From One Extreme to Another

Wednesday, May 7, 2003

I reached for the sky with outstretched arms, then slowly lowered them to my side in a wide arc. I exhaled yesterday's traumas and moods and inhaled fresh, clean air. It was a new day.

Later, we visited Warderick Wells, the heart of the Exuma Land and Sea Park, 176 square miles of land, reef, and sea. The headquarters, a large, naturally-stained wooden structure was built on the side of a hill with stairs that led up to the first level. A porch wrapped around three sides. Good view in all directions. The building served as gift shop, office, museum, and barracks for visiting students and scientists. Small birds fed on sugar water on a cookie sheet. They didn’t fly away when approached.


Inside, the park warden and his wife chatted amiably with another cruiser. We waited patiently, browsed through books and charts, and examined childish displays of shells and other sea creatures. The author of our favorite cruising guide co-wrote a book about the park with the park warden Their joint effort launched his career as a travel writer. We were hungry for conversation, as we had no one to talk to for days except each other and the cat.

When it was our turn, I smiled and said, "Hi! This is our first time here and we're going to do some hiking this morning, but we were wondering where the good snorkel spots are."

"Where are you anchored?" The warden asked looking out the door to the water.

His wife did not look up from the papers on her desk. We told him we were in the southern anchorage and pointed out our boat. Then, he addressed my question.

"Some people go here," he said, pointing to a faded chart, "and here, and here.”

"Are any close enough to dinghy to?" Wayne asked, doing mental calculations.

"Well that depends on your dingy, but,” he said, sizing up Wayne, "probably not.”

I must have looked disappointed, because he added, "Some folks go out there on the rocks, but only at slack tide.” We looked out at the water breaking on the shallow rocks in the narrow channel.

"I read about the Sea Aquarium in my cruising guides. Is that nearby?"

"Nope," he said.

He shuffled through papers on his desk. I found the Sea Aquarium on the chart. Wayne picked up a book.

"Is this the book you wrote with Steve Pavlides?" he asked.

"Yep."

"So he started out as a volunteer?"

"Yep."

"We'd like to volunteer,” I said, "but we're on a schedule this trip. How about we make a donation instead?"

His wife finally looked up. Only then did she ask our name, the name of the boat, and where we were from, so she could write it in her donation log.

With a "you and me against the world" attitude, we began our hike and didn’t see another person along the way. A number of nature trails wound through the island. We chose the Shaggy Dog Trail to Boo Boo Hill. It began on a white powdery beach that overlooked the northern anchorage. A few boats glistened in the morning sun. They floated in turquoise water that gradually lightened to aqua, until all color faded at our feet. We stopped to examine the massive skeleton of a fifty-two foot sperm whale. It died due to ingestion of plastic. The park rangers had assembled the bones to remind visitors of the tragic consequences of pollution and littering.


From the beach, the walkway narrowed to a hard-packed shady footpath sliced through a thicket of six-foot tall shrubs and trees. It was bordered by sandstones and climbed to slightly higher ground. As we moved inland, the vegetation thinned, and our knees wrenched as we stumbled over what looked like moon rocks—black, jagged, and creviced with holes like swiss cheese. Back down again to a wide, but shallow creek bed. Small, mangrove shoots poked their green heads from the moist sand. We veered from the trail until we found a spot where the creek was narrow enough to cross, then headed up a steep hill on a winding dirt and stone trail. It was cooled and canopied by huge fan-shaped palms.



At the top, our leafy roof opened revealing the big blue Bahama sky. We could see the Exuma Bank to the west with varying shades of blue and green layered across the horizon and to the east, the turbulent Exuma Sound. White caps appeared, then disappeared across deep blue like fire flies against the black canvas of night. Both the bank and sound were dotted with landmasses that couldn’t decide whether they were rocks or island—some green, some brown, all shapes and sizes.

"Wow!" was all I could say at first, as I turned 360 degrees. A wooden sign pointed to "blow holes.”

"Wanna go to the blow holes?” I asked Wayne.

"Sure,” he said and we took off in the direction of the sign.

It took us to the top of a bluff. We looked straight down. Dark teal waves exploded white against huge black and yellow rocks. With all of that shifting energy, I’d expect the cliff-face to be worn smooth, but erosion had made these porous rocks even craggier.

"This doesn't look like a blow hole to me,” Wayne said, as he wandered off.

Behind me, I heard, "whhoof, whhoof.” It sounded just like a whale or dolphin expelling air. Ten feet away, I found an eight-inch hole in the rock that tunneled 90 feet straight down to sea level. I peered inside at the churning water.

"A blow hole!" I shouted running towards Wayne, afraid that it might suddenly gush and throw me into the drink.

Wayne walked calmly over and lingered there, looking in. I’m such a scaredy cat, I thought.

We traced back to the trail, then climbed a little further to the top of Boo Boo Hill where cruisers were encouraged to nail wooden signs designating the name of their boats. There were hundreds of them, but few cruisers used hammers and nails. Some signs were carved in sandstone or painted on conch shells. A number of people came back year after year. Some signs were very artistic, some were made by children.
It was a motley assortment, haphazardly arranged and reminiscent of a shantytown. I couldn't decide if I thought it was nice quirky fun or an unsightly infringement of civilization on otherwise untouched terrain. Probably the latter, but fun to look at.


We left only footprints, but before leaving paused for one last look—the choppy sound to one side, the placid bank to the other. Such extremes. This whole trip has been about extremes, crossing a visible line from indigo to aqua, deep to shallow, sunshine to heavy black clouds in a matter of moments. From opulent homes on private cays to the poverty of small villages, from plush palms or soft white sand to moon rocks. And all the while, we ride an emotional wave of self-doubt and anxiety, then wonder and elation.

Will this adventure ever feel safe, like curling up with my favorite afghan or sliding into an old pair of shoes? I’m not accustomed to these emotional extremes. They make me watchful and wary; I’m afraid to relax too much, and I wonder if it’s all worth it. But, I don't share these feelings with Wayne. Instead, I keep my smiling mask on. I’m afraid if I become discouraged, he’ll want to turn back, and I’ll never find out what lies ahead.

When we finally made our way back down to the creek bed, the tide had risen and covered our prints. We trudged up and down trying to find a way across. I followed Wayne trying not to crush a single mangrove shoot, as if I were a benevolent giant, and they were little green people. My tennis shoes sank, until they were completely soaked and coated with wet sand.

