It's Too Rough to Feed You!

Tuesday, May 27, 2003

Yesterday, seas were supposed to be eight feet, so we stayed one more day at Mayaguana. Today, seas were supposed to be two to four, but when we checked the weather this morning, it had changed to four to six. No problem! We were ready to leave this island and get to civilization.

We pulled up anchor, took one last look at Mayaguana's shores, and motored slowly towards the narrow cut. Water broke on the shallow reef that surrounded the bay. I stood on the bow pulpit, guiding Wayne away from brown and black spots. As we entered the cut, huge rollers took the bow of the boat high in the air, then dipped it down into the sea. I held on to the railing, knees flexing in grand plies. When we were clear, I inched back around the boat and up the ladder to the bridge.

We were not en route more than twenty minutes before we knew that these seas were not 4 to 6 feet, but more than we’d ever experienced. Our boat, that seemed so huge when we were pulling into a slip, suddenly felt very small. We crossed water like choppy mountains, some 8 to 10 feet tall. On the top of the larger ones, we had to steer to the left or right to surf along the crest, then slide into the trough. If we didn’t ride the wave just right, the bow crashed down, jolted our bodies, rattled the boat, and sent a spray of salt and water onto the wind shield—that was the windshield on the flying bridge, not the one below. Moving about the boat was impossible, and sitting was unbearable. I tried, tightened muscles to stay on the seat, held on with both hands.

“Mind if I drive?” I asked.

The miles moved by slowly. And we had fifty-two to go. After an hour, I dreaded the thought that I’d have to endure this discomfort for seven more.

I looked down…49.5 miles to go, I noted. I am not going to look at that GPS until we have gone at least another mile, I vowed to myself. I drove and drove, then looked down..49.3 miles to go.

OK, we’re not the Kon Tiki, nor were we rounding Cape Horn, but in spite of the fact that we’d abided by our checklist, our boat was ill-prepared for this kind of water. A sailing vessel is close to the water, made to roll and right itself, and has built-in furniture. We’re sitting high atop the water in a boat that looks like its head is too big. We have a sofa, secretary, chair, and coffee table, rather than built in furniture.

Wayne went below, then came back and said, “Don’t go downstairs.”

“Why?”

"Because everything that could fall over, did.”

The day dragged on. And we were out of cigarettes. The boredom and stress increased my longing for nicotine, and as the withdrawal came in surges and then ebbed, then came again, so our conversation went from moody short-tempered sentences to laughter at our ridiculous behavior, back to growling.

"You’re speaking in Venetian,” Wayne half-joked.

I sneered at him. Fuck you, I thought.

“I’m hungry,” Wayne said.

“Well, fix something,” I shot back.

Wayne went below and retrieved peanuts and crackers.

Yum! I thought, this looks like a satisfying lunch.

“When I was down there” Wayne said, as he cracked open a peanut, “I kept thinking of the song, ‘The Edmond Fitzgerald.’”

“How’s that go?”

“It’s about a steel hauler on the Great Lakes. In the song, the cook came up and said, ‘Sorry boys, its too rough to feed ya’, then the hatches caved in and it sank.”

“Great! I half laughed. “What’s Chris doing?”

“I didn’t see him. Must be hiding”.

“He didn’t even come out when you got the food,” I munched on a dry Stoned Wheat Thin.

“No. He must be terrorized. I wonder if it’s fair to subject him to this.”

“Poor kitty,” I agreed.

Moody hours crawled by. The muscles in my neck and shoulders felt as if someone had pulled them all up together, and then wrung them like a wash rag, leaving them that way. Wayne's injured and surgically repaired knees ached from the lateral motion.

In the afternoon, the water finally subsided a little. Wayne lay down on the bench, holding on with his hands and feet, and actually took a nap. Squinting at the horizon for over an hour, I finally saw two gray humps.

"Condo Ho!" I shouted.

