Tuesday, June 17, 2003
This morning, we planned to leave early on foot to visit the marine store and get more money from the bank. It was a five to six mile round trip, so I decided to do the sensible thing and wear my running shoes instead of my worn and comfortable platform sandals. I dug in the bottom of Wayne’s locker and found them.
The walk was particularly arduous. We zigzagged our way around the construction on the Leaward Highway crossing from one side to the other to find safe footing. My running shoes had been expensive and contoured for maximum comfort; however, after being squished in the bottom of a damp locker for most of three months, the padded convex heel was now stiff and linear. By the time we got home, hours later, I had a blister the size of a quarter on my heel.
So much for sensible shoes. What was I thinking? I have always hated sensible shoes—the brown oxfords my mother made me wear when I wanted loafers, a shiny penny nestled in the leather—the black patent numbers I wore when I was “too young” for pumps. When I was ten, I wanted white go-go boots, but I couldn’t have them either. Since becoming an adult, running shoes have been the only flats in my closet and are reserved for sports and working out. Without a qualm, I threw them in the trash.
Today, was the day we would finally leave the marina. We prepped the boat and by 2:00 p.m., we were saying goodbye to the Hawksbill Turtles that had been swimming under our boat for the last three weeks. We motored around Turtle Cove from the Banana Boat Grill, past the Aquabar, and the Sharkbite. We made a sharp left turn, then another, rode past the megayachts—too big to fit in slips. They lined a long dock end to end like hotels on a monopoly board. And finally, we passed the fuel dock and headed towards the canal that would lead us to Grace Bay.
“Where’s Chris?” Wayne asked casually.
“I don’t know,” I said, looking under the dash. I whistled and called his name, went down the ladder, checked under the coffee table, the settee, and the bottom bunk. I poked my hand in between the clothes hanging in the locker hoping to feel his silky fur. No sign of Chris.
“Wayne!” I shouted up the ladder, “I can’t find him."
In the narrow channel, Wayne turned the boat around, and approached the fuel dock in a stiff fifteen-knot wind. To avoid a highly prejudicial telling of this story, Wayne is joining me in the description of what happened next.
Leah: I grabbed two bundled-up lines from the over-crowded rope locker, while Wayne approached the dock.
Wayne: I had to adjust the throttles just right. Too much gas and we would hit the dock. Too little and we would drift away. A sudden gust of wind could change everything. Hurry, Leah, Hurry!
Leah: On the bow, I quickly hooked one end of a line on the cleat, and hooked the other end on a boat hook, then extended the hook to its full ten feet.
Wayne: Leah was lolly-gagging. The line kept falling off the hook. I won’t say anything, I thought, or she’ll really start fumbling. Come on, Leah, you can do it! I was adjusting and readjusting the throttle to maintain position. She’s got it. By this time, we were close enough for her to reach up and loop the rope around a piling. She tried and missed. Hurry Leah! She tried again. And missed. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! She tried again. At last! Then, a gust of wind came up.
Leah: As soon as I got the rope around the piling, the boat started to move away. Why wasn’t Wayne steering the bow back towards the dock? I tried to pull the boat hook towards me, but my arm remained extended. I held on with both hands and pulled with all my weight. It was all I could do to hold on to the hook. Oooooooh shit!
Wayne: I was getting tense, now. Instead of the rope coming on board, it looked like Leah was going over board. “I don’t know what to do!” She shouted. You don’t know what to do? Does Leah think she can pull a twelve ton boat into the wind with an aluminum boat hook? Two words erupted from my clenched lips. “Drop it!”
Leah: Drop it?, I thought. “Right in the water?” I said, astounded. I looked up at his face. He was scowling, and his mouth was moving but no words were coming out. Guess I better drop it. It hit the water with a splash.
The boat continued to move away taking the line with it, and pulling the boat hook through the water. Oh My! Oh My! The hook eventually came out of the water and wedged under the dock.
Wayne: The line was now taut. I maneuvered the boat closer to the pier, so that Leah could untie it from the cleat. She was just standing there looking in the water. “Untie it!” I ordered.
Leah: I untied the line and dropped it in the water. “What did I do wrong?” He told me I should have selected longer lines. How was I supposed to know that? I found two large bundles of rope in the locker, tied one to the bow cleat, the other to the stern. While he was repositioning the boat for another landing, I scaled the ladder to the bridge, called the marina office for assistance, then ran down again just in time to toss the long line to our helper.