Later in the day when the long shadows of rocks cooled Termite Beach, we took Chris to shore. Although, it was a short dinghy ride, he stood on his hind legs, his front legs on the pontoon and yowled like someone was standing on his tail. As soon as we slid onto the beach, he leapt to dry ground. Digging holes in the soft sand to find a cool spot, he rolled, covering his gray and white fur with grains of sand, then pranced, his tail high in the air, then prowled slinking about the beach and nearby greenery looking for anything that might move and make a suitable plaything.
I spotted the large nest for which the beach was named. It was at least five foot high, and looked like a black sandcastle built by driveling wet sand from a pail. Before Chris found the termite nest, we decided to dinghy around the rocks to the next beach.



I pushed the boat from shore while Wayne retrieved Chris and dropped him into the dinghy. Chris perched himself on the round pontoon, studying the water. I saw his back legs flex, and before I was finished shouting "Chris! Don't do it!" he launched into the air, legs spread in all directions like a bat, and belly-flopped into the water.

"Oh, My God!" I cried out, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. His little head bobbed, as he swam the twenty feet to shore, where he scrambled onto the rocks.

Wayne quickly motored back, climbed up the sharp rocks on hands and knees and lifted the dripping and now sandy cat to his chest. As we headed for Rendezvous Beach, Chris hid under my seat and nonchalantly licked salt and sand from his matted gray fur, as if nothing unusual had happened.

At Rendezvous Beach, Wayne climbed a path, too steep for me, to find the ruins of the Douglas Plantation, once the island home of British Loyalists who fled the United States and settled here during the Revolutionary War. Chris and I strolled the beach. I combed for shells and pebbles. He chased lizards that hid under large flat rocks, poked his small black nose in holes and cracks, and disturbed a long brown snake. The snake slithered away. The cat watched tentatively, as I discouraged him from further investigation.


If we were not on a schedule to meet family and friends in Provo, we might stay in this park for days, exploring its many trails and reefs. But since there is no way to predict weather delays or mechanical failures, we must move on when we can. For this very reason, many cruisers are much less accommodating. When family and friends want to join them, they tell them where they are (at the time of the visit) and the visitors must figure out how to get there, no matter where it is. This seems a little drastic and probably cost-prohibitive for my family. Although, I am really looking forward to seeing all of them, I am sorry to have to leave Warderick Wells so soon.

Thursday, May 8, 2003

Finally, a day where absolutely nothing went wrong! We ticked off each item on our checklist and departed for Bell Island, a short run of ten miles. The seas were supposed to be four to six, but were closer to three.

We can tell the height of the waves by our catometer:
2’ Chris moves about the boat freely, up and down the ladder as he wishes
2 ½’ Chris lays on Wayne’s foot, that is until Wayne’s toes get numb and he kicks him off.
3’ Chris sleeps under the dashboard, wedged between the big plastic tubs stored there.
4’ He stays downstairs in the salon, sleeping under the coffee table
5’ Chris sleeps against the wall under the dining table.
6’ Chris hides in the small area between the stateroom and the closet door, his eye wide like pies. This is the lowest place he can get on the boat.
Over 6’ Unknown. Thank God!

Today’s ride was effortless, and we handled the boat like old salts, secured on the lee side of Bell Island by noon. Bell Island is private with only two huge flat houses, nestled in the trees high atop a cliff. Three other boats shared our anchorage.

After lunch and a nap, we took the dinghy around Bell Island and across a wide bay. We checked out a mooring ball and found a small wrecked plane. What was left of the rusty fuselage, sat just under the water. An outline in the sand defined its wing resting on the bottom. No need to snorkel here, as we could see everything plainly from the surface.

We moved on to a large round rock/island about twenty yards in diameter. Here, we would find the Sea Aquarium. Two mooring buoys were provided so that boaters wouldn’t damage coral when anchoring. As soon as we attached to one, I could see the tell-tale stripes of curious sargent majors swimming to the surface to check us out. Once under water, I forgot about the wind and current, the water in my mask, and just listened to my own steady breath. I sound like Darth Vader, I thought, or Lloyd Bridges?

Like many of the Exuma Cays, this one is rimmed by a rock ledge. However, instead of protruding a foot or two over the water, this ledge protrudes at least five feet. The water was twelve-foot deep right up to and under the ledge. It created a fertile and protected environment for a garden of coral.

Coral heads were scattered on the sea floor. They thickened to one large collage of plants and animals that grew up the wall under the ledge. You couldn’t find more colors in the artist’s box of Crayolas.

I couldn’t identify many of the corals, sponges, and sea anemones that flourished there, and I find trying to write these words frustrating. I’m motivated to open up my field guides and do some studying. The most I can say is that there were magenta tubular vines ribboned around white, yellow, and amber clumps of textured coral. Large purple sea fans undulated in the current. Deeper purple plants or animals, their leaves or fingers like delicate fringes swayed against a backdrop of clustered tubes, bright orange and blue. Green clumps looked like moss on a forest floor.

Away from the ledge, Wayne pointed out a huge spiny lobster crawling slowly across the sand, his antenna outstretched, legs moving with purpose. Well, he looked huge to me, but then again, a beer can looks to be the size of a box of oatmeal when viewed underwater.

Schools of gray snapper stacked themselves on six-foot tall towers of coral jockeying to stay in position like fish on a stringer. Yellow tail swam in and out of our peripheral vision.

If you could lick your chops while holding a snorkel in your mouth, that’s what Wayne would’ve been doing. I knew he would love to spear a few for dinner, but all sea creatures are protected here. If they weren’t, The Sea Aquarium would be devoid of all but reef fish like so much of the Bahamas. So we didn’t complain. We didn’t violate the rules, even though there was no one around to catch us.

Small neon fish—black and blue, fluorescent yellow and orange hovered in front of our masks. They seemed to be as curious about us, as we were about them. A larger damselfish was a dull brown, but he looked as if someone had dipped his tail in a can of bright yellow paint, then splattered his back with metallic blue. He was disinterested in me, and continued to munch on coral. Hidden down among the rocks, I saw the earthy tones and big lips of a grouper. We made eye contact for a split second, then he hastily retreated into his cave.