We were still two hours away, but our mood improved as we drew near. Like Mayaguana's southern shore, the northern shore of Provo is bordered by a barrier reef. Once we were within two miles of land, we followed the long white line of breaking surf for six miles until we reached Stellar Cut, our point of entry into Grace Bay. We were finally there.

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“Look!,” Wayne said pointing out over the water. “Red and green markers, just like the good ol’ USA.” He steered between them and followed the channel to each subsequent set. They formed a narrow highway through brown patches of rocks and big black coral heads that dotted the bay.

I returned to my position at the bow resisting the temptation to peek inside the cabin, and only once did we stray from the channel. Wayne saw the depth go from six feet to three. We draw three and a half. He slid the motors into neutral and held his breath as we drifted over the shallow water.

Now, where to anchor. We’d headed toward Turtle Cove Marina, because when my family arrived, we planned to park our boat there, but we couldn’t drop the hook just anywhere. Much of Grace Bay is a park and no anchoring is allowed. Finally, we decided to anchor just outside the canal that leads to the marina, hoping we were outside the park boundaries.

The wind and current were strong, and I tried to keep the bow into the wind while Wayne dropped the big claw anchor. It dragged across the bottom, making a visible white line where it plowed through the turtle grass. I felt sick. Wayne put on snorkel and fins, dove into the clear green water, and swam down the anchor line to check the holding. It lay across the bottom holding only because of its weight. He dove down again and tried to set the anchor. Then back on the boat, we tried to set the danforth anchor—the one bent on the rock in Betsy Bay. We were tired and salty and cigarette-less.

“Keep the bow into the wind,” he shouted as I fought the wheel.

“I’m trying,” I screamed in frustration.

“Don’t pull out the other anchor,” he bellowed angrily.

“I’m doing my best,” I shouted into the wind.

Somehow we got anchored. Wayne cut off the engines from the lower steering console, and I just sat at the helm, numb, staring at nothing, letting my muscles relax, and periodically checking the GPS to see if we were holding firm. While Wayne put the outboard on the inflatable, I began to move about the bridge methodically—slow motion, gathering up the day’s accoutrements—laptop, charts, crackers, sun-glasses.

I didn’t want to look downstairs, but the time had come to descend the ladder and face it. I turned the corner to peek inside. The rope meant to hold the secretary in place had broken, and it lay on its face on our fine wood floor, the books stored on top were strewn. The brackets that held the sofa to the wall had broken loose and it was shoved up against the chair and coffee table, all three pushed haphazardly into the middle of the room. The plexiglass dining table cover had slid onto the floor. I cautiously stepped over the books and furniture and descended the steps to the galley. Cabinets were open; a bottle of hot sauce rolled on the floor. Cookbooks had slid off of the shelves. In our stateroom, there was water on the floor, and Chris finally came forward

“Merrroowwww”, he complained. His entire back end was soaked, his gray tail stuck out like a wet, tapered spike.

In our stateroom, three walls are covered with a long bookcase, where we store a few hundred books. Almost all of the books were on the bed and floor, their spines and pages twisted like the broken arms and legs of corpses, covers torn and wet.

I said nothing and went to work putting our home back together. I wanted it to shift from reality to memory as quickly as possible. Wayne motored into the Marina in anticipation of acquiring the papers necessary to clear Customs and Immigration.

I’d almost finished (except for the books) when Wayne returned with a pack of cigarettes, a smile on his face, and said "Wash up! We’re going out to dinner.”

A happier woman was not to be found on Provo that windy evening. We sat on the porch of the Banana Boat Caribbean Grill overlooking an upscale marina, sipped a cocktail, and ate a fine meal. The waitress was friendly and fast. Oh civilization! How I missed you. I’m sorry I wanted to travel off the beaten path! I’m sorry I wanted to visit small villages and eat greasy Bahamian food! I’m glad to be here among the un-tanned bodies of tourists! Oh civilization! I’m glad you’re here when I need you.

