Super Male

Friday, May 16, 2003

Today, we pulled up anchor, landed at the gas dock without any mishaps, filled the tanks, and covered our Kalik and juices with ice. We still needed water, but the place on Stocking that sold good water didn’t open until 11. Our next stop, Conception, was forty-three miles away, and not wanting to approach an unfamiliar anchorage in the late day sun, we were afraid to wait. The water at the marina, we were told, was well water and brackish. I pointed at the faucet.

“Would you drink that water?” I asked the gas attendant.

“Nah,” he grunted.

I ignored his poor manners. “Would you take a shower in it?” I asked.

He grumbled something unintelligible.

“Wayne, taste the water,” I said.

“I’m not going to taste it. You taste it,” he quipped.

I laughed and turned on the faucet, cupped my hands, and raised them to my lips.

“UMMM!” I said.

We filled up our tank, bought three gallons of the bottled variety for drinking, and took off, narrowly missing the gas pipes with the bow of our boat as we backed out of the fuel dock. There was a stiff wind, but I wondered when we’d ever be able to dock and/or leave without a near calamity.

Through rocks and coral and out of the long harbor, we set to sea. The water was choppy, but the waves were only two to three feet. We had twenty-two miles to go to Long Island’s northern tip, named Cape Santa Maria because Columbus’ ship by the same name ran aground there. As we approached the cape, the chop evolved to big rollers. They came into our starboard bow. The bow rose up over each roller, then crashed down into the trough, rocking the boat from side to side, as we tried to stay on course. I took the helm while Wayne napped. This time, there was no quiet reflection about waves and time. I stood, knees bending and swaying in anticipation of each coming wave.

Twelve miles from Conception, its silhouette appeared in the distance—at first just a smudge on the horizon, then a gray wavy line. Closer yet, its long white beach shimmered in the afternoon sun, and finally color emerged and I could make out hills and rocks and trees. We motored slowly between patch reefs and dropped our hook near shore on the lee side of the cay, sharing the anchorage with six sailboats and one seventy-foot yacht.



Later, laying back in our deck chairs with bare feet propped on the gunwhale, we watched as night fell, and one by one lights flickered on in the other boats. On the sailboats, they were yellow glowing rectangles and ovals. Long strings of rope lights outlined the yacht. The only sound was the quiet ripple of waves that spilled onto the beach. Then, a full moon rose in the darkness. It was so bright, we could see our moon shadows.

Saturday, May 17, 2003

Conception Island is a three by two mile national park, surrounded by reefs, and not frequently visited by cruisers as it is a little out of the way, and there are no amenities. By eleven, we had all of our snorkel gear loaded into the inflatable. We started off in search of the creek where according to our cruising guide we would see giant sea turtles cavorting in the shallows.

The creek entrance was two miles south. As we motored, a line of squalls passed in front of us. Three of them spanned the horizon. As the heavy clouds erupted, dark blurry curtains of rain hung from cloud bottom to water. The storms remained south of us. The rain missed us, but not the affect on the sea. The waves grew, and our little dinghy bounced up and over each one, a salty spray in our faces.



Around a point of land, we spotted the creek. Two huge amber coral heads narrowed the entrance like great stone sentinels. The tide flowing out of the creek and the surge of ocean trying to get in created white water rapids. On the other side, I could see pale blue green water that was as smooth as glass. I longed to be there, floating past cavorting turtles, my fingers trailing in the water, a calm washing over me from toes to head like an opiate. The dinghy bucked like a racehorse in the starting gate, and then Wayne gave it gas and headed between the coral heads.

“Oh, my God!” I screamed as the turbulance pushed us dangerously close to the coral. Wayne let off the throttle, and we were rudely shoved back to our starting point.

“Now what?” I shouted, looking back at Wayne.

“”Don’t know,” he admitted. “We could try rowing.”

He lifted the engine to keep it from scraping on coral. We each took an oar, and paddled furiously. And paddled. And paddled. We hadn’t moved.

Wayne, standing in the dinghy now, scanned for safe passage. None found. Heading back, we checked the shoreline for a place to beach the dinghy and walk to the creek, but on this side of the island it was too rocky for a soft dinghy or the bottom of my feet for that matter.

“Sorry Babe,” Wayne said, “I just don’t think we can get in there today.”