This wasn’t the largest reef I’ve ever seen, nor the biggest variety of fish, but it was definitely the healthiest reef I’ve had the privilege of visiting. The use of the word “privilege” is not an over-statement. I wish I could share this scene with everyone I care about. I pity those whose only exposure to the world under the water’s surface is Public TV. There is no garden lovelier, no painting more vibrant, no place on earth more enticing than a reef.

A Post With No Name

Note from 2009: I’m not usually a complainer. If there’s a situation I don’t like, I change it. If I can’t change it, I make the best of it. However, sometimes you just have to vent. Venting is healthy, as long as you don’t make it a life style, but I’d rather not vent to Wayne. When I do, he not only takes on my emotion—anger, disappointment, depression—he takes it on tenfold. I guess it’s an i-got-your-back guy kind of thing. It’s sweet, but it doesn’t help. I always end up trying to calm him down.

I’m talking about this because the day we motored to Warderick Wells turned out to be one of the low points of our cruise and I do some healthy venting in the following post. Last night I sat on my deck with a glass of wine trying to think of a name for this post. How about: Down in the Warderick Well? Warderick Wails, Bruised Cruisers, Exema in Exuma? (Refill wine glass.) Bahama Drama, Paradise Lost, Tropical Depression? This Ain’t No Fun No More? Pity Party in Paradise? This is Not Your Mother’s Cruise, Sinking in Self-pity? How about: Is Cruising Better Than a Sharp Stick in the Eye? I just couldn’t decide. Leave a comment and let me know which name you like best. Or maybe you have a better suggestion.

Here’s the story:

Tuesday, May 6, 2003

Late this morning, we left for Warderick Wells. The Exuma chain is made up of hundreds of islands strung together in a southeasterly direction for nearly a hundred miles. On the east side of the island chain is the Exuma Sound. This wide expanse of water is thousands of feet deep. And because there is no shallow water and no landmasses to break the wind and surf, its seas can be quite rough. On the west side is the shallow and generally much calmer Exuma Bank. Our choice for today. Within four miles of the islands, the bank is ridden with rocks and sand bores. Sand bores make me think of some crawly creature tunneling under my skin, but they are really just sandbars. There are many of them reaching out from the islands like long fingers. To travel down the island chain, we must motor out past the sandbores, move south until we are even with the cay we want to visit, then work our way to our destination following the underwater hollow between the appropriate sand bores. Warderick Wells is only ten miles away as the crow flies, but we have to travel over twenty miles to get there.

The wind was blowing twenty knots from the southeast, and on the first leg of the trip, we were hit broadside by five-foot seas, pushing the boat from side to side like a demented nanny rocking a cradle. This is calm? I’d hate to be on the rough side. Wayne stood at the helm and squeezed his eyes into the wind, his gray hair flying straight back. His legs were spread wide apart and his triceps contracted as he clenched the wheel fighting to stay on course. He angled our heading in an effort to slide up one side and down the other of each wave. A few degrees to the left or right, and the big swells would collide with the bow and send water sloshing over the rails. I tried to move about the boat, but each time I took a step, the floor would drop un-expectantly from under my foot or rise to meet it, and I would stumble one way or the other. So, I sat, moving my torso like I was riding a mechanical bull. A half an hour into the trip, we realized we’d left the portholes and front hatch open. Our bed, pillows, walls, and books were sprayed with salty water.

We continued out past the sand bores, then turned directly into the wind and water. No more to and fro, just up and down, up and down, up and down for nine miles. We had not expected this much water in the bank, and neither of us had remembered to tie our secretary to the wall. (That’s a wooden upright desk, not an employee.) Wayne worked his way down the ladder to find that the secretary had fallen over and crashed into our very-expensive-because-it-was-made-for-a-boat table. Papers and books were strewn about the salon. A splintered three by three chunk of the coffee table was hanging precariously by a sliver of wood.

We reached the Warderick Wells waypoint that I’d copied from the cruising guide. Up until now, when the guide indicated a waypoint, we’d travel to that point, then sound our way to the anchorage, watching the water, watching the little boat move across the chart on the PC, and reading the directions in the guide like, “You’ll see two rocks, one flat, the other shaped like an upside-down salad bowl. Put the salad bowl to your port side and head toward the golf ball-shaped water tower watching the sandbar on your starboard side.”

Rock Shaped Like a Salad Bowl

Routinely, I read the directions to Wayne a mile or so before we got there, then read them again in real time. But today, the directions seemed to make no sense, and the chart on the laptop was difficult to read. In order to see where we were in relation to the island and its sand bores, we had to zoom out so far, we couldn’t see enough detail to navigate.

“Which way should I go?” Wayne growled.

My heart raced. “Uh, uh, uh,” was all I managed to mutter as I frantically paged through guides, then clicked buttons on the computer screen, then looked out at the water, hoping that something I saw would suddenly make sense.

“God damn it!” Wayne snarled. “Get the paper charts!”

I was at near panic as I searched for the right place in the big awkward chart book. The pages flapped in the wind like the wings of a sea bird. I tried to hold the page down with one hand and swipe the hair that was blowing in my face with the other. My reading glasses teetered on the end of my nose. The paper charts were no help. I tried to hold back tears, but they pressed against my solar plexus just waiting to erupt.

I don’t know at what moment I finally gained control of my emotions or what prompted the pieces to suddenly fall into place. I finally realized that the waypoint marked the spot where the cruiser decides whether to go to the northern or the southern anchorage, not the spot where we would work our way toward shore. We’d headed between the first and second sand bores when we should have headed between the second and third. A u-turn took us back out past the obstructions. We motored further south, then back in between the next two.

Tiny dot on left is the Ella McQuaid

We anchored the boat in a pristine harbor, but I couldn’t enjoy it because of Wayne’s long face. It had taken us five hours to go twenty miles. Wayne was now mad at himself for not being “on the ball.” I, always the keeper of the peace and solver of problems, decided we should make a checklist to ensure that everything was in order prior to embarkation. The list had more line entries than the page of the yellow legal pad, and we agreed that the captain should always verify the navigator’s route.

“There,” I said in a lively, self-satisfied voice, “All we have to do is go down this checklist each time we are leaving and no more disasters.”

Wayne grunted.

I said, “What’s wrong, honey?”

I thought, Jesus Christ! Some people are never happy.