Relaxing dockside, I suggested that we move into the Marina the next day, instead of waiting until June 2nd when my mom, daughter, and her boyfriend arrive by plane. I’m tired of “roughing it”. It’s been thirty-seven days since we left Miami. I was afraid Wayne would say no, but he agreed and I am very happy.

Wednesday, May 28, 2003

This morning I read in the cruising guide that it’s illegal to anchor in anything but sand in a park or reserve, and we could not tell from the chart whether we were close enough to shore to be outside the park boundaries. Unlike the Bahamas, the Turks and Caicos are very serious about preserving their natural resources. Much of the land and sea is designated as park or reserve, and it’s heavily patrolled by rangers to enforce the restrictions on use. Restrictions vary from the anchoring rules mentioned above to no fishing, and no spear-fishing. Breaking the law could mean fines, imprisonment, and even the forfeiture of our vessel.

Not sure as to whether we were in violation or not, we hurriedly raised our anchors before the park rangers motored out into the bay and spotted us. Then we wound our way down the narrow canal into Turtle Cove, and parked the now big boat at the fuel dock. The dock master gave Wayne the Custom's and Immigration papers. We filled them out and waited for an hour and a half for the custom's official to arrive. A park ranger pulled up and chatted with the dock master. Wayne sat in the green arm chair, his body stiff like a board.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

He just shook his head.

“Are you worried about customs boarding the boat?” He nodded.

“Are you worried about those park rangers?” He nodded.

“Are you worried about the guns?” We had to turn them over to Customs until we left. He nodded.

“Must be your guilty conscious.” I laughed, but I couldn’t get him to smile. He just sat.

Finally, at 9:45 the Custom's official arrived with his big black sensible shoes, his white shirt buttoned close to his neck, and a large worn leather briefcase. He sat on the sofa, read our forms, got out his inkpad and stamped our passports. He was all business and refused the cold drink Wayne offered him. Wayne sat silent in the green chair, the long black Mosberg case and the green army satchel holding the two handguns at his side on the floor in plain site. The stern-faced custom's official gave us a map, and only after I asked him about local eateries (not where the tourists go) did he finally lighten up.

He was about to leave when Wayne asked hesitantly, "Uh, what about the guns?"

The custom's official looked sheepish, and said, "Oh, I forgot to ask."

Before long he was gone with our weapons. He didn’t search our boat, didn’t ask about the cat, and we weren’t arrested by the park service. All was well.

We gassed up, decided on a slip, motored around the cove, and parked our dirty, salty boat next to a huge yacht right in front of the Banana Boat Caribbean Grill. We docked on the harbor walk, a boardwalk that passes bars and restaurants, hotels and apartments on the land side, and mega yachts, charter and dive boats on the cove side.

Tuesday, May 27, 2003
The raising of two anchors, two dockings, one departure from dock, one custom's official—all before noon. No calamities, but so much stress for poor Wayne. He played strategy games on the computer and I served him egg sandwiches, then read and napped until late afternoon.

When the sun was lower in the sky and cooler night air was eminent, we walked the hilly road to the huge (by Caribbean standards), moderate (by American standards) IGA food market. It was probably lessthan two miles, but it was hot and the terrain was rough.

We had the ATM card, but very little cash. The market had a small deli and bakery, took credit cards, but did not give cash back. How would we get groceries back to the boat?

While I waited, Wayne made arrangements with a cabbie. He was waiting for his wife to finish shopping, then would drive us to the bank to access the ATM machine, and then to our boat.

We filled our cart with fresh fruit and vegetables, bread and cheese, then loaded it all into a cab, and headed down the busy Leaward Highway to the big shiny and brand-new Scotia Bank. I stood in line in an air-conditioned vestibule to use the ATM machine. Everyone else was walking away with piles of fifty-dollar bills, but three efforts on my part produced messages that read "We are sorry we cannot process your transaction at this time. Try again later." Why is nothing ever easy, I thought.
I gave up. Roy, the cabbie took us to our boat, and begrudgingly accepted eleven dollars—all the money we had.

