of the lobster.

Tonight, we treated ourselves to dinner at the Red Lion, a restaurant I selected because the cruising guide said it featured local food and that Esquire Magazine recommended the “Shrimp Delight.” The menu described their specialty as large fresh shrimp stuffed with conch, fish, and other secret ingredients, then deep-fried.

“How’s yours? Wayne asked lifting a spoon of fragrant conch chowder to his lips.

“Previously frozen and over-cooked," I said as I poked at the bready stuffy with a bent-pronged fork.

The marinated green beans were canned and served in a tiny plastic cup that held no more than a well-rounded tablespoon--marinated in water, I think. The baby carrots were M.I.A.

“That was a waste of gas money,” Wayne said later, and I agreed.

We walked the docks of the Blue Water Marina, and talked to a cruiser named Ron, who like us, was headed for Gun Cay and on to Chub Cay. He showed us his printed weather reports, accessed on the internet and by weatherfax. Tomorrow would be a perfect day to leave Bimini and embark on our two-day trip to the Berry Isles.

“We’re pulling up around noon,” Ron said. “You can follow us if you want.”

“Baaa!,” we said. Following sounded safe and not so scary.

On a scale of one to ten with ten being an exotic island vacation and one being “The Perfect Storm,” our visit to Bimini has been a six—a scenic junkyard, an anchorage nestled between generators and a landing strip, rude bartenders, lousy food, and no one who seemed particularly happy to have visitors on their island, except maybe the lobster poacher. What a shame!