I climbed off the boat to retrieve the hook and line. Wayne, his shoulders hunched up in the vicinity of his ears, marched across the marina to find Chris.
Wayne: My first mate is incompetent.
Leah: I heard that. If you were a better captain, I wouldn’t have to rush so much.
Wayne: I heard that, you…you…you of many thumbs.
Chris th Cat: Hey! Where the hell is my house? It’s gone. Where’s my people?…Someone’s coming… It’s him. Here, I am! Over here, stupid! Under the porch. Are you blind already?. I’m coming out!
Everyone: Thank God that’s over!
We pulled easily from the dock, and headed into the canal, then out into the wide and aqua Grace Bay. The fresh salty breeze immediately washed away all of the tensions of the last forty-five minutes.
The bay was littered with coral and rocks. Motoring directly to our anchorage, just a few miles to the east, would have been treacherous and time-consuming. Instead, we took the same marked channel we used three weeks ago to get from ocean to cove, but this time in reverse. Out Seller’s Cut, we drove along in deep water for a mile or two, until we spotted Stubb’s Cut, the next passage through the barrier reef. Wayne guided the boat over the narrow underwater valley back into the shallow bay. Here, there were no marked channels, and we inched our way cautiously to our anchorage. We dropped the hook on a sandy bottom as close as we could to the beach without entering the swim area marked by big white buoys. A quarter of a mile away, we could see the Beaches Resort.
Tomorrow, our friends, the Nibalis, will be visiting the resort. Also, Aaron, my twenty-two year-old son arrives, and later this week, his friend Kenny who has been a part of our household since the boys were in grade school.
Joe and Julie Nibali, our god-daughter, Samantha, and her little brother, Joey live in California, and we have not seen them for a number of years. I can’t wait for their arrival, and I am curious about the resort. I have never been to an all-inclusive. That’s not the kind of vacation we take, and I wonder if I would like it. But, I am also ready to get back to the sea and do some more cruising. We have stayed too long in one place. When the Nibalis head back to California, Aaron, Kenny, Wayne, Chris, and I are going to leave Provo and explore the rest of the Turks and Caicos. Aaron is a good boater and Kenny is a good sport, and we are really looking forward to exposing both of them to these wonderful islands and their surrounding waters.
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
This morning, our mission was to dinghy to shore to explore our new whereabouts, scout out the laundry, the store, and a good spot to meet Aaron upon his arrival from the airport. We pulled our boat to shore and searched for something…anything to tie the boat too. A long deck covered with picnic tables sat on the dune, and we lugged the boat up the beach and through the sand, until we were close enough to secure it to one of the support posts. The sun was hot on our backs, and our clothes were soaked with sweat by the time we stepped onto the wooden platform.
We walked to the end of the deck where a white clapboard complex housed a dive shop and a real estate office. Everything looked brand new, but eerily, there was not a person in sight. From there, we followed a conch shell-lined path to a dirt road. A sign read “The Veranda, an Authentic Caribbean Village”. Bulldozers had carved a road through the bush with offshoots to the right and left for additional lots. As of yet, there was no other evidence of new construction.
The road was dusty and white and littered with bottles and food wrappers. Five young men sauntered into our path from one of the side roads. They looked lean and mean. Their eyes were narrow slits and their feet looked too large for their bony legs and knobby knees. There is absolutely nothing here, I thought. They must be up to no good. I stood up straighter and tried to look confident and unconcerned as we passed—repressed my urge to quicken my pace. They fell in behind us. I tightened the grip on my bag and didn’t look back. The limestone tract turned to macadam. Ahead, we could see the intersection where cars zoomed by on Lower Bight Road. I let out a sigh of relief.
This was the center of the settlement known as the Bight. Two churches stood on either side of us, a pretty white one to our left, a gray cinder block one to our right. Across the narrow highway, a blue L-shaped compound was home to The Bight Café, and a computer store/internet café that looked out of place. The Bight is a Haitian settlement and by far, the most “third-worldy” in Provo. The houses were ugly and concrete and crowded together on a hill that bordered the highway. They sat on rocky, limestone yards. Deep crevices formed by heavy rains snaked down to the road. There was no vegetation. Trash was strewn about, while large metal trash cans sat empty next to the highway. Barefoot woman and children in dirty, tattered, and mismatched clothes stood on stoops. They ignored the babies’ cries that emanated from inside.