Later, we headed the half a block along the harbor walk to the busy Tiki Hut restaurant where we sat at the bar drinking Miller Lite's on ice. This was one of the daily specials—2.50 each, instead of the usual 4.25. In addition, they offered the Wednesday night dinner special—salad, baby back ribs or chicken, bread, garlic mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables—all for $10.00. We split the special, chatted with another patron, then strolled in the warm air back to our boat.
Wayne held Chris and showed him all around, then placed him gently on the empty dock. He immediately turned around and jumped back onto the boat. Just like us, it may be miserable on this boat at times, but it is still our safe haven.

More from Mayaguana

Friday, May 23, 2003

Late in the morning, a wooden sailboat arrived in the anchorage, and it was not long before the young captain dinghied to our boat to inquire about tidal changes.

“We’re going to town shortly,” he said, “to check in.”

“Would you mind if we come along in our dinghy? Our outboard has a tendency to stall on us.” Wayne explained.

“Not at all. We’ll swing by.”

A half an hour later, our small parade was en-route. We beached our boats and traded travel stories and histories while climbing the dusty road to Abraham Bay, past low growing brush and weeds that grew out of a mucky swamp.

Ashley and Wendy, both in their twenties, were on their way from Antigua to the Chesapeake Bay. Here they had a buyer for their boat. But no problem. Last year they built another boat that was waiting for them in Martha’s Vineyard. Ashley is British. He bought the shell to their current vessel in England. It was built in 1903, but a restoration of the boat began before he was born, was passed from owner to owner, until Ashley purchased the boat and completed the project. He sailed it across the Atlantic with no motor and no electronics, except for a hand-held GPS.
Proving once again that this really is a small world we live in, we discovered that Wendy used to teach school in Anne Arundel County, Maryland. That’s where we lived in our former life. Wendy is a novice to sailing, but worked hand and hand with Ash building their new boat, The Sally B. Its design is based on a boilee, an old sailing ship in which the shrimpers boiled their catch on the way back to port.

After the boat project was complete (Amazingly, it took less than a year.), they christened it and got married in Martha’s Vineyard. Then, they sailed the old boat to the Annapolis Boat Show where it was exhibited, on to Antigua and up the island chain until our paths crossed in Mayaguana.

The first sign of civilization in the quiet, nearly deserted, village of Abraham Bay is a complex of small, yellow buildings that house customs, immigration, the commissioner’s office and the police department. I pictured the commissioner running from office to office changing his hat as he sat behind each desk.

While Ash and Wendy went to check in, we stopped in at Reggie’s Restaurant. The large room was filled with empty tables. A woman appeared in the door, then stepped behind the bar.

“Hi!, Wayne said. “Could we have a couple of Kaliks?”

“Sorry, we don’t have beer,” she said sounding truly regretful. I guess it is difficult for writers of cruising guides to keep up with the ever-changing small businesses in the Bahamas. Remember Reggie’s was supposed to be where you could get those strong drinks. There was no alcohol in sight and no Reggie.

The screen door opened. It was Ash and Wendy.

“The government offices are closed until Monday. We’re going to make a phone call, then we’ll meet you at the store”. Wendy said.

“Where’s the store?” I asked.

“Right over dere,” the woman pointed next door. “I open it up for you.”

We followed her into a large unpainted wooden shed. It was poorly lit and sparsely stocked, but I found a soggy head of iceberg lettuce and a few bruised tomatoes in the refrigerator. Ashley and Wendy arrived. The calling card they had bought in the British Virgin Islands didn’t work in the Bahamas.

Back out on the street, we looked around. It was a ghost town, not a single person on the street. There were no other businesses. Up the hill we could see a few blocks of small, stucco houses with dirt lawns.

