Wednesday, May 21, 2003
An anchored boat almost always points into the wind like a kite on a string. Generally, the waves come from the same direction. If winds are high, the boat seesaws from bow to stern, and once you have your sea legs you can adjust and move about the boat with ease. This was not the case when we woke up this morning. The wind tried to hold us to the east while fighting a rude surge of rollers from the north. The boat swung on the anchor rode like a yo-yo and teetered in every direction.
I just wanted to curl up with a good book, let the boat rock me to sleep, and miraculously awaken with gas tanks full, light wind, and calm seas, but we were on a mission to determine exactly how bad this predicament was. We went about the morning’s activities like zombies, emotionless and focused.
Wayne began by checking the dipsticks for a gas level. After all of our calculations, we were beginning to distrust our electronic fuel gauges. The port engine tank appeared to be twenty percent full, the other ten percent. That would be approximately thirty-eight gallons in one tank and nineteen in the other. That fifty-seven gallons of fuel would take us fifty miles in near perfect conditions. We were seventy-five miles from Provo. We wanted a hundred and fifty gallons of gas, twice what we needed. This would give us a suitable safety margin.
Let’s see, I thought, We need ninety gallons of fuel—divide that by six (that’s how much each gas can holds) six into nine goes one time---nine minus six equals three—six into thirty goes five times---FIFTEEN CANS!
“How much is in the generator tank?” I asked.
It was less than half full, perhaps thirty to forty gallons.
“Can we siphon it?” I asked.
Wayne raised his eyebrows. “We?”
"Well, you."
He lifted the heavy fiberglass hatch cover from the deck, and lowered his narrow hips into a small space between the generator and tank. Using a gas ball, some clamps, and a hose, he rigged his siphon, then started sucking the air out of the hose. Gasoline touched his lips, but he couldn’t get it flowing.
“PFFFT,” he spat. The sour look on his face turned pensive. “You know? I think I have a hand pump—somewhere.” He squeezed out of his hole saying, “Maybe under the bed."
Under the bed is NEVER any fun. That’s where we stash the things we once thought we couldn’t live without. The foam mattress is six inches thick and double-sized. I held one end towards the ceiling, pushing up with both hands, my arms extended. Wayne curled it further back with his head and removed one of the big wooden covers. The boat rocked and rolled. To get what you need, you have to remove everything that is on top—boxes of art supplies and toiletries, bags of winter clothes, a laser printer, a metal detector, a tent.
“I think it’s in that plastic bin,” Wayne panted. Chris jumped in and sprawled on the lid.
“Get outta of there!” I hissed, my arms tired from holding the weight over my head.
Wayne fumbled through the bin like a woman at a sock sale. “Here it is!” He said.
I waited, holding the mattress, until he put everything back in place, then let it flop down on the wooden frame.
Back at the generator tank, Wayne tried to slide the intake hose into the tank, but it kept stopping, blocked by something. He changed the angle, went fast, went slow.
“What do you need?” I asked as Wayne climbed the ladder.
“Wire ties,” he answered.
They were stored under the cushions on the bridge. He tied the hose to the dipstick, and after several reties and retries, the hose lowered to the bottom of the tank. He pumped the gasoline, six ounces with each pump. That was until it started leaking.
Holding the rag around the pump, he continued.
“Let me do it,” I suggested.
“Nope,” Wayne said, “then I can’t be a martyr.
“Swoosh! Swoosh” went the pump “Swoosh…Swoosh…Click…Click..." It had stopped pumping. I sat and watched Wayne disassemble the pump. The sun was rising high in the sky, and Wayne’s brown back was now glistening with sweat. Another hatch came up from the deck, the opening and closing of tool boxes. Wayne reappeared with his lifetime supply of O rings.
Finally...“I can’t fix it,” he said, holding up a broken piece of plastic.
My mind raced. “How about that electric pump you use to change the oil?” I offered.
“Might work,” he said.
We moved the green chair into the corner, moved the coffee table to the wall, and lifted one of the big teak and holly hatches that give access to the engine room. Wayne emerged with the pump, and one end of a long set of jumper cables. Finally, he pumped out thirty gallons of gasoline, and poured them into the engine tanks.
The gauge showed thirty percent on each tank. The dipsticks showed twenty-five to thirty. They were difficult to read because the gas was sloshing around in the tanks as the boat rocked, and besides, it’s a clear liquid on a stainless steel stick. We guessed we had eighty-five to ninety gallons of gas, but we really weren’t sure of anything at this point.
The settlement of Abraham Bay on Mayaguana’s southern shore was where we could get fuel. Not at the fuel dock on Betsy Bay—the one on the chart—the one I was counting on.