Several tall trees stood behind a stone wall that lined one side of the highway. This appeared to be the only place to escape the relentless sun. Men sat on the wall watching the cars shriek by enroute from resort to shopping center and back. It is customary in both the Bahamas and the Turks and Caicos to greet everyone you meet on the street. I said “Good Morning” to the wall-sitters as we passed. A grunt or a barely discernable nod was the response.
We asked a woman how to get to the store. She pointed to what once was a dirt road. Due to errosion, it was impassable, now used as a footpath, a shortcut to the Leaward Highway and the Seven Eleven convenience store. We stepped cautiously over pot-holes and fissures, stopping to shoo flies from our sweaty legs by scraping them with the sides of our sandals. The path took us within feet of the rundown houses, and the women eyed us suspiciously from their concrete slabs. Could this be an authentic Caribbean village?
I tried to put on a pleasant face that hid my disgust of their living conditions. Was life here better than Haiti? Perhaps, the prejudice of many locals against Haitians forced them to live in poverty, but did they have to live in squalor? Did they just not know any better? Once the Veranda real estate agents start doing their job, this Caribbean village will probably be leveled and replaced with a strip mall for the convenience of tourists and ex-patriots. Where will these people go then?
We arrived at the Seven Eleven. It looked like a small rancher converted to a store, lacked the large glass windows of an American 7-11. It was well-stocked with over-priced staples and snack foods, but lacked the presentation standards of its American namesake. The aisles were long and narrow and merchandize was stacked in every available place. Here, amidst the sunscreen and bug spray, you might find a bin of dirt-encrusted potatoes. Here, you might find prune juice between the motor oil and the Preparation H. We stood in line in front of a small crowded counter with our bottles of water. A construction worker bought his breakfast--a soft drink, a pack of cigarettes, and a bag of chips. An old man bought a quart of beer. A young Haitian woman bought white bread and a quart of milk, her children ogled the candy and she said “Non….Non…Non”. Not that much different than an American convenience store.
Back on the Bight Road, we found Dry Clean USA, with it’s paved parking lot and well-maintained coin laundry and dry cleaning operation. This business is locally owned and managed, providing dry cleaning service to the major resorts in the area. It is clean and new, and a whirlwind of activity, a sharp contrast to the Bight settlement only a few hundred feet away—Dry Clean USA versus Dry Unclean Provo.
Back on Lower Bight Road, we headed towards the resort area, less than a mile away. We were in search of a hotel on the beach called “The Sibonne.” Adjacent to the hotel, we hoped to find the Bay Bistro, a place to meet Aaron. Due to our prior experiences with outdated cruising guides and travel brochures, we wanted to make sure that it was still open and had not changed names.
On the way, we were drawn by a bright hand-painted sign to a small arts and crafts shop nestled in a patch of trees. The proprietress wore a multi-colored turban. Her curvaceous body was wrapped in a matching dress. She held her head regally and informed us her name was Sister Provo. Odd name, I thought, but if she wants to be Sister Provo, it’s all right by me.
She was laying out her wares on small wooden tables and benches. There were unframed paintings of black woman in colorful dresses carrying baskets in their arms or on their heads, perhaps what one would expect an authentic Caribbean village to look like. There were masks and crudely carved animals and thin wooden plaques of long-limbed men who seemed to be wooing their ladies, some coy, some not. Sister Provo told us that she and her family were the artists.
Not a half mile further down the road, we found the Bay Bistro, a pretty little restaurant with a small bar just off the beach. It was upscale by Caribbean standards, and we were the only patrons. We sat on stools at a smooth oak bar.
“Good Morning,” Wayne said to the waitress. “Could we have two ice teas?”
She didn’t reply. Moments later, she shoved two glasses of tea our way and turned back to her napkins and salt shakers.
I looked down at my clothes. They were a bit dusty and maybe a little wrinkled, and there were black and white streaks on my brown legs. I had started out this morning looking fairly well-groomed. I ran my hand over my un-tamed hair. I guess we looked like boat rats instead of tourists.
“Excuse me,” Wayne said politely. The waitress turned her head slightly and looked at us from the corners of her almond-shaped eyes. “Will you be open this evening?”
“Yes,” she muttered.
We finished quickly and asked for our check. “Five dollars,” she said.
For two ice teas? I thought. Wayne gave her a twenty. She gave him three fives back, then walked away before he could ask for change so that he might tip her. If we were staying at the resort, would we just leave her a five, in spite of her lousy attitude? Perhaps, her attitude would be different. Wayne looked at me and shrugged and we walked out.
