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.