He motored to a small cay, just off the other end of the park. On a soft pinkish beach, we slipped on our fins and masks, then swam towards some rocks jutting out of the water. There were a few colorful fish, but the water was very shallow, and it gave me the heebie jeebies. If I needed to check my mask or my location, I couldn’t tread water. It was too shallow, and I didn’t want to stand up for fear of disturbing coral or perhaps some bottom creature hiding in the sand. I turned back, and contently watched Wayne from the beach.




He looked up and cupped his hands to his mouth. I heard, “Er er er.”

“What?” I shouted back.

“Er er sper!”

“Bring the spear?” I questioned, making a fork with my fingers.

I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure what he said, and he looked very far away with all of that creepy shallow water between us, so I ignored his request. He continued snorkeling. When I looked again, he was raising his arms in exasperation. I took a deep breath and plunged in, swimming as hard and fast as I could, the long yellow spear in my right hand. I was there in less than a minute—not very far, just a vivid imagination at work. Wayne took the spear and pointed me towards some good snorkeling.

It was much deeper near the rocks. I swam with surgeonfish, roundish fish that always look like they’re smiling, because of a dark line that accentuates their gills. The big eye of a puffer peaked at me from behind a rock. Parrotfish of all types glided in and out of view. The best sighting of the day was a stoplight parrotfish supermale. Stoplight parrots are black and white-checkered like a racing flag. They have red bellies and tails and can range in size from eight inches to fifteen. But a female stoplight parrot can change sex when it gets older. When this happens, it’s known as a supermale. It transforms from a red, white and black creature to a huge brilliantly colored green and turquoise one with bright yellow spots on its tail and a hot pink line under its gills. Like the puffer, the supermale hid in a crevice, and we both hovered there for some time staring at each other.


Back at the beach, my supermale arrived with a peacock flounder and a schoolmaster stuck on the prongs of his spear. The schoolmaster’s yellow tail twitched.

“Yeh! Dinner!” I said.

“Did you see that puffer?” Wayne asked, trying to catch his breath. “I considered taking it, but it just stared at me with those big cow eyes, and I couldn’t shoot it.”

“Are they good to eat?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

“I heard they’re really good,” he answered.

When we got back to the boat, I looked up the puffer in the Florida Fish Book, and found out that yes, they taste good, but if you don’t clean them properly they can be poisonous. We decided not to chance it should another opportunity arise.

Wayne started to clean his catch. Chris the Cat stood on the gunwhale and poked his nose close to the knife while Wayne tried to fillet the flounder. He pushed the cat away with the top of his hand. Chris meowed in protest. Wayne lowered the knife back to the fish. The nose came down on the knife again. Wayne pushed him away. This went on repeatedly until the task was complete.

Wayne gave Chris his share, cut some bait for fishing, and put scraps in a plastic bag for later use. While we ate dinner, Chris had his. Then he ate all of the fish left on the bait tray, and finally he dragged the ziplock into the salon and started tearing it apart with claws and teeth. This cat loves fish.

When the big yellow sun set and a soft breeze cooled the air, I pulled a light rod from its spot above the salon door. The cat dashed about bumping past my legs, tripping me up as I moved around the deck. I managed to rig and bait my line. I cast into the water. Chris sat on the gunwhale and watched—first the water, then the line, then the reel. He’d wander off, but not too far. When I reeled in a bit, he was right at my side again, looking down into the water. I think he was more disappointed than I that no fish was hooked.


During the night I awoke to find an empty spot beside me. Lifting my head from the pillow, I looked up and out through the salon doors to the deck. Wayne was staring at the sky. I left him alone, settled back into my pillow, and closed my eyes. After a while, he came below and slid quietly into bed beside me. Later, I would learn he’d been watching an eclipse of the moon. It would’ve been nice to see it, but I was glad I pretended to be asleep. This is a small boat for two people and he needs to have his moments, just like I need to have mine.

A Long Way From Home

Monday, May 12, 2003

Today, 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.

Tuesday

This 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.

Wednesday

Most 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.

Thursday

Today, 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.

Wonder Woman

Sunday, May 11, 2003 (Mother’s Day)

Friday morning, we left Bell Island for another short run. The sun was just beginning its slow rise from the horizon, and again the fifteen knot east to southeast wind blew in our faces. We rode out past the sand bores into the Bank, then perpendicular to the now-familiar long pale fingers, then turned to port to approach Staniel Cay. Staniel is fast becoming a popular cruising destination for those who find Georgetown, further south, a bit too crowded.