Wayne finally spoke up. “Everywhere I look I see something dirty, wet, or broken. And I never seem to get ahead. And, I am sick of fixing the same things over and over again.” He waved his arm around the boat then dropped it to his side in pure frustration.

“OK,” I sighed. “We’ll make another list.”

And so, I wrote down everything that needed to be repaired or cleaned, as if putting each word to paper would somehow lift the burden of the task from Wayne’s slumping shoulders. And it did, at least temporarily.

While reading about my navigational mishap and Wayne’s snarling and whining, some of you might think that Wayne acted like a jackass or that I was foolish not be furious with him for his bad behavior, for turning me into a sniveling, incompetent first mate. Alright. I was incompetent because I screwed up the waypoint, not because he growled at me. Oh, Alright. Wayne didn’t make me cry. I did that to myself. I let him get to me. Yes, he talked to me in an unpleasant voice. Big Whoop! We both could benefit from keeping our emotions at bay and our heads on. But I can’t over-emphasize the gravity of the captain’s responsibilities. Wayne’s charge is to first keep the woman he loves—that’s me—out of harm’s way. Second, he must protect the boat. When Wayne says he’d never forgive himself if anything happened to me, I believe him. I know him well enough to affirm that the guilt would follow him to his grave. As for the boat—it is our house, after all—if anything happens to it, we will basically have to rebuild our lives from scratch. He takes his role as captain very seriously and is under tremendous pressure. When he seems to be angry with me, he is sometimes frightened, but more often than not angry with himself. Later, he apologizes, and I accept.

Have you figured out by now that cruising is not a vacation? Here are some other things you probably don’t think about when you think about our adventure, some of which I have already hinted at.

Venting commences…

Trash

People who live on islands don’t have room for their own trash, let alone that being shipped in by the dinghy load. The infrastructure for disposal is inadequate or non-existent. If they accept trash, cruisers often have to pay anywhere from 5 to 50 dollars. Furthermore, trash needs to be separated into food that can be thrown in the ocean when offshore, bottles and cans, and plastic and paper. We had three large bags of un-separated trash. Yesterday, when Wayne took them out of the dinghy, the bottom of the bags tore, and I found him on his knees on the swim platform sorting through two-week-old cans, slimy rotten food, soggy paper, and cigarette butts.

Water

We misjudged when we purchased our water maker. It only makes one and a half gallons an hour, It uses so much electricity that we can only run it when the engines or generator are running. As reported earlier, we can’t always produce water when we are moving, and as for running the noisy generator, until Wayne gets some new spark plugs, plug maintenance is required every time we want to start it.
In the states, you can fill your water tank whenever you purchase fuel, but in the Bahamas you might pay 50 cents a gallon or more for water, and you have no control over the quality. We are down to twenty gallons of water and can’t seem to get caught up. Reluctantly, I’m doing all of my dishes in saltwater, sitting on the swim platform. My flatware is getting rusty and the whole dinner ordeal is now at least forty minutes longer. We shave with saltwater on the swim platform, too. We can’t take a shower every day, and when we do, we can’t waste water waiting for it to get hot before stepping under the spray. I just take a deep breath, turn it on, get wet, turn it off, soap up, turn it on and rinse as quickly as possible--no leisurely muscle-relaxing pounding of hot water on the back. Wayne is washing his hair in salt water, but this is one of the places where Princess Leah is drawing the line.

Electricity

The batteries must be monitored throughout the day— how many amps we are using, how many volts remain. At night, we use the minimum of lights, often reading by flashlight or simply going to sleep with the sun. We can’t turn on the stereo whenever we want. Even flushing the toilet or running water spends our valuable storage of energy. Our stove is 110 volt, so we must run the generator (if it starts) to cook, but I can’t use the oven and burners at the same time. The other option is the grill, great for fresh fish or shiskabobs, but it doesn’t work for pasta, one of our staples, as the water never boils. Even if we’re not watching it. On the stove, it takes nearly an hour. A meal that would take twenty minutes to prepare at home can easily take an hour and a half on the boat.

Laundry and Clothes

We have only done one load of laundry since we left Merritt Island in early April. Seasoned cruisers sometimes wash clothes by hand in a series of buckets, then hang them to dry, but lots of water is required. Even if salt water is used to wash, clothes must be rinsed of soap and salt in fresh water. I am actually glad we don’t have enough water for this. I would rather wear pants that stand by themselves in the corner than resort to sloshing about in five-gallon paint buckets. Of course, some boats have ample water and washers and dryers, but not the average cruiser. In the states, the majority of marinas and most towns have laundry facilities--not in the Bahamas, so we just have to wait to wash.

We can’t change the sheets or get a new fluffy towel as often as we’d like. And anything that gets wet never seems to dry. Wayne has two piles of laundry by his side of the bed—“dirty dirty” and “clean dirty” saved for trips to town. We have stopped wearing underwear and pull on the same pair of grimy shorts for days. Fortunately, I have lots of shorts in three sizes, size tens from when I was last at fighting weight, size twelves (the transitional ones) and wide loads. For the seven months prior to our departure I worked in Merritt Island. Here I sat at a desk for ten to twelve hours a day, then, rewarded myself by slumping in front of the TV watching reality shows for hours each night. The result was twenty-five pounds of pure fat, most of which landed somewhere below the waist. I have worn all of my wide loads, and now am working on the transitional pairs. Luckily, cruising is great for the waistline, so perhaps by the time all of the size twelves are dirty, I’ll be able to fit into the tens.

Even if our clothes are clean, they’re always wrinkled. I wore shoes once last week for the first time in six days. I haven’t worn makeup or jewelry in weeks and my hair, normally brown is straw blonde and brassy orange with gray mixed in. I look like the bride of Frankenstein, when I don’t have hat head.

Cat Box

In Merritt Island we began the process of training Chris to “do his business” in the toilet. We are stuck at the point in training where we keep a plastic mixing bowl under the seat with just a few ounces of litter in it. Usually Chris announces to me when he needs to “go,” and I clean the bowl in the ocean immediately thereafter. If I neglect to do so, he won’t use it. Instead he does the “poop dance.” He dashes about the boat and scratches the green chair, which he absolutely knows he shouldn’t do. Once I figure out what’s wrong, he monitors my every move as I clean the bowl, then he immediately dirties it. Who would‘ve thought that I’d ever be so in tune to a cat’s toilet schedule? Often, he decides he needs to “go” when I am using the head, so there’s a line for the bathroom. He meows and brushes his fuzzy whiskers across my bare hips. Only once, so far, have I sat on the john and peed in his litter.

