Sunday, May 18, 2003
We awoke early to make the forty-five mile run to Clarencetown, Long Island. Similar to the Gulf Stream, the Antilles Current runs through these waters creating a surge towards the northwest. We were heading almost due south, so once again waves crashed against our bow.
It was going to be a long day. I began reading to Wayne, but after forty-five minutes or so, queasiness set in. The only cure I know for sea sickness, short of downing two Dramamine and sleeping all day, is to drive, and so I did. My ankles, knees, hips, and waist were gimbaled, as I flexed and contracted muscles to absorb the movement and impact of the waves. They were getting bigger and my workout was getting more challenging. I intermittently practiced holding in my stomach. Gotta get into that two piece.
Wayne went to the deck to put out two trolling rods, which peaked Chris’ attention enough to bring him out of his hiding place behind the stateroom door, in spite of the size of the waves. Wayne let out yards and yards of line until we could see the brightly-color lures diving down, then skittering across our wake. Rods placed firmly in holder, he put a clip on the portside line to keep it near the top of the water. If a fish hits, the clip rwould release the line, allowing him to reel it in.
Wayne and Chris sat at the top of the ladder and watched the rods for a while, then Chris returned to his hiding place, and Wayne to a chair on the bridge. I stayed at the helm, struggling to stay on course with a heading of 170 degrees. If I veered to 150, we moved easily over the big rollers. If I veered to 210, they seemed to push us along. But at 170, we tossed and turned, one side up in the air, the other in a trough, while still another wave crashed against the side of the boat, sending a salty spray across the bow. I drove for hours. The water, sometimes over 7000 foot deep, was the color of deep purple silk. Beautiful! Boooooring!
“Log,” I said as one floated by.
“Plastic jug,” I added a while later.
“Weedline—broken up.” It was like driving down the interstate and saying out loud, “cow…goats….humvee…cop.”
Wayne didn’t seem to be too interested in my one and two word interjections. He slumped in his chair, his feet splayed on the dashboard to keep balance. He closed his eyes.
“Oh!” I cried out.
His eyes flew open. “What?”
“I thought I heard a fish on.” I listened to the roar of the waves and the big engines and heard nothing unusual. “Guess not,” I said.
Wayne closed his eyes again.
I looked back at the stern. The clip on the portside line sprang free, and I could hear the zill of the line running off the reel.
“Wayne! Fish on! Fish on!” I bellowed.
Wayne jumped up, hurried down the ladder, and started reeling. I dropped back on the throttle. Chris came up to watch. Wayne spread his legs to keep balance in the bouncing boat and pulled back on the thick rod, bending it like a bow, then reeled fast and hard as he lowered the rod, then pulled back again until he brought a wahoo to the side of the boat. He expertly gaffed the fish and flopped it bleeding onto the deck. Chris watched from the bottom of the ladder. You can see him in the shadow.
Fish in boat, I slowly brought the engines back up to 2000 RPMs being careful to synchronize them.
“Leah!” Wayne shouted up to me over the din. “I think there’s a fish on the other line!”
He was right. Soon enough another Wahoo lay bleeding on the deck. They looked enormous to me after all the small fish we’d been catching. One was nearly four-foot long, but they were small by wahoo standards. Still, they represented meals of fresh meat in the coming days.
Wayne cleaned the fish as we motored along. They were too big for the bait tray, so he tried squatting on the swim platform. It teetered in the rough water, and the fish kept sliding as Wayne tried to filet it. Rather than lose the fish in the churn of our wake, or worse yet a finger, or even worse an entire husband, he decided to clean the fish on the deck. When he finished our sparkling white deck was covered with blood. Chris was afraid of the big fish and observed from the cabin door, retreating when Wayne started dumping buckets of salt water on the deck to clean it.
Fourteen miles out, I could see our destination. And while Wayne napped, we moved closer and closer until I spotted the spires of the two churches that were built by Father Jerome nearly a hundred years ago. Jerome, an architect turned Anglican priest, came to the Bahamas in 1908 in a missionary effort to rebuild small wooden churches that did not fare well in the high winds of tropical storms and hurricanes. He built the first church. It was the pride of the Bahamas because of its beauty and size. He then moved on to other islands. When he returned to Long Island, he’d converted to Catholicism. He built the second church even grander than the first. It sits high atop a hill with two white spires on either side of a bright blue door, and it seems to look down lovingly on the small village of Clarencetown.
When anchored securely, we feasted on tossed salad, grilled wahoo, spinach noodles, steamed brocoli and lime hollandaise sauce. Then we sat on the deck contently, our bellies full, staring at the clouds. Wayne saw a goat chasing a hummingbird. I saw a line of tennis shoes. Slowly, the sky darkened, and we watched the sun set, streaks of red and pink and blue brushed across the clouds.
Chris checked all of the rods stored in the holders, checked the bait tray, and followed me around whenever I got up, until I finally threw a line over just to appease him. He thinks we should be fishing every night and perhaps we should.
Monday, May 19, 2003 A Bad Poem about a Bad Day!
Checked the weather
Eight foot seas
Spend the day
In the island’s lee.
Boat chores done
By two o’clock
Go to town
Our shelves to stock.
Outboard motor
Will not start
Cancel trip
To grocery mart.
Cat has scratched
A hole in wall,
Sorry we did
Not declaw.
Cranky husband
Cranky wife
Oh, we love this
Cruising life.
After nap time
Hours later
Husband works on
Carburetor.
Breaks it down to
Thirty parts
Reassembles
Still won’t start.
Spark plugs fouled
Don’t know why
Insert new ones
And retry.
Pull the cord
Motor hums
Clarencetown
Here we come!
Halfway there
Engine stops
Row the boat to
Marina dock.
Buy some spark plugs
Have a beer
Buy some bread
We’re out of here.
Fiddle faddle
Til it starts
Hurry home
Before its dark.
Eat our dinner
Can not wait
Go to bed
Asleep by eight.
Didn’t hike
Didn’t fish
Saw no blue hole
As we wished.
Only good thing
I can say
Tomorrow is
Another day.
The blue hole we didn't see...