The harbor is formed by the cut between Staniel and the uninhabited Big Majors Cays. Although there are a number of good anchorages nestled within the Big Majors, we opted to set our hook right in the harbor, close to town, and a very easy dinghy ride to the Thunderball Grotto, made famous when James Bond’s Thunderball was filmed here in 1964. It’s an underwater cave that you can snorkel, and this activity is on our list of “things to do at Staniard Cay."

For two people who wanted to avoid the hussle of Nassau and see the backcountry and small towns of the Bahamas, we were elated to be back to civilization. We could dump trash, wash clothes, buy groceries, and have a drink in a bar. Our two-year-old cruising guide indicated that Club Thunderball had coin-operated washing machines.

I held the VHF mike to my mouth. “Club Thunderball, Club Thumberball, Clug Thunderball. This is the Ella McQuaid. Do ya copy?”

A staticy voice responded, “Thunderball.”

I asked about the laundry, but like the dump at Norman’s, it was no longer available.

“Dey all be broken,” she said of the washers and dryers, “But da lady at da Blue Store, she do yo’ washin’ fo ten dolla’ a bag.”

Laundry or no laundry, our first stop was Club Thunderball. After all, you must keep your priorities straight, and ours was a cold drink and some conch fritters. The restaurant sat high on the hill on the east end of the island. We parked our dinghy at a well-maintained wharf, just as a twenty-footer arrived and the happy fishermen began tossing mahi mahi onto the dock.

“Look at all of the fish they caught,” I said. “How come their catching fish and we’re not?” Wayne ignored me.

We clambered up a steep path bordered by small palms and flowering shrubs, adding texture and splashes or yellow and red to an otherwise stark landscape. Two skinny cats greeted us on the steps to the club. Next to the door was a primitive mural featuring toothy natives, buxom women, and salty sailors who all looked like they were having too much fun.

Inside, we were the only patrons in a large room with a horseshoe shaped bar to our left, a few tables and booths next to it, a pair of pool tables in the center, and to our right, rows of rectangular tables lined up end to end. There were more screened windows then walls. The walls were covered with pictures—some of the Thunderball movie crew, some of Jimmy Buffet and a local drummer jamming at the club. There were works by a popular Bahamian artist named Blackman, and a collage of prints celebrating local sailors who’d won the Long Island Regatta in 1995. (This Long Island is in the Bahamas, not New York).

The barmaid, as wide as she was tall, looked up from her work when we pulled up stools and greeted her, then looked back down. Finally, she hobbled over to take our order. Wayne had a Kalik, and I had the house specialty—a Thunderball Smash, made up of a variety of fruit juices, and three, count them, one… two… three… types of rum. She told us about the Friday Night Barbecue, reservations required, not uncommon in the Bahamas. Many restaurants need a headcount for the evening meal.

To get to town from Thunderball, we could’ve walked down a long and dusty road carrying garbage bags, however, we opted to dinghy around to the Staniel Cay Yacht Club for trash disposal.

“I only paid for two bags,” Wayne snickered, as he carried three bags off to the dumpster.

I just shook my head. I’m long past chastising him when he has a moral lapse. It doesn’t do any good, and I think they occur less frequently now, because I fail to react. I knew when I married a “bad boy” that I shouldn’t expect him to miraculously turn into an exemplary citizen. Nor would I want him to.

Back in the dinghy, we motored past the yacht club’s picturesque rental cottages, one yellow, own bright green, one pink, one blue, one orange. They were small and shingled and stood on stilts. They hugged the left side of a small cove. The last cottage sat at the start of the public beach, actually two beaches shaded by casurina trees. The two were separated by a large arc of concrete wall, once painted brightly with the words “Welcome to Staniel Cay,” but faded now by sun and sea. We pulled the dinghy ashore, and walked up the narrow beach to a cracked and potted macadam road. There we saw a couple with plastic bags hanging from their pockets and belts.

“What are you doing?” Wayne asked.

They told us they were collecting lizards and pointed out the varieties they’d captured. The differences were too subtle for my untrained eye, except for the ones whose tail rolled up into a perfectly-shaped curlicue.

“Good protection from cats,” I said, thinking of all the de-tailed lizards we’d left in our trail.

A sign directed us to the right on a road that spiraled up a hill to the stores. We passed small stucco houses, painted in pastels. The yards were landscaped, but dusty. Bougainvillia draped over limestone walls, marking each homestead. There were no cars, an occasional golf cart. The whole town was only three blocks long by three blocks wide, but we still stopped and asked directions from a young man who was single-handedly building a house.