In the distance we could hear hammering, and it got louder as we headed back to the beach. Then, we spotted Smokey—conch diver, fisherman, and now house builder.

“Hey, Smokey!” we called. The hammering stopped. He sauntered over, shirtless and shoeless, and we introduced him to our new friends.

“They’re coming over for a beer tonight. Wayne said, “Why don’t you come?”

“Okay,” he said, then added, “Dere’s no beer in Abraham Bay, and I had to drink rum all da day.”

We laughed, but he didn’t. He wasn’t kidding. He ran his hand over his sweaty cornrows. “I come when I finish dat porch and get cleaned up.”

Back at the boat, we napped, then prepared for our guests. Smokey was the first to arrive in his clean white Tee shirt, a thick gold chain and huge medallion around his neck. Mr. T would have lusted after it. Seems Smokey does quite well for himself, conch diving, fish spearing, house building, and who knows what else. He has never been married, but claimed to have lots of girl friends. He has seven children, each with a different mother.

“I used to mess ‘round, a lot,” he told us, “when I was young.”

I’d say, I thought.

Smokey talked about his family. His brother owns the store. He was building a house for his sister. Another brother fished with him.

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” Wayne asked.

“Fourteen—seven brothers, seven sisters.”

Smokey’s favorite topic of conversation is Smokey. He told us about a Haitian boat that crashed on the reef. He rescued all of the people, and the government paid him $5,000 for the effort.

“I free dive thirty-five feet, and come up with five conch.” He boasted.

I looked at his huge hands and believed him. “But how can you hold your breath so long with all of the ganja you smoke?” I asked.

“Smoking ganja help me hold long breaths.”

We laughed, but he didn’t. He wasn’t kidding.

Ash and Wendy arrived in their small homemade tender. We drank beer, and talked, and laughed until after dark, then cooked Wahoo on the grill and had a feast. Later that evening, a twenty-five foot powerboat made its way into the harbor. Smokey immediately went to talk to the captain and crew. They needed to be in Provo the next day. Smokey took them to his sister’s hotel, arranged for them to charter a plane the next day, and was given the keys to their boat to take care of it until they returned. Mo’ money for Smokey!

Our favorite cruising guide, On And Off The Beaten Path included a section called “A Sad Note About Mayaguana.” In it, Pavlides described a few Mayaguanians, who like their infamous ancestors, took advantage of cruisers who ran aground on the reef surrounding Abraham Bay. “These are the ways of the wreckers, an occupation one would think is dead in today’s Bahamas,” he wrote. I wondered if he was writing about Smokey and his cousin, Shabby. So far, I felt that they had treated us with nothing but kindness, but I remain cautious.

Saturday, May 24, 2003

We woke up with queasy stomachs and post-party heads as big as melons. We read and slept until five, then joined Ash and Wendy on their boat. Smokey, his brother-in-law and another cousin, their long black arms and legs draped over the cockpit, were drinking water glasses full of rum. We four white folks could not even look a beer in the eye. Wendy had prepared dinner for us, but Smokey invited us all to the Saturday night fish fry at the club.

Below, I helped Wendy in the galley. “I don’t really wanna go,” she said as she put away her pasta casserole and home baked bread, “I made all this food."

“It looks good,” I said, “but I think Ash wants to try out the native cuisine, and I feel obligated to accept Smokey’s invitation.”

She agreed, unenthusiastically.

The seven of us crowded onto Smokey’s bouncing skiff, and we tore off through the choppy water, then piled into the back of a pickup truck. We bounced up the hill to a private club, managed by one of Smokey’s sisters. A wooden bar overlooks the dance floor. Posters of American athletes taped to the walls. Smokey’s brother-in-law pulled speakers the size of refrigerator boxes to the middle of the tile floor. The music started. We checked out the empty dining room trying to escape the thundering bass. A big square table, centered in the room, was covered with a bright orange tablecloth. Groupings of yellow silk flowers decorated it. Off the dining room was a small kitchen where food and drinks could be purchased.

