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.