At the top of the hill we found The Blue Store. It was painted royal blue and stood next to the Pink Store that was painted (Can you guess?) hot pink. Both stores were owned by people named Smith, and I wondered if some family feud accounted for the competition, or was everyone in Staniel named Smith.

Inside, the stores looked like many others in the Bahamas, large white refrigerators sparsely filled with wilted produce and softened chunks of cheese, a chest filled with freezer-burned meat and another crammed with misshapen loaves of bread and quarts of milk. Canned goods were limited with only a can or two of each product. You were likely to find the canned peaches tucked in between the Drano and the tuna fish.

After we made our purchases and inquiries, we wound our way back down the quiet lanes past the rainbow-colored cottages to the Staniel Cay Yacht Club for another cold one. If the term “Yacht Club” brings to mind gleaming white motor yachts, and men in double-breasted blazers, think again. This one looks like any small marina with a neighborhood bar and restaurant like so many found on rivers and creeks in the states. A crowd gathered around visiting fishermen who cleaned their day’s catch, while others sat under the shade of a wooden veranda, gulping beer and laughing boisterously. Inside the screened restaurant and bar, we found round tile-covered tables with big chairs made out barrels, painted turquoise. Down a step, lined-up tables, just like at the Thunderball. They were covered with white linens. Sparkling glasses were turned upside down, next to stoneware plates, neatly set for a 7:30 seating where patrons would share them.

We sat at the bar and chatted with an American couple who owned a house on the island. They came for a month at a time, about three times a year.

There are two types of vacationers, I thought as I sipped my beer. One type finds a place they like and they keep going back. These are the people who buy timeshares or condos at the beach, or cabins on a lake or in the mountains. Their RV never moves once they get it to their favorite KOA. The other type of vacationer travels the seas by boat, or the highways, or sky. The means does not matter. What matters is that they’re always seeing something new.

When we used to take long weekend fishing trips, I’d get out our map and find a place on the water, away from a city, a place where we’d never been and that’s where we’d go. That was always fun. This trip, however, is an eternal weekend. What we’re doing is exciting, but sometimes I miss the familiarity of a place.

After a nap, we headed back to Club Thunderball for the barbecue. The place was packed with people. They stood in small groups sipping cocktails. A new friend would arrive and they’d greet him loudly, opening their circles just wide enough to let one more person in. It felt like we were crashing a private party. We saw the couple we met at the bar. They nodded, then slid into a booth with their friends.

A white sheet that was hanging over a pass-through to the kitchen was removed, and the crowd lined up to get heaping plates of ribs, chicken, peas and rice, corn on the cob, and cole slaw. The cook made grouper fingers for Wayne. The tables were filling up and we found our way to the nearly empty “outcast” table, where we dined and talked with a father and son team who were cruising the Exumas.

The conversation was interesting enough, but I would’ve liked to talk to a woman. I normally hang out with the guys at parties where I don’t know a lot of people. While the women stay in the kitchen and talk about babies or grandchildren or shopping sprees at outlet malls, I’m guzzling beers with the boys and discussing the latest books we’ve read. Or in many cases, talking pure nonsense which is still preferable to the woman talk. But tonight, I wanted woman talk. Was it because I missed my kids? Did I miss shopping? Was it because I hadn’t had more than a two minute conversation with another woman for over a month? Don’t know.

Once the last crumbs of the chocolate cake were pressed onto forks, the crowd thinned quickly, leaving no opportunity for drunken bonding at the bar. Bellies full, thirst sated, they were all tucked into their beds by ten, as were we.

Saturday

Saturday morning, after boat chores, we headed back to shore. The sun was already hot on our backs as we climbed the hill toting two large duffels of dirty clothes to the little black lady in The Blue Store. She runs the market and does all of the laundry while her husband sleeps on the stoop or weaves small change purses out of palm fronds.

Then we walked around to the west end of the island, over a bridge that spanned a small creek to the third store, purported to carry marine supplies. We were not the first to arrive at the locked screen door. Soon more people came and waited. Finally, someone went and roused the proprietor from his house to let us in. Wayne was in search of stainless steel bolts, and the one-armed storekeeper held the tiny cardboard boxes tightly against his chest with his stump, while picking through the hardware with his only hand. He guffawed at Wayne’s jokes. His teeth looked huge and white against his black face. Turns out they didn’t have the screws Wayne needed, but I bought two cans of New Zealand butter, no refrigeration required until opened.