Food

Since many islands are uninhabited or private, markets are far and few between. When you do find one, the selection is extremely limited, and the food is expensive. Some cruisers have the room and an adequate electrical system to handle a freezer, well-stocked with vacuum packaged bags of meat, fish, and veggies purchased in the states. Lots of sailors just have iceboxes, which work well when block ice is available, but are ineffective in the islands where it’s difficult to find even cubed ice. We fall in the middle of the spectrum. Our small twelve-volt refrigerator will keep produce and dairy products fresh for a week or two. It has a tiny freezer big enough for two packages of fish (Wayne doesn’t eat meat). Often, we have to make due with non-perishables. This gets old, but our eating habits have become healthier. We savor fresh fruit and vegetables when we have them. We eat only when hungry and only to nourish. Can you imagine binge eating on canned spinach and rice?

Our biggest luxury appliance is the icemaker. Wayne installed it for a number of reasons. First, because I love ice cubes. Second, the frig is so small, we thought we’d keep cold drinks in a cooler. Lastly, Wayne thought he’d be catching so many fish in the islands that he’d need to store the excess on ice. This has not been a concern. It’s a good thing, too, because to make ice, you need water, and as mentioned before, our water is closely rationed.

Cruising turns out to be a lot like long-term camping with extra work thrown in, but just writing this made me feel better about it. Although it can be inconvenient, it's never boring. Each day offers new adventures, tests of fortitude, and something we’ve never seen before.

No Hamburgers in Paradise

Monday, May 5, 2003

Today’s itinerary was to head thirty-two miles to Warderick with a stop for lunch along the way at MacDuff’s on Norman’s Cay. MacDuff’s hamburgers come highly recommended, according to our cruising guide. Furthermore, we could get rid of our trash on Norman’s Cay for a dollar donation. This plan attested to a growing confidence in our boat handling. In the past, we’d never consider voluntarily anchoring or passing through rocks and coral just for lunch and garbage disposal.

After purchasing $694.00 worth of gas at $3.45 per gallon (note from 2009- this was when gas was still well under $2 a gallon), we motored the boat west to the deeper water of the Exuma Bank, a string of islands for as far as we could see on our left, and that same distinct line of deep blue water on our right. Norman’s was only nine miles away, but we were delayed en route by sea gulls “working the water.” They were in pursuit of a school of small bait fish and scraps of larger fish being devoured by even larger fish—our interest in the matter. We trolled in circles close to the squawking birds with a large green plastic lure and a small rubbery fish attached to our lines. The food chain seemed to stop here, as the only animal interested in our lures was Chris the Cat. When we finally gave up, reeled in the line, and wrapped the leader and lure around the reel, Chris made such a racket that Wayne removed the hook and gave him the lure. He played with it until he fell asleep, his chin resting on the plastic streamers.

Back on track to Norman’s Cay, we passed a tiny island, nothing more than a few small palms sprouting from a mound of sand. It looked like the island you see in cartoons with a skinny guy in tattered trousers and long beard propped against a palm tree. Finding our way to the anchorage, we dropped the hook between an abandoned dock and a wrecked airplane, its tail in the air, its wings at water level. No other boats in sight.





Norman’s Cay is noteworthy, because once the whole south end of the island was owned and inhabited by a Colombian drug runner named Ledar. He built a large dock, a small village for his cronies, a radio tower and lookout, an airstrip, and a wall separating the northern end of the island from the southern. The carcass of the wrecked plane in the anchorage is a remnant of these days. Supposedly a number of cruisers were murdered by Ledar and his gang for straying too close to his fortress before the Bahamian government ran him off or possibly killed him. Glad we missed him. It’s unclear how he actually met his demise. Now, the only visitors to the south end of the island are the occasional cruiser like us or tourists who venture over from a small resort on the other side of the wall.

We changed our plan and decided to stay for the night, and while I was clearing the flying bridge of the day’s implements, Wayne started up the dinghy. It was early afternoon and I hadn’t eaten. I was holding out for that big, juicy hamburger. We were busily gathering the necessities for the trip ashore when the outboard stalled. Wayne tried repeatedly to start it. The sun was hot. I stood by and fetched tools for the first hour, then munched on crackers, still hopeful. Wayne continued to work diligently, sweat burning his eyes. I took a nap, then worked on the computer.

At 5:00 p.m., the motor finally started, and we headed toward the dilapidated dock, my feet buried under bags of trash. We pulled the boat to shore and tied it to a shrub, then climbed a dune to a dirt path. The first thing we saw was a large hand-painted sign that said, “Dump Closed 7/1/2000”. Oh well, guess we’ll just keep carrying this trash around until we can’t fit into the dinghy with it, I thought.



We walked further up the path, past a ghost town of weather-beaten clapboard houses in various stages of disrepair, until we came to what remained of a paved road, now dusty and crumbling. Here, nailed to a tree, a piece of gray driftwood with faded green paint said “MacDuff’s ¼ mile, bar open 12 to 8, food 12 to 2 and 5 to 8 with reservations.” We had no reservation, but I wasn’t worried. They wouldn’t turn us away, would they? I salivated, thinking of the first meat I would have in a month. Then, I noticed a piece of notebook paper tucked in a plastic cover and tacked below the sign. The ink was bleached by the sun and barely legible. I squinted to make out the words. “Sorry, closed Mondays.”

“What’s today?” Wayne asked, but he knew the answer when he looked at my face.

“Maybe it’s an old sign,” I said optimistically, and we started down the shady lane.

I wondered out loud if the vegetation would continue to grow more lush as we traveled closer to the tropic of cancer and moved from the sub-tropics to the tropics. Here, the trees were taller. There were more palm trees, casaurinas, and others I didn’t recognize. Low growing shrubs, grasses, and wild flowers bordered the macadam, whitened with coral dust. The road snaked before us as far as we could see. Conch-shell lined trails, now overgrown, led back through the underbrush to the former dwellings of the drug runners.

“These guys must have been lovin’ life,” Wayne said.