“Let’s go outside,” I shouted over the annoying music.

Our entourage moved toward the door. We watched as men and children arrived. Some of the men went inside and started dancing, laughing and shouting over the noise. Barefoot children ran in circles around them. White coral dust powdered their black feet and skinny legs.

Smokey left us to find beer in another settlement. No beer left in Abraham Bay. We waited. Four white faces, four hangovers, no place to sit, lots of bugs and no way home. A half hour passed. More men and children. They noted our presence, nodded their heads. No one went inside to eat.

“Well,” I said, “Should we eat or should we wait for Smokey?”

“Who knows how long he’ll be?” Wayne said. He swatted at a mosquito.

We moved in tandem, back into the almost impenetrable wall of music, then made our way to the kitchen counter. A large woman sweated over the big pans on the stove. She dished out plates of snapper (fried whole, complete with head and teeth), macaroni and cheese, and conch fritters. A can of Sprite from the cooler. The bill was $16.00 for the four of us. The music blared and wait ate alone in the dining room. I wondered if we were making some kind of cultural faux pax. It was a fish fry. Why wasn’t anyone eating?

“That was a nice light dinner,” Wayne said. He leaned back in his chair and puffed up his cheeks like a tuba player.

Back outside, we found the lot full of cars and trucks. The men crowded around the bed of a pickup, passing bottles of rum, shouting words I couldn’t understand. The air was thick with the marijuana smoke that curled from the ends of their big cigars.

I am sure everyone was as happy as I when Smokey returned. “Would you mind taking us back to our boats?” one of us asked.

He looked surprised. “Ya done one bear?” (Translation: You don’t want beer?)

“No, thank you,” we muttered.

Wayne and I sat in the front of the pickup with Smokey. “Where are all of the women?” I asked him.

“Dey comes later,” he replied, “after dey puts de children a bed. We done really start da party til leven er twelve."

All I could think about was taking my hangover to bed. How does he do it?

Sunday, May 25, 2003

This morning, the gas finally came. Smokey and Shabby pulled up at 9:30, and heaved three eighteen-gallon and one six gallon can of gas onto our deck.

“We can’t stay,” they shouted, “gotta go back to da mail boat”. And off they went, the bow of Smokey’s whaler high in the air.

Ash and Wendy were leaving, and we watched their preparations. They pulled up anchor, hoisted one sail and passed by us waving, big smiles on their attractive faces. They took off across the pale green water. Ash came down from his perch on the mast and raised the mainsail. It stiffened in the wind.



“I wish I discovered boats instead of motorcycles when I was twenty.” Wayne said as he watched the white sails billow against a blue sky.

We are still amazed whenever we think of this young, personable couple, sailing the ocean in a twenty-nine foot wooden boat with no motor. And whereas, we will sit here until the weather breaks and waves diminish, they are taking off in eight-foot seas without any qualms.

Later, Smokey and his friends stopped at our boat on the way back from a fishing trip. The small skiff was littered with snapper, conch, a turtle, and what they call “summer crabs” (lobster). They asked for a glass of rum, and gave us two lobster tails. Seems like everything is a trade-off here in Mayaguana.

Like everyone in Mayaguana, we were out of bread, but every cruising woman I meet makes bread. If they can do it, I can do it, I thought as I perused my tattered and stained copy of “The Joy of Cooking,” and decided on white bread using the traditional dough method, whatever that means.

First ingredient—flour.
“Now, where did I put the flour?” I muttered lifting the hatch from the galley floor and rummaging through cans of food and bags of rice. I put everything back, and closed the hatch.

“Must be under the steps.” I disassembled the step, lifted the hatch, grunting as I reached inside to remove crates of food and a cat, who couldn’t resist a new spot to explore.