The stroll on the beach back to our dinghy was more pleasant than the highway route. We soothed our feet in the warm water. We made note of landmarks so that we would know where to beach the dinghy when we returned in the evening.
It was a lazy afternoon on the Ella McQuaid. After phoning Aaron on the satellite to tell him of our meeting place, we read and slept until it was nearly time to meet him, then we showered, me in the small head, Wayne on the deck. As always, Wayne was ready before I was.
Primping in front of the mirror, I heard Wayne shout, “Shit!"
“What?” I said turning to look out at the deck.
Wayne was tearing off his shorts. He moved towards the swim platform tripping out of them. Chris and I ran to see what was going on. Wayne dove into the water and started swimming, his small white bum flexing with each kick of his dark brown legs. The dinghy was floating away in the current. He caught it and swam it back to the boat.
“You’re my hero, again,” I said laughing. He smirked, resigned to his fate.
Later that night, we waited for Aaron, sipping a beer delivered on the head of a charming and handsome waiter. Yes…kinky hair, then a napkin, then an upturned pilsner glass, then the beer bottle. It was a good trick that brought a smile to our faces and a tip to his pocket.
It seemed like forever before Aaron arrived. Then I saw him. He was standing at the door, a knapsack slung over one broad shoulder. He scanned the room expectantly. His eyes lit up and his lips opened into a broad grin when he saw us. There he was--my baby boy, so tall, so handsome, but still goofy and loveable.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
“Customs,” he said as he slung the sack off his shoulder and dropped it on the floor with a thud. “They wanted to know where I was staying and I told them on my parent’s boat. They wanted to know where the boat was and I told them I didn’t know. They wanted to know where I was meeting you and I told them the “Sea Bone,” and they said they never heard of it. They wanted to know how long I was staying in Provo, and I said ‘I’m not sure.’ They wanted to know where we were going and I told them I didn’t know that, either. Finally, in exasperation, they gave up and said ‘Get out of here.’”
“You didn’t bring anything illegal, did you?” I asked, worried now.
“No, but in Baltimore, they did confiscate the fishing lure I brought for Wayne’s birthday present. Sorry Wayne,” he said looking truly regretful.
We had a cold beer, then headed for the Ella McQuaid. What was left of the sun glowed on the horizon like a sparkler just before it goes out. Aaron, weary from travel, made his bunk on the flying bridge looked through the screen at the sky and watched each star emerge from the darkness.
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Wayne and I arose early and were puttering around the boat quietly in an effort to let Aaron sleep. Suddenly, we heard a loud splash.
“What was that?” Wayne asked as we ran to the deck in time to see an ever-widening circle of ripples on the water. Another splash to our left turned our heads. Aaron shot from the water and pulled himself onto the swim platform.
“I couldn’t wait to do that!” he said standing, then leaned to his side and cart-wheeled back into the water. Just as he surfaced, I sprang from the swim platform, hugged my knees to my chest, and plunged in next to him. I tread water and floated on my back watching Aaron perform his full repertoire of thwarted dives.
After brunch, the three of us took the dinghy to the Beaches resort and met the Nibalis. We spent the afternoon lolling about the beach.
“Let’s go to the pool bar and get a pina colada,” Julie said.
“Is it OK?” I asked, always wanting to stay between the lines.
“No one’s going to know,” she said. Samantha ran along beside us.
The large pool, one of many on the resort, was crowded with screaming children and watchful parents holding their drinks above the surface. The bar was tiled and U-shaped. We sat on stools submerged in the cool water and ordered, then carried the first of many drinks back to the beach. It was so hot, we spent much of the day squatting in waist-deep water sipping our frozen beverages.
“Come ashore and have dinner with us tonight,” Joe and Julie urged.
When we had a moment alone, Wayne and I debated over whether to pay eighty dollars each for a night pass that would allow us free food and drink and full use of all amenities.
“I do want to spend the evening with Joe and Julie,” I said, “and if we stay at the resort, little Joey can go to the childcare facility and we can have some adult time with them. But a hundred and sixty dollars for one night?”
“I thought they said they were planning a night off the resort?” Wayne said.
“They did, but I think they changed their minds. It’s probably too much trouble with the kids.”
“Yeah,” Wayne agreed.
“Well, if we went out to dinner and had a fine meal, mixed drinks, bottles of wine, and more drinks and dancing, we could easily spend $160,” I rationalized.
