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.