We finally rounded a bend and spotted the airstrip. One small single-engine plane sat on the tarmac next to a tiny yellow terminal. The runway stretched from one side of the island to the other, bordered by an eight-foot stone wall with an iron gate at midpoint. A sign on the gate indicated that MacDuff’s was closed. Not surprised, we headed back down the road that seemed to be much more than a quarter of a mile, to our starting point, then in the other direction to the southern end of the island.

We passed by the ruins of more buildings, some nothing more than a pile of boards. Metal and concrete structures stood like skeletons, their doors and windows gone. It’s like “The Three Little Pigs,” I thought. We lifted our heads to the sky to see a 96-foot tower planted high on a hill. Old trucks and motorcycles were so rusty; a good thump of the foot might reduce them to a pile of burnt orange dust. Recently placed bags of trash were heaped next to signs that said, “No Dumping Here”. We continued until we came to a clearing—the actual dump. Garbage, bikes, exercise equipment, fax machines, airplanes. Wayne can’t resist a good dump and started rooting around looking for treasures. I stood in the middle of the clearing surrounded by mounds of trash and looked out through the trees at the crystal-clear, multi-hued waters of the Exuma Bank.

Back at the boat, Wayne dropped a line over the side and fed Chris a conch dinner. A large barracuda hovered under our dinghy, coming out periodically to investigate the lure I was casting. A huge black ray glided by and snatched the bait off of Wayne’s hook, and while I heated left-over spaghetti and garlic bread on the grill, laughing gulls swooped and soared above our heads looking for a handout or a bit of food left unattended. Chris meowed and fussed because he wanted the rubber fish at the end of my line, then watched the birds, his mouth moving soundlessly.

Summer's Goodnight Kiss

Saturday, May 3, 2003

The morning sun crept over the horizon casting a rosy glow across the cloudless sky and glassy water. As we prepared for departure, Sandy and Valt approached in their dinghy. Their freshly scrubbed faces beamed as they stepped aboard with the promised CD, a huge bag of ice, and a box of chocolate chip cookies. We loaded the software and Sandy familiarized us with the charts.

When they were gone, we noticed they’d left a pair of sunglasses on board, so Wayne put the motor and gas can back on the dinghy, took a six pack of Valt’s favorite beer and the glasses, and headed for their boat. He came back with a thermos jug and a jar of yeast for bread making. Guess they just had to have the last “nice.”

On the flying bridge, we figured out how to connect our laptop to the GPS, plotted our course and set out across the rocky bank. It was a perfect day for cruising, the water calm, the sun high and bright, a light breeze. We guided the little blue boat across the PC like a video game, and when I felt insecure I went to the bow and watched. The water was thirty feet deep, and I could see every rock, every blade of grass, starfish, and sea cucumber on the bottom.

Finally, we spotted Highborn Cay on the horizon; its 260 foot Batelco tower glistened in the blue sky. As we neared, the low afternoon sun reflected on the rippling water, making a moving maze of snake-like rainbows on the ocean floor. It looked like opal.

Once anchored, we baited a hook with a piece of what remained our now pungent conch, and dropped it into the water. When Chris knocked the zip lock bag of bait over, I laid on the swim platform and completely submerged my arm in the water. The baggie sank slowly to the bottom just out of my reach.

“Ut oh,” I said.

“Any fisherman should be able to catch his own bait,” Wayne said, and we spent the next hour unsuccessfully, but quite contently, casting at the bag with rod and reel trying to snag it. We’re easily entertained.

Later, we watched the sun fade away over the horizon. It was so quiet we whispered. And then a thin sliver of moon rose as the sky blackened and millions of stars appeared. I picked up my guitar and wrote this song:

We stop the boat not far from shore and drop the anchor down.
It hurries to the ocean floor and buries in the sand.
The sun, it is a big orange ball descending in the west.
It sinks below a ridge of trees, til we are in darkness.

A star appears above our heads, another to the left.
Is that the bear, or dog, or belt? I always do forget.
Oh, I can see the Milky Way, a brush stroke in the sky.
And did you see that shooting star? Its tail went trailing by.

The water is so still tonight, no ripples from the wind,
A mirror of the great big sky, its stars to reflect in.
The moon is climbing slowly now, so white against the starlit sky.
It’s time to close our weary eyes and sleep until sunrise.

I’m glad you are beside me here and forever more,
To see and feel the things I do and smell the salty air,
To know the warmth of summer nights, experience the bliss
Of waiting for the moon to rise. It’s summer’s goodnight kiss.

Yes, it’s summer’s goodnight kiss.

Sunday, May 4, 2003

We began the day by riding from our secluded anchorage to land. Highborn Cay is a private island with only nine residences. Boaters are welcome to visit the marina, the store, and Cheap Charlie’s Snack Bar. We motored around a rocky point to a small beach, the perfect place to drag our dinghy onto the sand, then climbed a dune to walk on soft grass, the first we’d seen since Miami, past flowering bougainvillea, past a row of bird feeders hanging from a line. They were crafted from coconut shells and heavily in use by small, colorful finches and larger ground feeders. A hammock was slung between two palm trees.

Finally, we reached the marina walkway. The small marina was U-shaped, a few boats tied up at slips around the basin. Looked deserted. The water was the palest of aqua like a swimming pool.

“Could you tell us where the store is?” we asked the pleasant red-haired woman who manned Cheap Charlie’s. She ran her hand through the frizzy mass on her head, and directed us to the other side of the marina U.

There, waiting in a golf cart, was a young woman. She smiled broadly.

“Hop on up, it a long way to de store,” she said.

While she drove us up the hill along a bumpy dirt path, her musical voice and easy laughter charmed us.

The store was surprisingly well stocked, but not much bigger than most living rooms. Fruit and vegetables were stored in an 8 X 10 walk-in-refrigerator. I went in and looked around. Romaine, wonderful romaine lettuce!! I grabbed a bag, then tried the big, heavy door, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it open. I banged on it with my fist.

“Way-ane, let me out of here!” I shouted. I wondered if they could hear me. Wayne finally opened the door. He was grinning.

“Your wife, she likes air conditioning,” the girl giggled.

She used an old calculator to total our bill then drove us back down the hill to the marina.