“Ok,” Wayne said, “Let’s do it.”
“I feel funny about leaving Aaron behind on his first full day,” I countered.
“He can come if he wants to,” Wayne said.
“Are we going to pay for it?”
“Eighty dollars?” Wayne exclaimed, “No way. He has money."
Aaron opted to stay on the boat and save his money. We left him with the computer for entertainment, and headed back in. We dressed in our version of resort-wear, Wayne in khaki slacks and a Hawaiian shirt, me in cotton capris, a tank top, turquoise jewelry and makeup. We dragged our old gray dinghy to shore and tied it to the Beaches pier. A huge security guard watched us from behind the dune, his neck as thick as my thigh.
At the designated meeting point, a wedding was taking place, so we strolled down the beach to the next set of steps that led to the resort. “There they are,” I said.
As we approached them, Mr. Thickneck suddenly materialized behind them. We saw him exchange words with Joe, then walk away holding his black walkie-talkie to his mouth. Joe told him we were going to the main lobby to purchase evening passes. He seemed satisfied, but as we crossed the resort to the entrance, I wondered if he were hiding behind a bush or perched in a tree like my old vice principal who patrolled the high school parking lot for pot heads and noontime escapees. The part about him being in a tree was only a rumor, but we all reveled in it.
The Beaches Resort was a well-maintained and fastidiously landscaped collection of villas, rooms, restaurants, courtyards, bars, and arcades. Grass grew there. It looked like America in the Caribbean.
We were joined by the Parks’ family who were traveling with the Nibalis and began our evening with sushi without ginger for an appetizer, then moved on to the restaurant selected for dinner, only to find that a table would not be available until after nine. We had two hours to kill, but it was of little concern when all the alcoholic beverages were free. We drifted from restaurant to bar to restaurant, and had cocktails on a lovely terrace lined with jasmine, such a contrast to the Bight Settlement just a mile away.
By the time, we got a table at Schooners, Joey and Megan, the two five year olds had to be released from the childcare facility, so they joined us.
The night ended with Wayne and Joe playing chess on a huge outside board. Wayne captured Joe’s pawn and roared, “Take that, you swine!” as he heaved the two-foot tall chess piece across the grassy lawn.
After over seven hours of food and drink, we stumbled to the dinghy. The tide had come in and the dinghy was full of water and sand. Luckily, we had our trusty bailer on board, made out of the top half of an old laundry detergent bottle.
My first impression of the all-inclusive resort? I expected the restaurants to be four star, but our food and wine were mediocre at best. By the time, we were seated for dinner, the servers looked haggard and out of patience. They probably were not too happy to see a party of twelve, including seven inebriated adults, two five year-olds and a nine and eleven year-old arrive at 9:45 P.M. The place had emptied, and I got the feeling that it would not be long before the cleaning crew would start piling chairs on tables and asking us to lift our feet so they could vacuum under us.
In defense of the resort, Joe and Julie reported having much better meals on subsequent nights. The setting is lovely with nice suites, attractive grounds and a beautiful beach. Because of the security, we felt comfortable walking around late at night, and letting the older children roam freely. It is a great place for the family who just needs to get away from it all, enjoy the beach, do some snorkeling or perhaps take a dive trip on one the resort’s boats.
On the downside, although Beaches employs local citizens, they do not purchase any local food or beverages and my guess is that few of the families ever leave the resort to patronize local establishments, especially after the cab ride down the Lower Bight Road. Turk’s Head Beer (brewed in Provo), was not offered at the resort, nor was Presidente (the Dominican Republic beer we had grown accustomed to drinking). It is a shame that the resort is so much like America. Julie, who last year visited the Jamaican version, said that it had much more of a Caribbean feel to it.
When we went on a three-week camping trip in Baja in a pickup truck, I wanted Grace and Aaron, then nine and eleven, to learn about a different culture. We camped on a beach that looked like the moon and scooped foot-long squid right off the beach. Wayne cleaned them and sizzled them in butter and garlic in a cast iron frying pan held over a campfire. Grace wouldn’t even taste them and had a can of spaghettios for dinner instead. When we plucked shellfish out of the water at Playa Blanco, pried open the shells, applied lime and slurped them up, the kids said, “Yuk!”
For Joe and Julie, it probably is much easier to order some chicken fingers for the young ones, than try to generate their interest in a plate of peas and rice heaped next to a bony fried fish. “Mommy, its looking at me!”