We put the boat back together, and pulled up anchor. It was stuck behind a rock. The steel bent, rendering it nearly useless.
We traveled the fifteen miles around Devil’s Point, past Stark Bay to Abraham Bay. Unlike the deep water of Myaguana’s west coast, this large bay is shallow, bordered by a reef and full of rocks and coral. We opted for the safer eastern entrance and eased our way between two breaking reefs into the bay, then snaked our way in trying to get as close as possible to the village. Taking turns at the helm and bow, we checked the depth sounder and chart and the clear calm water for signs of danger and a good sandy bottom. We circled and wove for an hour, before finally anchoring next to two sailboats about a mile off shore.
The wind picked up and the current was strong. It was clear that relying on our dinghy to take us to shore would be foolish. Tomorrow, we would hope for calm water, or perhaps bum a ride to town.
I was making Wahoo Italiano for dinner, and when Wayne got me a bottle of white instead of red from our wine cellar/engine room, I went down into the 110 degree cavern and groped around in a dark corner for a more appropriate vintage. Suddenly, it got very dark and very hot. Wayne had put the hatch cover on, and I heard his muffled voice saying, “Haven’t you read Edgar Allen Poe?” Then snickering.
“Let me out of here, you freak!” I screamed, banging on the hatch. Guess it was time to take his St. John’s Wort.
Thursday, May 22, 2003
This morning seas were even rougher. In this kind of weather, you never see the sail boater. He hides in his cave, unless he hears a boat approaching too close, then pokes his head out of his hole like a prairie dog. We can see all around our boat through the big windows of our spacious salon. When we spotted a local skiff, we went out on the deck and waved it over.
“Good Mornin',” Wayne said. “We’re in a little trouble, and want to hire a boat to bring cans of gasoline out here."
“Gas?” the tall one questioned.
“Yeh,” Wayne said, “We’re headed to Provo and we don’t have enough to get there."
The three black men shook their heads in pity. “Ya cood hire da boat,” the tall one spoke again, “but dere no gas in Abra’m Bay."
“There’s not a gas station?!” I said. Amazed.
They looked at each other and laughed without smiling. “No, but da mail boat she comin’ wid gas."
"Oh,” I uttered. Relieved. “When?”
Sat’day, er Sunday, er Monday.” They looked at each other in agreement. Turns out the mail boat was supposed to make a weekly visit, but it hadn’t come for nearly a month.
“I see what I do fo’ ya,” the tall man said, “afta fishin'."
Hours passed before he returned. He was alone this time. His cousin was waiting on shore in his van, and they would drive us around the three settlements that spread over Mayaguana’s hundred and forty square miles in search of gasoline. His cousin wanted $35.00 for the effort.
We quickly gathered our belongings and stepped from our swim platform into the bouncing skiff. Sitting on a board that spanned the boat, off we went over the shallow water at top speed. Our driver stood behind us. He was a tall, muscular man with a flat nose, and a square jaw. The tiny cornrows that covered his head glistened in the sun.
“I’m Wayne and this is Leah,” Wayne shouted back to him.
“Dey call me ‘Smokey’, cuz all da ganja I smoke,” he said, smiling for the first time.
He guided the boat through a narrow channel, marked with a white stick stuck in the mud, sped past a jetty to a small beach, where the previous inhabitants of the skiff were cleaning huge conch. They’d picked up hundreds. A fourth man was hauling bonefish from his boat and slapping them on the shore.
“Why you take so many, dere?” Smokey snarled at him. He had a lot more to say about it, but I could only understand half of it. The essence was that the fisherman should not take more bonefish than he can eat. Bonefish bring tourists. I looked around at the desolate landscape, the muddy beach, and couldn’t imagine tourists on Mayaguana.
Mayaguana once had a population of three thousand, but after a US missile tracking station was abandoned, the population fell to five hundred. Those remaining are divided between three settlements, Abraham Bay (the largest) in the south, Betsy Bay on the west coast, and Pirate Wells in the north. The fuel dock I’d seen on the chart is now dilapidated. It once provided dockage for ships bringing in fuel for a United State Air Force tank farm. Inland, only a few thousand feet remain active of an eleven-thousand foot runway. Bahamasair uses it twice a week to touch down on flights between Nassau and points south.
Smokey’s cousin, Shabby, waited in a rusty, windowless van. I climbed into the front seat, next to the chubby driver, and Wayne perched on a wheel well in the back across from Smokey. We took off up the dusty road, and commenced our grand tour of their island. Music, a combination of Caribbean, rap, and latino blared from the speakers. Loose tools rolled and rattled around in the back of the truck, as we bounced over the bumpy roads. The engine whined as Shabby shifted gears.