On the way back to the beach we walked over the crest of the hill, and spotted a pale pink stucco church—so pretty, we had to pause just a moment to admire it. The front portal had identical arched openings on either side, so that from the hill, it formed a window to the blue green waters beyond.

At the bottom of the hill, we passed the church and the road turned to parallel the beach. Through the trees we could hear children playing. “Marco…Polo…Marco…Polo.”

I drifted back to the suburban neighborhood where I spent my pre-teen and teen years. It was considered waterfront, because it was on a wide creek, but only the very brave or the very foolish would dip into Marley Creek’s polluted waters. Instead, we spent our summers at the pool, and each summer I heard those words a million times---Marco…Polo…Marco…Polo. The community was ostentatiously called “Country Club Estates,” but was really a middle-class, blue-collar neighborhood, a misnomer not unlike the “Staniel Cay Yacht Club.”

Shopping over, we dragged our inflatable, named Fido (after our now-deceased Persian cat) up onto the beach under the shade of the casarinas. Wayne removed the outboard and placed it on a tarp. We flipped the boat over, and scraped barnacles from her bottom.

“I thought I was finished cleaning Fido’s bottom,” Wayne joked, and anyone who’s had an old long-haired cat will know what he was referring to.

Concerning my bottom, I got the tan on the back of my thighs, not by lying on a sandy, white, Caribbean beach, but by bending over and scraping.

While we are on the subject of bottoms, I can’t get into the dinghy after snorkeling. Seems my upper body strength is inadequate and my center of gravity is too low in the water. The last attempt, I thought Wayne was going to dislocate my shoulder pulling me into the boat, and if our hands had slipped, he would’ve toppled over backwards. So when Fido’s bottom was smooth as a baby’s and we returned to the Ella McQuaid, Wayne installed a ladder on the dinghy, while I did pull ups and chin ups from the swim platform in the warm, clear water.

Sunday - Mother's Day

What a day! Those who know me well, know I’m a big chicken at heart. I’m not a thrill seeker. I’ve never sky-dived, bungee-jumped or eaten a grub. Roller coasters make me as sick as horror movies. Being scared to death does not make me feel more alive. But today…today I conquered two fears and performed one amazing feat of athletic prowess.

The plan was to go to the grotto, but on the way back to the boat to deposit our clean laundry and pick up snorkel gear, the outboard stalled. Another cruiser spotted us rowing against the current, and was kind enough to tow us to our boat. Wayne spent three hours in the scorching sun, messing with spark plugs before disassembling the carburetor, then putting it back together. He pulled the cord, and it came to life.

We motored around to the entrance of the cave and tied our boat to a mooring ball. The rock, the size of a football field, was eroded, holey, and jagged. It rose thirty feet above sea-level and was capped with a web of green vines.

Fear # 1

One of my two fears was that if we didn’t visit the site at low tide, I wouldn’t be able to swim under the ledge into the cave, and my concern was reinforced as there was another woman there who seemed to be having the same problem. I’d carefully planned the perfect time for our visit when the tide was low and slack, but we’d been delayed by three hours with the outboard ordeal. Now the rock loomed in front of me, a giant obstacle, as I bounced gently in the little rubber boat.

Apprehensively, I put on my mask and flippers and dropped over the edge of the boat into water cooled by the shade of the big rock. I began swimming towards it. Fish appeared before my mask, darting back and forth to take me in, both literally and figuratively. Immediately enthralled by the sights, I paddled slowly looking at fish and coral, stopping abruptly when I bumped my head on the rock.

I had no way of knowing how far I would have to swim underwater to get into the cave, and I was afraid to try. What if I got halfway and ran out of air? Furthermore, I am really buoyant. What if I floated up and scraped my back on the craggy rocks, or worse yet what if there were mussels, or barnacles, or, even worse, something slimy growing there? I swam along the edge looking for a taller opening.

To my left I saw a large boulder that looked like it‘d been pulled away from the rock, just like the one from Sunday School pictures of Jesus’ tomb. I inched my way between the boulder and the rock, trying not to touch either and terrified at what might be lurking around the corner. Lo and behold, I found a tall entrance and I swam right in.