Here are some typical prices:
Bread $5.00
Bag of Tortilla Chips 5.85
Small jar of salsa 6.85
Bag of Romaine 4.85
Bottle of Aspirin with Codeine 5.25
Case of beer 60.00

Good thing we brought ten cases of beer with us.

Back aboard the Ella McQuaid, we exchanged groceries for fish and snorkel gear and headed to the rocks just offshore from the west end of the cay. Finding only tiny fish, we followed a sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky beach to the northern tip of the island where we spotted another beautiful lunette harbor. I imagine that it won’t be long before I run out of ways to describe so many of these enchanting coves with aqua water. Each seems more impressive than the last, but I am certain that if we were traveling south to north (instead of north to south) the same would be true.

We pulled the dinghy to the deserted shore, then walked back. Wayne led the dinghy through the shallow water. I wove in and out of the water behind him. The terrain was less barren than in the Biminis. Right off the beach, there was a rocky rise of five to ten feet, thick with salt-tolerant shrubs and succulents, small palms, and the occasional group of casuarina trees. At one time, Highborn Cay specialized in Aloe farming, and the plants still grow here. We picked up big red starfish and small perfectly formed shells, and investigated caves eroded into the rocks. When perpendicular to where Ella floated and bobbed, we sat in warm, waist-deep water, the afternoon sun hot on our skin.

Later, snorkeling around the boat looking for conch for bait, I hung on the surface and watched Wayne dive the fifteen feet to pick up the easy-to-spot shells. The conch fishermen at Chub had shown Wayne how to remove the animal from the shell. With one quick tap of a rock hammer to create a slit in the shell, followed by a slice of the muscle, the conch should fall right out.

Back on the boat, Wayne surveyed his available assemblage of tools and decided on a small hatchet. Tap Tap Tap… to make the carefully positioned hole in the shell, then a quick slip of the knife. Nothing fell out. Tap Tap Tap… Perhaps the hole should be a little more to the right. Tap Tap Tap… Wayne’s hand was now bleeding from the sharp edge of the shell. Tap Tap Tap… TAP TAP TAP... When there was nothing left of the shell, but a small spiral, he finally cut the muscle.

“I guess I need some practice,” he said, as the slimy conch fell into his bloody hand.

We had bait, but caught no fish. Again.

Note from 2009: I can’t imagine why we were looking for conch for bait, instead of conch to eat, especially with us catching so few fish. I know we both like cracked conch, conch chowder, and conch salad. Our brains must have fried in that Bahamian sun. Or maybe we just didn’t know how to prepare it, but that’s never stopped us before.

Paralyzed in Paradise.

Note from 2009: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley. I had to google to get Robert Burns’ actual words, and now half of you won’t know what it means, but I like this version. It makes me feel like a pirate or a lady on a sailing ship headed for the new world. These words turned out to be the theme of our visit to Rose Island. Maybe the whole cruise. Hey! Maybe my whole life! Maybe yours, too, for that matter. I’m not complaining; I’m pretty good at rolling with the punches, but Rose Island turned out to be a test of our spirits.

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

We decided to stay at Rose Island for a day to lick our wounds. The morning started out sunny along with our dispositions. Then, lines of thunderstorms with twenty to thirty-five knot winds moved across the sky throughout the remainder of the day.

I stayed inside and tried to finish plotting our course for the rest of the trip to the Turks and Caicos, so I wouldn’t have to think about it again. I felt like I’d missed half of our cruise with my nose buried in charts and travel guides. I wanted to get it over with.

Here’s how it worked: We had charts on the laptop where I created waypoints to guide us around shallow water or rocks and on to our destination. The combination of waypoints made up our route. This I’d download to the GPS. Then all we had to do was follow the white line that zigzagged across a black screen. After hours of plotting, I discovered that the charts on the laptop were not accurate. I’d wasted hours of time and I had absolutely no confidence in my route. If my route was off by just a little, it could be like driving your car down the canal that borders the highway.

Wayne and I talked about it and decided to ride twenty miles out of our way to get around Rose Island instead of using the cut between Rose and Nassau. Looking back, I think we were paralyzed with fear. Our first ever attempt to read the water and we demolished our skiff. And the further we got from home, the scarier it was. Not scary, like we’re-gonna-die scary, but scary like we’re-gonna-lose-everything-we-own-and-go-back-home-with-our-tails-between-our-legs-looking-like-a-couple-of-big-chumps scary.

Sometime during the day, we noticed the anchor wasn’t holding. Wayne changed from the claw anchor to a different style, a large danforth, shearing a big flap of skin off the top of his knuckle in the process. After much animated dialogue, we re-anchored. Throughout the day and into the evening, we checked our position on the GPS to see if the new anchor was holding, as there were rocks and islands within sight in every direction.

This is no fun, I thought.

At 9:00 p.m., another squall came through, this time from the east. Anchored north of Rose Island, we were exposed to high winds and a rapid succession of three to four foot waves. The wind whistled and howled, and the boat rocked back and forth, to and fro like a top running out of spin. Another check of the GPS revealed that the new anchor was dragging.

Using two anchors is not an uncommon practice in the Bahamas where currents can be strong and holding can be poor. In the twilight, Wayne got in the dinghy, engaged the engine and started to ride around to the bow of the boat. The plan was for me to drop an anchor down to him. Then, he would motor away from the boat to some mystical position, and drop the anchor from the dinghy. As he motored around, the outboard sputtered and stalled. He paddled back to the boat. Standing in the dinghy, Wayne pulled himself around the side of the boat using his hands. At the bow, I lowered the anchor down to him. Then, he motored (The outboard actually worked this time) to the desired location while I let out line. He dropped the hook and I pulled it taut. The motor sputtered and stalled. Holding on to the anchor rode, he pulled himself hand over hand back to the bow. Then he inched his way around to the stern, arriving there just as the last smudge of light disappeared on the horizon. The mission was ultimately successful and as of today we haven’t moved.

Thursday, May 1, 2003

For all of you who have emailed and said that you are “living vicariously through us,” I have two words—CRUISING SUCKS! Where is that pink clapboard bar with the sand floor, the tight-bodied smiling bartender, his deep voice singing with a Caribbean lilt? Where are the cruisers and locals mingling happily, drinking strong rum drinks called Goombay Smashes and Bahamian Fire Bombs? Probably in Nassau--where we didn’t want to go!