“ThizyofuzvizitttoMyaguana?” Shabby shouted at me over the din.
“Pardon?” I shouted back.
“ThizyofuzvizitttoMyaguana?” He said louder and faster.
“What?” I bellowed.
“Is dis yo' fust visit ta My’guana?” He enunciated.
“Oh, yes.”
Smokey and Shabby each lit up big cigars full of wacky weed.
“You smoke?” Smokey asked Wayne, pointing his in Wayne’s direction.
“No thanks,” Wayne said. “I used to, but not anymore. It makes me stupid, but Leah might want some.”
What's he implying? I thought.
“Dis don’t make ya stupid, here, it make ya smart,” Smokey said laughing. He raised from his metal seat to hand me the stogie.
I took it. When in Rome, I thought, holding it to my lips and inhaling the fragrant smoke. As I exhaled slowly, the top of my head seemed to lift. When my forehead came back down and rested on the bridge of my nose, a rush of warmth began in my toes and worked its way back up again. I tried to relax and enjoy, but became so self-aware that I FORGOT HOW TO BREATH.
Smokey and Shabby talked louder and faster. Their voices rose over the cacophony, but no matter how hard I tried I could no longer understand a word they said. I sat in my sticky, vinyl seat and kept my mouth shut for fear of what words or sounds might tumble out. Remembering why I hadn’t smoked in a long time, paranoia crept up on me like an unfounded shadow, then faded away, then came back. One minute, I convinced myself that Smokey and Shabby were going to take us out in the bush and chop us into tiny pieces, the next I laughed at myself for having such bizarre thoughts. I knew it was the drug and that it would all pass, but I grew tired of the running commentary in my own head. They offered me more, but I declined.
We stopped at houses, and Shabby and Smokey shouted out the windows asking about gas. They pounded on screened doors like angry cops. At one house, Shabby picked up a machete from the front porch and started swinging it around, while talking to the inhabitant.This is it! I thought. He has chosen his weapon. But he put it down, came back to the truck and we continued speeding over the paved road to the next town.
In Betsy Bay, the store was a filthy eight by ten room attached to the proprietor’s house. Shabby went in with us. The old man who owned the store did not return our hopeful smiles. He eyed our white faces suspiciously, then stepped outside and started shouting something unintelligible at Smokey. His angry voice brought the neighbors out. They looked at us curiously and laughed at the old man. It seemed obvious to me that even if he had gas, he would not be giving it to us. I guess that was why Smokey tried to hide in the truck. We bought four beers.
We continued on the paved road that lead from Betsy Bay, past miles of dense low-growing forest. When the road ended at the beach, we made a right into Pirate Wells. This tiny settlement, not much more than a few blocks on one street, looked out over the blended pastels of shallow water. We road past a freshly-painted “Welcome to Pirate Wells” sign and a pretty one-storied hotel, but there were no visitors in sight. As a matter of fact, there were no people in sight, at all.
Smokey roused the local barkeep from his home, and he opened the doors to his establishment. It was a large room, unencumbered by furnishings, except for one small table with a stereo on it and church pews that lined the walls. In the corner was a wooden bar, the size of one you might find in a basement den. Two shelves were mounted behind it. Twenty polished bottles of rum—all the same type—stood on the bottom shelf like soldiers. Assorted liquors, none familiar to me, lined the top shelf. No gas here, but we bought four more beers.
We continued, banging on more tattered screen doors and shouting out windows.
When we turned off the paved road onto the abandoned runway, I thought, Oh! This is it! This is where they are going to rob and rape us, but it was just a shortcut back to Abraham Bay. There was no gas to be had in all of Myaguana.
Back at the boat, I stripped off all of my clothes and lay on the bed. Cool air from the front hatch flowed over me evaporating the perspiration from my body, and the dragons from my head. I would not make that mistake again.
As for the gas, it’s time to enact Plan B. When the mail boat arrives, Smokey and Shabby will get us three twenty-gallon tanks of gasoline, and they’ll deliver it right to our boat. For a price, of course.
The Turks and Caicos dangle like a carrot fifty-five miles to our Southeast, and we can’t get there, at least not for a while. Gotta wait for the mail boat. And it’s pretty much all my fault. Drat! I hate not being perfect.
Friday morning, 4:30 am
I’ve been sitting at my computer writing these words. Wayne is snoring quietly, and Chris is sprawled next to him. Neither awakened when a rain shower came through, and I dashed about closing hatches and windows to keep the fine cool mist from blowing in and settling on everything in the boat. The waves are sloshing up against the splash rails making the normal racket in the stateroom, so I’ll try to sleep on the sofa, and hope tomorrow brings calmer winds and seas (in our anchorage) and perhaps a mail boat.