Oh, the sight of it! Our exclamations echoed from the twenty-five foot ceiling. Openings above our heads let in shafts of bright sunlight. It was like being inside a huge igloo. I treaded water and did a slow 180. A cormorant looked down at us from a hole in the ceiling, his cheeks quivering to cool his body. A few stalactites were forming on the sides where the walls sloped down to water level. At the opposite end of the cave, the ceiling lowered to ten feet forming a dark tunnel, a thin line of light at the end. Under water, the thin line ballooned into a round glowing blue portal to the outside. In it, I could see the shadows of fish and an occasional glint of silver, then the black silhouette of a barracuda hovering there, like he was guarding the door.

The other snorkelers left and we had the place to ourselves. Wayne took pictures with an underwater camera, while I explored. Note from 2009: I have no idea what happened to those pictures. Beneath the surface, streams of light from above were yellow moonbeams illuminating every bubble and every bit of plankton, like snow crystals flying about in headlights. Shimmering fish were dancers on a stage, all shapes and sizes and colors. They darted in and out of the spotlight, against a backdrop of coral and sea plants. Bob Mackie couldn’t have designed such beautiful costumes.

Outside, we explored the rock face. I cautiously inched into a crevice, and as my iris adjusted, large yellowtail emerged from the darkness. They were lined up in rows and columns against the black wall. I backed out, and saw the iridescent blue, green, and yellow of a queen angelfish, then the distinctive shape and black and gold of a French angel. She was as big as a cookie sheet, and floated upside down, as she feasted on sponges.

Exhausted, but exhilarated, we swam back to the dinghy only to discover that we'd forgotten to attach the ladder to its shiny new brackets.

Amazing Feat of Athletic Prowess

Take my hand,” Wayne said, reaching out to me.

“No!” I said, “I can do it!” I hate being pulled and pushed back into the boat. It makes me feel like a beached whale.

I pushed with my flippers, my torso rose from the water, but I didn’t have the strength in my arms to push up and pull myself over the edge. I tried putting a leg in first, but as I grasped for something inside the boat to hold on to, my other leg slid under the boat, and I cut my toe on the only barnacle we had missed. Both legs in didn’t work either. My bottom hung in the water like a rock in a sock. Wayne made me a loop of rope to step into. I took off my flippers, and inserted my foot, but the loop was too long and it kept swinging under the boat. Wayne made it shorter, but it felt like it was cutting a hole in my foot, as I pressed against it to stand. Finally, I put my flipper back on, inserted it into the loop, contracted my thigh muscle, and rose out of the water triumphantly. I dumped myself clumsily into the dinghy, a big satisfied grin on my face.

“I did it,” I shouted.

Wayne just looked on in wonder. What a patient man!

Our next mission was to 1) spear a fish for dinner, or 2) find conch for bait so that we could catch a fish for dinner. We motored over to the rocky edge of Staniel Cay and Wayne slid into the water holding a long yellow spear in his hand. He swam along the edge and I followed paddling the boat to keep up

Fear # 2

Unable to find a suitable prey, Wayne surfaced, removed his snorkel, and said, "Everything’s too small here. Start it up and tow me back towards the boat, but do a zig zag pattern so we cover lots of ground."

I grimaced like a characture of a person, my neck muscles clenched, my lips spread and pressed against my teeth.

He looked at me with a face that said, "For God’s sake, stop acting like a woman." I really didn't want to do it. I’m more comfortable driving Ella, the big boat, then Fido the little dinghy. I was afraid that I’d give it more gas instead of less, turn the wrong way, or in a panic shove the gear into reverse instead of forward, chopping Wayne into shark bait with the prop. This is not an unfounded fear. I’m the one who jumps up and down and squeals when the toaster catches on fire. I’m the one who once shoved our old seventeen-foot boat into forward instead of reverse and cracked the hull into the dock. Of course that was after an early morning of crabbing in the Chesapeake Bay with my best friend and two thermos jugs full off bloody marys, but the memory still haunts me.

I can do this, I said to myself. I took a deep breath and slid the boat into gear. I pulled Wayne along, stopping when he let go of the rope and dove. He came up with handfuls of conch. I threw the smaller ones back in, kept the larger until we had four decent size conch for bait. Our mission was accomplished without the use of a tourniquet and with me smoothly guiding Fido to the swim platform.

Back at the boat, Wayne, with hatchet in hand, went through his tapping and slitting routine, until all animals were removed from their shells, but by this time it was too late to go fishing. So we went out to dinner, this time at the Yacht Club. The perfect ending to a perfect Mother's Day.