We wanted to be off the beaten path and here we are. We’re out of bread, and I would kill for a hamburger. Last night, Wayne dreamed he was trying to park the boat in a parking lot, and woke up so depressed, a little voice in his head was telling him to turn the boat around and head back to Key West. He thinks he may be getting an ear infection. This happened on our cruise down the Intracoastal Waterway and I had to do all of the diving to cut monofilament and crab pot lines that had wrapped around the prop. If his ear doesn’t get better, I guess I’ll be diving the anchor. In the medicine cabinet, I found some antibiotic drops that expired in 1999 and plopped them unceremoniously into his ear.

Monitoring the weather revealed that we would have two more days of thunderstorms and five to eight foot seas. I’ve almost given up on using the Single Side Band radio to get the weather report. This is how a typical SSB forecast sounds:

“static crackle static Bahamas crackle crackle today west of seven two west north of two two north wind south east one five to two zero knots seas crackle static to eight feet east crackle static…….”

By the time I figure out where we are in regards to the latitude and longitude, they are talking about the next day. Instead, I dialed up the marine weather on the web. This is much more costly, as it requires use of the satellite phone, a dollar fifty a minute, after I use up the one hundred twenty that come with my fifty dollar a month fee. Because I don’t have an external antenna for the phone, I must go outside to use it. Last night, I was sitting on the deck, holding the phone in the air like the statue of liberty, as if holding the phone two feet closer to the ionosphere was going to improve my reception.

Still Thursday, 7:00 p.m.

Twice daily, catamarans full of tourists stop near us. The snorkelers in bulky orange life jackets jump off like lemmings, swim around in circles for thirty minutes, pile back on the boat and motor off, reggae music blaring. I can’t imagine what they are seeing down there. We’ve been fishing for three days, and have not caught one fish!

We need to get to civilization soon to restock. Last night, we had Mexican Lasagna made with refried beans, cheese, green chilies and tortillas instead of noodles. Tonight, we had smoked salmon alfredo over rice with canned spinach and the last of the tomatoes vinaigrette. If we don’t catch a fish soon, we may have to resort to baked beans, as my creative impulses are about to become severely limited by the available ingredients. No wonder cruising books are always filled with god-awful recipes like “Tuna Surprise”—one can of tuna, one can of cream of mushroom soup, one jar of salsa.

The most stimulation we had all day was when on three occasions, birds flew into the boat. This was a first for us, and Chris became highly animated, bolting about the boat, flying from bench to table to dashboard in seconds, knocking down whatever crossed his path, leaping into the air in pursuit of the pretty little things. I was as excited as he—jumping around and laughing one second and oohing and aahing with concern for the bird the next. Wayne just sat there. The birds all escaped unscathed to the chagrin of our feline friend.

For further entertainment, I tried listening to Bahamian radio. One station played what sounded like gospel rap, another reggae rap, and the third gave the local obituaries, in which they recited every name of twenty-four grandchildren and seventeen great-grandchildren—Janelle, Danielle, Valentino, Cleopatra, Chanille……. Boring!!!

I just checked www.marineweather.com, after seeing some blue in the sky. Apparently, the weather has turned around, so we OUT OF HERE tomorrow. Enough Camp Granada, Polyanna here we come! We are off to the Exumas tomorrow morning.

Friday, May 2, 2003

If I were manic, I’d be elated tonight. Instead, I am content and looking ahead with cautious optimism. This morning, contrary to the sunny weather forecast, a huge anvil-shaped thundercloud loomed over us, then exploded with high winds and torrential rain, causing us, to once again postpone our departure from Rose Island. We tangled up on the sofa and read books.

By afternoon, the sun was shining and Wayne and I went on a fixing frenzy. A turn of a screw fixed the outboard (or at least we thought so). The water maker seemed to be working fine; consulting the manual revealed that if it stopped working while underway, the saltwater intake might need to be changed (not something we could do while cruising). We switched two wires, and the autopilot stopped turning us in circles. Cleaning and re-gapping the spark plugs had the generator purring like a kitten.

Lastly, we fixed the Flowscan. I won’t attempt to explain how this baby works, but basically, it monitors the efficiency of the engines. For months, the numbers on the gauges seemed screwy. Today, we found the switch that allowed us to set the number of cylinders. And finally, we turned one of the toggle switches on the dash upside-down so that selecting gallons per hour did not display the miles per gallon and vice versa. Now, the Flowscan works.

We’d been moping around since we arrived here on Tuesday (Now, it’s Friday). But, after fixing everything, we were feeling quite self-satisfied. As we cleaned up our tools and manuals, a rubber dinghy approached our boat. I’m a big believer in creating your own luck, the power of positive thinking, what goes around, comes around, and every other idiom you can think of that means the same thing. If I were religious, I’d say that God sent us two angels in an inflatable chariot.

Sandy and Valt had been cruising the Bahamas since November. They came aboard to share a bottle of wine and a few tepid beers. Sandy was what my Uncle Hil would call an “attractive, well-preserved blonde.” Valt had Ronald Reagan’s hair and Dudley Doright’s chiseled features. They were all smiles and loving life in the Bahamas. What a stark contrast to the couple we met in this same anchorage on the afternoon of our arrival. And to us.

Sandy and Valt told us stories of the places we had not yet visited. While we were sitting around on our boat, not catching any fish and having a pity party, they were taking advantage of the intermittent sunshine to snorkel and catch a big grouper. They were compiling a list of the ten most annoying things about cruising the Bahamas. The first one was “I got sand in my sandals while walking on the beach”. The second was “I lost my place in my book when a fish got on my line.”

We told them of our concerns about reading the water and how we planned on traveling an extra 20 miles to go around Rose Island, avoiding the rocks south of us. They told us about the Explorer charts they had on CD. Unlike ours, they are detailed and very accurate. Loading the software on their PC, then connecting the PC to the GPS, places a representation of their boat right on the computer screen, giving a picture of the boat moving across the chart. What looks like a virtual mine field of plus signs and asterisks on the computer is really not so scary. The centimeter between rocks represents fifty or more feet. They promised to make us a CD of the Explorer charts and bring it to us in the morning.

“Please! Please! Please! Stop raining and blowing and let us leave tomorrow morning,” I mumbled as I sat on the deck later that evening.

“What?” Wayne’s voice came from inside of the cabin.

“Nothing. Just talking to the cat.”