“What are you doing?” Wayne asked from his nest on the sofa.

“Looking for the flour,” was my muffled reply, my head under the floor digging in another crate.

“Here, it is,” I said triumphantly, then repacked, rehatched, and replaced the step. I hope this is worth it, I thought. I was already working up a sweat.

Next ingredient—Milk—scalded milk. I poured water into powdered milk, started the grill and put the pan on. When hot, but not boiling, I carried the pan from the deck back down into the galley. Chris ran under my feet than flopped down in the middle of the galley floor. I pushed him aside with my foot.

Next ingredient—sugar, then salt. The salt had solidified into one big chunk.

“What are you doing,now?” Wayne’s voice came from his cozy spot on the sofa.

“I’m trying to get a teaspoon of salt off this block,” I snarled pounding it with the handle of a table knife.

Next ingredient—shortening. Canned butter would have to do. Back out at the grill, I dissolved the only yeast I had, bread machine yeast, in hot water, then marched back down to the galley. Combining the warm liquids, and half the flour, I mixed it with a wooden spoon.

The next step was to place the messy glob onto a board. It stuck to the sides of the bowl. It stuck to my fingers. I added more flour mixing now with my hands, and turned it onto the board. I scratched my nose. I worked in the remaining flour until it felt manageable.

“Now what?”

Grease the bowl with more butter. Place glob in bowl, and cover. Let it sit in a warm place. Well, that won’t be a problem, I thought as I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my floured and buttered hands.

“It’ll be a miracle if this turns out,” I grumbled looking for a place to sit.

Wayne was stretched out on the sofa. Chris had the green chair.

“Why?” Wayne said, not looking up from his book.

“Do you want a list? Old flour, powdered milk, canned butter instead of shortening, a pillar of salt, bread machine yeast….” I went on, “And I had to add extra flour because it was way to sticky to work with."

“Hmmm,” Wayne said as he turned a page, no longer interested.

“I feel like the Little Red Hen,” I whined.

“Hmmm” Wayne said.

An hour later, I lifted the corner of the tea towel and had a look at my creation.

“Oh, my god!,” I exclaimed. “It’s big. I feel like Lucy Ricardo.” I was talking but no one was listening.

Next step—punch the dough. I punched. Chris came down to see if the activity in the kitchen had anything to do with food. I folded. I let it rise again. I dissected, flattened, rolled and shaped, then placed the buttery logs into greased pans. The small galley was covered with flour and butter, and so was the cook. White cat prints led from the kitchen to the salon.

“Wayne! I need your help."

This time he managed to respond. He put multiple layers of foil on the grill, then the pans and closed the lid.

A half an hour later, when most of the dough was scraped off the counter and flour and butter wiped into the sink, I came up into the salon where Wayne was once again, lounging with his book on the sofa.

“I don’t smell bread baking," I said.

Wayne sniffed. “I do, and it’s burning!”

We raced to the grill and lifted the lid. I could see that the sides and bottoms ranged from golden brown to coal black, but the tops looked exactly as they had when I put them on the grill. We added more foil to the bottom, and turned down the heat. Checking later, I found no change, so I turned up the heat. Eventually, the tops began to brown, but the bottoms and sides were getting blacker and blacker.

“I don’t care!” I snarled in frustration, “Ready or not, We’re eating it!”

I took the multi-colored, miss-shaped loaves from the grill. One was less than four inches tall, the other five. I turned them out of their pans onto the counter, and sliced off the burned part. Then we ate buttery slabs of dense bread, grilled lobsters, and salad. It was delicious, but I was exhausted.

Later, washing dishes, I sat on the swim platform, my feet dangling over the edge. “A man, he works from sun to sun,” I said to Chris who sat next to me looking into the water, “but a woman’s work is never done.”

That’s when I happened to look down to see a five-foot black shark swim under my feet. From now on, dishes would be done with legs indian-style.